Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (4 page)

She looks at me, wide-eyed. “Sure. It’s chapter four. Make up a project . . . like you did for the Cuban period. That was fun, very inspiring . . .” She waves, dismissing me, or rather dismissing herself, and is out the door.

“You mean Cubism . . . ,” I say to no one.

A couple students grab their backpacks and make a beeline for the door. Nerdy Nate Menchel feverishly texts. Eva Marie
twists her ’fro with some white goop from a tub as she chomps on a stick of gum to the beat of whatever she’s listening to in her earphones.

Billy Weisman, perpetually high, yet unbelievably smart—he’s seriously the übergenius of the senior class (and he looks like Shaggy from
Scooby-Doo
—even has a scraggly soul patch on his chin)—lopes on over to an open window with his low, baggy jeans, turns his Detroit Tigers baseball cap backward on his head, and lights up a cigarette. He squints at me and slings me some slang: “Yo, so prof Wash—what’s innit fo’ us, homey?”

I laugh. “Good question, Billy.” I flip through the textbook—take a look at the neo-expressionism era: Basquiat’s, Clemente’s, and Schnabel’s vivid, colorful paintings projecting raw, violent emotion that influenced artists like Andy Warhol. I chalk out the word
pop art
in three-dimensional bubble letters on the board.

“That’s cool.” Billy nods, approving. “Got yo’ graffiti groove goin’ on.”

Nate raises his hand.

“Nate, you don’t have to raise your hand. It’s just me.”

He clears his throat. “Graffiti art? That’s pop art?”

“No, not exactly. But it definitely influenced street art.”

Billy hoists his jeans, his cigarette dangling from his mouth, chalks out some graffiti scribble, touting his well-known tagging skills.

“Billy’s the Banksy of Ann Arbor.” Eva Marie pulls out her earphones.

“Dunno ’bout that anymore. Got the coppers hot on my tail—for taggin’ shit.”

“Seriously? You’ve been arrested?” I ask.

He nods. “Nabbed for train bombin’.”

Hmmm . . . A tagger—maybe that would work. But I’d need a look. . . .

“Hey, Eva Marie. That thing you’re doing with your hair.” I eye her handiwork.

“Twisting?”

“Yeah. You think you could do it to me? Like, later today?”

She blows a bubble, pops it. “Sure. I have a free after lunch. You?”

“PE, but I have no prob skipping it.” In fact, I’m always looking for an excuse to dodge it. I’ll probably have to run at least four marathons to graduate to make up for all the absences, but, what the heck. . . . I’ll face that when I have to.

“Your hair’ll be a cinch, Bea. It’s not that tight on the curl scale, and I need the practice for cosmetology school. Meet me in the science hall john at one.” She sticks her wad of gum up under the top of her desk, humming something while twisting the other side of her head.

I prop up the textbook on the chalkboard ledge, and while looking at Eva Marie, sketch out Andy Warhol’s banana with yellow chalk.

“Sweet. That’s the cover of the album
The Velvet Underground
,” Eva Marie calls out. “I was just listening to Lou Reed.”

“You were? Wow, I didn’t know,” I lie.

“Yeah, right,” Chris mumbles under his breath.

Eva Marie switches her phone to speaker mode and turns up the volume on Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side.” She starts dancing, swinging her hips and swaying to the tune.

Nate joins in, awkwardly singing. She responds, pulling him from his chair, and placing her hands on his hips, singing, “Doo do doo do doo do do . . .”

Chris makes it a threesome, sandwiching an all-of-a-sudden extremely nervous Nate. The sax starts riffing. Billy stubs out his cigarette in a wilted potted plant on the sill, takes Eva Marie’s arm, and twirls her around.

I’m chalking in the finishing touches on the banana when Mrs. Hogan comes barreling into the room. “What in heaven’s name is going on in here?” She snatches Eva Marie’s phone and silences the song.

Nate sits, clasps his hands.

“And what is that?” She points at the banana on the board.

Billy speaks up. “Prof Wash was getting us hip on pop art. Chap four. Like you said.”

“That’s ridiculous—that’s not art.”

“Actually, it is, and was heavily influenced by neo-expressionism. Bea taught us that,” Nate explains.

She sniffs the air. “I smell smoke. Was someone having a cigarette . . . ? Billy! Do I have to send you down to the principal’s office again?”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t Billy, Mrs. Hogan.” I jump in. “I saw someone outside smoking by the window. I smell it, too.” I do
a wavy thing in front of my nose, the chalk still in my hand. “Gross.”

