“I know. I’m so excited to take pictures!” Chris is bonding with my dad… unbelievable. “Bea’s going to pose for me in front of the sculptures for my portfolio.”
“I am?” I ask. “That’s news to me, like everything else is tonight.”
“Great idea.” My dad rubs his big, satisfied hands together. “So, what colleges are you looking at, Chris?”
I roll my eyes, picking onions off my slice. “Dad, give the college thing a rest, will you?”
My father ignores me. “You know, you should check out the photography department at my university. We were just there today, Bea and I. Bea wasn’t interested in looking at it, but it’s a great department.”
“Yeah, it’s a terrific school, but I don’t know if I have the scores.” Chris’s face flushes.
“Oh, I think I may have some pull.” Dad winks. “I would love to see your portfolio. And I could arrange for you to audit a class, if you’d like to, son.” It seems my father is adopting Chris.
“Oh, how nice of you, Richard.” My mom strums her fingers on the table, happy that she can butt in with her story. “You know, I attended art college, Chris… in Chicago.”
“Really?” Chris asks.
I jump up from the table before my mom starts in on her saga. “Well! I think we’d better get started on our homework. Don’t you, Chris? We have the physics test coming up, right?”
“Right.” Chris obeys.
“But we didn’t finish dinner,” my dad says. “Chris is probably still hungry. Aren’t you, Chris?”
“I, uh, I don’t know. Am I, Bea?”
I grab one of the pizza boxes—the one without the onions. “We’ll take it upstairs. Come on, let’s go up to my room.”
Chris stands and bows at my parents for some reason. “Dinner was great. Thank you.”
“Any time, any time, Chris.” My father bows back. “And let me know if you want to audit that class.”
“Oh, I will, thank you.”
I can tell Mom is seething, so I kiss her on the cheek before she makes a typical snide remark. “Thanks, Mom, for going through my phone and inviting Chris. It’s been fun!”
It works, my unexpected gratitude. She sits in stunned silence.
I plop down on my bed and throw a pillow at Chris’s face. “Why the hell did you come tonight? Oh my god, I told you about them… how they would be.”
He sits down next to me. “Hey, dude… it wasn’t that bad—they really aren’t that bad. And to have a shot at U of M? Shit.”
“What’s with your hair, anyway?” I muss it up. “And you were frigging acting straight! Like you were my boyfriend!”
“I know… how’d I do, baby?”
“You’re such a phony! And for chrissake, unbutton that collar. You look like you’re choking!”
He slaps my hand away from his shirt.
I squint. “What are you hiding, Chris?”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Bullshit, I know you.” I wrestle him to the ground and pin his arms back.
“Bea, stop!” He squirms, laughing.
“What are you hiding? Tell me.”
“Fine. Get off me and I’ll show you.”
I do, and he unbuttons his collar, revealing a two-inch hickey on his neck. “Ian McKinley.” He raises his eyebrows twice.
“Get out of here! When did you two hook up?”
“We just… fooled around a little.”
“How big is Ian’s mouth, anyway?”
“Shut up. You’re just jealous.”
“Yeah, right, like I want someone chewing on my neck.”
“Okay, I showed you, now you have to show me.”
“What? I’m not hiding anything.”
“Your closet! I’ve always wanted to experience Bea Washington’s closet!”
I gesture toward my closet door. “Go at it, babe.”
He opens the door and gasps, his hand on his heart. “This is glorious. Look at all these colors and textures… it’s like a fashion treasure trove. Look at these jeans!” He pulls out the hand-painted skinny Levi’s I wore in the Arb with Marcus that day. “When did you do these? They’re amazing!”
“Last year, around the time I did your shoes. I haven’t worn them in while. They’re yours if you want them.”
Chris holds them up in front of my mirror. “Really?”
“Yeah, they’re ripped. There’s a hole in the knee.”
“That never stops you.”
“Whatever.” I shrug.
“Do you think they’d fit me?”
