Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) Page 8

  “Julie’s studying anthropology of art at U of M,” Tom boasted, basically drooling.

  “That’s cool. Bea’s into art, too. And her dad’s going to be the Dean of Fine Arts,” Wendell bragged—trying to top him.

  “Wen, that isn’t definite.” I dismissed him.

  “Really?” This evidently piqued Julie’s interest as she sat down on the floor, across from me. “What’s his, I mean, your name?”

  “Bea . . .” I started to say.

  “Washington.” Wendell finished for me, smiling like a cat with a bird in its mouth.

  Something big happened in the basketball game, I guess a good thing, because the room exploded with cheers and high fives. I ignored the TV, opened my sketchbook, and started doodling, looking Julie’s way, and wondered, Why would this goddess date Tom, the oaf? Are they hooking up? Just friends? I had to figure it out. It made no sense. He was like a bowl of oatmeal—before the raisins, pecan chips, and syrup—a cold clump of nothing.

  I don’t know why this was driving me crazy, but it was. So while the hoopla continued, I kept glancing up at her, you know, waiting to make eye contact—seeing if anything popped up. And oh my friggin’ god. She wanted me. And not in a “friend” way. Okay, confession here . . . this didn’t have anything to do with my flippin’ skill. Not only did she make eye contact, she started flirting with me—licked her lips, twirled her hair, unbuttoned the top button of her top. Absolutely no drawing in the sketchbook involved.

  I got a little nervous—never had a chick come on to me before—and suddenly had to pee. So I untangled my legs, then crawled up and over Wendell, who was sitting on the floor with me, staring at the TV. “Be right back, ’k?” My right leg had fallen asleep, but I managed to make it to the john.

  I was standing at the sink, washing my hands, when Julie entered. She locked the door and jumped right in. A cannonball dive. “You’re so hot,” she said as she undid the rest of the buttons, exposing her bra—much more filled out than my bustier, and in ballet pink.

  “Yeah, well, um, so are you,” I lamely added—staring in the mirror at her pale skin and the blue veins spreading like a spiderweb through her set of ample twins.

  “You ever been with a chick?” she teased—it actually sounded like a challenge.

  “Um . . . no. Done a lot of kinky things, but not that.”

  “Too bad.” She had the seduction act down as she slowly sidled up behind me and tickled her long slender fingers across my cleavage, down my belly, and played with the fake diamond in my navel. “I guess you’re in for a treat.”

  I couldn’t help but close my eyes as she touched me. I don’t know if she heard my purring, but yes, she was definitely scratching the right place. And I felt things I never had before down . . . you know where.

  You see, while with Marcus, I was high. Always. I don’t think we ever didn’t use, get blasted when together. So sex was . . . pretend sex. A faux fuck. Still naughty, forbidden, and that’s what made it exciting, I guess. We were attracted to each other, for sure; but I was kind of numb. Numb from the brain down. In the two years that we were together, I’d never . . . peaked—had the big “O.” I mean, I don’t think so, anyway.

  A loud knock on the door.

  “Bea? Julie? You okay?” Tom asked.

  “Yeah, Tom. Just a sec,” Julie answered, taking a step back, and buttoned up her shirt.

  “Can I ask you a question, Julie?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why are you with Tom, anyway? What’s the story?”

  She looked into the mirror and applied lipstick. “Duh, he’s super rich. His dad is a partner at one of the top law firms in the state. I have to think of my future, you know—like a degree in anthropology is really going to get me anywhere? Oh, by the way . . . is your dad Richard Washington, the chair?”

  “Yeah, he is.” Now I get it. . . . She’s a user. Been there. Done that. Big time.

  She smiled at me in the mirror—the corners of her eyes crinkled up in a bad-girl way as she licked her crimson lips, spun me around, and wrote her phone number on my belly with the lipstick. “There’s more here, if you want it. Let’s hang out sometime.” She unlocked the door, then turned back. “Hey, don’t tell Tom about this—my little hobby, okay? The secret’s between us?” She didn’t wait for my answer and joined the boys in the sweaty man cave.

  I bit my bottom lip and called Chris.

  Me: You’re not going to believe what just happened.

