Dutch Me Deadly

bumped up to valedictorian, Laura gets salutatorian, and you get upgraded to fifth in the class. Pretty convenient if you ask me.”

I sat up straight in my seat. Pete Finnegan became valedictorian only after the infamous Bobby Guerrette disappeared? I sidled a glance across the aisle at Pete. Hmm. How interesting was that?

“Are you accusing my Gary of something criminal?” Sheila demanded.

“If the shoe fits,” taunted Ricky.

“How come you’re not throwing accusations at Pete?” Sheila raved on. “He’s the one who benefited most from Bobby’s absence.”

“And you know damn well I would have earned a basketball scholarship if I hadn’t blown my knee that last semester,” Gary defended.

“Ouch.” I cringed. “Basketball injury?”

“He slipped on a piece of toilet paper in the boys’ restroom,” Paula said with barely contained humor. “The captain of the basketball team, felled by a square of generic two-ply.”

“One-ply,” Ricky corrected. “They were too cheap to spring for two-ply.”

“Yah, well, if you football lunkheads hadn’t been horsing around, it never would have happened,” Gary sniped.

“You can’t take a joke,” accused Ricky. “You never could. Getting rid of all the toilet paper in the restroom was hilarious.”

“You and your stupid prank ruined my basketball career,” Gary bellowed.

“Ya, he coulda been a contenda,” said Paula, aping Marlon Brando.

“Are you blaming me?” Ricky challenged. “Hey, I ain’t taking the rap for your accident. Nobody pushed you. You went down all on your own.”

“And one of these days you’re going down, too, Hennessy.” Gary’s jaw pulsed angrily. “We’ll see how you like it.”

Mindy gasped. “Is that a threat?”

Paula threw her arms into the air and circled them around her head erratically, like a mime imitating chaos. “Geez-Louise, don’t get Mindy in a huff, or she’ll make up a derogatory cheer about you. Remember the one she made up about Laura and taught to the whole squad? Lau-ra, Lau-ra, she’s so scary. Looks like a dog, and acts like a ferret.”

I stared at Paula, horrified. Oh, my Lord. If my schoolmates had been that cruel to me, I’m not sure I would have had the courage to show my face in class again. The Francis Xavier cheerleaders apparently weren’t paragons of school spirit and good will.

They were bullies.

I sucked in a deep, calming breath.

I hated bullies.

“Ferret doesn’t rhyme with scary,” Sheila pointed out.

“No one asked you,” spat Mindy.

“Was there anyone on your squad of losers who realized that ‘scary’ could be rhymed with ‘fairy’?” questioned Paula. “Laura acted a hell of a lot more like the good fairy than a rodent.”

Mindy skewered her with a look that inspired more fear than the Death Star’s going operational. “You would have sold your grandmother’s dentures to be on the cheerleading squad, Paula Peavey, so I’m not listening to any of your trash talk. Here’s a cheer for you: Paul-a, Paul-a, can’t you see? You’re eaten up by jeal-ou- sy.”

Paula snorted with laughter. “Oh, please. Your glory days have gone to your head.” She flashed a snarky grin. “And everything else has gone to your butt.”

“Is the Laura you’re talking about Laura LaPierre?” I asked, leaping into the fray.

Dead silence, followed by an incredulous look from Mindy. “You know Laura?”

“In a roundabout way,” I fibbed. “She’s quite the celebrity. Did any of you read the interview she gave to Fitness Magazine? It was dynamite. She offered tips on how to stay ultra toned and flab- free past sixty-five. And she should know, because she looks like she has about zero percent body fat.” I smiled at Mindy. “She provided statistics on the high correlation between a pissy attitude and the high incidence of halitosis, boils, and rickets.” I smiled at Paula. “And she gave pointers on how to turn ordinary business ventures into cash cows. I guess she’s an entrepreneurial genius with more money than God.” I smiled at Gary. “Have you spoken to her?”

Eyes bulged. Expressions froze. Jaws fell.

“We haven’t run into her yet,” Mindy finally said in a small, tight voice.

“Well, you might not recognize her because she looks like she graduated last year instead of fifty years ago. What a knockout! You must be thrilled that a member of your class has made such a big name for herself. I think Vanity Fair is doing a feature article on her next month, and after that, she’ll be on the cover of Vogue. You should corner her sometime so you can reminisce about old times. I bet she’s dying to thank all of you.”

Ricky looked confused. “What’s she got to thank us for?”

“For treating her the way you did. If you’d been nice to her, she probably would have stayed in Bangor … and ended up like the rest of you.”

The floor tilted as we quartered into a wave. “Oh, jeez,” Ricky squawked, grabbing the table with both hands. We slammed into a trough with a boom strong enough to shake the table and cause the silverware to jump. Dishes rattled. Soup sloshed onto the table-cloth. And Ricky’s head fell forward as if he’d been guillotined.

“Is everyone ready for the next course?” I asked brightly as our waiter strode toward us, seemingly immune to the lurching deck. “Wow. Looks like a week’s worth of food. Hope everyone’s hungry.”

Ricky let out a groan like a wounded animal.

“Would you get him off the table?” Paula exploded. “Unless you expect the waiter to serve the next course around his head.”

“Is he going to be sick?” Sheila asked anxiously.

I stuck my nose in the air and sniffed. “Smells like onions, and hot chile oil, and peppercorns, and—”

“Somebody …” Ricky pleaded in a whisper of breath, “shut her up.”

“Bang Bang Chicken,” our waiter announced as he snapped open his tray jack and set his heavy serving tray atop it. “Very piquant.” He arched his brows at Ricky’s head. “Does der gentleman vish to try der entree?”

“He’s feeling a little out of sorts,” explained Mindy, “but he wouldn’t want his meal to go to waste, seein’s as how it’s already paid for, so you can give it to me, and I’ll just pick on it after I finish mine.”

“Give her mine, too,” Sheila instructed. “There’s no way I can enjoy my meal with Jumbo’s head in my lap.”

“His head is nowhere near your lap,” argued Mindy.

“How would you know what a lap looks like?” railed Sheila. “When’s the last time you saw yours?”

Paula laughed. “I doubt she can remember that far back.”

“I’ll tell you what I do remember,” Mindy shot back. “I remember who Bobby Guerrette refused to go to Senior Prom with. The girls were supposed to ask the boys. Remember him turning your invitation down flat? He decided to stay home rather than go with you. How’d that make you feel, Paula? Or did it happen too long ago for you to recall?”

“Witch,” hissed Paula.

“Bitch,” spat Mindy, proving that her rhyming skills had improved appreciably since high school.

“Duck!” cried Sheila, which seemed a lame entry in a name-calling contest, until I realized it wasn’t a name.

It was a warning.

“He’s ready to blow!”

Which he did, with animation, sound effects, and impressive range.

“Jeesuz, Hennessy!”

“OH MY GOD!!!”

I launched myself out of the booth, escaping across the aisle before my cashmere twinset fell victim to