Brothers, Boyfriends & Other Criminal Minds

by April Lurie

  I shook my head. “No, Joe, we don't need any help. Now, don't you guys have anything better to do? Or are you so bored you have to follow us around?”

  All of a sudden I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, April,” Bert said, “don't look now, but the tennis Nazis just barged out of the office. There's even a police officer with them, so you might want to tell your brother to scram.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “No, I don't think so. Let the morons get in trouble. In fact, I hope they get arrested.”

  When Matt and his friends saw the cop approaching, they froze. Slowly, Big Joe rolled down his sleeves. “Excuse me,” the police officer said gruffly. “Do you boys have a permit to play here?”

  Dumbfounded, the rest of them looked at Matt. “Um, no, actually, you see, Officer …” While Matt went on to explain how he and his friends were just checking on his sister without any idea they were trespassing on private property, Frank Stapleton, the supposed tennis scout, walked onto the court. He marched directly up to me and handed me a business card.

  “I've been watching you play,” he said. “Do you compete around here?”

  I looked at the card. On top it read LADY FIREBIRDS and underneath, Mr. Stapleton's contact information was written within a miniature tennis racquet with flames rising from the center. “Oh, no, I don't compete. I usually just play at the park. For fun.”

  He raised both eyebrows. “Really? Well, today it looked like you were playing for blood.”

  I glanced at Bert, who had a big grin on his face. “Oh,” I said, a little confused, “I didn't mean to—”

  “No, no,” Mr. Stapleton said, holding up one hand. “Don't apologize, that's a good thing. It's not often you find such a focused player. I'm glad I spotted you.”

  Bert elbowed me and whispered, “See? What did I tell you?”

  Mr. Stapleton reached over and tapped the card. “That's my number if you're interested in trying out for my team. You've got a lot of raw talent, but there are certain things you need to learn. And I won't lie to you. I work my girls hard. Very hard. We've got a few more tournaments this fall, and after that we practice all winter in the bubble courts. If you make the team you'll be training for the spring season. Think about it and give me a call.”

  He nodded at me quickly, turned on one heel, and marched briskly off the court. I realized he'd never even asked my name. “So are you gonna do it?” Bert said.

  I watched Mr. Stapleton get into his car, start the engine, and peel off down the street. It was strange. He'd been watching us play for a while, but now he seemed in a tremendous hurry. I shook my head. “No, I don't think so.”

  “Why not?” Bert said. “You'd make the team. He obviously wants you.”

  I shrugged. “I don't know, I'm kind of busy.” But instead of tossing the card into the nearby trash can, I slipped it into the pocket of my skirt and ran my thumb along the embossed letters.

  Meanwhile the police officer escorted Matt and his friends off the grounds of Poly Prep. “See you later, Matt!” I said, giving him a little wave. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, I tossed a ball into the air. “Come on, guys, let's finish this set! Five-two. Our advantage!”

  I didn't call Mr. Stapleton, but I tucked his business card safely away in my drawer just in case. In the meantime, I decided to ignore the fact that my brother might be running around Brooklyn with a million-dollar price tag on his head and live my own life of danger and doom. So on Monday afternoon when the lunch bell rang, instead of joining Brandi and Olympia in the cafeteria, I headed straight for Mr. Ruffalo's band room. I was sure to catch grief from Brandi about this later, but I was on a mission and nothing was going to stop me.

  However, when I exited the stairwell and turned the corner, I saw Roxanne standing alone outside the girls' bathroom. There was no way around it; I had to pass her. “Well, look who it is,” she said. “Bet I know where you're going.”

  Now I had a decision to make. I could (a) chicken out and make a beeline for the cafeteria, (b) walk by and let her abuse me, or (c) confront the enemy. Danger and doom, I repeated to myself, over and over, with every step I took, until the two of us came face to face.

  “I'm going to Mr. Ruffalo's room to eat lunch with Do-mi nick and his band,” I said, hoping she didn't notice the shakiness in my voice. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  She didn't seem the least bit daunted by what Redbook would call my “assertive chin-tilt.” “Me?” She laughed. “Sorry, but I'm not the one with the problem.”

  “Oh, and you think I am?”

  I expected a seething comment in response, but to my surprise Roxanne didn't argue. “Listen,” she said with a sigh. “It's April, right?”

