Year: 2020
JC Mulvaney
His piercing blue eyes burned a hole in the side of my face, his skin pale like the moon, his grin deceitful like a cheshire cat, and his lips bubble gum pink-and thin. Because of these extremely white all-American boy qualities, he hung on the wall of our school as a monument of greatness. His photo frame was made of gold, his certificates placed all around, and his trophy treasures filled a whole glass case-his name you ask? Saint Brandon Timothy Walsh. Never ask the question who he was? because if you did it was an absolute give-away that you weren't from Beverly Hills.
Walking past his shrines of glory for the a millionth time, I scowled at the portrait of the MIA golden boy who represented everything that I thought I was not. In the cool of night, my brother and I were wandering around the school hall after hours trying our best not to fit in. In the next room over was the fall dance on the basketball court and we at this point had done everything not succumb to the typical, everyday, student-body event. We had no plans of showing-up to this dance, but we couldn't resist poking our faces through the door window of the gym to spy on the pathetic gathering of adults and spoiled teens. As much as we hated Beverly Hills, we had to admit hating it from afar was a drag-now-hating it up close-that was a sight to see.
Different from the normal West Beverly apparel, I wore patterned pants which could pass for pajamas and my nappy curls tried to stay tucked under the thin rubber band I had forced on it. My brother stood beside me and he looked the same kind of awful. He had a red bump forming on the cleft of his chin, his power ranger shirt was two sizes too small, and he was wearing these old dress shoes that were peeling away with every step he took. Appearances didn't matter to us back then, we were two pissed off high school students, who had just been stripped from our father, living in a cramped apartment outside of town and attending a school that didn't even sorta reflect us. If anyone were to ask me what Beverly Hills was like, I would tell them that it was exactly what all the TV shows and magazines said it was: a place with a lot of money but no morals. (At least the part we went to was.)
In the corner of the dance room we spotted Detective Valerie Malone, her dress resembled the night sky painted a navy blue, decked with a glittering array of diamonds, she was beyond beautiful I had to admit. She had the naturally poufy lips, silk hair and she carried a gun-that's what those horny tenth graders loved the most. They assumed she was the sexier version of Robocop, or something.
"She looks nervous about something," My brother realized as he pressed his face up against the gym's door window even more. "I think Ms. Malone was forced to come here tonight." He grinned menacingly. He had a run in with the detective before when he vandalized her vehicle. She made him wait in a holding cell until Ms. Kay, his mother, came; he had despised her ever since. Whenever bad things happened to Malone he was thrilled, which was the reason why he was so excited when he noticed something had to be eating away at her that night.
I peeked in through the other window to get a full view of what he was seeing. "Yeah she is nervous looking." I saw Valerie's perfect almond-shaped eyes shoot to Mrs. Kelly Sanders, her sworn enemy. But Kelly couldn't afford to keep tabs on the detective because she was too busy ominously staring at her husband Steve Sanders. Steve Sanders, the billionaire, secretly whispered to the Chancellor of California University, Clare Arnold. He whispered to her passionately, (you could tell they dated before.) He did all this completely oblivious to the fact that his wife knew he was cheating or going to cheat with Clare.
My brother caught this too and announced in a loud whisper: "Front page, front page!" That was our inside joke whenever we saw an incriminating situation going down at the school. It doesn't matter how big or small the situation was you could count that it would be "front page" of someone's blog or paper. Welcome to Beverly Hills where privacy is illegal!
My eyes went back to Valerie Malone who stood alone with the champagne glass the Principal gave out just to the adults. She was searching for someone, trying to avoid someone, and just like a stalker would in a movie the one she was trying to avoid magically appeared. The famous music producer, David Silver surprised her from behind. By the rolling of her eyes, I could easily see that he was the one she was dreading. David Silver, a used-to-be handsome man, who dressed like a nineties pimp attempting to make scraggly beard fashionable again, whispered in her ear. He was trying to seduce her, but Valerie Malone wasn't having it.
