Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (20 page)

And he won’t ever again.

It came to me the moment I woke in the morning and looked at Chris’s innocent face—his bandaged head. How to take Zac down . . .

I had to let go of the Reyna/Roxanne she-wolf evisceration. It was a juicy fantasy that I wallowed around in for a while. I also considered calling Johnny and Archie, asking them to meet up with him in a dark alley somewhere as mean thugs, and scare the crap out of him—not hurt him, but tap into their gangsta mojo. They would love to do that, I’m sure, and Zac would’ve probably pooped his pants on the spot. But I can’t risk getting them in trouble with the coach, and there’s no way I’d stoop to his level, using violence as an answer.

And then it came to me: Jeremy, his little brother. He’s the one who should, who has to, who
will
. . . take his big brother down.

“Jeremy.” I run to his locker. He stands slumped, defeated as always, pulling out books.

“What do you want?”

I hand him a stamped envelope addressed: The College Board, Office of Testing Integrity.

He studies it, front and back. “What’s this?”

“Look inside.” He pulls out the failed astronomy test.

“That’s your brother’s signature.” I point at the top of the page.

“Okay . . . what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Anything you want.”

“Huh?”

I lean in, whisper, “There’s some suspicion, rumors floating around, that maybe, perhaps, your big brother had someone else take the SAT for him.”

Oh man, I wish I had Chris’s camera—the expression on Jeremy’s face . . . priceless. His dull gray eyes widened, his slack, beardless jaw clenched, his shoulders pulled back, and I watched him suddenly grow two inches taller. “You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not. One look at his academic record, the differences with the signatures, no way they’ll ignore it—they’ll at least investigate.”

He leans his head against the top shelf of his locker and deflates a little. “But I couldn’t do that . . . no way, I couldn’t. I can’t blow his dream . . . I’m not like him.”

“But you don’t have to, you see? All he needs to know is that you possess the power, right there in your hands, to put him in his place.” I repeat this part slowly. “You’d have the power, Jeremy.”

He slowly turns his head and smiles at me, and it occurs to me that I’ve never seen his smile before. “I would, wouldn’t I?”

“You would. And, anyway, he’s not going to be able to fool Cornell University. No way will he get through a quarter, let alone a semester.”

Zac comes stalking toward us. “What you doin’ talking to her?” he asks, and then shoves the locker door hard into Jeremy’s back. He continues marching down the hall, yuk-yukking like a fool.

Jeremy’s nostrils flare, and it seems as if he taps into
his
superpower as he fills up his skinny body with air and shouts out, “Hey, Zachary!”

His brother whirls around, storms over. “I told you, never to talk to me here, you got that?”

“No, I got this.” He holds up the envelope. Zac snatches it from his hand, pulls out the folded test.

“So?” He shifts his weight in his size twenty sneakers.

“So, look at the address.”

He does, followed by the neck spasm thing.

“That’s your signature, right, on the test? The same signature you wrote when you signed in for the SAT?”

Zac snarls, rips the envelope, the test in half, in quarters, shoves the pieces in his pocket.

Jeremy blinks at me, like,
Now what?

I pull out another stamped, addressed envelope from within the pages of my sketchbook. “I figured you’d do that. Unless you weren’t worried about Jeremy sending in your signature.
But just in case, I happened to have made a copy of the test.” I hand it to Jeremy. “Oh, yeah. . . . I made a few copies, actually.”

Zac tries to snatch it again, but Jeremy, faster this time, tosses it in his locker, slams the door closed, and spins the lock.

Zac makes a guttural noise and raises a clenched fist above his brother’s head.

I step in, ready to take the blow, grab the collar of his shirt, and growl back, “You touch him or Chris, talk shit to Billy, to anyone, ever again, and I’ll take you down, you little lying prick—and you know I will.”

His fist lowers.

“Believe me, I’ll be watching you.”

8 hours
15 minutes

I
knock on his office door.

“Bea. What are you doing here? I mean, not that I’m not glad to see you.”

