Brothers, Boyfriends & Other Criminal Minds

by April Lurie

  The entire production of Romeo and Juliet was awesome—the costumes, the scenery, the acting—but most of all, Matt and Bettina were brilliant together. When they looked into each other's eyes, you could practically feel the electricity between them, and when Juliet kissed the mouth of her already dead lover you could hear a pin drop, and I don't think there was a dry eye in the entire place.

  “Wow,” my mother said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue as the curtain closed. “Stephen, was that really our son?”

  My dad sat there shaking his head. “I'm not sure. He did bear a strange resemblance.”

  By the time we got home it was pretty late. Sammy had fallen asleep in the car, and my mom had to carry him upstairs to bed. My dad had dropped off Big Joe, Tony, and Fritz at their houses, but Little Joe had gone with Matt to a cast party at Jahn's—a local teenage hangout that served cheeseburgers and banana splits till about one in the morning.

  I was pretty restless, and since I hadn't gotten a chance to congratulate Matt after the performance, I decided to wait up for him. Also, the image of Bobby the Bull was still fresh in my mind, and I wanted to make sure Matt came home in one piece. I decided to pass the time reading, and because I was determined to raise my grade in English, I grabbed a blanket, snuggled up on the sofa, and cracked open our assigned text—Hamlet.

  It wasn't too bad—there were some scenes with ghosts and crazy people that were sort of interesting—but soon I began to drift off, and the next thing I knew, the book was lying against my chest and someone was tapping on the back door. The clock on the wall read 1:30. I'd been asleep for nearly an hour.

  Heart pounding, I tiptoed into the kitchen and peered through the peephole. “Joe?” I said, opening the door. A blast of cold air hit me. “What's going on? Where's Matt?”

  “Oh, sorry, April, I hope I didn't wake you. I thought Matt would be here already. I guess he's on his way home.”

  “Oh, okay, well—come on in.”

  Little Joe was shivering, and since my mother didn't believe in heating the house past 10 p.m., I turned on the stove and made us each a cup of hot cocoa. As the milk steamed in the pot, Little Joe explained that Matt had driven home with Bettina and her friends, and since there hadn't been enough room for him in the car, they'd planned to meet at our house. He was going to spend the night.

  We carried our cups into the living room where it wasn't so drafty and took a seat together on the sofa. “Thanks,” he said, taking a sip. “This is really good.”

  I tossed him the other end of my goose-down blanket. “Here, this'll warm you up too.”

  He drew it over his lap and smiled appreciatively. Little Joe was still in his charcoal suit, but he'd loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. While we sat there sipping our cocoa, he made a face, reached behind him, and pulled my copy of Hamlet from the sofa cushion. “Yours, I presume?”

  “Oh, sorry, I was reading that before you came in. Actually, it put me to sleep.”

  “Really? I'm surprised, it's a great play.” He set down his cup and began flipping through the pages, smiling like he was remembering something. “I read this freshman year too. Since then we've done a lot of Shakespeare, but I think Hamlet will always be my favorite—probably because of the teacher we had. He made the story come alive.”

  As Little Joe spoke, I watched him with interest. I'd had no idea he even liked Shakespeare. Actually, there were a lot of things about Little Joe I didn't know. “So who was your freshman English teacher?”

  “Mr. Cornelius.”

  “You're kidding, that's who I have.”

  “He's pretty awesome, don't you think?”

  “Well …” I took a sip of my cocoa and eyed Little Joe skeptically. “Let's just say we've had our ups and downs.”

  “Is that so? Hmmm, then maybe you'll appreciate this.” Little Joe gathered a shock of hair on his forehead and with a little spit made a huge widow's peak. Standing up, he draped an invisible cape over his shoulder and pulled back his lips to make vampire teeth. He opened Hamlet and began to do an amazing impersonation of Mr. Cornelius. “To be or not to be: that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows …”

  By the time Little Joe was finished, my ribs ached from laughing so hard. “You know,” I said, “that bum was almost going to fail me this marking period, but then I wrote a story he really liked. Now I'm getting a C.”

