Sketchy Behavior

by Erynn Mangum

  We were all quiet for a minute. Now they were showing a music video of Usher. I decided that Usher was a fairly decent dancer.

  I couldn’t dance. My father was an engineer, so I had a good excuse. But still. I could never hope to have a future on Dancing with the Stars.

  Not that I would want to wear any of the outfits they had to wear anyway. I have a thing about too many glittery sequins.

  Mom and Dad had been talking in their room since we got home. I hadn’t heard their door open, so I assumed they were still in there. Lolly still had her head planted squarely on my lap, and I was lazily drawing circles on the top of her head.

  “So,” I said.

  “So,” DJ parroted.

  “School tomorrow.” I looked at the detective. “You’re coming too?”

  He nodded and rocked in his chair. “Appears that way.”

  “I’ve got art first,” I told him.

  “Mm,” he said, suddenly very interested in Usher’s music video.

  I looked at DJ, who just smiled at me. He leaned over a little closer. “I’ll bet you ten bucks that he wears his blue polo shirt tomorrow,” he whispered.

  “What’s with the blue polo?” I whispered back.

  DJ opened his mouth to answer but got cut off. “I can hear you both, you do realize,” Detective Masterson said grouchily.

  “Okay. What’s with the blue polo?” I asked him.

  Detective Masterson glared at DJ. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said, icily.

  “He thinks he looks particularly nice in blue,” DJ told me, no longer bothering to whisper.

  I grinned. Especially when the detective blushed.

  Bright red.

  “I,” he sputtered. “I do not think I look better in blue!”

  “Sure you do,” DJ said, easily. “It brings out your eyes, remember? Plus, if you wear navy, it’s got the added bonus of being rather slimming as well, which we both know you need.”

  I was laughing by this point, and the detective picked up a throw pillow from the couch and chucked it at DJ, who ducked behind me. He didn’t end up needing to duck — Detective Masterson had really lousy aim.

  Mom and Dad walked out at that point. “What is going on here?” Mom asked, hands on her hips. “That pillow was a wedding gift. My great-aunt Charlotte crocheted that pillow. Are you prepared to replace it?” she lectured Detective Masterson.

  He shook his head, instantly contrite. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “Good.” She narrowed her eyes at DJ, who immediately stopped snickering.

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. You boys go wash up for dinner. And Kate? I could use your help.”

  I nodded and followed her into the kitchen while Detective Masterson and DJ went to wash their hands.

  “Sheesh, all men are the same, Kate. They never grow up,” Mom said, rinsing her hands in the kitchen sink. “Isn’t that right, Dale?” she asked Dad.

  Dad, who appeared to be in a better mood after having some time to cool off, nodded. “It’s true, Kate. Marry wisely.”

  I wanted to remind my parents that I was sixteen and in no hurry to get married, but they continued on talking.

  “Take Mike for example,” Mom said, pulling a head of lettuce out of the fridge and handing it to me. “Mike is fairly mature for being a male, but he will probably never remember to call his wife when he’s on his way home for dinner.”

  I thought that as long as Mike continued to exist as the Mike we all knew he probably would never get married. Maybe that’s why my parents were already bringing up the M-word with me. They wanted grandkids.

  Mom gave me a cutting board and a knife. “We’re making taco salad. Chop the lettuce into small pieces,” she said.

  The police department had been giving Mom a grocery stipend for having DJ living with us. I imagine they’d increase it now that Detective Masterson was going to be here full-time as well.

  I started chopping.

  Dad sat at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread in front of him, since he didn’t really get a chance to read it earlier today, what with church and all.

  I sighed. It was still the same day that I’d seen Not-So-Silent Justin at South Woodhaven Falls First Baptist Church. It seemed like a long, long time ago.

  “Look at this,” Dad said, pointing to the sports section. Mom was busy browning two pounds of ground beef, and I was holding a sharp blade in my hand, so I was going to assume that he meant “listen to this.”

