Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (14 page)

God, I know these girls. There were so many of them just like her at Athena Day School for Girls. Every single one with attitude as their middle name.

I eye her ginormous room. The bed could sleep a family of six, and there’s enough down in the quilts and pillows to
help a gaggle of Canadian geese fly to Florida, round trip—surrounded by what looks like a mosquito net. It makes me wonder if she’s afraid of malaria.

“Alanna was telling me where she’d like the mural—we’ve been mapping it out.” My mom points to pencil drawings etched on the wall.

“Anyway . . .” Alanna floats her right arm in the air and points. “I was thinking over there we’d draw Alice.” She punctuates this with a smug smile.

“Oh, I like that idea. Now let’s talk about the background. Do you have any thoughts on color?” Mom asks.

Let’s see, I’m guessing she’ll say . . .

“Pink!” Alanna shouts. Her smartphone
pings
. She reads, giggles, and types, and then sashays to the designated wall. “So, anyway, I was thinking of the Cheshire cat right here, sitting by Alice.” She waves her hand. “The tea party over there, and oh, like, mushrooms growing up from the ground, and . . .”

I crack up.

The princess blinks her long lashes. “What’s so funny?”

“You want ’shrooms on your wall?”

“Yeah, like in
Alice in Wonderland
.”

“Oh, those kind.” I nod. “But you do realize that Lewis Carroll was . . .”

An elbow shot from Mom, meaning,
bite your tongue, Bea
.

So I finish it in my head:
totally high on mushrooms when he wrote it?

“Beatrice, why don’t you get the drop cloth from out of my
car?” Mom asks, handing me her keys. She bends down in her low-rise jeans and starts unpacking paint materials.

“Sure. You got it.”
Please, get me out of here before I say something I’ll regret.

As I pass Little Miss Muffet, she flips her hair and literally raises her nose in the air.

And I walk out the door, thinking,
maybe that’s who Mom would really like for a daughter. She wouldn’t complain about her hair—no way.

I stop at the Rembrandt and cop another touch, think about pocketing it, but head down the stairs instead and open the front door. A series of chimes beep the words
open door, open door.

Oh, hell. Now what did I do?
I close the door—same thing, but
closed door
,
closed door
this time.

“It’s the monitoring system.” Martha peeks around the corner—her hat is off, her collar unbuttoned.

“Whew. I didn’t break anything, right?”

“You really think that’s a Rembrandt?” She glances up the stairs.

“Yup. Christmas, remember, plant the seed now.” I walk outside and stand at the closed gate. Now what? Do I climb? Yell to Martha? I search for a button—something that says
get me outta here
, when the gates suddenly start to part. And I wonder for a second if my superhero power has suddenly morphed into telekinesis.

I jump out of the way of the moving gate and stand near a blooming hedge. The sickeningly sweet smell makes me
sneeze, and the hedge is covered with buzzing bees—killer bees, I’m sure. A white Range Rover charges in—the driver, totally spaced, almost hits me.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” I scoot out of the gates before they close, cross the street to my mom’s car, and unlock the trunk, thinking,
that’s just like the white SUV that almost hit me in front of my house the other day.

A short guy wearing a white sports ensemble, with a tennis racket under his arm, steps out of the truck.
Oh my god.
Was he at my house with my mom that morning?

He scratches his seventies-style thick, black moustache and waves, calls out, “Hello! You must be Beatrice. Bella’s daughter.”

I thought they weren’t on a first name basis . . . wanted to keep it professional.

I pull the drop cloth out of the car and walk back up the drive.

He holds out his hand. “I’m Alanna’s Dad, Michael.”

I don’t take it. “Uh-huh.”

He pockets his hand in his tight white shorts.

I squint, stare at the ’stache. His hair is gray. There’s no way he should have a black moustache. I suddenly get the urge to pull it off his face . . . see if it’s fake.

His right eye twitches. “Um, is there something wrong?”

I don’t know. Why don’t you ask my dad?

“Well . . . okay, I guess I’ll be going inside. Nice to meet you.” He turns toward the front door.

Ugh! Just the thought of them together really burns me.
“Are you messing around with my mom?” I call out.

He spins around—shifts his sneakered feet. “Excuse me?”

“Save the shit. You heard me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, right, blah, blah, blah . . .”

“Really, you’re confused, I assure you.”