I sit on an upholstered wingback chair across from the polished, dark wood desk. “I have to tell you something, Dad. I’ve debated, thought it over and over, but I do. I have to tell you the truth.”

He sits, his hands clasped atop his desk. “This sounds very important.”

“It is. And it’s about Mom.” Big breath. “She’s seeing someone else, Dad. She’s cheating on you.”

He cups the back of his neck, drops his head.

“I’m sorry. So sorry. But I thought you’d want to know.”

“Bea . . .”

A light knock on the door. A young woman with a brown, messy ponytail, wearing black, thick-framed glasses that teeter
on the tip of her cute-as-a-button nose, comes rushing in—then stops short when she sees me. “Oh . . .”

My dad jumps up, briskly crosses over to her. “I don’t think this is a good time . . .”

“Hi.” I wave.

“Bea, this is Professor Williams. She’s a painting teacher here at the university. And Marcy, um, Professor Williams, this is my daughter, Beatrice.” He unbuttons the top button on his shirt, loosens his tie.

“Nice to meet you, Beatrice. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Her high cheekbones flush as she quickly places a folder on Dad’s desk. “I need to get your approval with these order forms . . . when you have time. Okay, bye. Nice meeting you.” She waves and scoots out of the room.

Dad wipes his sweaty forehead, faces me, and it looks as if he’s wearing a mask. A mask I’ve never seen before on his face. I’ve seen it on my mom’s, plenty of times—the mask of guilt. The sallow, blood-draining, empty-eyed look of guilt.

It explodes, bursts like a popped balloon, a rubber band
snap
. And I’m not drawing—no pen, no paper in hand.
No, no, no.
This can’t be true.

He kneels at my chair as if he’s in a confessional. Puts his hands on my lap. “Your mother isn’t having an affair, Beatrice.”

I shove his hands off me, then jump up. “Oh my god . . . it’s you, you’re the one?”

“Bea.” He stays in a kneeling position . . . as he should.

“All this time, I thought it was Mom who was the fraud,
the phony. But I was wrong. It was you.” I have the urge to push his stupid-ass desk over as I rush past him to the door. “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get to Mom.”

“Bea. Please, come back. I can explain. . . .”

“Don’t bother,” I call back.

I find Chris and my mom in her bed, watching TV. They’re both still in pj’s and are laughing their asses off at an animal-prank show, munching on a big bowl of popcorn.

“That pug. Did you see that, what he did with that turtle? Ow, my ribs. Stop it. Turn it off. . . . It hurts too much to laugh.” Chris rolls to his side, hysterical.

“Oh, honey, be careful,” Mom says, and adjusts the ice pack underneath him. She glances up at me in the doorway. “Oh, hi, Bea.” It’s as unwelcoming a greeting as an unpopped kernel at the bottom of the bowl—the thing you spit out and discard. And I don’t blame her, with what I’ve said, the way I’ve acted.

I sit on Chris’s side of the bed. “How you feeling, buddy?”

“Oh, man, Bea, wow . . . I finally get it.”

“What?”

“What you saw in all the drugs you took. . . . Hell, I’m in no pain. No pain at all,” he slurs. “And your mom, she’s like a goddess, she made me an omelet this morning that, no way—never have I ever tasted anything so delish.”

Enjoying my mom’s food?
He’s so high.

“Hey, Mom, can we talk?”

She stands, wraps her robe tightly around her body, I’m sure bracing for another onslaught. “Go ahead.”

“I mean alone.”

“Oh, girl talk, fine, I know when I’m not wanted.” Chris scrambles off the bed. “I have to take a shower, anyway, wash my lovely half head of hair.”

“Be careful of the bandages,” Mom warns.

“I will . . . oh, and Bea, would you mind driving me home in a little bit? I’ll get my car another day, when I’m not feeling . . . whoozy.” He wobbles.

“Good idea, Chris.” I hold on to his arm and walk him to the door.

When he leaves, I close the door and rush to my mom and hug her tightly, so tightly—she stumbles backward.

“Whoa. What’s that for?”

