100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (47 page)

Both girls wore six-inch, white skirts and matching turtlenecks that could honestly fit a Polly Pocket doll. I mean, really. They were practically naked. Brynn was extra effervescent…gag. With black VHS letters bouncing on a chest that defied gravity, she jumped up, winding her legs around Dylan’s waist, riding him like a carnival ride. I swear, if I had a gun, I’d shoot her in the skirt. Dylan’s eyes flew wide, and his face flushed to pink. I would’ve thought that impossible with his dark skin, but the embarrassment washed over him like a drizzling rain. Murphy claimed there was a time in a guy’s life where he enjoyed the sorts of shenanigans Brynn readily aspired to…even if they’d been raised to be above it. I hoped Dylan’s time had come and gone right under my nose. With a nervous chuckle, he gently put her down, discarding her like a finicky mouse would a stale piece of bread.

Uh-oh, Brynn didn’t like that.

In fact, she held her chin high and let out a big humpf when the rebuff was noticed by Ivy who loudly laughed, “Omigosh!” You’d think Brynn would be embarrassed…heck,
I
was embarrassed for her, but I think she was the type beyond mortification. She seemed merely frustrated, formulating her next plan of attack. Dylan? I couldn’t tell what Dylan thought. He’d moved on to accepting congratulatory hugs from teammates and parents, but when Brynn circled again like a buzzard, he wound up giving her one of those side hugs anyway.

I actually heard myself say, “I hate him.” And a part of me did.

I was content with watching the show from the second floor, but Grumpy dragged me out onto the hardwood, making a beeline for Clementine. Evidently, he subscribed to the in-person type of invitations and didn’t wimp out by phone or even wimpier, by text. This was the second time tonight Grumpy had impressed me, and by Clementine’s bounce into his arms, apparently she’d been impressed too.

Suddenly, I was embarrassed I had Dylan’s number on my sweaty face. In fact, I think I lost a couple of inches on my stature because I felt myself shrink away to nothing. Perhaps Dylan felt my unease because overtop the masses congregating midcourt, he desperately looked for my face, winking that flirty smile when he found it, mouthing, “Come here, sweetheart.”

Dylan held both arms wide, wiggling his fingers for me to crawl inside. I rolled my eyes and started backing my way out. I was desperate; but by gosh, I wasn’t
that
desperate. Besides, Brynn had her claws sunk in his jersey, and I had no intentions of hugging her bouncy boobs.

“That wasn’t a request, Darcy,” he laughed, throwing his head back.

You would’ve thought someone stabbed Brynn. She jerked and gave Dylan a cold, hard stare, angrily mouthing words I couldn’t make out. All that was missing from the tantrum was Brynn lying face down, pounding her fists and feet into the floor. With a jaw dropped so low she could’ve tripped on it, she flipped her ponytail in the air and stalked off toward her parents who didn’t appear a bit fazed by her behavior.

Dylan didn’t seem bothered by what she’d said because next thing I knew, he bellowed out a “Darcy!” so loud anyone that knew me gave me a you’re-in-trouble look. Letting out a resigned sigh, I crammed myself inside the crowd and tried to find my hutzpah when I wrapped my arms around his waist. My brain screamed this was girlfriend behavior from someone who was merely the best friend. I knew to stop, but my arms couldn’t heed the command. I loved him. I hated him. It was a mind-bending, twisting road of psychological warfare.

Dylan’s chest rumbled as he engulfed me with his entire frame, murmuring his standard, “I missed you.” His shirt was soaked with a salty perspiration, yet I stood there hugging him, wondering how to reverse the hands of time to where it was only the two of us. With a quiet kiss on the top of my head, he murmured, “Talk to me, sweetheart. I can tell something is troubling you.”

“The day didn’t go as I’d planned,” I answered. And Brynn-I’ve got a movie star’s name-Hathaway just made it worse.

25. The Low Road

A
nswers were nowhere to be
had…and it wasn’t for a lack of looking.

I’d phoned Evelyn Seacrest from Coach’s office yesterday, on Wednesday, the plan to straight up ask if I could speak with Eric Young. Unfortunately, the phone rang non-stop—not even an answering machine. Add the sudden disappearances of Slapstick, Damon, and Madison, and it felt like everyone placed a double order of let’s-mess-with-Darcy. Bean even performed the job I’d asked him to—he’d contacted not one, but all of the people on the detention list, and none had heard of Brantley McCoy. Odd…which meant McCoy had either been sentenced to detention and never went, or they were scared poopless of his memory.

