Chris’s backpack is in the way of Jersey #9, a hulking fullback, and before Chris can move it, the jerk kicks, slamming the pack into Chris’s leg. “Get your fucking bag outta the way, you limp-wrist homo!”
“What the…?” I jump up, ready to chase after the asshole, ready to take the stairs three at a time and punch his lights out, when Chris holds me back.
“Rule number five, Bea: don’t try to take a football player down.”
“Did you hear what he called you?”
“Leave it alone. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a name.” Chris takes an apple out of his lunch bag and starts munching away like it’s no big deal.
“I can’t believe that doesn’t bother you! You shouldn’t let people get away with it.”
“Stick and stones may break your bones, but names will never hurt you,” Chris singsongs.
“Are you kidding me?”
He laughs. “It’s okay, Bea, don’t stress.”
“It’s not okay! Name-calling is worse than a broken bone—it can’t be set in a cast and healed in six weeks. I would know. It hurts!”
“Jesus”—he laughs at my fury—“you’d think you were the one called a homo.”
“Yeah, well, you’re my friend. And I guess I’m a little sensitive about bullying,” I growl. “Give me your apple.”
“What for?”
“Just give it to me.” I snatch the apple from his hands, aim, and throw it at Jersey #9. The fruit splatters on the back of his clean white jersey.
Chris jumps up, slings his backpack over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have done that. He’s going to think I did it. I’m getting out of here.” He starts running up the bleachers.
I follow him. “Oh, come on… he didn’t even feel it. It bounced right off of his steroidal shoulders.”
“Girls and boys!” a voice blasts through the loudspeakers.
“Holy crap!” I startle. “Who was that?”
Chris turns, looks to the stadium speakers. “That would be the great Oz, our principal Mr. Nathanson.”
“Please come to the auditorium immediately!”
“Do you think he saw me throw the apple? Am I in trouble?”
Chris laughs and puts an arm around me. “No, he’s not Big Brother. I’m sure he’s just calling an impromptu pep rally.”
“Oh goodie—a pep rally!” I roll my eyes. “Ra, ra, sis boom bah!”
The whole student body, all couple thousand of us, is corralled into a squeaky-clean, state-of-the art, gigantic gymnasium. I look up, marveling, taking in the dozens and dozens of giant felt banners hanging high above us on the towering walls, boasting of championships in soccer, baseball, basketball, hockey—every sport imaginable. I nudge Chris. “I guess there are no budget cuts happening in the sports program, huh?”
Chris finds us seats on the edge of one of the lacquered maple risers.
The sweaty football players are the last to enter and are slouching by the locker room doors, adjusting their cups and shoulder pads.
At their appearance, a couple of cheerleaders run into the middle of the floor and begin to flip over each other like golden retriever puppies. They start an impromptu cheer. “PACK HIGH, PACK HIGH, PACK HIGH!!!”
“Excuse me, ladies!” a voice booms over the loudspeaker. This time, I see where it comes from—a portly, balding man in glasses, standing at a microphone underneath one of the basketball hoops.
“I take it that’s the great Oz?” I ask Chris.
He nods.
“Please, please, girls, please take your seats. This is not a pep rally. I didn’t call you in for that.”
The stands roar with laughter—especially the football players—and I almost feel sorry for the two girls as they leave the floor with their tails between their legs.
“Thank you, girls and boys, for joining me. I called you here to tell you some rather disturbing news. A girl has gone missing. She is, um, from a neighboring high school. That’s all we know.”
A collective inhale—two thousand and something audible gasps suck the air out of the gym.
“Holy shit,” Chris and I say together.
“Calm down, calm down. We don’t know yet if foul play is involved,” the principal continues.
The buzzing starts, the audible whispers. “Where’s Willa?” “Who was she?” “Where did it happen?”
“Don’t worry about Miss Pressman, we already sent her home,” the principal says. “But we have no idea if this has anything to do with, well, what happened to her. So, on a happier note, after great deliberation, we have decided to go ahead with the homecoming game Friday night.”