I start bawling. “I’m sorry. I thought it was you, not Dad.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I went to his office, and that woman, the Marcy woman, came in . . .”

“Ahhh . . .” She pulls me into her even tighter, rocks me back and forth. “You found out.” I nod in her bosom. She steps back, pets my hair, takes my face in her hands. “You okay?”

“How could he?”

“Bea, he’s not a bad person.”

“How can you say that? How long has this been going on? How long have you known?”

She shrugs. “I think this Professor Williams thing has been going on for a while. . . . It may be getting pretty serious. Your dad’s been coming home later and later—sometimes he doesn’t even bother.”

I sink onto the bed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” She hands me a box of Kleenex.

“How can you live in this house with him?” I ask, wiping my face.

“Because you’re here.” She sits on the bed with me. “I loved your father, Bea, I did, you have to know that. And I know I’m not easy to live with.”

“But, that’s no excuse . . . what he’s doing.”

“I know, but we met very young; he was lost, I was lost, and both of us were passionate and stubborn—we had no idea what we were doing in life. And we fell deeply in love. I don’t regret any of it, because we had you.” She kisses my forehead. “And all was good, for a long while. You remember that, right? Good times?”

I nod. “But that Mr. Connelly . . .”

“Michael? He’s a client—that’s it. Yeah, we flirted. . . . It felt kind of good to be appreciated.”

I blow my nose. “Was he here with you? Last week? The morning I came home?”

“What? Of course not.”

“But I saw his truck . . .”

“Bea, he wasn’t here, believe me. Do you know how many white SUVs are out there?”

“And you were acting so guilty, like I caught you doing something.”

She stands, crosses over to her vanity. “The truth? I was.” She pulls open the top drawer, fingers a few cigarettes. “I was having a smoke up here. I told you I’ve been lifting them off you. I didn’t want you to know . . . that is, until you got me fired.”

“That’s it? That’s all you were doing?”

“I know, pretty lame, right?” She sits.

“Oh my god . . . I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry I lost you your job.”

“It’s okay. I never would’ve made Alanna happy.”

I slap the bed. “You can’t live this way, Mom. You’re beautiful, smart, and you look fabulous in those jeans, by the way.”

She smiles. “Thank you.”

“You deserve more.”

She peers at me through the mirror. “You know, when I went to see my parents, your grandparents, on Sunday, it felt good to be . . .” She sighs. “Home. They’re willing to forgive and forget—everything, all the drama, the fights, the silence between us. And I am, too.” She pauses. “They want me to move back.”

“What?” I hold a pillow close to my chest. “To Chicago? With them?”

“After you graduate, of course, if that’s what you want, or . . . we could go now.”

“Now? As in
now
?”

She swings around. “I told them all about you. How talented, smart, and beautiful you are. Oh, Bea . . . they would love to get to know you. You could even finish the school year there if you wanted. I know you never liked Packard High. We could start . . . fresh. Just the two of us.”

I’m silent.

“Or not. It’s up to you.” She begins writing in a card.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m finishing up a thank-you note.” She laughs. “They don’t understand e-mail . . . one of the first things I’ll help them with when I move.”

When.
She said
when
. I look at her in the mirror—happily mouthing the words as she writes, and I think,
Why shouldn’t we pack up and leave? Why not? What do I have here? I don’t want to ever see my dad again, Chris will be moving on, but Dan . . . Sergeant Daniels. God. I can’t imagine never seeing those green eyes again.

“You really care about him, don’t you?” She’s eyeing me through the mirror.

“What, who?”

She swivels in her chair, faces me. “Whoever belongs to these eyes—they don’t really look like Wendell’s.” She hands me the note card. A pair of eyes—the shape, the intensity of Sergeant Daniels’s eyes perfectly drawn at the top. “Who is he? Are you in love with him?”

I stand. “Mom . . . how did you . . .”

“I’m your mom, I know things, I see things.”

“No. No. That isn’t it. You . . . drew what I was thinking.”

“You mean the truth?” She hands me the pen, the note card. “Now it’s your turn.”