So here’s what I was looking at.

Big Moby was missing.

Big Moby was probably Brantley McCoy-slash-the identity thief.

And Eric Young might’ve spray painted Coach’s car. And why did I think this? Because Heaven help me, no one else had come forward, and I would’ve heard by now.

Justice had brought Rudi and me to school this morning since there was a mandatory basketball team meeting because of Monday night’s brawl, called by the athletic director. It seems we made the national news—Go Bison!—and he wasn’t too happy about the exposure. Whatevvs…he should be more proud the boys didn’t lie down and take it.

For once, I was glad for the emotional reprieve. Dylan had been my ride each day since Monday night’s game, and Brynn had phoned both mornings on the way to school. He never answered her calls…not one of them.
I
did, however, since I took this as a stab at me. Especially when she sweetly thanked me for returning her hair barrette—the one she’d left in the Beemer. Brynn. Aboveboard. This was a new tactic. Here’s the thing. Dylan had already told me he’d given her and her mother a ride when he passed them and the family Jag broken down on the side of the road. And although he volunteered this before I even asked, I’d thrown the gauntlet with Brynn. I wasn’t going to let her one-up me. So I gritted, “Glad to help” through my teeth and gave Dylan’s knee a soft I-trust-you squeeze. Seriously, this was out of character, but I decided to go for it.

Thing was, if I thought Ivy was a helium head, Brynn was like sucking nitrous oxide. Her emotional depth was as shallow as a spring mud puddle. I found myself stifling laughter from her juvenile bent on the world or nodding off to sleep as she described her new designer shoes—size six, of course. I’d always thought if I tried to figure out whether dating someone was worth the emotional investment, the first questions I’d ask were,
What’s your political party? Do you like animals? How do you feel about the working woman?
And by gosh,
Do you believe in aliens?

For me, that last one was a deal breaker.

Thing was, Brynn was like a bad cold you couldn’t shake. She’d be back to drain you again tomorrow.

Once inside VHS, I opened locker twelve and shrugged out of my coat, hanging my purse and backpack on the hook in the back. Snagging my math book, I took an OCD moment to align the books on the shelf and alphabetize what I’d haphazardly left in a mess: math, health, career development, science, government, Spanish IV, and English literature. One would think I’d be basking in the land of almost-caught-criminal euphoriaville, but I felt like a pressure cooker about to blow.

You see, I’d even phoned Tito like I’d planned (three times), left a lengthy message about what happened with Big Moby and Madison Flannery (still three times), and even told him I’d consider getting together to talk (yup, three times).

What did I get?

Not even a returned call.

With a heavy sigh, I turned to see Rudi in full-on cry mode, her shoulders quaking with tremors. Since I’d told her what’d happened with Big Moby on Monday night, she’d daily nipped at my heels like a dog that didn’t want you to leave. “Don’t worry about anything, Rudi. I know what I’m doing,” I assured her. Thing was, I was a work-in-progress…in every sense of the word.

Rudi tried her best to stop the tears before they melted her mascara, finally giving up and removing her fogged glasses.
You’re all I’ve got
, she mouthed. My word, she recycled Murphy’s standard line.

Diving on her with a full-bodied hug, I’d always considered myself observant to those around me. I made phone calls, sent cards, and even held hands when you were dumped or wanted the opportunity just to
get dumped. But now, I felt like a self-centered schmuck. I’d been so wrapped up with trying to score a ten grand reward and five hundred big ones from Coach Wallace that I’d missed something going on in Rudi’s life. As I pulled back to wipe a thumb across her cheeks, I locked my eyes on hers, speaking slowly so she could read my lips. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” someone sneered. “The both of you are blocking the hall with your disgusting display of togetherness.” When I turned, Rudi followed as we fell into the gaze of Ivy who opened the locker fate happened to park right across from mine. As usual, Ivy was Barbie-doll sublime, but she’d mixed it up and bypassed her standard snow-bunny white. A tiny orange sweater skimmed her navel and a black skirt hung so low and tight, sitting down would be like viewing the San Andreas Fault. Anyone behind her would get a geography lesson.

Immediately intimidated, Rudi’s shoulders hunched and she mouthed a “Sorry.”