  And apparently he did mean that, because he started telling us about it. “There’s some freshman kid at the high school who has started playing basketball and the guy is like six foot seven or something already.” Dad shook his head and looked at me, whistling. “Can you imagine?”

  “Yeah. That’s Pete Somebody. He’s only six foot seven?” I’d seen him in the hallways and always felt really bad for him. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but surrounded by a school full of people who were mostly six feet and under. I tried not to stand by him. He made me feel abnormally short.

  “I guess he’s supposed to be really good. This says he scored thirty-one points and made seventeen free throws in the last game against one of Franklin County’s high schools.”

  Sometimes I think Dad forgets that Mom and I were two girls who really didn’t care too much for sports.

  And by didn’t care too much, I mean we were basically clueless. A free throw, to me, was something that you got at Peter Piper’s Pizza in St. Louis at that ski ball game that I loved. Hit ten one-hundred-pointers in a row and you got a free throw. And a huge stack of tickets to redeem for cheap, made-in-China trinkets.

  “Hmm,” Mom said, stirring the meat. “That’s neat, dear.”

  “What are we talking about?” DJ asked, coming into the kitchen and followed by Detective Masterson.

  “Pete Walker, the six-foot-seven freshman at SWF High,” Dad said, pointing out the article to them.

  DJ nodded. “I heard about him. He’s supposed to be really good. Especially at defense.”

  Dad looked so excited to have someone who cared about sports in the kitchen. The three of them started talking basketball and didn’t finish until Mom and I were setting the bowls of chopped lettuce, steaming ground beef, diced tomatoes, onions, grated cheddar cheese, salsa, sour cream, and guacamole in front of them.

  Mom brought over a bag of tortilla chips and we all sat down, pulling in an extra chair for Detective Masterson.

  I looked around the table.

  We’d gone from three people to five in a week. How much were we going to grow by next weekend?

  Chapter Twelve

  MONDAY MORNING AND THE CRISPIX WERE WINNING THE battle of sogginess.

  I was tiredly fishing around for them in the bowl. I’d barely slept at all the night before, and when I did sleep, I kept seeing John X on the side of the street during the parade. He was holding a gun, and he kept laughing as he fired it. Then I’d see the bloodstain on the backseat of the convertible, only instead of Officer DeWeise getting hit, I would look down and see a big, round cannonball hole in my stomach. I would walk into the hospital and they would look at the huge hole in my stomach, just shake their heads, and hand me a pillow to try and shove into the gaping wound.

  I’d wake up in a panic with my pillow clutched to my gut.

  I chased another Crispix around in my bowl and caught it. It had no crunch left.

  Yuck.

  Dad looked over at me. “You understand that you are to go nowhere, I repeat nowhere, without the policemen. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I yawned.

  “And I’d prefer if you didn’t even talk to anyone. Go to school, turn in your homework, do your classes, and come straight home. Straight home.”

  Suddenly, Dad had a fondness for stressed words, I guess. That and repeating things.

  Mom came in, trying to put her earrings in. “Kate Carter, you listen to what your fat
her says, and if you so much as even think something isn’t right, you leave school right away with DJ and Detective Masterson. Agreed?” she asked sternly.

  I nodded. “Agreed.” Lots of italicized words in this house this morning.

  “Good.” She looked at the clock. “I have to run. You be safe at school.” She kissed Dad good-bye and ran out the door, grabbing her briefcase as she went.

  Dad and I left a few minutes later. DJ drove me to school in the black Tahoe. I rode in the backseat. I was going to forget how to drive if this kept up too much longer. I hadn’t been behind the wheel since my drawing of John X had been flashed all over the news.

  Detective Masterson was in the passenger seat and, yes, he was wearing the blue polo.

  “Nice shirt,” I told him as we pulled into the school parking lot. “Brings out your eyes.”

  Detective Masterson just glared darkly at DJ. “Thank you, Kate,” he bit out.

