Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (10 page)

“What the . . .” I almost hurl, spitting the yuck back in the Styrofoam cup.

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” she singsongs. “I’m so good at this.”

“What?” I wipe my tongue with a napkin.

“Fooling peeps.”

“Yeah, well, we established that last fall.” I chug a bottle of water. “Hey, Willa . . . did Zac really get into Cornell? Or is that a joke, too?”

She play slaps me—thinks I’m kidding. “It’s amazingly cool, isn’t it? We’re already talking about getting a place together sophomore year.” And then she does a little dance thingy as if she’s swinging a hula hoop around her hips. “Oh my god, don’t move. Here he comes. . . .”

Wendell heads over to us.

“Promise me”—she grabs my hand, whispering—“promise that you’ll ask me to be your maid of honor at your wedding, okay? Promise me that.”

“Willa, it’s not like that, we aren’t . . .”

“Well, he is.” She leans forward, her blue eyes wide, two inches from mine. “I know. I sense it every time he looks at you. That’s your husband, Bea. Your future.”

My
should
.
Mr. and Mrs. Should.

“Don’t mess it up,” she orders, kicking me in the shin.

“Hey, Bea, Willa.” Wen fills a cup of coffee from the urn. He’s about to pour from the sugar container.

I stop his hand. “Don’t. It’s salt.”

Willa stomps her foot. “You blew it, Bea. You ruined it! Why do you always have to be so honest?” She huffs off.

That’s a first . . . me being accused of being too honest.

Wendell sips his coffee. “Thanks, I guess?” He sweeps the back of his hand down the side of my face. “That’s a new look for you—your hair—I like it.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

I gaze into his amazing, “every-girl-wants-to-jump-your-bones-right-now-at-this-moment” eyes, and then break the stare. “Let’s find a seat, hopefully without a whoopee cushion.”

He laughs.
Of course he does. He does everything right. Even gets my jokes.

Wendell is a freshman at Eastern Michigan University and
has been clean for a couple years. He’s about the height of my dad—more than six feet—and kind of looks like a young Denzel, sexy overbite and all. His dad is Willa’s dogs’ vet, and Wendell, wanting to continue the family business, is studying veterinarian science. He’s smart, handsome, sexy, and . . . really, um, nice. I don’t know why that bothers me, but, yeah, he’s nice.

We started out sitting across from one another (Willa thought it was more inviting, intimate—arranging the chairs in a circle), and I caught him staring at my legs in January when I was wearing a suede miniskirt and my chunky Doc Martens boots—his eyes caught in the fishnet of my stockings. My cleavage—it isn’t much to brag about—but it drew him in in February with a low-cut forties cardigan, the top three buttons undone. March brought us sitting side by side, and if I wasn’t mistaken, I caught him checking out my ass one night as I bent over to pick up my purse, when I was wearing my skinny jeans with three-inch platform shoes.

Willa begins the meeting, of course, announcing tonight’s agenda, and Wendell leans over, smelling of fresh vanilla beans.

“You free after?”

“Sure.”

Willa clears her throat, reprimanding us for interrupting her no doubt meticulously prepared speech, so I write in my Moleskine:

Cappuccinos at Rosie’s?

He takes the book from me and writes:

My roommate is gone for the weekend.

He winks.

Oh, damn.

The last time I was in his dorm was when he invited me to a March Madness basketball game party. Wendell and his deadbeat roommate, Tom (I’m talking zombie-dead), had some buddies over. I went, even though I have zero interest in sports.

Well, his friends acted all dweeby and awkward after I took off my jean jacket. Maybe it was because I wore a black lacy bustier with low-rise jeans, highlighting the cubic zirconia stud pierced in my navel. It’s not that I was trying to look like a tramp, but it was so friggin’ hot in his dorm the last time I was there—not having a separate thermostat—and the thought of hanging around with his beer-drinking, rowdy buddies already had me in a flop sweat. . . . Hence the dated Madonna look.

Thankfully, Tom invited another chick, his girlfriend, Julie something. She was gorgeous. I mean, Christ, I had a girl crush the moment I set eyes on her. Everyone wanted to talk to her, be by her, touch her, smell her. Obviously used to all the fuss, she was totally at ease—like a Monet oil hanging in the same room with a bunch of velvet Elvises.

“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

W
hat 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 would 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 . . .