Dirty Deeds

Teenage Dirtbag

"'Cause I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby / Yeah, I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby /Listen to Iron Maiden, baby, with me, ooh." — Teenage Dirtbag, Wheatus

"We're going to need a new dropbox soon," I tell Calvin. We've been on the phone for the last half hour, chatting mostly about business and a little about how good it felt to take down Dylan. That part of the conversation came primarily from Calvin. I try hard not to speak about the Benjamins—any of them—as much as I can. I know Calvin experienced a lot of bullying at Baker's and the rest of the football team's hands. Egged on by Nick, Dylan seemed to take a perverse pleasure in going after the kids he suspects are gay, regardless of whether they are.

I don't know exactly what went down during their last major interaction at the end of sophomore year. Still, I do know ever since, guys throughout the school make a wide berth whenever Calvin walks down the hall while shouting, "No homo!" It's childish and pathetic, and I hate it. I told Calvin I could make it stop, but he just shrugged his shoulders at me. I think he figured it was better than being shoved into lockers daily.

"I'll look into it," he says in response to my dropbox comment. We move around the locations for pickups and drop-offs, which is the best way to avoid anyone figuring out who we are.

I'm on my way to Java the Cup, my favourite coffee shop and one of the few I know my contact has yet to be permanently banned from. Carrying a nondescript satchel, I've got the broken pieces of Madison's Faberge Egg tucked away. This ask requires help above my skill level. I need someone who knows art and who can fix it. I don't know anyone like that. Even though Keith has money, he's not one for creativity. Besides, how would I approach him about fixing a $25000 Faberge egg without garnering some suspicion?

This job needs Scuz.

I round the corner of Apple Avenue to see the big, clear sign for Java the Cup. Chairs and tables with umbrellas are already set up outside, patrons scattered about, enjoying their Saturday coffees as the mid-morning sun shines down. Everyone looks so prim and proper, which is why it's not hard to find the person I've come to meet.

Leroy "Scuz" Scuzinski. He's the closest thing to a fixer I have. I've known him since I was a kid. He and my brother Aidan met back in 2nd grade. Despite being polar opposites, they bonded immediately. It probably had something to do with being two mixed-raced kids in a sea of white wealth. Leroy was a scholarship kid, so he had it even harder than Aidan. Add to that the fact that his father was in jail, his older brothers were known to be mixed up in the family business, his penchant for taking things that didn't belong to him and a name that starts with Scuz— it was like he was set up to fail. But Aidan didn't care. That's the nice thing about him. He's always been popular, lucky with the girls, and liked by teachers, yet it never went to his head. Despite his shortcomings—of which there are many—he saw that Scuz was good to him, so he always worked to be good to Scuz. Although mom can't stand him.

Since starting Dirty Deeds, Scuz has been a guiding force. He answered questions without asking any of his own, and when I found myself in a sticky situation, he didn't blink when I asked for help.

Scuz sits in the far back corner of the patio, his back to the dark brick wall. He couldn't look more conspicuous if he tried in sweats two sizes too big, with the hood up and a large black coat over top.

"Scuz is already here," I tell Calvin, cutting him off as he lists potential drop points, "email me a list," I add before ending the call.

I climb up the short set of stairs to the patio.

"Scuzinski," I say by way of greeting.

"Dodge." His voice is deep and smooth as if he's imitating Barry White or something. He smiles at me and gestures for me to take a seat. I do, sliding my bag between my feet for easy access.