Guy Langman, Crime Scene Procrastinator

by Josh Berk

  Something Mr. Zant says catches Raquel’s attention. She suddenly is very interested. In fact, she raises her hand. Mr. Zant seems a bit stunned to see her offering to participate. “Yes!” he says with too much enthusiasm, pointing at her with the double-gun hand gesture.

  What she has to say is: “I don’t know if you know this about me, but I can totally write with my feet.”

  Mr. Zant laughs. It is pretty funny to consider, and rather unexpected. He doesn’t know what to say. “My notes don’t mention foot-writing” is all he can come up with, turning his cards over in his hands as if some answers of his own might be hidden there somewhere. “But I assume it’s somewhat similar to handwriting. Or maybe you could fool forensics experts by writing a ransom note with your foot!” She giggles. “But let it be clear that I am not advocating kidnapping, class,” he adds with a honking laugh.

  “I might kidnap someone,” she says, under her breath. And I sort of feel like she’s looking in my direction. But maybe not actually talking to me. Or about me. What is going on here? Who does she like? I can’t think about it for much longer, because I suddenly get very distracted. “Want me to show you?” she asks. “I can write on the board with my hand and then my foot and you can judge the difference,” she offers.

  “Wow, you can even write on the chalkboard with your toes?” Mr. Zant says. “This I have to see.”

  He throws the cards onto his desk, letting them cascade in a messy splay. We have clearly moved beyond little-card territory and know it. He pulls his teacher’s chair around to the middle of the board and brushes it off. Then he positions the chair so that a person’s feet could reach the bottom of the board. Raquel gets up, sits in his chair, then slowly removes her shoe. Her foot is tan and flawless like the rest of her. Her nails, however, are painted a shocking shade of neon blue.

  I suddenly pray that I’m not called up to the board for any reason.

  Raquel kicks her foot into the air like a dancer. I can’t stop staring at that foot. It makes me blush. Is it weird to be turned on by a foot? What the hell?

  “Oh,” Mr. Zant says. He seems a little distracted by this foot as well, but tries to regain the clinical tone of a scientist while half stuttering and saying “uh” literally every other word. “First, uh, we, uh, need, uh, to, uh, get, uh, a, uh, sample, uh, of, uh, your, uh, regular, uh, handwriting, uh, as, uh, the, uh, control group, uh.”

  “Right,” she says, picking up the chalk in her right hand. “What should I write?”

  “Just, uh, whatever, uh, comes, uh, to, uh, mind, uh,” he says, still unable to get the “uh” under control while Raquel’s bare foot dangles in his chair.

  “Write ‘Raquel is a flirt,’ ” Maureen mutters from the corner. She doesn’t mean it, of course, but Raquel writes just that in big, loopy handwriting.

  Raquel is a flirt.

  “Okay,” Mr. Zant says, somehow able to actually complete two syllables without uh-ing. “Now write the same words with your foot for the comparison sample.”

  Raquel holds her foot up in the air, supporting her thigh with her hands, fireman-carry style. Mr. Zant full-on blushes as he positions a long piece of yellow chalk between her first and second toes. She leans back, tosses her hair, and slowly begins to draw letters on the board. Truth is, the handwriting (foot-writing?) is actually oddly similar to the script she had written by hand. Raquel is a flirt, Raquel is a flirt it says in near-identical writing. Something about it seems wrong to me, however. I remember the note she had given Anoop back at the beginning of Forensics Squad.

  “Don’t forget to dot the ‘i’ with a heart!” I say, loudly because I am nervous. Raquel gives me a confused look.

  “Oh my God, gross,” she says. “I never do that. Not since like fifth grade, anyway.” I look over at Anoop, who is suddenly staring intently at his notebook, making intricate scribbles with his pen.

  “Mr. Zant,” I say, raising my hand and addressing him although I am stressing certain words that I want to make sure Anoop hears. “Doesn’t that shoot a hole in your theory—that handwriting never changes? She used to write a heart over the letter ‘i’ instead of a dot, and now, suddenly, she’s stopped doing that. Never does it, in fact. Isn’t that interesting?”

  Anoop gets up and runs out, muttering, “Bathroom.”

