Sketchy

by Samms, Olivia

  Chris smiles, holding up his hand for a high five. “That’s awesome!”

  I question returning the slap.

  “Uh… Bea? I’m waiting. You’re not going to let me hang up here all alone, are you?”

  “I’m not used to that, getting high-fived for being sober. Not from the people I hung out with, anyway.”

  “Well, poo on them. They’re all at Bitch School, while you’re here at Packrat High! Whoo hoo—high-five me already!”

  The gazillion bangles on my wrist crash like cymbals as I slap his hand.

  Chris likes the sound. “Nice.”

  “A nickel per bangle.”

  “I see you haven’t stopped your hot retro look.”

  “Never, are you kidding me? Man, I missed my clothes—been wearing sweats for months.”

  “Did I happen to see vintage Doc Martens under the table?”

  Now it’s my turn to lift my foot. “Good eyes. Fifteen bucks, eBay.”

  “Get out of here.”

  I stand. “And this silk chiffon scarf I’m wearing around my waist? An original Yves Saint Laurent. I googled it—an old woman at a garage sale had no idea what she gave me for a dollar fifty!”

  “Shut up! And that skirt… to die for.”

  “Fifties petticoat, in black!” I do a little curtsy for him and sit back down. “Trippy, don’t you think? Thought it was perfect for my first day of school.”

  Chris beams. “You are the answer to my prayers, Beatrice Washington. I’ve been looking for a model.”

  “A model?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been looking for someone to shoot—get my portfolio together, you know, for college. And all the girls around here are so… boring.”

  “College? Shit, that’s the last thing I’m thinking about.”

  A cheerleader passes our table on the way to the trash and gives me the snooty once-over.

  I give it a go and say, “Hi, my name is Bea. What’s yours?”

  She flips her flatironed hair over her shoulder, rolls her eyes, and rejoins her posse.

  “How typical. They hate me already, and I haven’t even done anything yet. It’s my hair.”

  “Your hair is fierce, Bea! Rule number two: don’t speak to the cheerleaders unless you are spoken to first.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “They’re harmless. Besides, they’re in mourning.”

  “What do they have to be sad about?”

  “Oh my god! You didn’t hear about the rape?” Chris whispers.

  “What rape? Who was raped?”

  “Shhh!” Chris leans in closer to me. “Just the most popular girl in our school, Willa Pressman. It happened a few weeks ago. Raped, left for dead. She’s like the school’s rock star, head cheerleader, elected homecoming queen.”

  “Is she here? With the other cheerleaders?”

  Chris nods.

  “Which one is she?”

  “The blonde in the middle of the pack.”

  I look over at the cheerleader table. The girls hover over a frail-looking girl.

  “Wow, she looks really zoned out. Is she okay?”

  “I heard she was choked and beat up pretty bad—unconscious. A couple kids found her down by the creek.”

  “Shit, that’s gruesome. Why in the hell is she here—back at school so soon?”

  Chris shrugs. “I guess they think it’s important for her to act ‘normal’… whatever that means.”

  “They catch the guy?”

  “Nope. He’s still out there, and I guess she doesn’t remember anything.”

  I shiver. “That’s creepy. This is like the second attack in the past year.”

  “You mean that other girl, in the Arboretum last spring? But she was killed, and who knows if it was even the same guy.”

  “Yeah, who knows…” My mind wanders off, and I get caught in a stare.

  “Um, Bea, you still with me?”

  “Yeah.” I shake off the stare. “It’s just scary.”

  “I know, and everyone’s wondering if Willa is going to show up to be crowned at homecoming Friday night—if she’ll be able to handle it—you know, the spotlight, all the attention.”

  “You’re not going, are you?”

  Chris sighs. “I have to. I’m working the concession stand—service-learning hours.”

  “Oh yeah, I need those, too, like a million of them to graduate.”

  The bell rings.

  Chris yells over the bell. “What class do you have next?”

  I scramble in my bag for my schedule and laugh. “Art.”

  “Jinx. So do I. How cool is that? We’re in the same class.”