I take a step toward him. “All I have to say are two words: my dad. He’s twice the size of you and a total badass.”

Michael Dickwad Connelly nervously tee-hees. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I have no intentions—no relationship with your mother other than professionally. I hired her to design my little girl’s mural.”

“Oh, right. Your little girl, Alanna. If I were you, I’d get her off that pedestal. Knock it out from under her feet, fast. She’s already deluded, living in a”—I point at the tacky house—“a fairy-tale world. She’s gonna be using, flat-on-her-ass stoned, sexting, snapchatting before you know it—if she isn’t already. I’ve seen it happen to a dozen Alanna’s just like her.”

“I beg your pardon . . .”

“You can beg all you want, but you’re not pardoned—far from it.”

His whole body posture changes, like he’s an attack dog; his stance widens, his chin juts. “Who do you think you are, talking to me that way?”

“Someone who’s been there, done that. And it ain’t fun. Believe me.” I’m on a roll, and can’t stop—don’t want to stop. “First off? Tell Martha to ditch the uniform. Alanna’s watching you, seeing how you treat women—and you obviously don’t
think too highly of them. Second? Lock your liquor cabinet—everything, including wine and beer. Oh, yeah, throw in the sleep meds, the pot—whatever else is your drug of choice. Kids will try anything for a high. Third? Keep your wallet and checkbook on you at all times—any extra cash, stash it in a safe along with all the passwords to your accounts. Fourth? Don’t believe a word she says from now until she’s eighteen—hopefully she’ll still be alive.”

I think he’s stopped breathing because his face has turned whiter than his sneakers, and a blue vein suddenly pops out of his right temple—blood pulsing. “Get out of here, now. Get off my property,” he says through his clenched jaw.

“Sure. Happy to. Thought you’d never ask.” I shove the drop cloth in his arms, dirtying up his tennis whites. “Give this to my mom,
Mrs.
Washington. You can tell her I was stung by a nasty wasp in the driveway and had a sudden allergy attack.”

3 days
9 hours
30 minutes

H
ot, hot water rushes over my sore muscles, my blistered feet, my twisted hair, and drowns my tears.

Why? Why would she even think of doing this to us? She doesn’t love us anymore? I’m not good enough? Dad’s not good enough? What did we do? What did I do wrong?

I squeeze a dollop of conditioner on my hand, desperately trying to untwist Eva Marie’s handiwork and soften the tangles. It hurts, pulls at my scalp. But the pain isn’t as bad as what I feel in my heart, in the pit of my stomach.

My hair always got tangled and gnarly if I wore it down when I was a little girl, so Mom would braid it after my nighttime bath—it became a ritual. A ritual I loved, even if it hurt. I’d get to choose any book I wanted, and then my dad would come in and plop down, and the three of us would sit on my bed. Dad would read as my mom carefully combed through the tangles. Sometimes tears would form as she pulled, when
the comb got caught in a knot, but I kept them in, hid them in a secret place—a jeweled chest of tears, I imagined. I tried really hard to stop them from dripping down my face, because I didn’t want her to stop combing. I didn’t want my dad to stop reading. I didn’t want to break our triangle of three, connected, sitting on my bed.

How could she do it? Dismantle the triangle?

I practically use the whole bottle of conditioner, most of the hot water, and finally the knots untie. I smooth my fingers through the tamed curls, and then use a wide-tooth comb, just like Mom did. I step out of the shower, wipe off the steamy mirror, and study myself, my reflection, my hair—wet, pulled down, stretched, and tucked behind my ears.

If only my hair could stay this way. For her. For me. For Dad. For the three of us.

3 days
4 hours
15 minutes

T
hank god Wendell called, got me out of my pity party and asked me out. I’m thrilled to get out of the house. I don’t want to face my mom—not yet, not with all the confusion flying around my brain. I blow away this morning’s events with the hair dryer and fluff the life back into my cotton-candy look, smelling like coconut cream conditioner.

I slip on a short linen shift dress in raw sienna. It kind of has a twenties swing to it—even has the fringe on the bottom of the hem tickling my knees. I pair it with my desert-sand suede ankle boots and my jean jacket. It feels good to be tapping into the estrogen side of me.