My brother's eyes had already started to wonder elsewhere, but then he came back over to my side of the window when he heard me snickering. "What you looking at?"
It was then I began to explain. "Oh nothing new," I smirked. "David Silver is just trying to cheat on his wife with Detective Malone."
"I knew it. It's amazing these people have all the money in the world and they never seem to stay faithful." My brother said haughtily. "It's probably why his baby boy Scott Silver turned into a moppy crack addict."
"Or it's probably because you beat the living crap out of Scott in a beach brawl a few days ago. Which reminds me, you probably shouldn't be standing to close to the window. Mr. Silver and the rest of the fam might still want to press charges on you for that."
"Oh please, if they haven't done it already they never will." He rolled his eyes.
Scott Silver, the eldest son of David, was West Beverly's star quarterback, and he acted just like a star quarterback, living up to the stereotype of "wild parties at my place," "I sleep with too many skimpy girls," and "beer, beer, beer even though I'm under age."
"Bentley's been looking like death though," I added. My brother nodded his head agreeing with me. Bentley, the youngest Silver, was the for sure gay brother. He stuck by his mom and helped her with her fashion line. The more the days went by, he inched closer and closer to suicide. Since his mother stowed away to Tokyo to get away from his father and his sick antics he had not been the same. It was hilarious because their little family affair didn't even cover 20% of the action that was happening. Ms. Hannah Zuckerman, my English 4 teacher, was arguing with her mother, Dr. Zuckerman, about using her expensive education to become a school teacher and Dylan McKay, the famous poet, was taking shots of tequila behind the curtain. So far Beverly Hills was exactly what my father warned it would be proving to be the exact reason why my brothers and I should have just taken off with him.
The ceremony was beginning, and the principle stepped to the stage and explained why all these famous people (some of them former students) were present. A picture of a boy appeared on the screen behind; the boy's piercing blue eyes burned a hole in my face, his skin pale like the moon, his grin deceitful like a cheshire cat, and his lips bubble gum pink-and thin. The boy was obviously the honorable Saint Walsh. My brother and I moaned in disgust not sure if we should stick around or puke in the toilet. Then it hit me that all the deceitful, cheating, alcoholic, too rich, adults used to be friends of Saint Walsh, he was known for being the key person to all their success. And for that, I hated Saint Walsh more than all the others even though it had been twenty years since his footsteps landed in palm trees, pretty beach, Hollywood county. The Principle began to list the Saint's accomplishments rephrasing what was written on his plaque hanging in the hallway. "Brandon helped start the Beverly Beat with Steve Sanders… Brandon encouraged Zuckerman to be a Doctor… Brandon helped Donna Silver to graduate…" One thing after the other after the other.
My leg fell asleep at the sound of the monotonous speech that went stale after the first two hundred times I heard it. A boom echoed in the hall and then the principal's dry words came to an end and I assumed it was because they were shooting fireworks.
My brother took the words out of my mouth, "Are you serious fireworks?!"
We thought so, but then everyone paused and was looking around like they were trying to get a clue. Then the second "boom" went off and it was made perfectly clear what was going on when one girl in pink slips fell on the ground, blood oozing from her backside. This sight was not seen by my brother and I, it was too far from our prying eyes, and before we were ever to see what happened the room lit up and the students began to buzz and zoom about like wild confused bees. The doors to the court were kicked open and both of us went flying skidding across the hall into the nearest wall. A kick to the gut revived me and forced me to stumble to my feet, even in this process of trying to stand upright girls and boys all in their finest wear flew over me, above me, and all around me. You heard about crap like this on the news but you never thought you.