  DJ parked the Tahoe in the parking lot and then they walked with me into the school, one on each side of me. I was starting to feel like a prisoner. All I needed was one of those fashionable orange jumpsuits and an ankle-bracelet tracking device.

  Art was up first and Miss Yeager was busy writing the assignment on the whiteboard when we walked in. She looked over and blushed a pretty shade of pink when she saw Detective Masterson.

  “Oh, uh, hi!” she stumbled around.

  The detective just smiled back at her, but there was a telltale flush to his face as well. I grinned over at DJ and then sat at my empty table.

  DJ was much too punctual for Miss Yeager’s class. No one showed up in here until the bell was on its last chime over the intercom.

  Not-So-Silent Justin came walking in right then and sat next to me at the table. He smiled at me but said nothing. Just pulled his sketchpad from his bag and found the pencils he’d rubber-banded together and sat there quietly at the table.

  Okay, what was this?

  I just looked at him. “Justin?” I said finally.

  He looked back at me.

  “You’re doing it again.”

  He frowned.

  “Not talking? Remember? I thought you were, like, stricken mute until we saw each other yesterday morning at church.”

  He made a noise deep in the back of his throat. “I’m not mute,” he said, so quietly I had to lean forward to hear what he was saying.

  “Then why don’t you talk at school?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t have much to say here.”

  I just looked at him.

  “But that does remind me, are you okay? I heard you had a rough afternoon,” he said. He leaned forward. “Is the other cop okay?”

  I nodded. DJ had talked to Officer DeWeise that morning and everything seemed to be healing as it was supposed to be. The hospital had even told him that if he continued feeling okay, he might be able to check out of the hospital tomorrow and finish recuperating at home.

  “And you’re okay?” Justin said.

  “I’m fine,” I said robotically, sort of like when I went to the doctor’s office for my yearly checkup. Mom always said that I could have rubella and whooping cough, and I’d still croak out that I was fine.

  Sometimes, it was better not to think about what was wrong. If you could forget, then everything would be okay again. So I was trying to forget yesterday.

  DJ found an extra chair and sat down a couple of feet behind me while the detective stood in the back.

  I felt like I was on display.

  The bell rang and kids flooded into the art room. Allison Northing sat down next to me.

  “Oh my gosh, Kate! You were totally shot at!” she screeched.

  I winced from the decibel level she reached. That and the fact that I’d been trying to forget about it.

  “It was just like one of those action movies my brother likes to watch!” Allison continued, oblivious to my pained expression, I guess.

  “I’d rather not talk —” I started, but it was for no good. She kept on.

  “There was a gun, someone got shot for you, you just happened to be reaching into the backseat. I mean … oh my gosh!”

  “Yeah, Allison, we could stop talking about —”

  “I mean, someone was shot yesterday. Right next to you! I mean, the guy was probably aiming for you.” She gasped. “Doesn’t that, like, completely freak you out?”

  I just looked at her, my gut twisting.

  “Hey, I think we’re starting, Allison,” Justin said suddenly.

  That shut her up completely. She stared at Justin, mouth open, eyes wide. He calmly turned and faced the front.

  “All right, class!” Miss Yeager said loudly as everyone pulled out their sketchpads and pencils.

  Allison elbowed me in the ribs. “Dude, did you hear that? Justin just spoke to me!”

  “Allison?” Miss Yeager said, the warning in her voice.

  Allison nodded.

  “All right, I need everyone’s menus from Friday and then we’ll get started on today’s lesson.”

  There was a loud rustling of papers as everyone dug their menus from their backpack. I’d finished mine on Saturday and I was very glad I had. There was no way I would have been able to concentrate on it last night.

  Jailbird’s Café looked like a rather charming place. There were pictures of men in striped black-and-white pajamas, carrying balls-and-chains, and lots of little touches like handcuffs around all the menu titles.

