Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (12 page)

I spot what I know
has
to be the Kodiak Kidz, gathered under the goalpost, all wearing black T-shirts—with an imprint of a bear’s claw slapped on the front.

I lope across the clay-red rubberized track over to a punky-looking, skinny kid. He’s shorter than me, maybe a hundred pounds. His dull brown hair is buzzed on the sides, creating a mousy mohawk. He licks both of his palms and slicks back the sides of his head. Pimples dot his sweaty face. “Yo,” he says, in a high, tinny voice. “Wazzup?”

“You in the Kodiak Kidz?”

“Yup. The name’s Johnny.” He fist-bumps me.

“Hey, I’m Bea. Where’s the coach?”

He points across the track at the shar-pei–looking man from the video. “Over there.” He gestures like he’s holding an upside-down pistol, trying
so
hard to be cool.

“Okay. Thanks.” I have no idea what I’ll ask the coach, no
plan in my head—I only know that I have to start with him. He had to have seen something, someone when he drove Junior home. I jog across the damp grass and am totally out of breath by the time I get to the other side.

“Excuse me, sir?” I blow my nose with the bandana as snot rolls in like the tide and sludges down.

He’s timing a chick running around the track. I recognize her as the safety-pin girl from the video. Her cutoff shorts ride up her cheeks. Her long, jet-black hair streams behind her as she pumps her arms like a machine and shoots around the oval like the devil. A pole-vaulter stops mid-vault to gawk; she winks at him.
Winks? How does she have enough energy to wink? I’m exhausted just watching her.
He totally misses his mark and falls flat on the padded surface, the pole falling on top of him. His teammates razz him. She whizzes past, and the coach’s stopwatch clicks.

“Four seconds slower, Reyna. Twenty-five push-ups. And not girl-style.”

“Awww . . . come on, Coach.” She leans on her knees, panting.

“Now. And keep your eyes on the track next time, not the boys.”

She mumbles an obscenity, falls to the ground, and starts pumping.

Another girl cracks up, slaps her thigh. She’s just as edgy-looking as Reyna, but instead of safety pins in her earlobes, she
wears tiny skull posts. Her lips are caked with black lipstick, matching the chipped black polish on her fingernails.

“You shut your trap, Roxanne. Or you’ll be down on the ground with her.”

I clear my throat. “Uh, sir? Coach Credos?”

He finally pivots around and peers at me. His eyes are little slits under a sweaty brow. Wide nose. Wide neck. Everything about him is wide. He leans in, two inches from my face. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I never want you to talk to me when I have this timer in my hand. You got that?” His breath smells of stale booze.

This is the guy Sergeant Daniels says is so good?

I forge ahead. “I came here to ask you about—”

“Give me a lap,” he orders, snapping his fingers.

“What?”

“You hard of hearing?” he growls.

Holy shit, he’s a mean son of a bitch.

He clicks the stopwatch, and I jump—start running around the track, as ordered. I immediately feel my right heel forming a ripe, fresh blister.
Damn.
I bought these high-tops to be a fashion statement, not to be friggin’ exercised in.

I try to get my mind off the sharp, rubbing pain developing on my heel, when a side stitch starts to stab through a rib on my right side. I broke that rib last year when I was totally messed up. Kind of the worst night of my life—don’t really want to think about it.

I pass the cheerleaders, now flinging their pom-poms around. I’m about to die, right in front of their eyes.
How sad if a cheerleader is the last thing I see in my life.
I start to slow, consider walking, thinking about how stupid I am.
I mean, what am I doing? What am I expecting to find? Like someone’s going to pass me a note telling me who set up Junior? Who killed the kid in the river? The coach is suddenly going to remember he saw the shooter?

And just as I’m about to throw in the towel and collapse, a buff dude with a ponytail burns past me, ripping down lane two on the track. I am downwind of him, and the smell of sexy boy-man sweat wafts my way, keeping me upright and moving. I surprise myself with a surge as I concentrate on the set of firm, high, rock-hard buttocks in front of me.

My lungs burn as I turn the bend. And I feel every cigarette I smoked the past year coming up, grabbing ahold of my neck, shaking and choking, strangling me. A thick goober-clump of snot forms in the back of my throat, and suddenly it feels as if I can’t breathe. I stumble to the grass on the field, dodging runners, and kneel, gasping for air.

“Get your wimpy, sick ass off the ground!” the coach yells.