Big cheer. The cheerleaders, apparently over their shame, perform cartwheels across the squeaky floor.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask Chris. “Why would they go ahead with a stupid football game? A girl is missing. A rapist is loose. This is crazy!”
The principal continues. “We feel you all deserve a night of levity, with everything that’s happened. The police will have a heavy presence, but please, please be extra cautious. Stay close to one another. Stick with a buddy.”
Chris puts his arm around me and squeezes. “Will you be my buddy? I won’t lie—I’m spooked.”
“Of course.” I pat his hand.
“And, boys and girls, if you need to talk, you all know that we have a school counselor on hand.” The principal gestures toward Mrs. Hogan, the art teacher/librarian/nurse/counselor with the bad breath. She waves.
Groans from the stands.
“Okay, okay, now, I believe the bell will ring in—”
And it does, drowning out Principal Nathanson’s parting words.
Chris looks at me. “I wonder who she is, the poor girl.”
I rifle through a rack of vintage coats at the thrift shop and take a big sniff. “Chris, don’t you love the smell? Every piece of clothing here has a history, a story.”
Chris holds up a pair of whacked-out bell-bottoms. Erect penises are embroidered on the back pockets. “I wonder what his story was.” He laughs.
I raise an eyebrow. “I bet you would.”
Chris throws the pants at me. “Bitch.”
“Ewww! I don’t want them to touch me!” I hurl them back at him. “Oh, wow, look at this.” I pull a paisley velvet coat off a hanger. Great colors: gold and greens. Size six. “This is awesome.” I try it on and swirl around in front of a mirror. “It fits perfectly, doesn’t it, Chris? It’s missing a couple buttons, but it’s only twenty-five bucks.”
Suddenly the store is rocked with blaring, screaming sirens. Chris and I run to the front window and see police cars, a couple of fire trucks, and an ambulance race by.
Leila, the owner of the shop, joins us. “Wow. I wonder what happened?”
“It’s probably about that girl. The girl who’s missing.” Chris chews his fingernails.
“What girl?” Leila asks.
“Someone from around here,” I say. “I bet she just ran away or something—got pissed at her parents. Believe me, I’ve thought about running away—more than once, for sure.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t, Bea. I’m very happy for your business.” Leila smiles.
“Hey, Bea? Let’s get out of here. I want to go home.”
“You wuss.”
“I am not.”
“Okay, fine. I have to hit a meeting anyway.” I place the paisley coat on the counter. “I’ll buy this, Leila. Chris? Did you pick out something?”
“Well, it’s between the penis pants and the pimp hat I found in the back. What do you think?” He holds up the pants and a wide-brimmed zebra print fedora.
I laugh at my new best—and only—friend. “Okay, when it comes to shopping, I’m setting some rules. Rule number one: never buy anything that has a penis embroidered on it. Rule number two: never, ever put a hat on your head that you haven’t cleaned first. Rule number three—well, this is a question, not a rule—do you like being bullied, girlfriend?”
3 months
>
5 days
19 hours
Big date with Chris tonight!
Homecoming… working a concession stand.
Who woulda thunk?
After sewing buttons on my new coat and spending an hour scrounging around in my closet, changing from one outfit to another, I decide on crushed velvet, skintight pants topped with a black cashmere sweater. I’m allergic to wool, but I figure it’s going to be a little nippy, and the coat isn’t that warm. I finish off my look with my over-the-knee, black, stiletto-heeled “don’t fuck with me” boots—for Chris’s sake, since I’m his designated buddy tonight.
“Supper!” my mom calls up the stairs.
Oh shit… family dinner night!
Dinner together was never a priority with my family. We all fended for ourselves, and it was just fine that way, if you ask me. This “dinner” thing is something new that my parents insist on ever since… well, ever since that night.
I tromp down the stairs to the kitchen in protest. But they are, as usual, in the middle of an argument and don’t even notice. Mom is standing at the stove, sautéing something in a pan. Cooking is not her talent, but whatever’s in the pan has plenty of garlic in it.