  “Wait a minute,” Little Joe said, sitting down and brushing back his hair. “You—Miss Brainiac Book Lover— are getting a C in English?”

  “Yep. Late to class twice, plus I didn't hand in my rough draft when it was due.”

  “Oh, that'll do it. But he liked your story, huh?”

  “Yeah.” My cocoa was starting to get cold, so I downed the rest in two gulps. Little Joe did the same. “Actually, he wants me to enter it in the citywide competition.”

  Little Joe almost started choking. “Wow, then it must be, like, fabulous. Do you have it here? Can I read it?”

  “Um …” I wasn't sure how I felt about Little Joe reading my story, but he looked so eager, I figured what the heck. “Yeah, it's in my room. I'll get it.”

  I tiptoed upstairs and retrieved “Babysitting Games” from the bottom of my desk drawer. I hadn't shown the story to my parents, and the application was still blank and unsigned. Downstairs, as Little Joe read, I held my breath, watching his face closely. By page two he was nodding and grinning, and when he got to the end he laughed out loud. “This is really good, April. I'm impressed.”

  My cheeks flushed. “Thank you. I'm glad you like it.”

  He fingered the pages and grinned. “So now I have a question to ask. Was Sammy your inspiration? Did you ever tie him to the stake? Tell me the truth, now.”

  I grabbed the pages and smacked Little Joe over the head with them. “No, of course not. It's a story, silly.”

  “Whew, that's a relief.” He wiped one hand across his forehead, then looked me in the eye. “Now let me ask you another question. Have you shown it to your parents?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think not.”

  “Good guess, Einstein.”

  Little Joe watched me with an amused expression. “Well, whatever they say, I think it's a funny, original piece of writing. You should be very proud.”

  Neither of us said anything for a long time. Finally, Little Joe scooted closer and took a deep breath. “April, I've been meaning to tell you something for a while now. I'm sorry about that day at the beach. When you got hit by that wave and well … you know. I didn't mean to stare.”

  “Oh.” I shook my head. “It's all right, Joe. No big deal.”

  “I didn't want you to think I was a pervert or anything. And if it makes you feel any better, Matt almost killed me that day.”

  I laughed a little. “Yeah, I remember.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You don't know the half of it. But listen, I'm sorry for acting like such an idiot lately. It was stupid to think that you and I could ever be together. I mean, you're my best friend's sister. It just wouldn't work.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Plus, you have a boyfriend now.”

  “Yeah, that too.”

  Little Joe sat there nodding, and I was grateful he didn't mention the fact that Dominick hadn't shown up for the play. “April?”

  “Yeah?”

  We stared at each other without saying a word for what seemed like an eternity. Then, just when I thought Little Joe was going to lean over and kiss me, the back door opened and a gust of cold air blew into the living room.

  We turned our heads. Standing in the doorway was Mr. Luciano, and leaning on his shoulder was someone I didn't recognize. But as I looked closer, I realized it was a bruised, bloodied, busted-up version of my brother, Matt.

  I gasped and was about to scream, but Little Joe clapped his hand over my mouth just in time. “Shhh, April, you'll wake your parents.”

  “Oh, God,” I whisper
ed through his fingers.

  We ran to Matt, assessing the damage. Now his other eye was black and blue, his cheek was raw and busted up, and his nose was oozing blood. He was limping, too, and holding his right arm to his chest. Little Joe didn't say anything to Mr. Luciano. He didn't even look at him. He just wrapped Matt's good arm around his shoulder and led him to the bathroom.

  Just as Soft Sal was about to slip out the back door, I said, “Wait a minute.” We were on my turf now, and I had a few things to say to him.

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  I felt this incredible rage building inside me. My chest began to heave in and out like I was going to explode. “I thought you were supposed to help! I thought you were going to protect him! What kind of a person are you, anyway? Letting a sixteen-year-old boy get beat up like that? You and all your stupid friends are just a bunch of cowards.” I was so worked up I didn't even realize what I was saying.