  “Thank goodness, you can lead me there. This school is so huge, Chris—like a maze. I ended up in a shop class instead of algebra this morning.”

  Chris laughs. “Rule number three: stay away from the dudes in shop class. They all have woodies!”

  “Chris! That’s disgusting!”

  “Depends on how you look at it.” He giggles. “Don’t worry, Bea. Stick with me. I’ll help you master the Packrat maze and keep you celibate.”

  The desks are arranged in a circle, and it instantly reminds me of arts-and-crafts therapy at rehab. Jesus, was it lame. We’d have to sit in a circle and take turns sharing our “feelings” while gluing Popsicle sticks together, or something just as idiotic.

  Chris and I take our seats, and the art teacher walks into the middle of the circle, tossing random objects on a lopsided table: a stapler, a pencil sharpener, a chipped coffee cup with lipstick stains. She takes hold of someone’s ratty backpack and adds a ruler as the final touch.

  “That’s Mrs. Hogan,” Chris whispers. “She is also the librarian and the school nurse. Budget cuts. She knows nothing about art. And don’t get too close to her… her breath smells like rancid brussels sprouts!”

  “Gross.”

  “Okay, everybody listen up.” Mrs. Hogan stifles a yawn. “I’d like to welcome a new student in our class. Ah”—she reads from a piece of paper—“Miss Washington, Beatrice Washington.”

  Chris applauds the welcome, and I eyeball him. With my left hand under the desktop, I pull on a strategically placed hole in my black tights, ripping them, snagging the hole bigger, and wait for the whispers and finger-pointing.

  But no one seems to take notice, no one gives a shit—they’re all absorbed in their own worlds. A couple of kids text on their phones, a girl files her French-tipped nails, an obvious stoner naps, and my introduction thankfully fizzles away as Mrs. Hogan drones on. “Okay, class, today we’re going to draw a still life. Notice how the light hits the objects, where the shadows fall.” She makes herself comfortable behind her desk, delving into a gossip magazine.

  I look at the chewed-up number-two pencil on the desk, sigh, pull a pen from my hair, and begin to draw the still life on the wrinkled, lined piece of paper in front of me.

  I take on the fabric folds of the backpack’s dark green canvas when she catches my eye—Willa, the cheerleader, the girl who was raped. She sits across from me, eye level above the planted backpack.

  I study her milky white skin, the pale green and yellow bruises peeking out from the top of the cream-colored turtleneck underneath her cheerleading uniform. Her pink glossed lips are slack and open; her blue eyes, glassy and wet, are frozen in a heavy-lidded stare. She looks like a frightened, wounded deer.

  Her pencil dangles from her right hand. Her head cocks slightly to the left as her gaze shifts away from the still life. It’s as if she sees something—someone. I watch her breathe—even, steady, one, two, three. Exhale—one, two, three.

  And in that moment, looking at Willa with my pen in my hand, a man’s face explodes in my head, flashes in front of me. It shoots through my head and down my arm to my hand. Long nose; full, defined lips. He’s staring at me, in me, through me. I see his sculpted high cheekbones, his chin—pointed, no beard, smooth complexion, his round wire-rim glasses, his dark brown eyes. I see them.

  I draw
them.

  My hands tremble a little as I stare at Willa again. He’s there, in my head, maybe in her head? And now in front of me, on paper.

  Oh my god! It’s Marcus. Why did I draw Marcus?

  I drop my pen. Chris leans over to pick it up and notices the sketch. “Who the hell is that?”

  I startle at his question and turn over the paper, hiding the drawing. “It’s nobody. Nothing.”

  My head throbs. I rub the back of my neck, take a deep breath, and look at Willa again. Her eyes blink open and closed, her lids droop—and she goes down, down on her desk, her blond mane covering her skinny arms.

  I turn the paper over and peek at the sketch of the face. This is so creepy. Why did I draw him when I looked at her? Why is this happening to me again?

  The school bell rings, and my first day at Packard High is over—and I managed to stay out of trouble. Whoo hoo.