“What do you mean you can’t grab some spray paint from the supply room? You’re the chair, Richard!”
“It isn’t right, Bella. It’s like stealing.”
“Oh, give me a break. There has to be some perk to your job. It certainly isn’t your salary.”
I’ve heard this argument for years. It doesn’t faze me much. Mom is trying to score free art supplies, and she usually succeeds, but Dad has to go through the motions of arguing about it—makes him feel better.
I clear my throat, announcing that I’m dutifully here, ready to eat, bond, hold hands, and sing “Kumbaya,” which will undoubtedly cure me of all my demons.
My mom checks me out, looking me up and down. Here comes the criticism. I can smell it; it’s as strong as the garlic she’s cooking. She can’t help herself.
“You’re wearing that?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong with what she’s wearing? It doesn’t look used, like most of her clothes. No holes. It’s fine with me,” Dad says.
“She happens to be allergic to wool, and that sweater is cashmere.”
I sigh as they talk about me as if I’m not in the room with them.
“Well, she’d better not come to me when she breaks out in hives. And those boots—the heels are rather high. She’s going to trip in the bleachers and fall flat on her face.”
“She told me she’s working in the concession stand,” Dad says. “She looks fine, Bella, leave her alone. Choose your battles.”
I hang my coat on the back of my chair and sit.
“Where did you get that coat?”
“It was only twenty-five dollars at the thrift store, Mom.”
Mom looks at Dad.
“Take it out of my allowance. I don’t care.”
Dad sits back in his chair. “Your mother and I think you should look for a job—earn your spending money.”
“A job? Are you kidding me? With all the studying I have to do to catch up?”
“You’re a bright girl, Bea. I don’t think you’ll have a hard time catching up—especially at that school.” Dad sighs.
“You know, I’m painting a mural at a preschool—”
“Don’t you dare go there. No way!” I say.
“It’s close, part-time—a couple of hours after school watching the kids.”
“Mom, I hate kids!”
“But you love clothes, don’t you?” she counters.
Damn. She trumped me.
“They’re expecting you Monday afternoon. You should wear something… practical.”
Ping. My cell phone buzzes in my bag—a text from Chris.
“No texting at the table, Bea, you know the rules.” Dad wipes his mouth with his napkin.
What a charade. There are no rules—never have been during dinner. “It’s Chris, Dad.”
“Chris, your date?”
“Yeah.” I laugh to myself. “My date.”
My mom arches a brow. “And you’ll be with him all evening?”
“Of course.”
“It’s great that you made a friend already,” Dad says.
“It’d be nice to meet him. Have him over for one of our dinners,” Mom suggests.
Oh god, please, no! “Chris is like super busy, Mom. He’s in a lot of clubs at school.”
“How nice for him. Maybe you could join one?” Mom asks.
“But I wouldn’t be able to… you know, if I have to work after school.” Touché.
She blinks, changes the subject. “You’ll be coming home right after the game?”
“I may hit a meeting, but I’ll let you know.”
My parents look at each other. One thing they can agree on: worrying about me.
“Call us every hour and let us know where you are,” Dad says.
“And we’ll have you pee in the cup tonight,” Mom adds.
I glare at my parents. “Are you serious? When is that going to end? Huh? When are you going to trust me again? Jesus.”
“There’s a crazy person out there, Bea,” my dad says, raising his voice. “A girl was raped at your school, and another one is missing.” He takes a deep breath. “We just want to make sure you’re safe.”
“You don’t trust me, admit it.”
But then again, why should they?
That night—last July Fourth, Dad drove me to my best friend Agatha’s house because my car was in the shop. I’d backed into our mailbox the week before. (Yes, I was high.)
With a peck on the cheek, I told my dad two lies in one sentence. “We’re going to watch the fireworks in the park, and yes, her parents are home, Dad.”
“You sure?” He placed his hand on top of mine.
