Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles)

by Olivia Samms

  “No. I happened to be driving by. I thought he was . . .”

  “I know what you thought. You thought Wen, who happens to be black, was mugging me. Jesus Christ. You were profiling.”

  “I was not profiling.”

  “Bea, I don’t think that’s what it was,” Wendell interjects. “He was just doing his job.”

  “No, he was profiling.” I turn to the sergeant. “What if he were white, huh? Would you have jumped him then?”

  “Bea . . . it’s okay, really.”

  I shush Wendell with my hand. “It’s not okay. Stay out of my life, Dan!”

  “Hey. You’ve gotten yourself in some dangerous situations. How was I supposed to know you were out on a date? You’ve never mentioned you were dating anyone.”

  “What? Are you kidding me? Why would I do that? Are you going to have a problem with every guy I go out with? Beat them up? Throw them out of town?”

  “Every guy?” Wendell asks.

  “Marcus was a loser. You know that,” Daniels says.

  “Marcus? You’re seeing other people?” Wendell takes a step back.

  “No, Wen. I’m not seeing anyone else. I just meant that I don’t need his protection.”

  Daniels walks into the street, bends, picking up my purse.

  I march over to him. “Give me that! I am not a damsel in distress, and I don’t need your help.” I snatch it out of his hands.

  “I know that, Bea, but I think you think you’re tougher than you really are.”

  “Bull. I am tough.”

  “Not as tough as those gang kids, not even close.”

  “Oh, Christ. You have been following me.”

  “Cole saw you. At the track. Said he saw the tagger punk that I brought in the other day at the station.”

  “God, he’s such a tattletale.”

  “You’re pretending to be a boy with that team? Are you nuts?”

  “I didn’t pretend anything. The coach assumed it.”

  “How did you know about that gang, anyway?”

  “Gang? Pretending to be a boy? Bea, what is he talking about?” Wendell’s looking royally confused.

  “Nothing. He’s confusing me with someone else.”

  Daniels blows through his lips, lowers his voice. “What are you not saying? You know something—how else would you have found them?”

  I break eye contact.

  “Stay away from them, Bea—you hear me? It’s not safe. Leave the case to me.”

  “And why would I do that? What are you doing about it, huh?”

  “We’re narrowing in on a suspect.”

  “Well, narrowing isn’t fast enough. Someone shot that Junior kid in the head. Who’s going to be next?”

  “Hopefully not you!” he yells. “Dammit! You shouldn’t be hanging out with gangs.”

  “I’m not. . . . It’s a friggin’ track team. They give food to the homeless for chrissakes. And Wendell, look at him, he’s not in a gang. . . . Jesus!” I stamp my boot.

  “I know, I know . . . I said I was sorry.” Daniels turns. “You’re okay, right?”

  We search for Wendell.

  “Wen? Wendell, where d’you go?”

  He’s halfway down the street, shoulders slumped. Doesn’t even bother to face us. Keeps heading toward his car. “I’m going home, Bea,” he calls out. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

  “Wendell, no. Please, stay.”

  He waves his hand, shooing us away. “You two apparently have some unfinished business to work out, and I don’t want to be in the middle. Thanks for tonight. Oh, and by the way. . . .” He stops, faces me. “You answered my questions. Have a good birthday.”

  Beep, beep, beep. The car chirps as he unlocks it with his remote, hops in, starts the engine, and rolls off into the darkness.

  “Dammit! Now look what you did.” I kick an old bottle top into the gutter. “Can’t you just mind your own business?”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “I could’ve grown to like him . . . I think . . . maybe.”

  “Well, why would this stop you—the two of you? Go after him, Bea. Go on.”

  “Ughhh . . . ,” I growl. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “What? What don’t I get?”

  “Wendell just said it. The unfinished business, you fool.” I twirl, stomping in the middle of the street like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum. “Shit, shit, shit. You!”

  “You mean an old fart like me could actually compete with a stud like that?”

  “No. You can’t,” I say unconvincingly.

  And then, like two opposite-pole magnets, we are pulled together in the middle of the street—have no control, can’t resist, and don’t want to. We take baby steps toward each other—inches apart and then . . . stop.