Bentley Silver took on the form of death that day and began unloading his gun. I think he meant to just kill his father, but once he got rolling he showed no sign of wanting to slow down. In the stampede of students, I lost my brother and couldn't gain sight of him anywhere. I stuck close to the wall attempting not to be thrown to the ground. I screamed, "Oliver! Oliver!" I was scared for him. I was scared for me. A million thoughts pounded my conscience at once, one of them being having to tell our dad that I got Oliver killed, an admission like that was too horrible to think of, and it made me take my mind off my battered state to focus on finding him. But almost immediately after another problem leaped to the forefront. Bentley caught me limping down the hall and in that second I became next victim. His eyes shot at me before his gun ever did and I went down the hall doing my best attempt at a dash. But my legs screamed, "No more!" and I dived to the ground hitting my head against another wall. Instinctively, I knew his bullet left the chamber and was gunning for me. I remember saying to myself, "I'm dead."
I left my eyes shut waiting for the call of God to tell me to "Arise." But that voice never came and I remained in pain on a cool tile floor. My eyelids slowly broke apart from each other and I saw the color of a brown thin layer paper over my head. I lifted my body. And when I was able to sit sorta upright I saw that the brown paper covering my face was just the back of a portrait, a gold framed portrait.
I hadn't realized the worst was over. Bentley laid out, face down, and flattened on the floor in front of me with another boy on top who speared him to the ground. That boy was Oliver Mulvaney-my brother. And the portrait covering me was a person much more unexpected. I looked over the gold frame and gasped. Saint Walsh was wrinkled because the tip of his slicked flattop fade caught the bullet, but still he kept his smile, it was the Saint who fell from his wall, his hall of fame, just in time to save me. I carefully removed the portrait from me like a prized artifact placing it to the side. My main concern was to get my brother out of this setting of blood and turmoil. I didn't move quick enough I suppose because the next step I took triggered the sound of a million sirens and at that moment the warzone transformed into an investigation. Cops flocked to the school with parents yelling, screaming, and crying. Peremetics peeled injured and deceased victims off the floor.
"Who did it?!"
"Who was he?!"
"What's happening?!"
These questions continued to fill the atmosphere, sulking the air, and making it hard to breathe. I thought I was just going to limp out the door with my bruised brother, but I was halted by officials as I tried to wrap his limped arm around my shoulder. The next thing I knew, the detectives were hoisting Bentley Silver up from the ground. He regained consciousness trembling as if he had no idea what had happened. They slapped the handcuffs on his wrist and began hauling him away as he shook and cried, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" For a half a second, I felt for him maybe because I wanted to do the same and cry "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" But I broke out of that two-year-old state quick and returned to my brother.
Oliver wasn't unconscious, just in shock. As he slowly came upright he uttered. "Did I get him?" I nodded my head, tear slipping from my bloodshot eyes, I was so proud. In that moment, my brother was my dad diving to the rescue and saving the day, like a true champ.
Waiting on the outside was our eldest brother, Ronnie. Releasing the oxygen from his lungs, Ronnie darted toward us kissing us both repeatedly. His dreadlocks fell over our shoulders; his tears saturated our torn clothing. We were having a family moment, a lovely moment, while in the background families were being torn apart.
As the medical team forced David Silver into the ambulance, he was able to spot his son being ushered into the police vehicle. He screamed at the top of his lungs with everything he had, "YOU LITTLE BITCH! HOW COULD YOU?!" He cried knowing that the family name was done for and that the name Silver would forever be dragged through the dirt.
The name Mulvaney, our last name, would take on a different outlook. The mayor would crown my outcast brother hero of the student body, a label the angry and defeated Scott Silver refused to accept. When his brother lifted the gun he went from football hero to zero-he wasn't about to praise my "rude" brother; the one who said his girlfriend was an inspiration to sluts all over America, even if he did possibly saved his life.
People died, fear had been ignited, but my family was safe. God had answered a desperate prayer, what more could I have asked for. We had to go to the hospital too, but before I went I ran back inside to the scene of the crime, crazy right? I took that slightly torn portrait of Saint Walsh, kissed it on the forehead, and hung it back on the wall. It was in that moment, for me, Walsh became a Saint.