Ivy rolled her eyes, opening her locker. She carelessly threw her things inside, not concerned her white purse alone cost in the high three figures. Why should that surprise me? She toyed with feelings the exact same way or worse. Once she pulled out her books, she turned so Rudi could read her lips.

She mockingly made an attempt at slow-mo conversation. “What-ev-er, but you might want to re-ap-ply that make-up.”

My blood instantly boiled. Rudi lived in a trailer park. For all I knew, her makeup came from magazine samples. My normal MO would be to ignore her barbs and secretly cry in private—even throw in a sneer that accomplished absolutely nothing—but I felt differently when it applied to someone else’s honor. I’d almost fought this girl before, but Dylan broke it up.

Well, guess what, he wasn’t here, and today I’d unleash all my crazy.

For the record, I wasn’t dressed for fighting. I’d actually made an effort today—shocking on a million different levels. I’d parted my hair down the middle and used a curling wand with a trifecta of cosmetics. Wearing dark-washed, straight-legged Hollister jeans, I’d zipped my black spiky boots on, topping the ensemble with a skin-tight, white turtleneck sweater. If I started to lose O2, I could stomp her to death, I suppose. In my ears were the pièce de résistance—tiny pierced crosses dropped from a gold post, dangling at half an inch. Here’s to hoping Jesus would lend me some butt-kicking skills, or at least forgive my step into redneck.

No lie, I had an out-of-body experience. I watched myself elbow inside a scrambling crowd that had grown to frantic pace. There were roughly ten minutes before classes started, and for me, math was all the way on the opposite end of the hall. I didn’t give a flying flip about pi and his little friends or the fact that being late meant a trip to AP Unger’s office.

The way I saw it, this shiz was ON.

“Shut up, Ivy!” I hissed. “You remind me of one of those yappy, little dogs that bark so much they make the dog lovers want to kick them. Well, guess what? I’ve got my dog-kickers on, and since Rudi’s too upset to fight for herself, then
I’m
going to.” Jeez, that sounded so Kentuckyesque Murphy would be proud.

Ivy lowered her head. “
You’re
going to,” she repeated.

“That’s right,” I nodded like a fool, “and I’m going to start by telling you that orange washes you out. So you might want to skip first period and go home and change. Find some pants too because those look like they could fit my little sister who has a better butt than you.”

Take that, Ivy Morrison. Crap, what was next? Should I slap her in the face? Punch her in the ovaries? Wait for her to smack me first?

Maybe I was thinking too much…

It was hard to hear anything above my own anger, yet the moment my finger poked her in the chest, Ivy backed me up against the wall, her hand steeling around a chunk of my hair. Her blue eyes went hard as diamonds, and the necklace dangling from her neck was…Hello Kitty. Hello Kitty, for God’s sake!! No way in the world did Hello Kitty want the association.

My eyes told her,
I hope you burn in Hell.

Ivy’s eyes grinned,
Not before I send you first.

Okay, I was more of a lover than a fighter, but I was determined to not allow this to be another bullet for my
Darcy’s Such a Spineless Dweeb
list. You know how they say a hero rises to the occasion when no one else will? I glanced around, and all I saw were dropped jaws, and Justice running full sprint half a hall away. I knew she came as backup, but I might be dead by then because Ivy’s face went Wicked Witch of the West. Rudi tried to help, but Trudi Hatchett—who I referred to as Brynn’s lapdog—pushed her out of the way, circling us with wannabe members of the skank squad. When Rudi fell to the floor on all fours, my hero gene kicked in, and I went
Call of the Wild
on Ivy.

I reared back, and…

Justice took us out in a tackle.

FOILED AGAIN…ERRRRGH.

Justice had literally run through me to get to Ivy, gearing into beeyotch smackdown mode. Collapsing into a side roll, I took out a guy and his stack of books, staggered up, and landed right on a couple of girls who play soccer. Their mouths were agape—watching Justice and Ivy roll around like pigs in fresh mud. Justice had some savagely powerful karate moves in her arsenal, but this fight here?

Alllll girrrrll
.

They slapped, kicked, screamed, cursed, and before I could say,
For God’s sake, fight like men,
I dove into the middle and started yanking whatever object I could get my hands on. I grabbed hair, a foot, maybe a boob, but someone ripped my ankle boot off in the scuffle, and some guy behind squealed, “Girl on girl action! Shiiiiiiii—”