Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) Page 6

  Junior sits on the wooden bench, his eyes focused on me—I don’t think he even blinks—and his leg starts jiggling again. But this time it appears to be a “seventeen-year-old-trying-not-to-get-a-boner-from-a-tight-T-shirt jiggle.”

  “What the hell you doin’ here? You nuts?” His jaw juts back and forth.

  “Shhh. They don’t know. I told them I lost my license.” I zip up. “I wouldn’t be here in the guys’ cell if they knew, and I sure don’t wanna be thrown in with them mean bitches. Girls are badder than boys, you know that, right? They scratch and shit.”

  I get him to smile a little. “Oh, man, that’s for sure. The bitches in my ’hood, they’re . . .” He stops. Cracks his neck.

  “Where’s your ’hood?”

  He drops his eyes. Says nothing.

  “You won’t tell nobody about my boobs, right?” I whisper.

  His eyes zero in on me. “I ain’t no rat. Never will be,” he hisses.

  “That’s cool.” I sit and try to keep the conversation chill. “Did I really fool ya? You thought I was a guy? It’s crazy wild I’m getting away with it.”

  He wrinkles his brow and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know how you fooled them, but I didn’t get a good look at you. I woulda known, though, if I did.” He chews on his thumb, nods, still studying me like I’m a figment of his imagination. “So what d’you do, anyway; why you here?” He spits a piece of nail out on the floor.

  The “tagging bust scenario” feels too lame for this sitch, so I say, “I was picked up for lifting an effin laptop at the mall and got caught, and I was carrying dope in my pack. Can you believe it?” I finger the worn wood of the bench. “Stupid, right?”

  “Shit, yeah.”

  I keep going, bolstering the charade. “Only way I can make money lately? Lifting and then selling.” I pull out a little spiral pad of paper and a pen that the sergeant stuffed in my back pocket. “Okay, I told you my deal, now it’s your turn. What you in for?”

  He sucks through his teeth as if he’s swallowing a spit secret and lies down on his back on his bench. He stares at the ceiling.

  I start doodling.

  He glances over, sits up a bit, leaning on an elbow. “How come you got a pen? They don’t let that shit in here.”

  “I know; I smuggled it in—shoved it up my ass.” I hold it out toward him. “Wanna borrow it?”

  He smiles again, and I think I hear a little laugh—short-lived.

  I look around the cell, falsely befriending it. “You know, this is the best place I’ve been in the last week. It has a toilet, a sink—both stainless—top of the line, like a four-star hotel.”

  A definite snicker. “You wandering?” He sniffs.

  “Kinda,” I say. “I got in a big fight with the ’rents, and they kicked me out. You know . . . tough love, they say. More like tough shit, I say. So, yeah, I’m on the run, chillin’, trying to stay out of trouble.” I laugh. “I guess I messed up that last part.”

  “You on the streets?”

  I nod. “But the bathrooms in the malls are cool for whore baths. You know, chick parts.”

  He looks away, kind of shifts his body over to the other side.

  I went too far, dammit. Gotta get him back. “TMI? Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to share that. I’m doing the best I can, dodging the pigs. And it’s a lot easier pretending I’m a guy. I don’t get messed with, if you know what I mean.”

  He leans forward, wraps his arm around his knees. “Oh, yeah, you gotta get off the streets. You don’t wanna get hurt. It’s nasty out there. I know a couple chicks that’ve been hit hard. Sliced.”

  “Sliced?”

  “Yeah, even by other girls. They go for your face. Don’t want you to be too pretty. And the dudes wanna claim you. It’s good you dress like that.”

  Unbelievable. All the heat he’s dealing with, and he’s worried about me? Giving me advice? Wow. He’s so not guilty—no way. “Yeah, I gotta do what I gotta do—acting tough, dressin’ butch. But if I’m honest? I’m scared out of my mind.”

  He doesn’t have to utter a word, but he’s scared, too—his chin rests on top of his knees tightly tucked, hugging his body.

  I draw his face on the pad. The beardless jaw, broad nose, the jagged scar etched in his skin above his upper lip. His hair is closely cropped, forming a perfectly straight line stretching across his high forehead, and his eyes are round like big, wet black buttons.

  Junior releases his knees and stretches his long legs out on the bench. “What you drawing?”