“Don’t know. Try them on.”
Chris unbuckles his pants, dropping them to the floor.
“Nice undies, Chris. Could they be any smaller?”
“Why do you think they call them briefs?”
“Ha. Funny.”
He sits down on my bed, struggles with the jeans, trying to pull them over his calves.
“They’re pretty tight but stretchy. Here, let me help.” I kneel on the ground.
My mom pops her head into my room. “Gelato for dessert.”
Chris stands and turns to look at her. The jeans are halfway up his legs—my head is level with his briefly covered crotch—and his hickey is full front and center, staring at her. She calls out, “Richard!”
Chris tries to hop away, falls to the floor. He pulls the bedspread off my bed and covers himself.
My dad comes in. “What’s going on in here?”
I laugh my ass off. “I’m not giving him a blow job, Mom! He’s gay!” I wipe my tearing eyes. “Tell them, tell them, Chris.”
“She’s not giving me a blow job, Mrs. Washington,” he says, muffled under my quilt. “I’m gay.”
Serves her right for messing with my phone.
3 months
15 days
9 hours
A yellow school bus drives us down the wacky blocks of the Heidelberg Project in Detroit: orange, green, yellow, purple painted houses; sculptures made of auto parts in well-groomed, empty lots. Two blocks of inspired outsider art surrounded by the poverty-stricken streets of East Side Detroit.
“This is frigging awesome, Chris!” I stare out the bus window.
It’s a beautiful, sunny day in downtown Detroit, unusually warm for October, so warm that I’m getting away with just a jean jacket over a tie-dyed maxidress and cowboy boots.
We step off the bus and walk over to an orange polka-dotted house covered in stuffed animals. “This is called the Animal House.” Chris laughs as he reads the plaque. “Good name for it, ya think?”
“What a riot! It’s completely covered with stuffed animals—hilarious, even the roof!”
“Hah! Look at that.” He points at a sculpture constructed of old abandoned doors in the middle of a field. Chris takes a picture of it with a vintage Polaroid camera.
“This is crazy wild.” I look around, taking it all in.
“Hey, pose in front of that dollhouse for me.” Dozens of doll body parts—legs, arms, and heads—are tacked to a plastic, discarded kid’s playhouse.
Chris takes pictures of me as I swirl around the house.
Click, whir. Click, whir. The film spits out of the camera.
“Why are you using Polaroid today, Chris? What happened to your digital?”
“It’s fun, a different look for my portfolio, and I had some old film that was expiring.”
I look out the window of the house. Barbie-doll limbs frame my face. Chris shoots.
“A Polaroid camera is also a good way to be discreet—you know, if you don’t want a record of what you’re shooting,” Chris adds with a wink.
“And what sort of pictures do you like to keep discreet? Hmm? Pictures of Ian, I suppose?”
“Hey, I’m not a perv. Now stick your leg out the window—just your leg—and lift your dress. I only want skin and the boots.”
“And you say you aren’t a perv!” I laugh.
Click, whir. Click, whir.
That noise
…
I walk out of the dollhouse and sit with Chris on the grass. We watch the milky images come into focus. “That noise, Chris, that the camera makes—it reminds me of something.” I pick up his camera and shoot at nothing.
Click, whir.
“Stop it—stop that, Bea. That film is expensive.”
“Sorry!” I hand the camera back to him.
“Hey, let’s go check out that buried car in the field.” He takes off, running through a sculpted, ficus-hedged maze. “First one there gets the aisle seat on the bus!”
Chris chooses the backseat for the hour-long drive back to school. He goes through the photos. “These are so good, Bea—great for my portfolio.” He flips through the shots of me—my leg, my foot, my pointing hand, my hair flying as I race across a field.
“Jesus. I thought you were taking pictures of me, not just pieces of me.”
“Here, this one’s for you. Bea in toto.” He hands over a picture of me sitting in front of the dollhouse, deep in thought.
“I’m putting together an awesome portfolio, thanks to you, and am so excited about tonight.”