Mrs. Hogan holds her stomach. “Class is dismissed.”

“But we still have another twenty minutes,” Nate stupidly says.

She shoos us away and plops down in her chair. “Go study or something. Please go.”

I quickly erase what I’ve drawn on the chalkboard.

Billy slings his backpack over his shoulder and whispers, “You’re the bomb, Beawash.” He then fist-bumps me and strolls out of the classroom.

“What a bitch Hogan is,” Chris says.

“We have to cut her a break. I think she has a stomach problem, an ulcer or something.”

“What?”

“Her belly is on fire, like, her insides were burning up when I was drawing at the chalkboard,” I whisper.

“Unreal. You can do that thing with chalk, too?”

“Jesus, Chris. You make it sound like an STD or something.”

“Well, sometimes I wish it
were
contagious. Then at least
I
could draw the truth out of Ian.”

“Give it a rest, Chris. Ian really digs you—it’s obvious. Come on, I need a smoke.”

“I thought you were quitting.”

“Cutting back. First one today.”

We head toward the senior courtyard when Marsha
Wheaton, a fellow classmate, passes us crying, almost sobbing, running toward the lav.

Another guy rushes the hall, jumps, high-fiving, pumping the air with his fists. “Yessssss.”

The school is suddenly buzzing—like an alarm went off.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” Chris’s phone dings. “Huh. It’s an e-mail from . . . oh, shit . . . U of M. Bea, hold my hand. . . .”

I do, and he reads.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Chris adds to the buzz, picks me up, and spins me around. “I got in, Bea! University of Michigan art department. Whoo-hoo!” he bellows, his arms splayed in the air.

“Well, duh, did you ever have any doubt?”

“This is friggin’ awesome.” He dances a little jig.

I stand back and take it in—observe him from a distance. Chris hugs Randall Pols—he’s never hugged Randall Pols before; I didn’t know he even knew him—but now that they just realize that they’re both Wolverines, University of Michigan–bound, they bond.

I knew this day would happen—knew it would come. I’ll never fit in in that way, the collegiate way—another one of the
shoulds
. Even if I wanted to, forced myself—it would make my parents so happy, especially my dad—it’d be phony, fake, not me. But Chris is different; this is the right move for him.

He looks my way, and I see his enthusiasm stall. I
so
don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to ruin it for him, be the
Eeyore in the room, so I muster up a killer smile and give him another big hug. Surprisingly, tears come to my eyes, and my throat catches a little. I suck it up. “I’m really happy for you, Chris.”

He pulls back, peers into my eyes. “You okay?”

“Of course, you fool.” I slap his shoulder.

His eyes snap back to wild, wide excitement. “Your dad’s amazing.”

“I’m sure my dad helped, being the art chair and all, but it was your awesome photography that got you in. Your portfolio is sick, dude.”

Chris bounces on his toes as we join other nicotine fiends in the school courtyard.

“Did you know? Tell me. Did you? Were you hiding it from me?” He pants like a puppy dog.

“Had no idea. He didn’t let on. But then again, he hasn’t been home much—he’s being considered for dean.”

“This is so friggin’ amazing, but you know the only thing that could top this? If you were going, too.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not.” I lean against a brick wall and feel it snag my sweater, and I light up.

“I still don’t get it, Bea. It’s a no-brainer for you. You’ve got the grades, the talent—”

“And the dad. I can’t go to his school. It’d be too weird; you know that. I need to get out on my own, Chris. Out from under Mommy and Daddy. Maybe get my own apartment.”

“Yeah, and what will Mommy and Daddy say about that?”

“What do you think?” I chew on a hangnail and crouch. “They’re still all over me—need to know where I am all the time, what I’m doing, who I’m seeing. Sometimes I feel as if I can’t breathe, like I’m being smothered.”

Chris coughs at the dense smoke and sits down next to me. “I have an idea. . . . We could get an apartment together. That would be so awesome.”

“Yeah, that would be super fun, wouldn’t it?” He’ll be in the dorm. He knows it, and knows that I know it. He’s just being sensitive, and I love him for that. “Chris . . .”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about something . . . um, haven’t told anyone about it yet.”

“What?”