  I relaxed my shoulders a little. “Um, yeah.”

  “Well, you may not realize this, but Dom and I went out for six months last year—”

  Five and a half, I thought.

  “And the thing is, I know him pretty well. Better than anyone, really. So I have to be honest. You're not his type. You're the kind of girl who gets straight As, joins the Boosters, has to be home before dark—”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I do not belong to the Booster Club.”

  She waved this away like it didn't matter. “Whatever, you get my point, right? You're like Polly Purebred. I mean, have you even had a boyfriend before?”

  Of all the possible questions in the world, she had to ask me this one. “Um, not exactly, but—”

  “There, see what I mean? Trust me, you and Dom are complete opposites.”

  I thought about this for moment. “Yeah, maybe. But opposites attract, right?”

  She made a face. “Not always.”

  “Okay,” I said, mustering all my courage. “Now it's my turn to ask you something. Why are you so against Dominick and me being together? Is it because you want to go out with him again?”

  She shrugged and shook her head. “No, I'm seeing someone else right now. Besides, Dom and I are probably better off as friends.”

  I wasn't sure I believed her. I wanted to, but her eyes kind of shifted around as she spoke, like she was hiding something. Also, I wondered what new guy she was “seeing” but decided not to ask, since I didn't want to appear too curious. “Well, thanks for the advice,” I said. “But I think I can handle things on my own.”

  A second later a toilet flushed and a member of Roxanne's posse walked out the bathroom door. “Suit yourself,” Roxanne said, linking arms with the girl, “but don't say I didn't warn you.”

  I watched the two of them stroll down the hall, and when they disappeared around the corner, I made my way, shakily, to the band room.

  “Hey, come on in!” Dominick said as I peered around the door. “You guys remember April, right?”

  Cautiously, I stepped inside. Mr. Ruffalo was sitting at the piano, munching a sandwich and composing a tune. He looked up and smiled.

  Ronnie, the bass player, set down his carton of milk. A white mustache stretched across his face. “Yeah, sure! It's Goldilocks, Keeper of the Sticks!”

  Pee Wee stood up, grabbed his guitar, and bowed toward me. “Enter, O tall, brainy, blond one.” In an instant he was strumming wildly and singing one of my favorite Emerson, Lake and Palmer songs. “Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends, we're so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside!”

  Larry took a giant bite of his veal-and-pepper sub. With his mouth full he said, “Hey, April! You gonna listen to us play today?”

  “Of course she is!” Pee Wee said. He continued singing.

  I had to admit, it was quite the reception. I wasn't used to getting so much attention—especially from guys like Pee Wee and Ronnie. I started to laugh and before I knew it I'd forgotten all about my run-in with Roxanne. Well, almost.

  Dominick motioned for me to take a seat next to him. “You'll have to excuse Pee Wee. He's on a high right now.”

  “Oh?” I glanced at Pee Wee, wondering what kind of high Dominick meant.


  “Hey, don't worry,” Dominick said with a chuckle. “A natural high. He's really excited about our first gig. We just got booked for a Halloween block party. And get this, they're even gonna pay us.”

  “Wow, that's great! Where will it be?”

  “Right near you. Seventy-seventh between Twelfth and Thirteenth. You'll come, right?”

  In the back of my mind I remembered promising not only to take Sammy trick-or-treating, but to St. Bernadette's Halloween Festival as well. Right now that didn't seem to matter. “Sure, I'll come.”

  But as Pee Wee belted out the next verse, I began to wonder if Bianca was invited to the gig as well.

  “So I guess all your friends will be there, huh?” I said.

  Dominick shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. But I really don't care as long as you come.”

  Ha, ha, Bianca. You lose. “Thanks,” I said, “that's really sweet.” I glanced over at Larry, who was still stuffing his face with the sub. A slice of green pepper dangled from the corner of his mouth. “I bet Larry's in heaven.”

  “Yeah,” Dominick said. “Actually, we all are.”

  That morning I'd thrown together a bag lunch, so while the guys went through their set for the block party, I nibbled on a thawed-out veggie burger, along with my mother's latest health snack—ants on a log. In other words, celery stalks filled with peanut butter and dotted with raisins and carob chips. She'd found the recipe in Organic Living and thought it was cute.

