Sketchy (13 page)

“Vroom.” He races.

I look at Eve. She smiles, nods, and mouths, “See?”

“What’s your name?” the little boy asks, still driving.

“Bea.”

He laughs, holding his belly. “Her name is a bee—a bug. Ewww.”

A bossy little girl corrects him. “Cameron, a bee is not a bug. It’s an insect.” She looks at me. “My name is Amanda, and he’s Cameron. And you have a funny name, and your hair looks messy, and there are pens sticking out.”

“Hi, