Page 29 of My Debacle with De Lorenzo

“Why were you so nervous to talk to Lana?” I ask as I sit down.

“I’m generally nervous to speak toanygirl.”

My eyebrows draw together in confusion as he straddles the bench to sit down beside me. “That’s not true. You’reveryverbose with me.” That’s my tiniest bit of jealousy talking.

“Well, that’s because you’re really easy to talk to. I can’t...I can’t talk to other girls the way I talk to you.”

And that’s my tiniest bit of jealousy dissipating. “So, do you want to explain this system of crazy to me?”

“Okay, let’s get right down to it.” He takes out a notepad and pen from his backpack.

“Shit just got real,” I say with a giggle. “You need a pen and paper for this?”

“Yep.”

When he lifts the pen, I notice that he’s a lefty, and he’s wearing a ring on his left thumb. I guess these are things I should’ve noticed before, but I’m always too busy gawking at his face...and his chest...and his ass. I also notice the slight purplish bruises on his knuckles. He punched Steven over a week ago. It’s weird that they’re still bruised.

He places the notepad on the table and scribbles on the top of the page:Levels of Crazy!

“Now, it’s imperative that you understand this crucial detail. A woman can be levelheaded and rational in every other aspect of her life, but she can be, like, a level eight or nine crazy when it comes to men. So, each level is characterized by how a girl reacts to a guy hurting her. We’ll start with level four: The Francesca.” He writes that down. “This girl has her little blowouts when she’s mad but calms down quite quickly. She’s the type you can have an amicable breakup with. You’ll talk it over rationally, come to a conclusion as to why the relationship won’t work, and both of you will part ways gracefully. She’ll return all your stuff in good condition and not just toss it out on the street so all the neighbors know your business.”

I’m trying not to smile at the amount of detail on this. He’s jotting down bullet points as he speaks like this is all factual. “Why Francesca, though? Do you even know a Francesca?”

“Yeah. I named that level after my ex-girlfriend. We were best friends growing up, and, uh, feelings started getting deeper, so we thought we’d try being...more than friends. We dated for a couple months, but then we broke up when I moved here last year. The whole long-distance thing wouldn’t have worked.”

“How very mature of the two of you.”

“That maturity is the reason she’s a level four. Now, level five encompasses The Cusser, The Clapper, The Clicker, The Slapper. This girl will initially give you the silent treatment, and then when she’s finally ready to talk, she’s gonna cuss your ass out, all the while using her hands to communicate. It’s entirely unnecessary, but she does it for dramatic effect. So, this is the girl who waits for you to get home from work, and as soon as you open the door, she’s like...” He puts on a girly voice with a hint of sultriness. “I figured out the password to your Facebook, and you know what I found? A hundred and seventeen messages between you and Tiffany. I readallof them. Mmm-hmm.” He clicks to show the full effect. “Boy, you gon’ learn today.”

I don’t think he even realizes how adorable he is. I say nothing and just listen as he continues.

“That’s the clicker. The clapper will just show up at your office or to your boys’ night out and embarrass you in front of everyone, walking aggressively behind you as you try to escape, just clapping with each word.” Again, he demonstrates this. “Who’s.”Clap. “The ho.”Clap.“In the.”Clap.“Picture, Dylan?”Clap.“Who’s the ho?”Clap.“And the slapper doesn’t ask questions because she doesn’t care about the explanation. She’s just throwing slaps.”

I’m highly amused, but I can’t even deny the truth he is speaking. “My sister is a level five. She’s a hard-core slapper. When she found out her ex was cheating on her, he just got hands. This is so relatable. Go on. I have to hear more. What’s level six?”

“Level six is The Spender. She’s maxing out your credit card, draining your bank account, selling all your furniture, and donating the proceeds to charity. Level seven is The Tattletale. She’s calling her brother...or her cousin, Jermaine, and she’s gonna let him hit you at least three or four times, and then when it’s over, she’ll try to make up, saying:I don’t know why he acting the fool,like she didn’t just invite that trouble into the relationship.”

“I can’t. I just can’t with you...” At this point, I can’t control my giggles anymore, and I struggle to speak between them. “Okay...okay...What’s level eight?”

Without skipping a beat, he scribbles down:Level 8 - The Reformist.“This girl is the one who gets a complete makeover. She’s cutting her hair or dyeing it bright red, something drastic like that. She’s changing the type of clothes she wears. A complete closet overhaul where everything is skimpy or see-throughandshe’s fucking your best friend just to get back at you.”

“Shit, if that’s level eight, what’s level nine?”

“Level nine is The Vandal. This chick is keying your car, slashing your tires, spray painting CHEATING SLUT on your windscreen. She’s just destroying every piece of property you own. And lastly...” He scribbles on the notepad again:Level 10 – The Arsonist.“This bitch is burning down the house with you inside it.”

That little accent of his makes the wordswith youcome out aswichu, and it only causes the butterflies in my tummy to flutter more manically. He has me in stitches and the fact that he said all that with a straight face makes it even funnier. “De Lorenzo, you’re hilarious. I always knew you were funny, but my goodness...” I press my fingertip to the corner of my eye to dab away the moisture without ruining my mascara. “So, what level am I if I’m above your limit?”

“Bella, I’ve pegged you as a solid eight.”

My eyes almost pop out of their sockets with shock. “An eight? That’s so high!”

“It makes sense for it to be so high for two reasons. Firstly, after your dad passed away, you changed your whole look, your clothes, your hair,everything, which is classic reformist.”

“Why are you making this weird by bringing my dad into it?”

“The levels of crazy only exist because there was hurt caused by a man.Anyman. It doesn’t have to be a boyfriend. And your dad hurt you bad, which is why you’re so messed up in the head.”

Again, he is so clinical in the delivery of the information that I can’t take offense, and he’s absolutely right, so I can’t even argue the point. “I’ve never had honesty flung at me with such brutal force before. But moving on. What’s the other reason?”

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