  “Yes, uh, that is interesting, Guy,” Mr. Zant says. “I suppose that is one of those exceptions contained within every rule. Perhaps some more forensics research needs to be conducted on the evolution of handwriting in preteen girls with regards to the ‘i’ heart. Feel free to take that up as a research project. I’ll help you get it into a good journal!”

  From behind me I can hear Maureen snickering. “What?” I say.

  “The day you’ll see Guy do the hard work required to publish a scientific paper is the day you’ll see me … um …”

  She apparently can’t think of the right unlikely event in her own life to compare with me writing a scientific paper. Unfortunately for her, everyone else easily can think of several things.

  “Wearing a dress?”

  “Not being a weirdo?”

  “Kissing a boy? I mean an actual living boy?”

  “Writing a three-page paper rather than five when the assignment is to write a three-to-five-page paper?”

  “Going out into the sun without melting?”

  “Ceasing to be a medium-sized, omnivorous mammal native to North America?”

  This last zinger, delivered in loud volume, is mine. It’s probably rude and not even all that funny, but ever since Maureen came to school with two dark circles of makeup around her eyes (apparently in an attempt to look Goth, although probably not doing it quite right), I like to find every reason to accuse her of being a raccoon. That kind of thing cracks me up. I even memorized the definition of “raccoon.” See, I’m not lazy when inspired.

  “Shut up!” Maureen yells. “The point here is that Guy is never going to publish a freaking scientific paper, and the process by which preteen girls stop writing hearts over the letter ‘i’ has to be the dumbest idea for a paper I ever heard, anyway.” She slams her fist down onto her desk with more force than seems necessary. Her oddly angled ponytail pops some stray hairs from its holder. Then she collects herself, fixes the hair, and adds, “No offense, Mr. Zant.”

  “None taken,” he says. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re an omnivorous mammal native to North America.”

  “Um, thanks?”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Fields.”

  And with that strange conclusion, Forensics Squad is over for the day. Anoop, and thus my ride, is nowhere to be found. I wait impatiently for a few minutes. He went to the bathroom like twenty minutes ago. What did he do, fall in? Zing! I have things to ask him. While waiting, I try to make small talk with the nerds, who have still not left either. It seems they’re talking about blood. Um, yeah.

  “What are you dudes talking about?” I ask Maureen and TK.

  She says nothing, just folds her arms.

  “Come on,” I say.

  “Blood,” she says, as if that’s a normal answer.

  “Should have guessed,” I say.

  “It’s exciting!” she says.

  “I guess,” TK says, stifling a yawn.

  “Blood has magic. I really believe that,” she says. “Black magic.”

  “Like I said, it’s just water and dissolved proteins,” he says. “Not that there’s anything wrong with water and dissolved proteins—we need them to live—but magic? Hardly.”

  “I really think if you had someone’s blood, you could control them,” Maureen says. I haven’t ever seen her so animated. Her eyes are darting around like little wild animals.

  “Control them?” he scoffs. “Like a voodoo doll? You are a better scientist than that.”

  I laugh. Can you believe it? They actually discuss things like being “a better scientist” than something. Unbelievable. And seriously, why would Maureen want to control someone? Wh
ile she talks with TK, I notice that she is scribbling in her black notebook. It seems that she is always scribbling in a black notebook. The pages are even black, and she uses some sort of secret ink that I guess you have to read under a black light or something. Of course I don’t really care what she is writing, but you know, a black notebook filled with notes in black ink is sort of intriguing. Black ink on black pages: my life, maybe.

  Anoop sticks his head into the room and says, “Dude, there you are,” as if I were the one missing. “Let’s get out of here,” he adds. You can’t hide in the bathroom forever.

  “Sure,” I say. He starts talking about how he got into a game he was playing on his phone, something to do with throwing knives.

  We get into the AC Machine. Anoop’s car, known to one and all (or okay, just to me) as “the AC Machine,” is a pretty dorky mid-level sedan that would not look out of place in the teachers’ lot. Where is the law written that all teachers have to drive the exact same silver sedan? For a touch of class, however, Anoop always has three or four throw pillows in the back of his car. Like fluffy red pillows with beaded trim. He claims it gives the sedan a “homier” appearance. Seriously.