  “Interesting food,” Mr. Ruffalo said, taking a seat beside me while the guys paused for a short break. “Are you a vegetarian?”

  Mr. Ruffalo had been my chorus teacher in seventh and eighth grade. He was one of those thirty-something-year-old former hippies who were always talking about Woodstock, Viet Nam, and the evils of capitalism. He was pretty cool for a teacher, but in my opinion, way too intense. “No, I still eat meat. My mother's just on this health kick. Right now it's all we have in the house.”

  “I see.” He stroked his beard contemplatively. “So, tell me, April, what do you think?”

  “Um, about what?” I picked a chickpea out of my veggie burger, popped it into my mouth, and hoped Mr. Ruffalo wasn't going to ask me about animal rights or communism or socialism, or one of those isms I didn't understand very well.

  He laughed and motioned toward the guys. “About their music.”

  “Ohhhh.” Dominick and his band had just finished working out the kinks to the Beatles' “Norwegian Wood” and were now gearing up to play Larry's new Who favorite, “Pinball Wizard.” I said, “I think they're really good.” I thought this would be a sufficient response, but from the look on Mr. Ruffalo's face I could tell he wanted me to elaborate. “They, uh, play an interesting variety of songs,” I added. “I especially like their music from the sixties—the Beatles, the Stones, Dylan.”

  I could tell Mr. Ruffalo liked that answer. He nodded. “Yes, yes, I agree. I have to admit I'm not a fan of what they're playing on the radio these days—sell-out bands putting on shows with pyrotechnics, painted faces, lizard tongues.” He shook his head sadly. “Then there's Bowie with his new alter ego, Ziggy Stardust. And don't even get me started on disco.” He sighed. “Oh, well, things change.”

  “Hmmm, yeah, I guess they do.” I took a big bite of the burger and chewed, hoping the conversation would end. No such luck.

  “So, April, I assume you're still studying piano?”

  That was the other thing about Mr. Ruffalo. He expected every living, breathing creature on the planet to play an instrument. I could hardly believe he remembered I'd been taking piano lessons in eighth grade. I swallowed and chased the burger with a sip of milk. “Not exactly. I quit a while back.”

  Immediately his eyebrows shot up. “Quit! Oh, no, please don't tell me that! You? With those long, graceful fingers?” He looked at my hands. “But why?”

  I picked up a celery stalk and pushed a carob chip ant into its peanut butter log, wishing I could disappear that easily. “Well, it's just, the instructor I had …” I paused, realizing it might not be appropriate to say that Mrs. Higgenbottom had a bad case of cat-food halitosis, not to mention a dangerous behind that covered half the piano bench. Besides, to satisfy Mr. Ruffalo the excuse had to be meaningful. “She didn't allow me to express myself musically. Instead of teaching me songs, she focused on scales, finger exercises, sight-reading, stuff like that.” I took a bite of celery and prayed the band would begin to play really loudly.

  “Well,” Mr. Ruffalo said, “I suppose I understand, although it's still no reason to quit. The piano is a wonderful instrument, but some instructors are set in their ways. As for me, I use a holistic, modern approach, allowing my students to choose their own style of music. It works quite well.” He gazed longingly at my fingers. I noticed his were short and stubby. “I don't usually solicit, but if you're interested I'd be willing to teach you.”

  Now I was trapped. “Um, I don't know …” I couldn't imagine taking lessons from Mr. Ruffalo. Besides having to practice a lot, it would mean brushing up on events like Watergate and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

  He laughed a little. “Don't worry, I'm not expecting an answer right now. Think about it. You know where to reach me.”

  I gave him a weak smile. “Okay. I will.”

  At that moment Dominick cranked up the volume on his amp and began to sing, “Ever since I was a young boy I played the silver ball….” I'd never been so happy to hear “Pinball Wizard” in my whole life.

  Afterward, while the band was packing up and I was about to slip out the door, Dominick said, “Hey, April, wait up, I'll walk you to class.”

  The first bell had already rung, and next period was English with Mr. Cornelius, aka Count Dracula. Presently there were two red “X”s beside my name in his little black book—both for being late to homeroom on account of Larry and his drumsticks. This put me in danger of Saturday detention, and now if I was late to English I'd be on the path to a failing grade. On top of that, because of my recent preoccupation with Dominick, along with the possible fate of my brother, I hadn't handed in a rough draft for my short story, which had been due three days ago.