  “You.” I tear the page off, crumble up the piece of paper, and throw it to him under the bars—under the camera, I hope.

  He sits up, bends over, grabs it, and folds the paper flat. “Damn. That looks like me. You an artist or something?”

  “Or something. I do tats, a little taggin’, train bombin’.”

  “I probably cleaned up your art.”

  “Huh?”

  “Forget it.” He looks away. “I said too much.”

  “Well, what else we gonna do to pass the time? We might as well shoot the shit.” I think about the tennis balls, wondering what they mean. “You into sports?”

  “Sure. Why you ask that?”

  “I dunno. You look buff, is all. Not that I’m checking you out or nothin’.” I smile at him.

  He smiles back. “I do a little running, lift weights and stuff with a team.”

  “Oh, yeah, where?”

  “Around.”

  And it happens again . . . crackling fire this time, burning its way into my head like a branding iron: the image—slowly, menacingly, ferociously—takes a swat at and grabs a hold of my mind’s eye. A bear claw flashes in front of me, through me, travels down my right hand, and I draw the claw on the page. I scratch out the furry paw on the paper in front of me—unsheathed, threatening sharp talons. And my head feels as if it’s been torn open.

  Two images in one day—and I’m paying for it big time. The room starts to spin. I lower my head between my knees, and the pad of paper falls to the floor.

  Junior jumps up off the bench. “What the hell is that?” He backs up against the rear wall of his cell.

  “A claw?” I eke out.

  “Who the fuck are you? Why did you draw that?”

  I squeeze the back of my neck. I’m in too much pain to lie. “I dunno. ’Cause you were thinking of one. That’s how it normally happens.”

  “What you talking about?”

  It feels like a nail is lodged, stuck in my brain. “It’s crazy, I know, but I see stuff. Sometimes stuff I don’t want to see—what other people are thinking, but only when I draw.” I approach the bars, my vision blurred now.

  “Get the hell away from me, you freak.” He hugs the back wall.

  The room keeps spinning, and I fight to stand on my two feet. “You don’t have to be here. You know that, right? Just tell them—tell them what you know.”

  “I can’t. I can’t.” His voice cracks with emotion. He starts to cry, wail.

  “Why not? Why can’t you tell them the truth? Who are you protecting?”

  “Me! I’ll be back on the streets if they release me.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing? What you want?”

  “You don’t get it. He’ll kill me, just like he did to Jamal.”

  “Who will?”

  “We both saw him hide his stash. Jamal threatened to rat on ’im. I had no idea what he did to Jamal . . . until that cop told me. . . .” Heavy tears drip down from his eyes. “I need to stay here. Don’t you get it?” He kicks at the wall. “Leave me the fuck alone. Get away from me.” He cowers in the corner.

  “Okay, okay, I get it.” I feel the insides of my stomach coming up, and I so don’t want to hurl. I manage to pull the hat off my head and turn it around.

  Immediately, I hear a jangling of keys, the sound of heavy boots clomping down the hallway.

  “Please, please don’t say nothin’.” Junior whimpers, mops up tears with his sleeve.


  I crumple up the drawing of the claw, stuff it in my sweatshirt pocket. “I won’t. I promise you, Junior,” I whisper back.

  He looks up at me. “Wait. How d’you know my name?”

  The sergeant approaches my cell, a tough expression firmly in place. “We have a few more questions for you.” He unlocks the cage, pulls me out, cuffs my hands again, and drags me down the hall.

  I glance back at Junior, see his dark eyes wide, like pools of black, thick ink, weighed down with . . .

  Secrets and lies.

  I lie on Daniels’s office couch, take a sip of water, then place the cold plastic bottle on my forehead.

  He pushes his desk chair over and sits. “How are you feeling?”

  “My head still hurts, but not as bad.” I roll over on my side and face him. “Hey, I’m sorry I couldn’t get anything out of him.”

  “You didn’t see anything? Nothing at all?”

  I finger the bear claw sketch—stuff it down a little deeper in my sweatshirt pocket. I’ve got to keep him safe—off the streets. “No. He wouldn’t make eye contact. I don’t know; I’m not so sure he’s innocent anymore.”

  “What? Why do you think that?”