  Chris: With you? Probably not.

  Me: A chick just tried to pick me up. And it felt kind of good.

  Chris: So, what you’re telling me is you’re a lesbian now? Bi?

  Me: No. I’m not a lesbian or bi—I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with it. I just can’t seem to get it up for Wen.

  Chris: Bea, I think that’s what the guy says.

  Me: I know. That’s what pisses me off. It’s crystal clear for you guys. When it’s up, it’s up. Staring you right in the face. It’s not that way for a girl. It’s so confusing.

  Chris: Um . . .

  Me: You’re supposed to help me. You’re my gay friend.

  Chris: Is there a gay-friend handbook I’m not aware of?

  Me: I don’t know. But there should be.

  Chris: Not that I don’t want to help you, but maybe you should find a girlfriend to talk about this with?

  Me: Well, I do have a number on my belly of a girl I could call.

  Chris: What? You’re not high, right?

  Me: No, of course not. I wouldn’t be feeling anything if I were.

  “Bea?” Wendell knocked on the door. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  Me: I better go.

  Chris: I’ll look for that handbook.

  Me: Love ya.

  Chris: Love ya back.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, Wen. Just a little tummy something,” I said as I wiped Julie’s number off my belly. (But not before I copied it in my phone.)

  “She’s nice, isn’t she?” he asked as I joined him on the couch.

  “Julie? Yeah. Really nice.” I popped a pretzel in my mouth and gulped down a bottle of water—wanting to pour it over myself, to cool down.

  The basketball game continued. It was a blowout, they said, so the party fizzled—everyone left (including Julie, with a smoldering, hot-as-hell wink for me), and there we were. Wendell and me. Alone in his bedroom, totally making out.

  And again, I was faking, waiting for something—the tingle, the sensation experienced in the john with Julie, and sometimes, sort of, with . . . yeah, Sergeant Daniels.

  But Wendell? Nada, nothing.

  And I’m thinking the whole time we’re at each other, humping and pawing: Jesus, I’m crazy. He’s so fine. Every girl I know would kill to be in my position . . . literally. He’s got it going on—the looks, the personality, the smarts, and the smell: he really does smell like fresh vanilla beans—and I’m the one he picked. What’s wrong with me?

  “Bea?” Wendell sat up on his bed. “Are you okay? You seem . . . distant.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Am I rushing things? Going too fast for you?”

  I jumped on that excuse like a hobo on a runaway train. “Yeah. That’s it.” I threw on my jean jacket. “I’m sorry, it’s just, um, like you said . . . too soon.”

  So, that was the last time I was at his dorm, and now, back at Saint Anne’s, his invitation hovers.

  I respond, in writing:

  Let’s just do Rosie’s for coffee, ’k?

  Wendell pats my thigh and nods, writes:

  I understand.

  Shit. Why is he so nice?

  6 days

  55 minutes

  What a trippy day. I’m lying in my bed, tired as hell, thinking about the crazy April Fool’s Day I had.

  The rainstorm is finally dying down, and the giant sycamore in the front yard of my house calls me over, waving in the breeze. Little did I know, the first time I climbed it, that that tree w
ould be my fortress over the years. It’s helped me quiet my mind, sort things through when I was bullied in grade school and rejected in middle school, and escape from my bedroom in high school. . . . Oh yeah, and protected me from the wrath of Zac.

  I open my window. “Hey, girl. You enjoying spring? I like your new buds.” I inhale, smelling the crisp, raw, moist air, and immediately sneeze. Ugh.

  I grab a box of Kleenex, pull my desk chair over to the window, study the sky, sketch the almost full moon behind the dark purple clouds, and write the words Sweet Dreams using the letters as sparkling stars, creating my own constellation tattoo.

  I close my eyes and imagine my future, my dreams, as an adult. I picture a studio apartment in a city somewhere—not much furniture, but piles of colorful pillows scattered on a shiny parquet floor. I drape the large windows in something funky like burlap or jute, allowing the sunlight to filter in. Friends, neighbors—fellow artists and musicians—we discuss art over exotic tea and too many cups of strong black coffee. I sling a leopard pashmina shawl over a silky black camisole, and saunter over to work, to my own tattoo parlor—Thru Bea’s Eyes.