I pray that I’m not the one he’s yelling at. But I am—duh—so I manage to stand and lope around limping, pitifully finishing the oval, not wanting to pass out from the lack of oxygen that’s been sucked out of my brain, leeched from my body.

I practically fall, and crouch at the coach’s feet as he clicks the stopwatch, look up at him, and flinch at the maniacal
expression on his face. Then I hoist myself up, placing my hands on my knees, and wipe my nose.

The coach bends down, whispers, grossly spitting, “Do you know you just broke a record? Do you?”

I can’t speak, so I stupidly shake my head.

“You won the SLOWEST LIMP-DICK RECORD I’VE EVER TIMED!” he shouts.

Safety-pin girl, Reyna, laughs her ass off.

“Shut up, Reyna,” the coach barks.

She immediately stops, places her hand on her hip, gives me the evil eye.

“You a smoker?” the coach asks, attention back on me.

I nod, coughing.

“Well, that’s the first thing that has to go. And believe me, I’ll know.
You’ll
know when you drag your ass around the track. You want to be here, with us? You quit. Today. Right now.”

Wait . . . does he think I’m trying out for the team?

“And no drugs, no alcohol. Did you hear me?”

Huh. This may work. If I joined, hung out with them a little . . . maybe I’d get some answers—or at least clues. Someone has to know something.

“Stand up,” he orders. “Look at me.”

I do.

“Your eyes are all red. You using?”

“No.” I try to catch my breath. “Allergies.”

“I can’t hear you!” he yells in my ear.

“Allergies, I said. They itch like crazy,” I muster out.

“Mumbling? Forget about it. I don’t take mumbling. You stand up straight, look me in the eye, and articulate your words. Like you actually have an IQ. You got that?”

I do as he says.

“Any muscles under that hoodie? Take it off, let me see your guns—see what I have to work with.” He reaches out.

I instinctively swat his arm away from mine. “Don’t touch me.”

“What did you say?”

“I said don’t touch me.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

I breathe in deeply, thinking these will likely be my last words—I better make them good. “I don’t
think
I’m anybody. I
know
who I am. My name’s Bea.”

“B? What’s that short for? Where’s your turf?” he clips back.

“Chelsea.” I make it up.

“What’s with all the red you’re wearing? You in a gang?”

Damn.
I didn’t think through the gang-color thing. “Nah, no way.” I shrug. “I’m just wandering. Looking for somethin’ more.”

He circles, checks me out, nodding. “I like your balls, B.”

Balls? Does he think I’m a guy?

Mohawk Johnny snickers at something on the sidelines, covering his mouth with his hand, his knees bent and knocked together.
Yeah, I guess I do look more butch than he does. With his
rosy-colored cheeks, a little mascara, a short tight dress in a peachy color? He’d be in the running for Packard High’s next homecoming queen.

“You’re a little touchy, but that’s okay—it’ll make you fast off the start. But if you’re in the game, no drugs, no cancer sticks, no taggin’ action. No other homies but us. And believe me, I’ll know. As soon as you can’t make eye contact, fail a pee test, I’ll know you’re up to somethin’.”

“I’m clean.”

“You willing to do a pee test?”

I nod.
Yay. Finally, something I’m good at.

“Okay, then, after practice.” He claps his hands. “Everyone, on the ground. Stretch-out time.”

The team scatters on the grass. The runner with the sexy ass that managed to drag me around the track sits down next to me. I now recognize his face from the video; he was the guy horsing around with Junior. His long, sandy brown hair, tied loosely in a ponytail, falls into his tiger-yellow eyes. He reaches for his toes, stretching his “white-as-seashell” legs covered in a beige fluff of fur. “Hey, I’m Archie.”

“Hey, I’m Bea.” It’s now or never. “Junior says hi.” I dive in.

Archie sits up. “Say what?”

“Yeah. I met him in the cage the other day. He told me about the Kodiak Kidz—thought I should check you out.”

“What are you talkin’ about? Where d’you see him?”

“I was pulled in for taggin’. Lame stuff. I don’t know what he was in for, but he’s a cool dude. . . . You a friend?”

He suddenly tears up, tucks his knee up to his chest. “Yeah. We’re best buds.” He wipes his eyes. “You heard what happened, right?”

“No. What?”

“The coach picked him up yesterday from the police station, brought him home. He was hit. Shot in the head.”