  “He’s just meaner than I thought. Cold son of a bitch.”

  “But I saw you talking with him—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt. “I tried to get him to talk, but he clammed up.”

  The lights in the room dim for a second, with a crack of lightning.

  “Huh.” Sergeant Daniels crosses over to the window . . . peers outside at the sudden rainstorm.

  “What’s going to happen to him now?”

  “I don’t know yet. I don’t have much to work with—no murder weapon, no witnesses.”

  I sit up. “But the drugs . . . you found the pot on him, that has to be something.”

  “Yeah. Possession on school grounds, suspicion of distributing—a misdemeanor at best. We’ll schedule a court hearing,” he says, sifting through papers. He picks up the drawing of the tennis balls.

  “Oh, that. . . . I’d forget about that sketch.” I force a laugh. “Crazy, right? I bet it doesn’t mean anything. I think it was because of my headache. There were, like, spots in my vision. I’ve been getting them with the migraines.”

  He walks toward me. “I shouldn’t have had you down there. You sure you’re okay?”

  I wave him off. “I’m fine. No biggie. Just sorry I couldn’t get you what you wanted. I better get home now. . . . Don’t want to wig my parents out.”

  “I’ll escort you out the back door.”

  “Nah, don’t worry. I’ll see myself out.” I hitch up my jeans, roll them at the cuff. Pull off the sweatshirt. “Without my hat and hoodie I look kind of boring, don’t you think? No one will notice me.”

  “Bea, you could never look boring.”

  I would savor that last comment if it weren’t for the guilt I feel for fudging the truth. But the kid is petrified—no way I can ignore that. He knows something . . . a lot of something. Tennis balls, a bear claw. What do they mean? I have to find out, and without anyone knowing it came from Junior.

  Without them thinking that he snitched.

  6 days

  6 hours

  35 minutes

  I see Willa’s car parked in Zac’s driveway when I get home. She used to stop by my house, to say hi at least, when she came to see him, but now it’s all about her obsession with him. I’m totally out of the picture.

  Zac’s little brother, a sophomore at Packard, hangs a huge banner along their fence in the rain. It reads: CORNELL (in big red letters). CONGRATULATIONS, ZACHARY! Jeremy’s hair is soaked—stuck flat on his head—and he looks totally miserable.

  Unbelievable. I know Willa got in, but Zac did, too? That bonehead? This really pisses me off.

  Zac was the first person I met (sort of) when we moved to Ann Arbor. I saw him from way up high in the tree, that day we moved into our house. He was one of the boys playing football in the yard next door; he was taller and huskier than the rest, and I could tell, even then, that he was the neighborhood bully as he charged, chased down a boy half his size, and tackled him—smashing his little body into the lawn.

  “That’s not fair, Zac!” the little boy cried. “It’s supposed to be touch football. That was the rule.”

  Zac ignored his cries and snatched the ball from the kid’s puny arms, ran across the grass to the drive, raised his arms, and shouted, “Touchdown.” Then he jackknifed the football onto the asphalt. It ricocheted off the drive and like a bullet, crashed through the front window of the house.

  They all froze. I froze, too, along with the birds sitting in the tree. It was like all the oxygen was sucked out of the air. The front screen door squeaked open, and a woman came stomping out. She looked at the broken window, whirled around to the boys, and yelled, “Who did this? Who?”

  They all stood there—tight-lipped—all stared at Zac.

  He lowered his head; his voice cracked. “Jeremy did, Mom.” Zac pointed to the scrawny kid. “I saw him. He did it.”

  “I did not, he did!” Jeremy sputtered, protested, “I can’t believe you just said that, Zac.”

  The Zac kid started to cry big, phony fat tears, and then wailed, choked out, “Guh . . . you’re such a liar, Jeremy. Mom told us to never lie. Fine. I’ll take the heat for you.” He skulked to his mom, head hung low, and tightly hugged her. “I’m sorry,” he feigned. “I’ll clean it up, and you can take it out of my allowance.” His voice was muffled in the waist of her jeans.

  The mom stuttered, stammered, and then we all watched her make the call, like a referee on the field, as she petted the thick, brown, sweaty mop of her older son’s head. She then shouted the penalty: “Jeremy. You get in this house right now, young man, in your room. You’re grounded for a week.”