  Jazz musicians jam on the corner. “Hey, Bea!” a sax player calls out. “Looking good tonight, babe!”

  “Thanks, Joe!”

  Chris and I meet up on weekends. He’s totally out now, and so happy. Mom and Dad visit. We laugh a lot—no drama—or maybe a little, but it’s manageable drama. I talk my mom into getting a tat on her ankle—my design, a wicked-ass ram (her astrological sign), and my dad starts painting again. Our easels sit side by side. Hours drift away as we’re absorbed in our art—until Dan calls, Dan Daniels, and we meet after work. We continue to see each other, and he stops treating me like a kid, and I stop treating him like an old fart, and it develops into something more, something . . .

  Knock. Knock. “Bea? Can I come in?”

  My dream whooshes out the window, washes into the gutter, and down onto the wet lawn, forming a fantasy puddle that will evaporate, I’m sure, by morning.

  Mom enters and hands me my astronomy book. “You left this on the kitchen counter. Thought you might need it.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I take it from her and shut the window.

  “How was the meeting?”

  “It was okay.”

  She scrunches up her forehead. “What happened to the one after school? The same thing that happened to the one before school?”

  Crap. “Um . . . like I said to Dad, Eva Marie needed my help—you know, with her portfolio.”

  She sits on the edge of my bed. “Bea, is there anything we need to worry about?”

  I laugh. “All you do is worry. You need more?”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Mom, I’ve just got a lot going on, with school, AA, Wendell . . .” A murder case.

  “Uh-huh.” Eye contact still zeroing in.

  I sit at my desk, open my astronomy book, and fake a yawn. She stays seated on my bed—not picking up the cue that it’s time to leave. “I’d better get some more studying done before I hit the sack.”

  She doesn’t move.

  “Is there something you need, Mom?”

  “Are you going to keep your hair in twists?”

  “What? I was thinking about it, yeah. Why?”

  “Well, I was tossing around ideas about your birthday present and thought maybe you’d like to have your hair relaxed . . . while you’re growing it out. We could do a mother/daughter day at the salon. How does that sound?”

  I pull at a coil. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I like my hair like this. It feels good. True to me.”

  She shrugs. “It’s a little . . . ethnic-looking.”

  I whip around and face her. “Ethnic? You mean black?”

  She fluffs a pillow that doesn’t need fluffing. “You’re not just—”

  “I know. I get it, Mom. I’m African American and Italian American. But, honestly, when people look at me . . . what they see is that I’m black.”

  The fluff of the pillow morphs into a punch. “Well, that hairstyle doesn’t help.”

  She blinks a couple times, telling me she knows she went too far.

  “Are you kidding me?” I cross to my closet and grab a sweatshirt. It’s suddenly very chilly in here. “Wow. I’m sorry I’m so disappointing. I’m sorry if I resemble Dad more than you.”

  “Oh, Bea. You’re beautiful. You know I think that.”

  “You used to. You had no problem back in the day with my ethnicity as you put it. You’re the one who bought me my first black Barbie doll, remember?”

  She stands, smoothing my bedspread where she was sitting because there’s no way she can smooth the kink out of my hair. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I thought it would be fun to go to the salon with you. It seems like we haven’t been connecting lately.”

  “That’s for sure,” I mumble.

  And then she basically remakes my bed. Pillows thrown, quilt on the ground. She shoots the sheet up high into the air, and it parachutes down, the same place it friggin’ was.

  “Mom. Stop making the bed.”

  She does. Her eyes are unusually sad. And I think I know why: guilt. The only obvious gene that Mom’s passed down to me (besides the faint moustache that I have to wax every two weeks or so—oh yeah, and my short-fuse temper) is the addict gene. Yup. Mom’s been sober for more than ten years now. I don’t know the whole story—don’t know if I want to know—what her screwups were. I sort of remember some messes when I was a little girl—deep down, pushed away memories. But she obviously fucked up enough to quit drinking. Just like her little girl.

  “It’s late. I have to get up early for work.” She walks to the door. “Mr. Connelly is expecting me at eight.”

