Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (13 page)

Archie leans up against a row of gunmetal-gray lockers and releases his ponytail.

Yes, I’m now feeling total hair envy.

“The coach will assign you one of these”—he flicks at a locker. “You put all your crap in when you get here, like your Pokémon backpack.” He laughs. “How old are you, anyway?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “You look ten. You even reach puberty yet?”

I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted that he didn’t notice my faint moustache.

“And never be late. Automatic fifty push-ups—with his foot on your back. And it isn’t fun, believe me.”

“He’s a real ball buster, huh? He treat everyone that way?”

“If you screw up, yeah.” He slips his shoes off, tossing them in the locker, and then slams it shut. “Speaking of screwups . . .”

Johnny walks up and Archie suddenly whips a towel at him and
thwaps
him in the head. “You rank, dude. Get in the shower. You’re killin’ me.”

“Fuck you, Arch. You smell like yo mutha’s asshole.”

Archie grabs the neckline of Johnny’s shirt and pulls him in close. “You say anymore shit, and I’ll waterboard you in the crapper. Smother your face in feces, you hear that?”

Johnny whacks his hand away. “Then I’ll cut the balls off your mama’s baby daddy.”

They get rough with each other—really rough. Slapping at each other, Archie gets Johnny into a standing full nelson. Johnny responds by kneeing Archie in the balls. I can’t tell if it’s a for-real fight, or if it’s just boy-play. Regardless, I’m very happy to be a girl at the moment—standing in a locker room, about to pee in a urinal.

“You hitting the showers, or what?” the coach’s voice shouts out.

Archie and Johnny disentangle. Archie points to a urinal, pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Take a whiz.” The cups are on the shelf.

Okay, now what?
“Um, I gotta shit.”

He flings his arms up into the air. “Oh man, the stalls are around the corner.” He points. “But if you think you’re going to dilute your piss with toilet water? Forget about it. The coach puts a chemical in the cup. He’ll know. And then you’re a goner.”

“No, I really have to take a dump.”

“Whatever.” He pulls his T-shirt off. A fork-tongued serpent tattoo covers the defined muscles of his back.

“Nice tat.”
Nice everything.

“Thanks. My design.” He bends over, unlaces his shoes.

“You into art?”

“Hell, yeah. Helps keep me straight edge—clean—ya know what I mean?”

“I do. I draw, too . . . thinking about getting into inking.”

“No shit? You’ll have to show me your stuff sometime. Junior was into it, too. . . . We did some crazy tags back in the day.” He starts pulling his shorts down and bares the tight ass cheeks that got me around the oval.

I scuttle over to one of the stalls. Yup, I started my period. I rifle through my backpack and thankfully find a tampon. I write the letter
B
(for
Boy
) on the cup and place it under the stream of urine. I happen to be an expert at this, unfortunately. Did a lot of peeing in the cup—at the rehab, at home for my parents. I know how to point, aim, shoot, and give them what they want.

I leave the stall and almost run right into the coach.

“Boy. That your sample?”

I nod and hand him the cup.

“If it’s dirty, don’t even think of coming back here. Otherwise, we’ll see you on Monday.”

I debate whether or not to ask him about Junior—what he saw—but I’m not given the chance, as he abruptly marches away.

3 days
16 hours

M
y alarm goes off at eight—a gruesome hour on a Saturday. I groan and sit up, attempt to swing my legs around, when suddenly, extremely rude, aching pains shoot through every muscle, tendon, ligament, screaming at me,
What the hell did you do to us?
Huh? Running? Are you nuts? We don’t run. You’re going to pay for it today!

I brush my teeth then limp down the stairs in my “still-warm-with-sleep” plaid flannel pajama bottoms tucked into a pair of UGG boots (the only shoes that don’t irritate the now-oozing blister on my heel), a baggy U of M T-shirt, and a bandana tied around the twists—the twists my mom hates, the twists that make me look
ethnic.

She’s standing at the counter, sipping coffee, reading the newspaper. “Why are you up so early? It’s Saturday.”