  Our hands are at our sides, frozen. And yet his green eyes dissolve into my hazel ones. The colors pool around, and I’m suddenly filled with all the answers. Flooded. The only answer I know—the only constant in my life is him, Sergeant Dan Daniels. There are no questions. None.

  And in my head—without a pen in hand, a sheet of paper, we are there—in each other’s arms. I can feel him kiss my neck. My arm reaches up, and I touch the downy fluff at his nape, smell the smell that was meant for me, only for me, that takes me to where I belong, where I need to go. Grounds me. No questions. My hand runs through his blond hair, and he cradles me against his chest. I hear the heart I am supposed to be hearing—the steady beat—in sync with mine. And he lifts my chin, and our lips touch, ever so softly. I let myself fall into the deliciousness of his taste, like nothing I’ve ever tasted before, and it is right. So right, so safe. All my senses are engaged, alive . . . and imagined.

  “Everything okay, Sarge?” A fellow cop in a passing car calls out the window.

  Sergeant Daniels takes a step back from me. Addresses his colleague. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Why?”

  “Just that you were in the middle of the street, frozen-like. She okay?” He points at me.

  “Yeah.” He nods. “She’s okay. We’re okay.”

  “See you at the station.” He drives off.

  Daniels reaches into his car. Hands me my Moleskine. “Here. You dropped this. Thought you may be missing it.”

  “Thanks.”

  He places his hand lightly on my back. “Let me walk you to your car.”

  We’re quiet for a few steps.

  “I’m twenty-eight,” he says.

  “Big whoop. I’m almost eighteen.”

  “And I’m a cop.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the weird part for me. You being a cop—not how old you are.” We get to my car. A ticket’s stuffed under the windshield wiper. “Oh, man. For real?”

  He grabs it, shoves it in his back pocket. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Guess that’s one good thing about knowing you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you.”

  We stand there awkwardly.

  “What are you doing for your birthday?” he finally asks.

  “Not much. Dinner with my folks.”

  “After that?”

  “I don’t know. Will you be following me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So, I’ll see you then, right?”

  “Yeah.” He smiles, leans down, and then whispers in my ear. “But don’t dress like a boy, okay?”

  I melt.

  3 days

  45 minutes

  I tiptoe into my dark house, tiptoe into the unknown, and pray I don’t wake the parents. I don’t want to see Mom. I’m afraid to see her. She has to be over-the-top pissed because . . .

  A. Mr. Michael Connelly, moustache guy, told her everything I said to him, and she lost her job.

  B. She shared with Dad, in which case he’s probably over-the-top pissed, too.

  C. She confessed to Dad about her affair, in which case he’s heartbroken, and how the fuck am I going to deal with that?

  D. All of t
he above.

  I’ve always hated multiple choice. I’m screwed no matter what the answer is.

  Their bedroom door opens. “I’ll talk to her,” I hear Dad say. The landing at the top of the stairs creaks, the door squeaks closed, and then his heavy, measured footsteps make their way downstairs.

  I decide to tough it out on the couch in the living room—an odd name for the room, because no one is ever in here, no one lives in it, not even close. It’s like a distant cousin once removed or something—a part of our house, but not really.

  Dad enters the dark room and switches on a table lamp—the base a glazed clay sculpture of my mom’s—the figure of a nude woman, beautiful, like a Matisse, I’ve always thought. She told me she made it in college freshman year and that my dad wired and converted it into a lamp as a surprise birthday present a year later. She hated that he did that. Thought he ruined it, and, yeah, I think he did, too. So it’s in a room that nobody’s ever in. All alone. I’m surprised it hasn’t accidently-on-purpose been knocked over and broken with the infrequent dustings.

  My dad sits on the couch next to me. Says nothing.

  “Is Mom okay?” I stupidly ask.

  “What do you think?”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “She lost her job, Bea. So, no, she’s not okay.”

  Oh, crap, the answer is A. But then again, why am I surprised? Did she lose her lover, too?

  His large, dark hands touch his mouth as if he’s praying. He speaks through tented fingers. “Why did you do it, Bea? What made you say those things?”

