Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (19 page)

I have an hour and really want to see Junior since I’m already here, so I hustle to the intensive care unit. It’s shaped like a horseshoe. Pods jut out—the rooms of the most critically ill.
The sound of machines beeping; low, concerned voices; soft weeping. The smell in the air is thick with the sweet stench of rubbing alcohol, spilled guts, worry, and grief.

A man in blue scrubs approaches—he could be a doctor, a surgeon, or he could be in housekeeping. I’m sure it matters to him, but it doesn’t to me.

“Hello. I’m here to see Junior,” I say, realizing for the first time that I don’t know his last name, or even if his real name is Junior.

He points to the third door on the left. “Are you family?”

I nod, kind of in a circle. Could be interpreted both ways. “How is he?”

“He’s been in and out of consciousness since surgery. We’re waiting for the swelling to go down, and won’t know what we’re looking at for a couple days.”

He’s a doctor, I gather, or a very well-informed janitor.

“But he already has visitors. You’ll have to wait,” he adds.

“Oh, okay. That’s fine.”

He gestures toward a line of stacked chairs against a wall. I thank him and take a seat across from Junior’s pod.

His curtain is closed shut across the glass. The nurse sits on a stool, taking notes. I’m sure he’s interpreting the flashing numbers, the graph-lined screen in front of him.

The beeping of one of the machines suddenly picks up, and the nurse enters Junior’s room, swings back the curtain, and I see him, lying in the bed. His head bandaged, wrapped; his
body motionless. Reyna, Archie, Johnny, Roxanne, and a couple kids from the team I haven’t met yet, along with Coach, the gold chains on his wrist glistening, surround him.

The nurse speaks with the coach. He listens with a concerned face. Then he nods, and the group rises. Reyna kisses Junior on the cheek. They’re silent, heads lowered. Roxanne wipes tears away as they walk toward the exit, toward me.

Damn . . . they’re going to see me.
I slump, covering my face with my hand, and then realize that I don’t have to.
I’m dressed like a girl—Bea, not Boy.
I relax, nod as they pass, and then oh my friggin’ god, I sneeze.

The coach stops for a beat, looks at me. “Bless you.”

Fuck!
I mumble back a thank-you and wait patiently on the hard-backed chair until the nurse settles back on the stool. “Is it okay if I go in now?”

“Only for a couple minutes—that’s it,” he says to me. “Please keep him calm. We don’t want to upset him.”

“Of course. But will he be able to hear me?”

“We think so. He’s not able to speak yet, but he’s been responding to basic commands.”

“That’s good, right?”

“It’s a good sign, yes.”

“So he’ll be okay?”

“The swelling’s gone down, but it’s still too soon to tell.”

I head into the room. “Hi, Junior.” I sit on a chair next to his bed. A lightweight tube that splits into two prongs hangs from his nostrils; lines reach from his arms to bloated baggies
with fluid that hang on a T-shaped roller; patches on his chest are connected to a machine with colorful squiggly lines. The beeping of the machines is steady, slow, strong.

He looks peaceful, his handsome face relaxed. “Junior, I don’t know if you can hear me or if you even remember me, but I’m the girl who was pretending to be a boy, the one in the holding cell with you that day. My name is Bea. Beatrice Washington. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.” My voice trips with sudden emotion. “I didn’t know what the tennis balls meant. I’m so sorry I ratted on you. I really didn’t know.”

Junior’s swollen, heavy lids struggle to open.

“You can hear me!” I sit straighter, take his hand in mine.

He makes a grunting noise, and taps my hand with his finger.

“What, what is it?”

The beeping picks up on the monitor.

“I was told not to get you upset. I should go.”

I start to stand, and he reaches out, brushes my hand. I sit back down and he lifts his finger again. But this time he moves it around in the air, like it’s a pencil, like he’s . . .

“Drawing? You want me to draw something? Okay.” I pull my sketchbook and a pen out of my bag.