It’s a breezy night, in between storms. The pollen has been washed out of the air, curbing my sneezing and runny nose for the time being. I take a deep breath in and the clean, fresh air fills my lungs. Maybe I can quit smoking for good. Maybe that meanie Credos will scare the urge out of me.

We meet up at a Rosie’s Café outside of Kerrytown—our usual place. It’s one of those cute, warm-and-fuzzy, cottagey coffeehouses. Wannabe poets, singers, and musicians perform on a wooden platform in the corner of the room, which acts as a stage. Wendell and I love making fun of them afterward. I mean, not like we’re criticizing the artists; it’s just that we’ve never heard anything amazingly inspiring, and I’m always kind of embarrassed for them, sweating under the spotlight.

“This is nice.” I hold his hand, happy to have a distraction, happy to be with someone who wants to be with me, crazy hair and all.

“It is. It’s always nice with you.”

“Awww.” I kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Wendell chooses a round, chunky table right in front of the stage.

I tug his shirt. “You sure you want to be so close to the stage? I mean, you never know who’s going to perform. It could be a juggling act, and I don’t think we want to get hit by any balls.” I wait for his laugh. It doesn’t come.

Wendell sits.
Okay, then, I guess this is it.

We place our order with a bitchy waiter named Brad. It’s his shtick, being a bitch, and doesn’t really bother us. It’s kind of comforting knowing what to expect with his sighs and attitude—mannerisms he wears as proudly as his Prada belt.

“Wen, you’re quiet. You okay?” I pat his thigh.

“I’m fine, Bea.” He smiles, and a blob of spittle forms in the corner of his mouth.

Brad sets down our cappuccinos in the middle of the table.

“You sure this is decaf?” Wendell asks him. “She’s very sensitive to caffeine.”

“Listen, lovely-ass, you think she’s sensitive?” Brad hands him his card. “Call me if she’s up in the middle of the night, and you’re up because she’s up; give me a buzz, and I’ll shoot over with some sleepy-time tea. Oh, yeah, baby, I will. It’s a special Brad brew.” He arches a brow, fluffs the hair that isn’t there, and walks away.

Wendell pulls two sugars from the little ceramic hollowed-out cat on the table, rips them open, pours them in my cup, and stirs.

“Are you going to hold the cup for me, too, Wendell?”

“I just want to make you happy.”

Man, he’s acting weird.

The lights dim. “Oh, great, must be talent-show time.” I laugh.

Suddenly, Wendell clears his throat, stands, and steps toward the stage.

“Wen? What are you doing? What’s going on?”

He takes a seat on a simple wooden chair in the middle of the dark stage. A microphone stand sits in front of him. A spotlight suddenly pops on and shines down, illuminating the dust in the air, casting an angelic halo over his head.

Oh, no. What’s happening? What’s he going to do?

Someone, from the darkness, hands him an acoustic guitar.

A guitar? He plays the guitar?

Wendell strums a few chords, tweaks the fret, clears his throat, starts to finger the guitar strings, and plays for a moment; and I relax a bit, because he’s good. He sounds really good.
Whew.
I thought I’d have to pretend to like it. I sit back in my chair, hold my cup to my lips, and lick the frothy cinnamon foam.

Wendell taps the mike. “Test. Test.” His low, scratchy voice amplifies in the room. “Um . . . I normally don’t do this. Perform in front of people. But, ah, I have this very special person in my life right now. And it’s almost her birthday.”

Oh, no, please. . . .
I put down my cup on the table.

“Anyway, I have no idea what to get her, because she has everything. She has everything a man would want in a woman. But the only thing this man is missing are answers to a few simple questions.”

I want to bolt—out of this chair, out of the saccharine cuteness of the café, out of what I hope doesn’t happen.

“Anyway, here goes. . . .”

And oh my god, a friggin’ spotlight now shines on top of
my
head. I’m sure no one is seeing any halos—nothing angelic hovering above me, just dust.

“Bea, I have some questions, and I think the musician Jack Johnson, in his words, asks it best.” He starts picking out the tune, singing the song “Questions.”

I feel my hair drying up, on fire with the heat of the
spotlight. My mouth is dry, and I can’t swallow. I sip at my coffee. It chokes going down, and I start coughing, drowning out the next couple lines, hoping to drown out all the words that he sings. I mime to Brad that I’m in dire need of some water. He whispers in my ear, “You’re
so
not into him, right?”