  “So,” Dominick said, hoisting his guitar strap over his shoulder as we walked out the door. “I guess your parents weren't exactly thrilled to see me at your house on Friday, huh?”

  The hallway was crowded and noisy. I had to dodge a girl who was laughing and running from a guy chasing her. “Oh, sorry about that,” I said. “My parents are really strict. Don't take it personally.”

  With a wave of his hand he said, “Ah, don't worry. I'm used to it. Most girls' parents prefer the clean-cut all-American type. Which, of course, I'm not.” He grinned. “But anyway, I wanted to tell you I had a great time that day. It was pretty wild with your brother and that Mafia chick doing Shakespeare in the basement, and then meeting Larry's dad, Soft Sal Luciano. And Sammy, man, he's such a great kid.”

  “Thanks, I had a good time too.”

  Suddenly, across the hall I saw Roxanne walking arm in arm with Steve Rizzo. This was very strange for two reasons: one, I'd never seen Roxanne anywhere near my English class before, and two, although Steve Rizzo was one of the cutest guys in school, he boxed in the Junior Golden Gloves division and was practically brain-dead. Not that Roxanne was a genius, but still. So, I thought, this was the new guy she was seeing.

  As the two of them strolled by, Roxanne glanced coolly at us; she pulled Steve closer, slipping her hand into the back pocket of his jeans. “Hey, Dom, hey, April,” she said with a wave. I highly suspected that our crossing paths was not a coincidence.

  When Dominick saw them he reached for my hand and held it tightly. “Hi, Roxanne,” he said in a measured tone. He gave Steve a quick nod.

  We continued along and when the coast was clear, I took a deep breath. “Um, Dom, I should probably tell you, Roxanne and I spoke today. Right before lunch, on my way to see you.”

  “You're kidding. What did she say?”

&
nbsp; “Mmmm, basically that I wasn't your type. That we were opposites.”

  “Oh, really?” He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. “That girl is such a head case. I mean, we're still friends and all, but she likes to play games.”

  The door to Mr. Cornelius's classroom was just a few feet away now. Dominick slowed down, leaned against the wall, and gently pulled me toward him. “Enough about Roxanne,” he said. “Thanks for coming today. Tell me, honestly, did you like our music?”

  He was looking directly into my eyes. I ran my tongue over my braces, hoping a stray chickpea or raisin wasn't lodged between the metal bands. “Oh, yeah, definitely. You guys sound really good.”

  He nodded. “Thanks. And what about Ruffalo? He wasn't too intense?”

  “Well, yeah, but that's okay.”

  He smiled, set down his guitar, and opened my hand. “Did you know that besides playing music, I also read palms?”

  I looked at him warily. “No.”

  He began drawing circles. “Well, it's true. Hmmm, let's see, will Goldilocks with the beautiful blue eyes come again tomorrow?”

  But before Dominick could reveal his answer, the late bell rang, and Mr. Cornelius stepped out of his room. His eyes darted up and down the hall, searching for stragglers. When he saw me and Dominick together he frowned.

  “Hey, Mr. C!” Dominick said. “How's it going?”

  Unfortunately Mr. C. didn't find Dominick amusing. “It's going fine, Mr. DeMao. But Miss Lundquist needs to get to class now.”

  “Aw, that's too bad. We were just planning a rendezvous in the janitor's closet.”

  I stifled a laugh.

  “Is that so? Well, maybe Miss Lundquist would prefer a tardy, then. That can always be arranged.” Mr. Cornelius pushed his horn-rimmed glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. His eyes looked huge and threatening.

  “I better go,” I said.

  Dominick squeezed my hand. “But what about tomorrow, will you come?”

  I shrugged. “Beats me. You're the palm reader.”

  The next day when Mr. Ruffalo caught me sneaking in the back door of the band room, he practically catapulted off the piano bench. “April! This is wonderful! You've decided to come back!” At first I got a little freaked out, thinking Dominick had told him about our palm-reading joke, but then I realized Mr. Ruffalo thought I was returning for a piano lesson.