Junior’s eyes open a bit wider, and I peer into the wet darkness of his eyes, and instantly letters come marching in, rolling like a combination on a lock: I-S-P-Y. I look down at what I wrote. “ISPY? What does this mean, Junior? What are you trying to tell me?”

His heart rate, the beeps, suddenly pick up speed—race. The lines on the machine fluctuate in waves—high and low. The nurse runs in the room, swiftly ushers me out, and closes the curtain.

1 day
1 hour
12 minutes

A
rm in arm, we shuffle in the rain through the heavily-lit hospital parking lot. I hold my jean jacket over Chris’s head (I forgot an umbrella and make a mental note to add one to the collection in my backseat), so as not to get his bandage wet.

“Hey, instead of driving me home, do you think I could stay with you for a while, at your house? Please?” Chris asks, his voice muffled under the jacket.

“Of course.” I help him sit in the car, wrap the safety belt around his sore ribs, and buckle him up, and then run around to the other side of the car and jump in. “Whew.” I wipe my face with my hands, fluff my hands through my hair. “You should probably let your parents know where you are.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll tell them I’m with you, studying or something, but nothing else. Believe me, they don’t want to know. They never want to know the truth about me. It’ll be
easier for them, for me, if I hide out for a while. I’ll sleep on the floor. I won’t be a problem, I promise.”

I pull out onto the street, my windshield wipers working hard. “You’re not going to sleep on the floor. You know I have a queen bed.”

“Perfect.” He laughs. Stops, holds his side in pain. “Oh, shit, but Zac . . . he’s your neighbor. What if he sees me?”

“He’s not going to see you; don’t worry. I don’t think he’s ever stepped foot in my yard.”
And he better not.
“But you need to know, it’s pretty tense at my house. My mom and I aren’t talking. I was actually about to go to your house, before you called from the hospital.”

“Yeah, right. The two of you don’t know how
not
to talk.”

“It’s a rule I just made up. I don’t want to talk to her again for the rest of my life.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. What are you going to say, or not say, about bringing home a pulverized pal?” he asks.

“The truth. That a douche bag phony asshole jerk beat you up.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a heating pad for your ribs?” my mom asks, propping Chris up with a third pillow, covering him with yet another blanket.

I stand at my bathroom sink, brushing my teeth. “He’s
going to die of heatstroke, Mom. Stop covering him! They said ice. Where’s Dad by the way?”

“Working late again. How about I make us some hot tea.” She tucks in the side of the quilt.

I spit in the sink. “For chrissakes, leave him alone. He’s fine.”

Chris, looking stiff and uncomfortable, sits straight up at a ninety-degree angle in my bed, listening to the two of us bicker. “I’m really okay, thank you. And thanks for letting me stay here.”

“You’re always welcome. You know that. And hopefully under better circumstances next time.” She stands at the door of my room, like she’s waiting for an invitation to jump on the bed.

“It’s late, Mom. I think Chris should get some sleep.” I gently pull one of the pillows out from behind him and untuck the quilt.

“Well, he’s not going to school in the morning, that’s for sure. He’ll stay here; I’ll take care of him. I’m free, don’t have anything planned.” She darts her eyes at me.

“But
I
have to get up for school, so would you mind leaving, please?”

“Okay. Good night.” She starts to close the door, then pokes her head back in. “I’m down the hall if you need anything.”

“Mom.”

Door closed. I switch off the light. The almost full moon shines through the thick clouds, casting a filtered, hazy, almost
spooky glow through the window and into my room—perfect for a scary-story sleepover. But the scary story tonight happens to be real.

“I think you made her day, getting beat up. I guess it’s good to bring in a busted-up buddy now and then to ease the tension in a dysfunctional family.”

“Tell me about dysfunctional families . . . mine can trump yours any day.”

I plop down on the bed with him.

“Easy, Bea.” He winces.

“Oh, sorry.” I slowly sit up, lean against the headboard. “It’ll get better, your family, when you get out of the house, go to school. You’ll see.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’d hate to have to lie to my parents the rest of my life.” He gingerly rolls to his side, faces me. “By the way, I told ya so.”

“Told me what?”