  I can’t talk too much smack about Anoop’s car, though, since I am one of the few non-freshmen at Very Rich who doesn’t have any sort of car at all. Cars mean a lot here. Raquel has an awesome car—a bright red Lexus hybrid. Hip, stylish, environmentally friendly. What more could a guy ask for?

  I know it is a serious hit to my status that I am car-free, but I don’t really care about my status (anymore), and besides, I find that I’m going the same place as Anoop ninety-nine percent of my life anyway. Plus, yeah, I might kind of be too lazy to study for the Driver’s Ed exam. There’s, like, a booklet, and you have to wait in line at the DMV, and the class is, like, Saturday mornings, and …

  So I cruise home in the AC Machine, waiting for the right moment to confront Anoop about the day’s revelations. Forensics genius that I am, a few things have become abundantly clear, resulting in a feeling I don’t know what to do with. It is an unusual feeling, being pissed at Anoop. Sure, sometimes he takes two turns in a row in Yars’ Revenge, and sometimes he farts in my general direction with the force of an Indian elephant, but I’ve never really been mad at him. Not ever. And when I think about the ruse he obviously pulled, there is simply no way I can’t be angry with him.

  I don’t like confrontation either, but it has to be said. So before we are even out of the parking lot, I just snap and let it out.

  “Dude, tell me the truth. Raquel didn’t really write that note, right?”

  “Um, um, what?” he says. I’m right. I know it right away. Anoop is one of those people who never say “um.” He’s a total smooth talker who always has the right word at the ready. So it is obvious he is just buying time. I pounce! Not literally! But I don’t let him stall.

  “She said that she hasn’t dotted an ‘i’ with a heart since fifth grade,” I say. “Your ruse is out!”

  “Maybe she was, um, you know, ummm …”

  “Dude.”

  “Fine,” Anoop says. “Fine. It was me who wrote that letter. But I didn’t do it just as a ruse—nice word, by the way, total SAT prep word—I did it for you.”

  “Now this I gotta hear,” I say. “Why one dude would forge a love letter to another dude who was supposedly his friend, knowing full well that that dude—”

  “Just because—”

  “Let me finish!” I yell. “Knowing full well that that dude could be manipulated by the girl the other dude was … Wait, what am I saying? I mean, why you would forge a note from a girl you knew I liked, knowing full well that it would make me so crazy in love with her that her foot could give me a boner?”

  “I didn’t know it would make you crazy,” he says. “That foot-boner is on you. Some people can like girls without totally going nuts over it. I just knew that it would make you come to Forensics Squad. I knew that if I left it up to you, you’d be too lazy to ever come and spend your time doing anything other than ancient video games and bubble baths. The truth is, my friend, yeah, I wanted you there so I’d have someone to hang out with, but it’s not just that.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been—I’ve been worried about you,” he says. “This was the first thing you seemed to care about in forever, and then, after one bad day, you wanted to quit? I wanted the old you back. You haven’t been the old you since …”

  I know what he means. And what can I say? Maybe the old me died the day they put my father into that box.

  “Foot-boner,” I say contritely. “Good one.”

  He smiles. My mind sits teetering on a knife-edge. I’m pissed at Anoop for treating me like some sort of project, but I’m happy about the fact that I have someone in my life who cares so much. It falls toward happiness, but I don’t feel like letting it get too sappy in the AC Machine. I decide to just make a joke out of all of it. I know, I know, Dr. Waters.

  “I don’t need the extracurricular thing,” I say. “I don’t plan to go to college,” I say. “I have what’s known in the business as a ‘sugar daddy,’ ” I say.

  “You mean you’re, like, a ‘kept boy’?’ ” he says.

  “Sure, something like that,” I say.

  “Who’s your daddy?” he asks in a hilariously deep voice.

  “Aww, yeah,” I say. I waggle my eyebrows at him. He laughs.

  “Seriously, though,” he says. Those have to be Anoop’s two favorite words in the whole English language. Seriously, though. Seriously, though. Seriously, though. “I’m going to be rich, yeah, but I’m not going to support your ass our whole lives in some sort of hetero life-partner-type scenario forever.”