“I thought I’d help you with the mural in Bloomfield Hills.”

She arches a brow.

I pull out a carton of orange juice from the fridge. “You know, learn the trade . . . so I can help you out this summer.”
Gag.

“Bea. You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to,” I interrupt. “But I want to. I want to see what you do, how you deal with your clients.”
Like Mike Connelly.

She folds the newspaper. “Oh, okay. But I’m leaving in fifteen. You’ll have to get dressed.”

I look down at my ensemble. “I am dressed.”

Mom chokes on her coffee. “Oh, for chrissakes, Bea. Really? Your pajamas?”

“Just the bottoms. I’m comfortable, and I won’t care if I get paint on anything. But I did brush my teeth.” I shoot her a sassy smile and down the glass of juice.

“There has to be something else you can wear.”

“You don’t understand. My clothes are special to me. Everything hanging in my closet has a story . . . a history. And if it doesn’t yet, it will, believe me.”

I join her at the counter and pour myself a bowl of cereal. She shifts from one foot to the other, her hand tucked in her back pocket of her . . . “Get out. Are those new jeans, Mom? Turn around—are they Sevens?”

“Uh-huh,” she flatly answers and keeps reading, pretending that I’m not boring a hole in her skull with my eyes.

I’m not letting her get off that easy. No way. If I were to buy—or even ask to buy—a pair of designer jeans (not that I
would want to), no way would my mom say yes.
That’s frivolous, Bea. Over a hundred bucks for a pair of pants? Ridiculous.

She knows she’s in trouble, and puts the paper down, sips at her coffee. “What? What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing. But kind of low-cut for a mom, don’t cha think?”

The paper’s thrown in the recycling bin. “You think I should wear the high elastic-waist kind, is that it? Now that I’m turning forty?”

“No. Jeez. I wouldn’t be caught dead with you if you did.”

“So your mom feels a little stylish; what’s the problem?”

“Where are the overalls you normally wear?”

“They’re in the wash.”

“Well, that’s perfect. They’re already dirty.”

She growls. “Bea. Stop. Okay? I want to look . . . nice. This is Bloomfield Hills we’re talking about.”

“Oh, paint doesn’t stain fancy pants there, I see.”

Mom sighs in frustration.

“Who are you trying to impress, anyway? A six-year-old?”
A Mike Connelly?

“Her name is Alanna, and she’s not six, she’s ten.”

“Oh, well, that makes sense now. I should change, too.” I slurp up the milk in the bowl.

Mom grabs her purse, then dumps her mug in the sink. “Put your coffee in a travel cup. We’ve got to go. I’m late already, with all this . . . banter.”

“You’re the one who started the battle of the clothes, not
me. By the way, why don’t you give me the address? I’ll meet you there. I have some errands to do.”
Like find a pair of decent running shoes for track practice.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s never easy with you.” She writes down the address.

“Tell the guard at the gate you’re meeting me. Park on the street and buzz when you get there.”

“The guard at the gate? Where are we going, Buckingham Palace? Maybe
I
should change into my sexy jeans.”

She mumbles something evil in Italian as she walks into the garage.

I pick up a pair of slightly-used Adidas and shiny, yellow athletic shorts—long, down to my knees (like the guys are wearing them now); they’re a little big in the waist, but a safety pin will fix the problem, I’m sure. And I bargained a very confused Leila down to a buck and a quarter for a Red Wings (men’s large) jersey. She threw in a pair of high-top crew socks and didn’t ask me any questions. I love her.

3 days
14 hours
15 minutes

I
pull into the gated community. A guard sits in the booth but, no, he’s not wearing a fuzzy black hat and red coat. He wears a turban with the name
JOSE
embroidered on the pocket of his jacket. I guess he had to borrow a shirt this morning.

“Can I please see your identification?” he asks in a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“Sure.” I pull out my driver’s license. “Are you the bouncer? Because I’m not eighteen yet, but will be in a few days.”

He doesn’t laugh—just checks my name off a list.

“Go ahead.” He hands me back my license, and an iron gate lifts up and over my car like a guillotine.