  Miss Yeager gathered our menus and then turned to the whiteboard. She’d drawn a picture of the Froot Loops toucan on there.

  “Anyone recognize this guy?” she asked.

  “Toucan Sam,” we all said dutifully.

  “Very good. And welcome to another fascinating career in the art field, commercial art.”

  She continued to talk about how artists were paid to create characters such as Toucan Sam for different brands.

  Again, I had trouble concentrating. I kept thinking about what Allison had said.

  “The guy was probably aiming for you.”

  Miss Yeager was talking and drawing the Trix rabbit on the board, but I didn’t hear a word of what she was saying.

  Aiming for you.

  The day passed by very slowly. Everyone I passed in the hallway was taking care to walk at least thirty feet away from me. I felt like I’d been diagnosed with scurvy or something. No longer were people yelling out my name in adoration.

  Now they whispered it as I passed.

  “There’s Kate Carter,” I heard one guy hiss to another. “She got shot at yesterday. Put a cop in the hospital.”

  I tried to just stare straight ahead and I tried even harder to not listen, but it was hard when the halls became so quiet I heard the rattling of people’s teeth against their orthodontia whenever I stepped outside the classroom.

  DJ and the detective were never more than a few inches away, but it didn’t make me feel any less alone. Even Maddy wasn’t at school today. She’d texted me this morning saying she’d woken up with white patches on her tonsils, and her mother was making her go to the doctor before she had to get her throat amputated.

  I texted back that she probably just had tonsillitis, and people lived from that every day without the threat of amputation. But Maddy’s mom is something of a hypochondriac, and any time Maddy got even a case of the sniffles, she was immediately marched to the doctor in case it was something serious like the German measles instead of the common cold.

  Sometimes I wondered if being a hypochondriac made you more susceptible to diseases. Everyone I knew who was constantly freaking out about getting sick and rubbing their hands with that sticky goopy stuff was always getting sick. So either the goopy stuff wasn’t working or their immune systems were so over protected that they weren’t even sure what to do with a germ anymore.

  We drove home from school in silence. Detective Masterson kept looking in the rearview mirror at me with a worried look on his face. DJ kept clearing his throat like he was g
oing to say something, and then he’d stop before he did.

  Detective Masterson finally spoke as we turned the corner onto my street.

  “You okay, Kate?”

  “I’m fine.” There it was again.

  “You seem kind of …” He let his voice trail off and shrugged as he parked in my driveway. For once, there weren’t any reporters around.

  I felt a huge wave of relief crash over my shoulders at that fact.

  “I’m fine,” I said again. “I’m just tired.”

  “You definitely didn’t sleep very well,” Detective Masterson said. He turned in his seat and looked at me. “Nightmares?”

  I hated having to leave my door open at night. This was getting embarrassing.

  I shrugged, which was my way of saying, “Yes, but I don’t want to talk about it.” I guess he picked up on the clue, because he unbuckled and hopped out of the car, opening the back door for me.

  “You’ve got lots of homework,” DJ said. “I’d forgotten how much homework high school teachers give.”

  “Keeps kids off the streets,” Detective Masterson said as we walked inside.

  The detective was going to be one of those fathers who tried to give his kids more homework than was needed just so they were doing something productive. I know this because my dad has said many times that if teachers were stricter with homework, we’d have far fewer juvenile delinquents in prison these days.

  I’d felt the need to point out that the definition of juvenile delinquent was someone who just didn’t care regardless, and if they didn’t care when there was less homework, what made Dad think that they would care if there was more?

  Which is when Dad had pulled out a stack of his college math textbooks for me in case I ever got bored.

  I tried very hard to look busy around Dad most of the time.

  I took my books to the kitchen table and tried to focus on my algebra homework. We were learning about how x and imaginary numbers worked together.

  I hated math. Was I ever going to use imaginary numbers in any career I picked? No. There was zero point to me learning this.

  “How’s it going?” DJ asked, walking into the kitchen a minute later.