Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (16 page)

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 didn’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.

Someone
has
to know something about what happened to Junior. I have to crack the case. . . . I have to. I owe it to him.

Click.
The stopwatch starts, and I run. My muscles are still cranky but not screaming, which is a good thing, and my legs are a little lighter, bouncier with real sneakers on my feet. I make it around the corner without dying, and there’s no black gook coming up from my lungs, at least not yet.

Click.
I lean my hands on my knees, breathing hard. “How’d I do, Coach?”

“You suck.” He slaps me on the back, almost knocking me over.

“But I was better, faster, right? I made it around this time.”

“Don’t ask for praise from me, Boy. Do it for yourself. You’re the only one that counts, not me. Give me fifty crunches. Now.”

Shit.
I fall to the wet ground, knowing there’s no use arguing with him, and start the sit-ups, cursing him with every breath.

Archie comes running up to me, holds my feet. “Hey, B.”

“Hey, Arch.” A little awkward, my position on the ground with him at my feet, but I continue crunching up like any dude would.

“Your piss musta been clean, huh?”

I grunt and nod.

“Yeah, I never touch the stuff.” He points to his head. “Wanna keep this temple pristine, clear, focused.” He gestures for a fist bump—I give him one, and he bumps me so hard the pain shoots up my arm.

He leans in and whispers, “Hey. You said you tag a little?”

“Shut up.” I look around to see where the coach is. “You want him to add another fifty?”

“Nah. I thought maybe you’d wanna hang out, do some art. Johnny and I were thinking of hitting the Tridge tomorrow.”

“In Ypsilanti?”

“Yeah.”

“But the coach . . . that’s one of his beefs, taggin’.”

“It’s my art, man.” He thumps his chest. “He can’t stop that, and he doesn’t have to know, right?”

My belly’s on fire as I grunt the words. “Yeah, right.”

“So you in?”

“I dunno.”

“Forget it.” He stands. “It was our
thing.
Me, Johnny, and Junior. We were the three musketeers.”

I reach the fiftieth sit-up and collapse on my side; searing pain rips through my abs. “Okay. Let me think about it.”
He had me at
Junior.

Reyna and her sidekick, Roxanne, walk by and flip me the bird.

“Hell, they hate me,” I say to Arch.

“No, they don’t. They got their mojo goin’ on. It’s what they do. Act tough and all that. Have to spray their scent on new predators.”

Speaking of predators, what sounds like a very angry lion roaring echoes across the field. The coach stands, towers over Johnny, poking his stubby fingers hard into his skinny chest. Johnny appears to be crying. “Get your ass in my office, now.”

“Talk about tough; he’s a monster,” I say to Archie.

“Yeah, well, it looks like Johnny screwed up. He already has a couple strikes against him. Major pothead—can’t get off the weed.”

Johnny blubbers, “I’m sorry, Coach. I’m sorry.” And then he scuffles toward the gym.

“What will the coach do if he catches us tagging?”

“Probably kill us.” He snorts.

That’s not even close to being funny.

Coach Credos starts in on us. “What you doin’, huh? Getting your beauty rest? Start moving. Everybody, a two hundred. Every twenty feet backward. Now!” He charges toward the gym, following Johnny.

I begin the run and immediately launch into a coughing fit.
I spit to the side, and the goober almost hits Reyna, coming up from behind me. She elbows me in the stitch of my ribs super hard, and I stumble, wipe out, skidding on the wet, slick rubber . . . big time. Half of my knee skin lies on the track. Blood everywhere.

Archie jogs over to me, bends down. “Oh, man. That’s nasty. You gotta get it bandaged. Go see the coach—he’ll patch it up.”

Reyna stands over me, checking out her manicure. “Nasty, that’s for sure, mmm-hmm.”

“Why’d you do that, Reyna?” Archie yells at her.

“Boy knows why, don’t cha bitch?” She sniggers, taking Roxanne’s hand in hers. They skip ahead.