“What’s tonight?”
“Your dad didn’t tell you? He set me up this evening in the photography class. I’m auditing it.”
“No. He didn’t.” I guess he’s honoring my “don’t-talk-to-me-about-college” request. “Cool, even though you won’t be marrying his baby girl. Very PC of him.”
“He knows I won’t be marrying his baby girl. There’s no obligation… it’s just an audit.” Chris laughs.
The bus turns into the school parking lot. “Holy shit. What’s going on?”
Cop cars line the perimeter of the school. An ambulance sits at the top of the football field.
The bus stops, and a female officer hops on. “We need you off the bus, now. Single file. Follow the bus driver. Once you are in the school, you will go straight to your homerooms.”
“What happened?” I call out to the cop.
“Lockdown. Your school is in lockdown. There’s been an incident. Now, please. Single file.”
“Damn,” I whisper to Chris. “You think he got another girl?”
“I hope not. This sure is creepy.”
We file out of the bus. The cop gestures for us to keep moving. Another armed policeman stands at the doors of the school, waving us in.
I’m behind Chris, the last one off, and whisper in his ear, “Whatever I do, don’t ask any questions. Just go along with it, into the school. Don’t look back, okay?”
“What?” He starts to turn around.
“Shh… just look ahead.”
Chris sighs. “Shit, Bea. Don’t, don’t do it… whatever it is that you’re thinking about.”
“Look!” I yell out, pointing to the far end of the parking lot, opposite the football field. “I saw something! Someone running… over there!”
“Where?” the female cop asks.
“He crossed the street! I saw someone running,” I say, my hand on my heart, breathing hard.
The cop guarding the door shouts out, “Okay, everybody, into the school, now!” We rush through the door, and the officer runs toward the road.
I hook my purse over my left shoulder, crossing it around the right side of my body, and bolt out the door, turning the corner around the side of the school, toward the football field. I catch my breath, assessing the situation. The entrance to the tunnel that leads to the concession stand is about fifteen feet in front of me. I peek around the corner—the police are still checking out the “guy” and are now on their phones, calling for backup, I’m sure. I run as fast as I can, not easy with the cowboy boots, and slip into the dark tunnel.
My breath echoes off the concrete walls. I can’t see a thing to the right of me—the door to the concession stand is closed. I sidle my way down the ramp blindly—don’t want to use the light of my phone this time—and hope to god I don’t trip or meet up with a rat.
Reaching the end of the tunnel, I feel for the door and turn the knob. It squeaks. I freeze. I wait but hear nothing, so I turn it again and push the door open—daylight rushes in at me. I fall to my knees and crawl across the floor, tearing the hem of my maxidress on my pointy boots. I part the gingham curtain, crouch underneath the counter, pull the curtain closed, and lean up against the safe, slowing my breath.
Stay calm, Bea. Stay calm.
I close my eyes, inhale through my nose, and exhale through my mouth, counting to four.
Something furry runs across my right hand. A fucking rat! Ewww!
The long tail slips away under the curtain, the rat probably as freaked out as I am. I’m totally grossed out, searching for hand sanitizer in my purse, when my phone rings—now set to Bowie’s song “Changes.” Shit! I shut it off just as he starts singing the fourth stuttering ch.
It’s my mom—of course she’d be the one to blow my cover. I turn it to vibrate and freeze, waiting for the curtain to be yanked open.
But it doesn’t happen. I hear a jumble of voices on the field—concerned, serious voices, and I crawl out from underneath the counter, peek around the corner, and see a cluster of cops, including Daniels, looking down at something on the fifty-yard line.
An officer holding a notepad talks to the sergeant. “A Beth Meyers. Sixteen. From Dearborn. Parents report she went shopping at the mall last night. Never came home.”
Oh no. A sixteen-year-old.
“Wonder why she was dumped here?” the officer asks.