“You’re shitting me?”

“No.”

“Oh my god.” I cross my right elbow around my left arm (mimicking what Reyna’s doing), pulling at it, stretching my shoulder out. “Is he okay?” I almost forget to ask.

“In the hospital. That’s all I know—all that the coach told us when we got here today.” Archie lowers his eyes. “Hell. I wish I could go see him, but the coach says he’s in surgery. Said we’d all go tomorrow . . . if he makes it.”

“Damn, that’s heavy shit.”

Johnny walks up, plops down on the turf. “What you guys jawin’ on about?”

“Junior,” Archie answers.

“I just met ’im the other day,” I say. “He’s the one who told me to come here—check you guys out.”

“You know what happened?” Johnny asks, kind of whispering.

“Yeah, Archie told me.”

Johnny shakes his head. “First Jamal, and now Junior.”

“Jamal? Who’s that? What happened to him?” I ask, playing dumb.

“You musta heard about it—it was all over the news the last couple days. . . . He was dragged out of the river Monday. Shot in the chest—went right through his heart.”

“Oh, man. Was he part of the team?”

Archie tightens the laces on his shoes. “In and out. Couldn’t stay clean.”

“You know, Junior never told me. . . . What was he busted for? Was he using?” I ask.

Johnny leans in, whispers again. “Well, an undercover found a shitload of weed in his bag.”

Archie stands. “But no way—
no way
—that was his, Johnny. Someone planted it. Everyone knows Junior was clean.”

“Shhh . . . the coach is coming.” Johnny jumps up. “He doesn’t want us talking about any of it—spreading rumors.”

The coach hands me a couple forms. “Fill this first page out. You’ll need to get your parents or guardians to sign the rest.”

I cross over to the metal bleachers and sit. Warmed by the hot sun, I feel the heat through my sweats, and . . .
Oh, hell. I think I started my period. Unreal.

“Okay, everybody, let’s gather around.” The coach corrals the team into a huddle. Roxanne grabs Archie’s hand. Reyna shoves her away and takes it herself. The coach squeezes little Johnny’s hand, and the kid winces in pain. “Please, kneel.” They do, and bow their heads. “We thank you, Lord Jesus Christ, for giving us a future, taking control of the steps we make around the track of life, keeping us strong, helping us
make the right decisions. Thank you for giving us a second chance to do good, giving us the strength to stay clean. . . .” The coach gazes up to the sky.

I rudely sneeze. He glances over at me.

And it plops in my head like a brick.
Thump.
I flip the paper over and scratch it out with the pencil. No headache this time, not much of any sensation. I draw a rectangle, mottled and pockmarked—it looks like a lava rock, a pumice stone.

“Thank you, Lord. Amen,” the coach finishes.

“Amen,” they all repeat, and then cross themselves.

“Okay, now group hug.” He waves me over. “Come on over here, B.”

I do and am suddenly smooshed between a mohawk and safety pins.

“Hey, Archie,” the coach calls out, “take him to the locker room, give him a cup.”

What? The guys’ locker room? Is he joking?
But there’s no smile on the coach’s face.

“You pass the test? I’ll see you here next practice. You run like a wimp, but I’ll give you a second chance to prove yourself. That’s what I’m all about, what we’re all about—the second-chance gang. Get yourself some running shoes; those high-tops are for girls. What’d you say B stood for?”

Gulp.
“Boy. They call me boy.”

“And wear shorts, trash the hoodie—you look like a delinquent—and if you’re lucky, we’ll let you join the clan.”

I follow Archie into Skyline’s gymnasium. It’s even bigger
than Packard’s, and it certainly competes with the amount of elephant-size felt banners hanging from the two-story walls.

A girls’ basketball team is in practice; their sneakers squeak on the shiny wood floor. Archie stops to flirt with one of the players. “You go ahead,” he says to me. “I’ll catch up with you.”

I approach the locker-room doors, get a whiff of chlorine, surmising that there must be a pool somewhere nearby, and then see a couple of dripping, slick-haired girls with towels wrapped around their bodies. I’m about to follow them, when Archie comes up from behind me, shrugs past me. “Well, you going in, or what?”

“Uh, I don’t know . . .”

He swings open the door to the guys’ locker room, and I enter.

Someone—with his back to me, thank god—is pissing in the urinal. I shoot my eyes down at the tile floor and count the ugly turquoise squares lined with jagged grout.