  Circle B, too.

  “You hurt that little girl’s feelings, Bea.”

  “What? I what?”

  “Not everyone is used to your sarcastic humor and a personality as strong as yours. She’s only ten.”

  “That’s why Mom was fired? But I barely spoke to the girl, Dad.” I certainly didn’t say as much as I wanted to. I sink back into the couch cushion. Oh my god; he’s clueless. He has no idea. Answer C is out of the running. Mom didn’t fess up.

  “I’m sure there will be other jobs, but this was a big one.” He fingers the tweed piping of the couch. “You owe a huge apology to your mother, you know that, right? And now she’s not sure that having you as her assistant this summer is going to work out. Is that why you did it, Bea? I know you don’t want to work with her. Did you sabotage this on purpose?”

  I wish it were that simple. “No, of course not.”

  “She’s taking a hot bath now, calming down, and is thinking of driving to Chicago tomorrow, to visit her parents.”

  I sit forward. “Gramma and Grandpa?” I think I’ve only met them once, maybe twice. I don’t even remember what they look like, I was so little. But I get a card from them every Christmas and every birthday—signed with love, Gramma and Grandpa—as if everything were normal. “Mom hasn’t spoken to them in years. Why now, Dad?”

  “I think it’s all about turning forty. She reached out to them, and they to her.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “I don’t know.” He takes his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I just don’t know.”

  Is she leaving us? Leaving my dad?

  I stand, and kiss him on the top of the head. “It’ll be okay, Dad,” I try to convince him . . . and myself. “We’ll be okay.”

  1 day

  11 hours

  45 minutes

  I sit on the hood of my car in the school parking lot. “I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.” Billy balances on his skateboard, rolls himself a smoke—tobacco this time.

  “You’re so friggin’ smart.”

  “Not a question.” His eyes crinkle as he lights.

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “What? Why’d I do what?” He offers me a hit.

  I wave it away. “Take the SAT for Zac?”

  “Hah. Oh, that.” He spits a bit of tobacco in the air. “You said it. ’Cause I’m friggin’ smart.” He smiles a shit-ass grin at me.

  I tuck my knees into my chest. “You actually took the test for him? Wow.”

  “How’d you find out, little Miss Killa Bea?”

  “Oh, come on, the guy’s an oaf.”

  “You got that right; the dude’s a no-brainer, but no way he’d cop to it. He’s scared as shit someone will suss him out. How d’you know?”

  “Someone brought up your name in the lunchroom, said something like, even Billy Weisman couldn’t have scored that high and Zac shut up—got squirmy wormy when your name was mentioned. I sort of guessed you had something to do with it, but I thought you’d deny it.”

  “Who said I couldn’t score that high?”

  I laugh, jump off the hood. “How did you two get away with it?”

  “Cinch. It’s like a scene, man. Mobbed. Took it up in Pontiac. Damn. Don’t know if the proctors can’t read, or if they didn’t care. And without the goat?”—he pulls at his chin patch—“I be Mr. Zac’s doppelgänger, no?” He flicks the cigarette off into a puddle on the asphalt. It sizzles to its death.

  “Not even close, Billy; you don’t look anything like him.”

  “Whatever.” He kicks the backside of the board and it seesaws, shoots straight up in the air like a yo-yo, and lands gracefully in his arms.

  “You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you do it?”

  “Beaucoup bucks.” He rubs his fingers together. “I scored a couple grand—rent check—saved my pop’s shop.”

  “Got it.” I nod. “But you could be arrested. Zac could get kicked out of Cornell. You know that, right?”

  “Only if someone rats.” He drops the board, jumps on again. “And you wouldn’t do that, right?”

  “Nah. But it kills me knowing he’s a fraud. He’s such a dick.”

  “Keep it on the sly. You chill?”

  “I’m chill.”

  He kick-starts on his board and rolls off.

  Chris comes running up. “There you are. . . . I was looking all over for you.”

  “Oh, sorry. I had some business with Billy to take care of.”

  “Business? What kind of business?”

  “It’s nothing.” We head toward school.