“There’s no silent treatment going on between you two.”

I fold my arms. “Well, there should be.”

“Why, what happened, anyway?”

“She’s fooling around on my dad, Chris. There’s another guy. A stupid-looking dude with a moustache.”

“No. No way.”

“Yes way. It pisses me off, and I feel so bad for my dad. I don’t think he has any idea.”

“Well, that sucks.”

I scooch down under the covers, cuddle up next to him. Our faces are inches apart.

“This is kind of fun,” he says.

“Fun? You’ve been beaten to a pulp, my mom is having an affair, and you find this fun?”

“Having a sleepover with you.”

“Yeah, okay, that part is fun. But we should try it again, without the drama next time—I’d prefer ghost stories and s’mores.”

“You know, Bea. We
could
get an apartment, live together, after my freshman year.”

I sigh. “We could, and I’d be up for that. But Chris, you’re going to meet new people—your whole life will probably change. And that’s fine. It is. We’ll always be close—forever, I know it. Don’t worry about me, okay?”

“Okay, but I do.” His smile fades. “My pain pills are in my jeans pocket, you know.”

I lift my head, look across the room at his pants draped over the back of a chair. “I know. I saw them.”

“You’re cool with it?”

I gently entwine my fingers around his hand. “Life is weird.”

“How so?”

“Even when things get scary messy—you getting beat up by that jerk . . .”
And everything that’s happened with Junior.
“You’re handed a moment like this. Just the two of us, in this room. The moon shining in. It’s so peaceful.”

“That sounds rather sappy. So un-Bea-like.”

“Shut up. I’m just grateful that I’m here to help you, and that you asked me to. It wouldn’t have happened if I were messed up—we wouldn’t have this moment. So, yeah, Chris, that’s a long way of saying I’m cool with the pills in your pocket. Good night.” I kiss him on the cheek, roll over, lace up the imaginary boxing gloves, and say a prayer for Annie.

But I don’t sleep. I hear the minutes ticking by, Chris’s light snores. I’m afraid to move, disturb him, and my mind keeps switching on and off, flashing between the image of Junior, lying in that hospital bed, and then to that asshole Zac, and what he did to Chris.

And the letters I-S-P-Y . . . What was Junior trying to tell me? ISPY, I SPY, I spy . . . Oh my god . . .
The tattoo on the coach’s Adam’s apple—an eye spying . . . of course. Junior wanted me to know, confirmed my hunch—it’s Coach Credos—no doubt about it.

I slowly, silently slip out from under the covers, tiptoe to my closet, close the door. It’s only eleven thirty; he should be up. I dial his number. But I get Sergeant Daniels’s message instead and whisper into the phone:

Me: It’s the coach, Dan, I’m positive. I saw Junior at the hospital and drew the truth out of him . . . the coach’s eye tattoo—it’s what he was thinking about—what he wanted me to know.

12 hours
55 minutes

“M
r. Pogen? You need help passing out the graded tests?”

“Sure, Beatrice, that would be nice.” He hands me the stack.

I shuffle through the pile, pull out Zac’s and Chris’s, and stuff them in my purse. “Um, I’ll take Chris’s home to him. He’s not feeling well today.” I shoot a deadly glance toward the asshole.

“That’d be nice, thank you. Now remember, class, don’t forget to bring this when we take the final. Use it—it’s all there—everything you need to know. And those of you who didn’t do so well, please redo the work at home. If you need help, come see me. I want you all to be prepared.”

“Uh, I didn’t get mine back,” Zac utters, his big, lunky body squeezed into a desk. Sometimes I wish he’d get stuck in one and have to walk around the school wearing it like a wooden tutu.

“Oh, that’s odd. Beatrice? Was it in the stack?”

“Nope, didn’t see it,” I lie.

“Well, meet me after class, Zac. I’ll have a look around. By the way, you didn’t do too well. We’ll have to make sure you’re up to speed for the final.”

The class snickers. Zac’s face morphs into the swollen red hive-y thing again—he’s
so
not fooling anyone.