  “Mr. Connelly? You have to call your boss Mr.?”

  “Well, it’s Mike, Michael, but yeah, I like to keep it professional. Good night, Bea. Sweet dreams.” She closes the door.

  Sweet dreams? Not happening. I rip out the page of the moon-and-stars tattoo—crumble it up. Open and then throw it out the window, hoping it drowns in the puddle with the fantasy.

  I plop down on my bed and put a pillow over my face. What am I doing? Dreaming? Fantasizing. I’m only setting myself up for disappointment. . . . Everything is already mapped out. Just let it be.

  Let it be.

  Let it Bea . . .

  I jump up—sit upright on my bed. Mike Connelly . . . MC. Oh my god, her client, Mike Connelly—that’s who she was thinking of, who she was texting.

  4 days

  12 hours

  45 minutes

  “Okay, class.” Mr. Pogen hands out tests. “This is our last quiz before the final exam next month. Take your time, use your notes, ask your fellow classmates. This will serve as your study sheet for the final. I promise you, no surprises. It’s all here.”

  I love Mr. Pogen, as does every other senior. Astronomy, specifically the Sea of Tranquility, is the most popular class last semester—rarely skipped, even though senioritis runs through the halls like rabid rats. The class is jam-packed with over fifty students, sitting everywhere from the floor to windowsills—partly because the class is an easy A, but mostly because Mr. Pogen is the coolest dude on the whole planet, probably the whole solar system.

  I choose to sit on the floor in the corner of the room. Knowing I’ll have to put a pen to paper, I face away from the other students and toward the bookcase. Chris gets it, of course, and joins me—so it doesn’t seem too weird.

  My stupid skill is a real hassle at school. I found out the hard way and know some stuff about the teachers that I really don’t want to know. So I try to never hold a pen in my classes. I explained that I’m an auditory learner and record lectures on my phone. I thought it was pretty clever of me, and most of the teachers were fine with it. I mean, there’s a lot more crap happening in their classrooms that they should be worrying about rather than a student recording what they’re saying. But somebody complained to Principal Chump Nathanson. He
tried to stop me, threatened to take my phone, but I’m acing every class, so he didn’t have much ground to stand on and had to drop it.

  Pencils scratching, whispering, pages turning—everyone’s engaged. I’m drawing, labeling the fire constellations—the stars in the sword, flame, and the snake—when the door slams open, and in walks another snake: Zac.

  “You’re late.” Mr. Pogen calmly states the obvious.

  “Like I really need this class.” Zac snickers, looks around as if seeking validation. Nobody pays attention to him. He tries again. “You know, like, ’cause I got into Cornell.”

  What an ass.

  “Congratulations!” Mr. Pogen responds with genuine enthusiasm. “You’re very lucky. I’m sure the stars were aligned accordingly when you took the SAT.”

  “Whatta you mean by that?” Zac’s face gets all splotchy red. And then the twitch thing happens—big time. His head jerks to the left, and he spots me sitting on the floor. Our eyes lock, and (oh, no, no, no, no, please no) . . . pencil to paper, something starts crawling in, scraggly lines, strands of hair, forming a triangle on a chin—what looks like a beard or a goatee.

  “Mr. Posen?” Billy Weisman jumps off the windowsill with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. “I gotta take a leak.”

  “Go right ahead, Billy.”

  Billy passes Zac on the way out of the room, shoves his shoulder into him, and mimes a zipper closing on his mouth—does it superfast.

  No. It can’t be. I look back down at the scratches on the paper. Billy’s soul patch? Holy crap, I drew his goatee! Did he take the test for Zac? No way. He wouldn’t have, couldn’t have. . . . Could he have?

  My phone buzzes with a text from Daniels:

  DANIELS: usual place. 4.

  4 days

  8 hours

  48 minutes

  I make my way down the gully. The rain has stopped for the time being, but my red Converse high-tops and the bottom of my long, tie-dyed jersey maxi skirt gets soaked. (Chris and I had spent one lazy Saturday afternoon tie-dyeing clothes—we were so proud of ourselves until my mom threw a hissy fit because the indigo-blue dye also tie-dyed the dryer. The drum is still blue to this day.)