“Daaad! Yes, I’m sure. Stop worrying so much! You and Mom are like the strictest parents. None of my friends get the third degree and have to check in as much as I do. Chill.”
He talked through tented fingers at his lips. “I respect your feelings, and I will take them under consideration. What concerns me—and I’ll be honest with you—your mother thought you were acting funny the other day when you backed your car into the mailbox. You aren’t experimenting with illegal substances… drugs, are you?”
I busted out with a well-rehearsed laugh. “Oh, give me a break. Drugs? I’m not stupid. And Mom? She thinks everyone acts funny—it’s the Italian paranoid blood in her. She reads into things all the time, you know that.”
“That she does.” He smiled to himself. Successful deflection on my part. “Okay, well, I’m glad we had this little talk. Be safe—and stay in touch. Keep your phone on. I love you.”
“Mwaa!” I air-kissed my father, walked through the wrought-iron gates and up the slick stoned driveway to Aggie’s parentless house.
The Rands are two hotshot lawyers, and they’re never home. That night they were at a wedding in Grosse Pointe—a weekend excursion—and, as always, left their housekeeper, Maria, to look after Agatha.
I liked Maria. I don’t know… she and I had a connection. Maybe it was the yummy guacamole she made for me. Maybe it was her hotheadedness—growing up with Italian expletives, I understood her Spanish barbs and interjections, usually directed at Agatha’s behavior. “Que dios te bendiga, Agatha!”
This was our plan: after Maria went to bed, we would slip out the window, hop into Marcus’s car, and go to a rave at a Detroit club that Aggie had RSVP’d to online the week before.
Maria answered the door and gave me a hug, and I ran up the stairs to Aggie’s bedroom.
“Hey,” Agatha said, snorting a line of coke.
“Hey.” I unzipped my long, baggy U of M sweatshirt, revealing a striped yellow and black halter top over a micro-miniskirt. I took a pair of platform sandals out of my backpack and strapped them on. “Do I look bitchin’, or what
?” I twirled in front of her full-length mirror.
Aggie looked at me wild-eyed and started to laugh, falling on her bed. “You look like a stupid bee in that top! A frigging bumble bee!”
It was obvious that she was already totally tweaked, and I suddenly had second thoughts about my outfit—and the night. “You know, I was thinking. Maybe we should stay local. I’ve heard crazy, scary stories about these raves. You sure we should go?”
Aggie stopped laughing and shot me a hard, cold look. “Chill, Bea. Sometimes you’re such a downer.”
Nine o’clock arrived. Maria was in her bedroom with the door closed, watching reruns of old soap operas.
Ping.
We slipped out of Aggie’s window and down the ivy-covered trellis on the back side of her house—no problem, even with the platform sandals, as we had accomplished the trek many times. We giggled down the street, high-fiving about our deception, and hopped into Marcus’s silver Prius. He had a lit joint waiting for us (and a tongue-filled kiss for me), and we took off into the night.
The club was packed, hopping with frenetic, shit-faced energy. Trance DJs flooded the club with pulsating electronic dance music. Our sweaty bodies, waving glow sticks, moved in sync with the mind-blowing, deafening, throbbing beat under the flashing strobe lights.
I moved in slow motion, it seemed, with my eyes closed—around and around in circles—and lost track of my friends. The room started to spin, and I got nauseated. I looked for Aggie. I looked for Marcus. I called out their names, but with the music blasting, I couldn’t even hear my own voice.
And then I saw them, Marcus and Aggie, through my swollen, squinty eyes. They were leaning on a railing across the room, touching each other. He played with her hair, twisted it around and around in his fingers. They started to laugh, and I thought they were pointing at me—at my clothes—looking like a bee. I saw them walking off together, holding hands.
Some guy asked me if I was okay and handed me a drink. I thanked him and stumbled to the john. “Aggie. You there?” I slurred. I looked for them behind the club. I think I tried to text them, but my fingers felt like fat toes.
Sketchy Page 4