I drive on cobblestoned streets—my car bounces along, testing the shock absorbers, probably blowing them out—and spot the address. I park behind my mom’s car on the street and check out the gargantuan house in front of me.
Holy crap. I’m at the Disneyland castle.

I cross the street, hear a whirring, and look up to see a camera turning, following every step I take. I wave, thinking maybe Principal Nathanson got himself a weekend job, and approach a stone gate. A five-by-five-inch plastic panel with a dozen buttons is nestled within one of the stones.
Which one do I hit?
I randomly push something and jump back as the first four chords of Beethoven’s Fifth bellow, shouting to the neighbors,
Class. Do you hear that? It’s called class.

“Yes?” A voice from the stones.

“Uh, hi. I’m Beatrice Washington. I’m here to help . . .”

The buzzer buzzes, and the twenty-foot-tall wrought-iron gates part, revealing a castle complete with turrets. I wonder if there’s a moat, and if so, where the bridge is and if there are trolls to watch out for.

The front door slowly opens as I make my way up the slate stone drive. A black woman, in (are you kidding me?) a friggin’ white uniform and a white hat, stands at the door.

I thought slavery was abolished?
“Hi.” I offer my hand.

She hesitantly takes my hand. “Please, come in, Miss Washington.”

“Bea. You can call me Bea. And yours?”

She looks down at her feet. “Martha,” she mumbles.

“Martha. That’s a beautiful name. Very nice to meet you. This is . . . quite some place you have here.”

She giggles. “Oh, it’s not mine, but thank you. I try to keep it up nice and all.”

“Well, you do a great job. I think my mom is expecting me?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Follow me.”

I take in the tacky, crystal-chandeliered foyer the size of a movie theater lobby. My voice echoes off the painted faux-marble walls.

She walks me up a sleek stairway with a mahogany banister. The carpet runner is hunter green with little flecks of gold. My UGG boots feel rather clunky as I climb the stairs, flattening the pile of the rug.

“Brrr . . . it’s cold in here.” I shiver. “I should have worn my robe over my pj’s.”

I think I hear a little laugh. “The temperature is set at sixty-eight degrees. It’s best for the art, you see.” She sounds like a robot, programmed by her master.

I check out the “art” that lines the walls. Phony expressionistic landscapes, pseudo modern minimalist (meaning empty) canvases lit by tiny spotlights. Art that you know was selected by a lame designer saying how
very
important it is. “I think you can raise the temp a couple degrees—in fact, turn it all the way up . . . burn it. Most of this stuff is crap.”

And then I stop short in my boots. Because a friggin’ Rembrandt etching hangs at the top of the stairs, tucked in a corner on the landing. No light illuminating it, it stands alone, crooked on the wall. I straighten it, “Do you know what this is, Martha? Who did this?”

“No. It’s none of my business.”

“Well, it should be. You are in the presence of a Rembrandt. I mean, if it’s real. They obviously don’t know what they have.
You know,” I whisper, “you should, now and then, mention that you happen to like that picture—don’t call it an etching, you’ll give it away—of the old man’s face at the top of the stairs.” I tap the corner, making it crooked again. “You never know, you might get it for Christmas this year—instead of a bonus.”

She covers her mouth like she just burped. “You think it’s worth some money?”

“All I have to say is, if they give it to you? There’s no more wearing a uniform for you. You’d be set for life.”

Martha gasps, and then opens the door to a VERY PINK ROOM.

“Whoa.” I shield my eyes. “Anyone have sunglasses?”

“Bea, there you are.”

“I hear you but can’t see you. Is that you, Mom?”

She ignores my antics. “Alanna, this is my daughter, Bea.”

A blond, blue-eyed, perfect-looking little girl says nothing. She wears a short pink skirt—what a surprise—with a matching camisole with iridescent sequins on the straps. No boobs to speak of yet, but I bet it’ll be on next year’s birthday list. She looks me up and down—obviously not approving of my “look,” her face sours. And then she texts something (for sure a diss) into her phone.