“It’s kind of a crazy idea, but . . .” I show him the tabbed section filled with inked designs in my sketchbook. “I’m thinking about getting my license as a tattoo artist.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

He’s about to check out my designs, when Nate Menchel bursts into the courtyard, howling like a wolf—very unlike Nate.

“U of M?” Chris asks him, handing me back my sketchbook.

Nate is speechless—madly nods, dumps out all his books from his backpack, and stomps on them. Chris jumps up and joins in the stomping. Like two little boys going to town, splashing in a mud puddle.

I walk away.

6 days
11 hours
30 minutes

W
ith all the rushing around this morning, I totally spaced, forgot to pack a lunch, and Chris warned me to never buy food from the creepy googly-eyed lunch lady. And there seems to be a celebratory senior lunch fight going on in the cafeteria, because of the college acceptances, I guess. It looks as if Nate was doused with a carton of chocolate milk, a few cold cuts landed on top of Chris’s head, and Principal Nathanson, trying to break up the festivities, slipped on a clump of mac and cheese. Fell flat on his ass.

Yeah . . . I think I’ll bop on home and pick something up.

I turn the corner into my neighborhood and make my way through the woodsy, tree-canopied streets, open my window, and let the wind whip through my hair; then, of course, I sneeze at the sweet smell of budding jasmine. I’m about to pull into my driveway, when a white SUV shoots out in front of me and cuts me off.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, buddy!” I yell out the window, but he’s long gone down the road. I catch my breath and park.

It’s been almost twelve years since we moved here. My dad had just been appointed chair of the art department at the University of Michigan, and it was a huge deal—a big move for us. I was six. It was midsummer—before the school year started up for my dad. I was about to enter first grade at the all-girl’s school, Athena Day. We pulled our U-Haul truck up to what I thought was the most beautiful house I’d ever seen. A fairy-tale house. Magical, two stories, like my Barbie dollhouse. It had a big, green front lawn, surrounded by a split-rail wooden fence.

Mom dashed to the front door, jiggled the keys, and had to kick the bottom of the door till it opened. Dad stood in the driveway, his hands on his hips, smiling, watching her. “I’ll fix that Bella—get to it right away. Won’t be a problem.”

And I made a beeline to the humongous tree that stood in the middle of the front yard. “Look at this, Dad.”

“It’s a sycamore, Bea.”

I gazed up at its towering limbs and hugged it hard. My little arms reached halfway around its trunk. Having lived in the city of Chicago my whole life, I’d never seen, let alone touched, a tree this big. I kissed the bark; my nose smooshed against the mottled wood. It smelled like cold, wet dirt and stirred up something in my belly that made me feel, I don’t know, home, grounded, safe.

I reached up and wrapped my legs around a heavy limb and then climbed the branches, scratching my bony knees.

“Be careful, Beatrice,” Mom called out, laughing, as she stepped outside on the front stoop. I went as high as I could—before the branches spread too far apart. Then I sat back against the trunk, breathing hard, tucked and nestled in a comforting crook of the tree, and peered into a dormered window on the second floor of my new house.

It was framed with dark wood shutters that looked like they could close. (I found out later they were just ornamental, after I tried to shut them from the inside, almost fell out the window, and broke one shutter off its hinge.) A slanted ceiling with a wood beam split the room in half. “Oh, Daddy, I want that bedroom,” I called out, pointing.

“You got it,” he said. “It’s yours.”

I looked around my new neighborhood—saw a dog chasing a cat across the street, a man riding a lawn mower two houses over, some boys playing football in the next yard. I felt as if I were a fairy princess on top of the world, looking down on my kingdom.

How simple life seemed back then. How happy we were, the three of us—excited for the future. All the possibilities . . .

I sigh and walk toward the front door. The shutter on my bedroom window still dangles from the hinge; the paint is peeling. Dandelions poke through the weedy, unmowed lawn; one of the wooden rails of the fence lies on the ground, rotting. My dad is crazy busy with his job, and now wanting to be
promoted to dean, he’s rarely home and is too tired to work on the house on the weekends. And Mom? She bitches about it, but she’d rather spend her time painting children’s murals on bedroom walls than painting the house. So the house looks lived-in, a little rough around the edges, but “perfectly fine with its imperfections,” Dad says.

The front door still sticks. I give a little kick at the worn, splintered bottom—the same place it’s been kicked at for the past twelve years. I start to walk toward the kitchen when I hear footsteps above. “Mom? Is that you? You home?”