  Very calmly, Mr. Luciano put up a hand to stop me. In the light I could see he was completely exhausted. There were bags under his eyes and his head was full of gray stubble. “Sweetheart,” he said sadly. “I understand that you're upset, but I told you before, I'm only one man. When I heard they were gonna bust up your brother after the final show, I followed along and made sure they didn't put him in the hospital. Nothing's broken, I checked. His shoulder was dislocated, but now it's back in place. He's gonna hurt for a few days, but believe me, this is nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I motioned toward the bathroom, where Little Joe was tending to Matt. “How can you say this is nothing? And now what? Are they going to kill him next time?”

  “If your brother's smart,” Mr. Luciano said gravely, “there won't be a next time. I'm telling you right now, he can never see Bettina again. Never.” He opened the back door, and as the cold air filled the room, he disappeared into the dark.

  Matt needed my help. I grabbed a stack of Sammy's old cloth diapers from the linen closet and soaked them in warm water, and then Little Joe and I cleaned up Matt the best we could. We used the rest of the tofu pops to take down the swelling on his eye, and I gave him some aspirin. After that, Little Joe helped him up the stairs and put him to bed, promising he'd wake up every hour or so to check on him.

  That night I slept fitfully—dreaming we were back in the theater watching the last scene of Romeo and Juliet. Only, this time, Matt didn't rise up after his suicide scene to take a bow. Instead he was dead on the floor—shot right through the heart, blood spattered over his tunic and tights—and all the mobsters in the audience were standing and cheering. Bobby the Bull raised his gun and shouted, “Hey, Sunshine Boy, that's what you get for messing around with my daughter! Ha ha ha!”

  I awoke with a start and realized my mother was in Matt's room, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Matt! Who did this to you? Tell us, please! Stephen, we have to call the police! Joe! Why won't he talk?”

  At that moment, I realized what I had to do. I pulled on some clothes, slipped past Matt's room, and ran over to Brandi's. It was pretty early, and her mother answered the door with a look of surprise. “Sorry, Mrs. Rinaldi, but I need to talk to Brandi. It's an emergency.” I raced past her and up the stairs. Brandi was still in bed. “Brandi! Brandi, wake up!”

  “Huh?” She rolled over and opened one eye. “April, what's going on? What are you doing here?”

  “Listen, I don't have time to explain, but I need your money. Now. Matt's in serious trouble.”

  She blinked a few times. “Okay. Hold on, I'll get it.”

  Brandi had hidden her money at the bottom of her hope chest. She gave me everything she had—three hundred and seventy-five dollars, no questions asked—and as I raced back home I realized that when you added it to my stash, the total was just shy of thirteen hundred. A very unlucky number.

  Back at my house Little Joe was sitting at the kitchen table tying his shoes. “Joe, you're not leaving now, are you?” I said.

  He nodded. “Your mom asked me to go. She's really upset.” He glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Matt's not telling them the truth. They think he got mugged last night. I don't know, April, something's got to give.”

  Upstairs, my parents were in their bedroom talking in hushed voices while Sammy sat outside Matt's room, crying. I knelt down next to Sammy and pulled him close. “Hey, it's all right, kiddo. Matt's gonna be okay.”

  He shook his head. “Uh-uh, he's really hurt. And he won't talk to me. He keeps saying he wants to be alone.”

  I dried Sammy's tears with my shirt and kissed the top of his head. “Give him a little time, bud, he'll come around, you'll see.”

  In my bedroom I dug out the nine hundred dollars, added it to the money Brandi had forked over, and, last but not least, grabbed the letter Bettina had given me the day she was at our house. After stuffing everything into my pockets, I tiptoed into the hallway and opened Matt's door. He was lying in bed, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. “Matt?”

  “Go away.”

  “No, I need to talk to you.” Gently, I closed the door behind me and knelt by his side. He looked even worse than the night before. The torn flesh on his cheek was covered with a loose bandage, my mother's handiwork. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the letter. “Bettina asked me to give this to you.”

  At the mention of Bettina's name, he turned his head, wincing from the pain. “What do you mean?” he said, eyeing the envelope. “What is that?”