  “Who said anything about it being hetero?” I say in a weird voice. I don’t want to let it get serious. Enough “seriously, though.” Seriously. Then I purr like a cat. “Meow, Bengal Tiger,” I say, lifting my eyebrows extra high. Anoop usually thinks this sort of shtick is hilarious. He’d usually be LOL-ing, for sure.

  “I guess I’ll come back,” I say. “If Raquel is going to be my wife, I need to get on that.”

  Anoop exhales slowly. Now the knife teeters the other way. I’m pissed again. Beyond pissed. Because I have a hunch I know what’s coming. “Don’t say it,” I say.

  He says it.

  “Guy, Raquel and I have been hanging out.”

  “Hanging out?”

  “You know, talking and stuff.”

  “On dates?”

  “Well, yeah, one or two. I mean, nothing serious, but it’s sort of going in that way. We agreed not to tell you because we thought you would get upset …”

  “Why would I get upset?” I yell. “Just because my supposed best friend totally stabbed me in the back like some sort of, um, back-stabby backstabber?”

  “Calm down, Guy.”

  “Calm down? Screw that. What the hell, Anoop? You know I love her!”

  “You don’t love her, Guy. You never even talked to her.”

  “You’re the one who encouraged me to go for her in the first place!”

  “I just wanted you to come to Forensics. I didn’t know how things would happen. I didn’t know I’d end up falling for her. And I certainly didn’t know that she would end up falling for me!”

  The words slosh around in my brain, slow-motion-like. “Raquel.” “Fell.” “For.” Anoop. WTF-ing F?

  If Anoop weren’t driving, I think I would punch him in the face. Instead, I punch the dashboard. Hard. It leaves a dent and it hurts my hand. I scream.

  “Dude,” Anoop says quietly. And that’s all he says for the rest of the ride. Eventually we arrive at Langman Manor. And no, my house isn’t really some sort of estate. It’s just a big house. But yes, Dad did buy a weird sign that says LANGMAN MANOR, which he hung in the yard and we never bothered to take down. It is sort of funny, sort of a thumbing of our noses at the snooty neighbors. The sign is a bit faded, maybe more than a bit faded. The white paint has flecked o
ff to the point where it more or less says LAG NOR against a dark green board. My mom always hated it, but it’s not going anywhere. This I know.

  “You suck, Anoop,” I say as I get out of the car. I slam the door and storm off, feeling like it was a pretty cool exit. But then I realize that I have forgotten my backpack. Stupid backpack. I am definitely looking forward to a stage in life that does not require a backpack. If you ever see anyone carrying a backpack, you know that their life sort of sucks. No matter how old they are. Probably definitely if they’re over thirty. I reach back in and grab it. Backpack-related exits are rarely cool. So I add, “You double-suck,” which is certainly a dumb thing to say. So I say it twice.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Next week’s session of Forensics Squad. I’m here and Anoop is not. Did he quit FS? I’ve been avoiding him a lot lately. Who cares if he did. But what am I even doing here? And how am I going to get home? Why didn’t I think of that before I had a fight with him? Or at least before I decided to stay late without a ride home. I try texting Mom again, but she’s not responding. What is she up to? And Mr. Zant is running late. What kind of secret handsome-guy shenanigans might he be up to? Haircut? Hair Club for Men? Handsome People Anonymous?

  I’m sitting near the front, staring out the half-window, thinking these important questions. Right behind me is Maureen. I am not sure if she has any philosophy on seat-choosing, but maybe by moving to the second row instead of the first, she is taking one step away from nerd-dom and a tentative leap into the back rows of slackerhood.

  I realize that there is a lot I don’t know about Maureen Fields. And given the morbid thoughts I’ve been having, maybe I should get to know her better. Maybe we have something in common. Maybe a lot in common. She is giving off lots of signals to be left alone—scribbling in the black notebook and wearing her custom black earbuds with loud music blaring—but I still decide to talk to her. I see her flicking her phone with a lazy thumb, presumably changing songs. It seems like a better conversation-starter than asking about her philosophy of seat-choosing or the secret notebook, so I ask her about the music.