“He’s playing a mind game with Willa Pressman,” Sergeant Daniels answers. “The sick bastard. Okay, make some room. CSI’s coming in.”
A couple of men walk toward the crime scene, both carrying camera equipment. The officers back away from the body, and I see her.
She is covered from her neck down to her feet with a dark blanket. Her hair is wrapped in something—looks like duct tape—flattening it. Her head is the only part of her that’s exposed, turned, facing me. Her eyes are frozen, wide open like two solid marbles set into her skull—a blank stare out at nothing. Or something—the last thing she saw, maybe.
I clench my fists and scream a silent scream. God dammit! I could have stopped this! I know I could have!
And I hear it again. That noise.
Click, whir.
Click, whir.
Click, whir.
I peer out again around the counter and see an investigator taking photographs of her face, along with a videographer. The photographer’s using a Polaroid camera and focusing, closing in on her face.
Click, whir.
That’s it! That noise… the noise Willa heard before she was raped… it was a Polaroid camera! He was taking pictures of her!
I pull the photo out of my purse—the Polaroid that Chris took of me framed with plastic legs, feet, hands, breasts, and heads in front of the dollhouse.
Thoughts fly around and around in my head like rabid bats, and I sink back under the counter, open my sketchbook, and write:
Veronica at the Arb:
Torso
Willa:
Legs
This girl, Beth:
Head, her face
Legs, a torso, a head… and a camera!
Body parts. I shudder. He’s taking pictures of their body parts! Like a sick photographic collage.
I peer at the scene again. The photographer has his back to me—wearing a baseball cap, dark hair hangs out from underneath.
No one would ever suspect him. He works for the cops… oh my god… that creepy police officer at homecoming, lighting my cigarette.
My teeth begin to chatter, and it’s not just because of the dipping temperature. My legs cramp up. I stand. I don’t care if they see me anymore. I watch the photographer walk away from the girl and lean on the hood of a police car as the ambulance rolls down the hill.
The girl’s body—Beth—is placed on a stretcher and carried into the ambulance. It pulls away, around the track, and out the gate on the far side of the field. Silent—
the siren not needed.
The cops disperse, walking toward their cars. I keep my eye on the forensic photographer. He climbs the bleachers, lugging his equipment. I run out of the concession stand and scramble up the ramp, fast.
The school doors open as I reach the top of the tunnel. Silent, shocked students walk out—their eyes pointing down toward the field. School busses idle. I fall into step with my fellow peers, and no one pays attention to me, the shivering girl with the hanging hem. And if they did, they’d probably assume it was a style choice.
I look around the parking lot and spot him. He’s behind a gray van, placing his equipment in the back. I run to my car, start the engine, and wait for him to pull up in front of me. And I follow—follow him out of the lot and onto the road.
My phone vibrates. It’s my mom again. “Hi, Mom.” I talk on speakerphone.
“Oh, Bea, are you okay? I’ve been listening to the news all day… said your school was in lockdown, wouldn’t allow phone calls…”
Thank goodness I didn’t answer her call.
“Right, Mom, it’s been horrible.”
“They found another body, a girl?”
Her dead eyes flash in my mind. “Yes, that’s what I heard.”
“Bea, come home now! I need you home.”
“You know, Mom, I’m pretty flipped out. I feel like I need to drop in on a meeting. I think there’s one at four at St. Anne’s.”
“Bea…”
“Mom, it’s okay. I need to go. I won’t be long, I promise.”
The van pulls into the left lane. I hang up on my mom and follow him.
He turns left. I turn left. He drives a mile down the road and pulls into a parking lot. Ann Ar-Bar, the neon sign blinks. I stop on side of the road and watch him, his head hanging low, walking into the bar.
I cross the street and follow him in. It’s dark and smoky, a stark contrast to the sunny afternoon outside. But it’s always nighttime in a bar—always time to drink, darkness lessening the guilt. I fall into a booth near the entrance and watch him sit on a stool at the bar, take off his coat, order a drink, and slug it back, fast.
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