  Chris walks with me to my car—a kick-ass Volvo sedan junker. “So… what do you say we start off where we ended last winter?”

  “Like the last half a year didn’t happen? Would love to.”

  “So we’re BFFs, right?”

  “Were we ever best friends, Chris?”

  He shrugs. “Sure we were… don’t you remember?” He slugs me in the arm.

  “Careful. This cardigan is at least fifty years old.”

  “Sorry.” He pats my arm. “Hey, Bea, I was thinking… how about you help me out in the concession stand on homecoming? You need the hours, and I could use the company.”

  “Yeah, right. Me, at a homecoming? No way, Chris.”

  “Why not? You have something better to do?”

  “AA.” I roll my eyes.

  “Come on, please?” Big smile.

  A couple of bros pass us. They look our way, snickering, and I think I hear the words “queer-ass faggot” whispered.

  Chris ignores them, but I know he heard. His cheeks redden, and his smile disappears.

  “Hmm… you know, I do need those service-learning hours, Chris. I guess it’s either that or tutoring little kids with lice or something gross like that after school.” I shudder at the thought. “I hate kids.”

  “Oh my gosh, can you imagine picking nits out of your hair?” His smile returns. “Or you could choose to help file library books on the weekend with Mrs. Halitosis Hogan.” He’s laughing now.

  “Okay—you one-upped me,” I concede. “I’ll join you on one condition.”

  “You name it.”

  “You can’t look sexier than me, okay? Look at you in those jeans.” I tease.

  “Can’t promise you that.” He sways his hips. “Am I blushing?”

  “I don’t know, because the glaring white light from your hair is blinding me.”

  “Hey! I won’t make fun of yours if you don’t make fun of mine, Chia Pet.”

  I gasp. “How did you—”

  “You told me a lot during art camp, Beaver-head. You were just too high to remember.”

  “Anything I should worry about?”

  “Rule number four, Bea: what happens with Chris stays with Chris.” He gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Remember to pack a lunch tomorrow.”

  “Will do, BFF.” I slug him back.

  I hook my right leg up and around the lowest branch and I climb. It’s been a while, but I clamber up the stable, strong limbs, shredding my tights even more, until I settle in on one of the large, majestic boughs. It cradles me.

  The tree is a massive sycamore on the front lawn of my house. She’s been a trusty friend over the years. I have climbed her, watched her grow and fill out—her branches splayed in all directions, reaching out for me—even when I wasn’t there for her. And I wasn’t the last couple of years.

  I light up a cigarette and blow the smoke away from the crinkly, triangular-lobed leaves. My thoughts are whirling around and around in my brain—trying to make sense of this drawing thing. I write in my sketchbook:

  I’ve always been able to draw—can draw anything

  I see in front of me, but now… what I draw

  seems like it’s in other people’s heads, and then it’s

  suddenly in my head!

  But Marcus? In that girl Willa’s head? Why?

  I pull the sketch out of my bag. It’s his face—Marcus’s face for sure. A pang hits my belly, hard.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  Am I nuts?

  The first time it happened was at rehab. Everything was a blur—a horrible, nightmarish blur—the sweats, the insomnia, the jitters. I kept busy, tried to distract myself with drawing, always drawing. I found that my hands stopped twitching when I drew and kept me focused, a little more in control. I carried my sketchbook everywhere—I told them it was my bible—and it sort of was. They banned pens and pencils, thinking that we could use them to hurt ourselves (or others). So I hid my pens in my hair, holding it up. It was the first time I ever appreciated the density of my hair. I drew whenever they weren’t looking—especially in my bedroom at night.

  “Bea, stop it! Stop drawing me! I look like shit,” Janine, my roommate at rehab, scolded me one night. “Oh god, I feel like shit.”

  She was shivering, going through alcohol withdrawal. And I was sketching her.

  “You’re a good subject, Janine, you don’t move from your bed.”

  “Move? Are you kidding me? I wanna die, I feel so crappy. Just stop it, you bitch!”