  “A letter. Bettina gave it to me the day she was here. I don't know if you remember, but we came up to my room alone. She told me if anything happened—if the two of you couldn't see each other anymore—I should give this to you. She said it would explain everything.”

  The room was deathly quiet, and I could hear Matt's ragged breathing. “Throw it out.”

  “Matt, no, I can't do that, I promised her—”

  “Throw it out! And get out of my room, Monk! Now!”

  In the distance I heard my mom's voice. “April, Matt, what's going on?”

  I didn't have much time. “Matt, you know you can't see her anymore!”

  He looked at me. “No one is going to tell me what to do.”

  “Matt! Don't be stupid! You can't!”

  Now there were footsteps in the hallway. “All right, fine, if you won't take the letter, then at least take this.” I pulled out the wad of bills and shoved them into his hand. Matt stared at the money. “Where did you …”

  “It doesn't matter where. Just take it.”

  As my mother opened the door, Matt shoved the money into his pocket and rolled over. There must have been guilt written all over my face because when she saw me kneeling beside his bed, she wagged her finger and mouthed, “Come here, now.”

  I told my parents everything—well, almost everything. I didn't tell them about the money. There was simply no way to explain how I'd accumulated such a large amount of cash without mentioning Soft Sal, and there was no way I was going to drag him into this. Besides, if all else failed and Matt insisted on seeing Bettina again, twelve hundred and seventy-five dollars might be his only form of protection.

  After I spilled the beans, my parents had a meeting of the minds and together marched upstairs to confront Matt. Since I wanted to be as far away from my brother when the bomb dropped as possible, I hightailed it to the garage and hopped on my bike.

  Outside it was business as usual—Larry was blasting “Pinball Wizard” from his front window, Frankie the Crunch was watering mums around his St. Christopher shrine, and Gorgeous Vinny was waxing his Coupe, adjusting his toupee, and no doubt dreaming about the day John Travolta would walk through the doors of his discothèque.

  I rode around the streets of Dyker Heights, up and down the steep hills, to blow off steam, but before long my empty stomach led me to Thirteenth Avenue. I hadn't eaten breakfast, and it was approaching lunchtime, so I parked my bike beside Tony's Pizzeria and ordered a slice at the counter. Across the street, Pee Wee and Ronnie were talking to a grou
p of girls—some of them, I noticed, were part of Roxanne's posse. None of them noticed me. I folded my slice in half, downed it in less than two minutes, then hopped on my bike for St. Bernadette's.

  Inside the church there was a Mass going on, so I sat in the back pew and waited until it was over. As the people filed out I walked slowly to St. Christopher, dropped a few coins in the box, and lit a candle for Matt. Even though I knew I had to tell my parents about him and Bettina, I still felt guilty for breaking my promise. Quietly I said a prayer, hoping Matt would understand, but for some reason I knew I was asking the impossible.

  I headed out into the blinding sunlight. When my eyes adjusted, I saw that the curtains in the apartment above Moe's candy store were open. Someone was home. Mostly, I'd been angry that Dominick had stood me up the night before, but now, after getting all these good vibes from St. Bernadette's, I decided maybe there was an explanation—a legitimate reason why he couldn't make it. I took a deep breath, hopped on my bike, and rode over.

  As I pressed the doorbell, Moe popped his head out of the candy store. “I, uh, don't think Dominick's home right now. Maybe you better try him some other time.”

  “Oh, okay, it's just …” I pointed upstairs. “The curtains were open and I thought—”

  “Nah, he ain't there.”

  Just then the buzzer went off. I gave Moe a puzzled look and pushed the door open. “Well, it looks like someone's home,” I said.

  I stepped inside and heard Dominick's voice from the top of the stairs. “Hey, Pee Wee, what's the deal, man? I thought you and Ronnie were gone for good.”

  When he saw me standing there, his face went slack. “Oh, April, it's … you.”

  Two hands slipped around his waist, and a moment later Roxanne was peering over his shoulder. In the silence of the hallway, the three of us stood there staring at each other. Blood rushed to my face. “I'm … sorry. I shouldn't have come.”