  Chris’s eyes narrow. “Why are you hanging out with him?”

  “Because I like him?”

  Chris takes my arm, stops me. “Bea . . . tell me the truth, are you using? I saw him smoking a joint.”

  “That wasn’t weed. It was a cigarette. And even if it were a joint, I wouldn’t have had any. Jesus, doesn’t anyone in this world trust me?”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t want you to fall back into . . . bad habits.”

  “Will you please lay off of that, Chris?” I open the school doors, and walk fast to my locker.

  “Bea. I’m dead serious.” Chris follows. “You’ve been acting all twitchy, dressing different. I saw you leaving school the other day in your baggy jeans, and that awful red hoodie of mine—you wouldn’t be caught dead in them normally.”

  “I wear the jeans when I’m on the rag, okay? Feeling a little water-weight gain.”

  “I’m not stupid. These are all the signs. And Billy—he’s not exactly who you should be hangin’ with.”

  “God, you sound like my mom. No. I’m not doing drugs, Chris. And Billy? He happens to be really cool when you get to know him. Yeah, he’s not going to college, doing what he should do, according to you, according to most of the kids in this hellhole school. It doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He happens to be the smartest person I ever met, okay? Probably will be more successful than any college frat boy. And guess what? He actually was interested in my plans—he took the time to look at my sketchbook, my tattoo designs . . .”

  Chris’s face flushes; a pinkish-red hue starts at his cheekbones, travels to his jaw, and creeps down covering his neck. “This isn’t about Billy anymore, is it?”

  I slam my locker shut. “Look, Chris, I’m sorry I said all that. I did
n’t mean it. The last couple of days have been crazy.” I lean my forehead against the cold metal door and lower my voice. “I drew the truth out of Zac, and found out that Billy took the test, the SAT for him. Okay? That’s what this is all about. You happy now?”

  He takes a huge intake of breath. “Holy shit, no.”

  “Holy shit, yes.” And then I totally regret telling him. “Oh my god, you cannot, I repeat, sooo cannot tell anyone, okay, promise me?”

  Chris is doubled over, laughing his ass off. “What a loser. He thinks he’s such hot shit. This is priceless! He’s a fucking fraud.”

  “Shhhh! Chris, promise me!”

  “I promise.” He wipes a tear. “But it . . . it’s, like, whoa. Wouldn’t it be great to get on Nathanson’s loud speaker and expose the ass?”

  “Stop it!”

  “Can I tell Ian?”

  “No.”

  I take his hands in mine. “Look at me.” He does; his nostrils flare with suppressed laughter. “It’s going to kill you, going to be hard knowing he’s getting away with it. But we’ve got to let it go. . . . Sometimes, a lot of the time, knowing the truth sucks.”

  1 day

  8 hours

  26 minutes

  I hurry home and bandage my heel with cotton balls and Scotch tape (the only tape I can find), lay out today’s outfit on my bed (thanks to Leila), and pull on the pair of shin-high crew socks. I haven’t shaved my legs in days. I’m not as hairy as most boys, but definitely more than Chris and Mohawk Johnny, and with the long, shiny nylon workout shorts (the safety pin helped with the waist issue), the bottom half of me, I think, works.

  I flatten my boobs with a sports bra and pull on the baggy Red Wings jersey. But it’s threatening to rain again today and only in the fifties, so the hoodie should be cool with the coach.

  And now my dreaded hair.

  I have to flatten the fluff. . . . It’s time for gel. I dip my fingers into the cold, slimy goo and spread it liberally through my hair, slicking it back. Then I aim the dryer and blow it dry. By the time I’ve finished, it’s like I’m wearing a helmet—it’s as hard as a shell on a turtle’s back. I knock on it, and the noise echoes in my ears.

  I crunch the baseball cap on top of my head, backward this time, take a deep breath, and peek in the mirror. I haven’t waxed the ’stache for a good week, and with my hair back I actually have sideburns (Mom’s genes). And my hair sticks out from under the hat all frizzy-like (Dad’s genes). Not a good look—almost makes me want to cry—but I suck it up like a man, ready to take on today’s events.