  Jeremy whimpered, “But, Mom . . .”

  “Don’t but Mom me. Now! Did you hear me?”

  His skinny shoulders slumped as he passed his big brother, walking toward the house, whining under his breath. The screen door squeaked open and slammed closed. The other kids scattered.

  And there I was, sitting way up in the tree, getting my first big dose of suburban family dynamics, thinking . . . the big brother is ratting on his little brother? Lying about it? Even at six I knew it was obviously WRONG.

  I wanted to jump down from the tree, right the wrong, knock on the door, and tell the mom the truth. But Zac, alone in the yard now, kind of snickered, high-fived the air, started toward his house, and then spotted me—caught me spying on him from the tree.

  Our eyes locked, and he did that weird twitching thing with his jaw and then gave me the finger, pulled the back seam of his shorts out of his butt crack, and huffed inside his house.

  He was a jerk then, and a bigger jerk now.

  I pull over to the side of the road, roll down the window, and yell out to Jeremy, “How did he manage that?”

  “I dunno. Beats me.”

  “Well, why are you putting up the banner, and not him?”

  “What . . . you expect the king to do it in the rain? I’m just happy he’ll be out of the house.” He turns, walks to his front door—his shoulders slumping in defeat like they did twelve years ago in his front yard; like they probably did so many times in his life.

  I fly up the stairs to my room before my mom sees my gangsta getup.

  She calls out, “Bea . . . dinner in a half hour. Dad’s coming home.”

  Dad’s coming home? Huh. My dad hasn’t been home for dinner in ages, ever since this dean job thing came up. “Okay, Mom.”

  My phone pings with a text:

  BILLY: Stan the man’s down w/a meet’n’greet w/u

  I text back:

  ME: Awesome! TY Billy☺

  I jump on my bed, flatten out the crumpled sketch of the bear claw, and study it now that my head is free of pain, my eyes clear. Damn . . . this would make a wicked tattoo. Huh. A tat . . . Junior had a few of them.
>
  I open my laptop, pulling the screen in close, and type in: Bear Claw tattoo Ann Arbor, and hit images.

  A picture of a bakery pops up; a girl’s racy (bordering on porn) Facebook page; Stan’s the Man Tats tattoo parlor. I bookmark the site and then scroll down the page at dozens of images. And then I see it—the bear claw Junior was thinking about, what I saw in his eyes—the claw I drew. Primal, almost primitive. I click on visit site and it directs me to a YouTube video.

  “I’m Coach Credos.” The camera focuses in on a huge—I’m talking gigantic—Hispanic guy with a shaved, shiny head. His gapped-tooth smile is neatly tucked into a fleshy face on top of a heavily tattooed neck—black ink barbed-wire circles the collar of his shirt; a scary inked eye stares out over his Adam’s apple.

  He resembles a rabid shar-pei dog ready to bite. A heavy brow flaps over beady eyes—underneath, a tatted teardrop drips down his cheek. He’s super macho—tacky, thick gold chains hang around his neck. He flexes his right bicep—as wide as it is long and tattooed with a bear claw, and he wears a skintight black T-shirt that has the same claw printed on the front.

  Young teens, different races, male and female, seemingly wannabe rappers, are flinging gang-speak: “Wangsta gangsta’s all fo’ one. Wangsta gangsta’s one fo’ all.” They show off, posing for the camera, competing with one another like a litter of hyper puppies.

  And there he is in athletic gear—Junior, in the middle of the pack, smiling, dancing, with happy eyes, so different than at the station—tossing off some hand signals and fist-bumping a white dude, having fun, looking happy.

  The video cuts to a homeless shelter; they ladle out soup. Cuts to the gang cleaning, washing, and painting over graffiti on a train boxcar. That’s what Junior was talking about with, “I probably cleaned up your art.”

  The video jumps to an outdoor track—in the middle of a race. A baton is handed off to Junior—the last leg in a relay. He crosses the finish line, and the clan runs up, huddles, high-fives him. They face the camera, sweaty, out of breath, and say in unison: “Make friends, not victims.” A chick, edgy as all get-out—thick, black eyeliner, safety pins lining the lobes of one of her ears, silver hoops in her bottom lip—jumps on Junior’s back.