  I didn’t listen to her. I had to draw. I had to draw the faded, floral spread that covered her body; her dirty blond hair tied loosely in a tangled ponytail. I studied the pattern of blemishes on her face, the shape of the Big Dipper, and BAM! It felt like an electrical shock. It zapped, exploded in front of me, filled my brain. A baby, a tiny baby—a fetus—curled up inside Janine. And I drew it—I had no choice but to draw it. It controlled me, owned my right hand.

  The room started to spin.

  Janine lit up a cigarette.

  “I, um, I don’t know if you should smoke, Janine.”

  “What the hell? Mind your own fucking business!”

  “I could be wrong, but I… I think you may be…”

  I passed out.

  It was confirmed the next day with a routine urine test. Janine was eight weeks pregnant. She had a hunch her nausea wasn’t just withdrawal and asked to switch roommates. She never spoke to me after that, but whenever I ran into her, she’d looked at me sideways, her left eye squinting.

  That was the first time. But it kept happening.

  I discovered my next roommate was still using. Her robe—that’s what I saw, what I drew one night when I looked at her. But I didn’t share that information—I wanted to check it out myself. Sure enough, when she was taking her shower the next morning, I found packets of cocaine sewn into the lining of her robe. I would have taken some—hell, yes I would have—if it weren’t for the morning nurse bursting into our room to take my blood pressure.

  That roommate didn’t last long. Not long enough for me to score—not long enough for me to numb myself dumb, to stop the images. She was busted by lunch—didn’t pass her urine test—and was thrown out of the facility.

  I was honestly relieved when my pens were discovered and taken away by the director of the rehab. She did a pop-visit to my room one night. I was just doodling, but she yanked the pen out of my hand, seized my sketchbook, and leafed through it.

  And then she saw it… a sketch of a man’s menacing fist—poised—ready to punch something—someone. Her.

  I had drawn it while studying her one day as she checked in another shaky, weepy addict. She tried to cover the bruises on her face with makeup, but that fist, that powerful, threatening fist set down in a drawing on a page in my sketchbook, exposed her. Exposed her painful secret.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”

  She swallowed—her hand touched her face—and she bore her eyes into me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” her voiced cracked. “But
you are not getting back your pens or this book, young lady!”

  I was banned from drawing anything—even during arts-and-crafts therapy—and was never assigned another roommate. I was pissed but secretly happy for the punishment—relieved to have a break from the images.

  I thought it was all about my withdrawing from the drugs, like a hallucination or something.

  But now it’s back, this strange power. Back with a tsunami force.

  I can draw the truth out of people… literally.

  I gaze down from the tree at my house, my home, the large, old brick Tudor on the edge of the University of Michigan campus. From the outside it looks like a comfortable family home, a home that you’d see on a sitcom—a family sitting around an oval dining room table, tying up a clichéd, episodic mishap in a neat and tidy half hour. But it’s far from that, for sure.

  I look through the smudged windows of my dining room—we don’t have a housekeeper, and the last thing my mom would think of doing is wash a window. No, the interior of my house doesn’t much resemble a sitcom set. The dining room table is covered with a drop cloth instead of a white linen tablecloth, and my mom’s painting paraphernalia takes the place of the baked chicken and mashed potatoes. She specializes in painting murals in people’s homes—something my dad scoffs at (being the art snob that he is)—and practices on the walls of our house. Puppy dogs, balloons, kids’ names I don’t recognize line the walls.

  I can see my mom through the window. Annabelle is her name—or Bella, as my dad likes to call her—and she’s a fiery Italian hothead. She’s sitting—painting, of course.

  My mom and dad met at art school in Chicago—both talented young artists. But my dad eventually gave up drawing and painting for some reason and continued in academics. Then they had me, and my mom put her studies on hold. But Dad barreled through school, got his PhD, was appointed the art chair at the University of Michigan, and moved Mom and me to Ann Arbor. She never got her degree, but she continues to paint daily—puppy dogs and flowers. “It helps me stay sober,” she says.

  Yes, my mom passed that powerful gene on to me.

  Do I dare try it on her? Draw what’s on my mom’s mind?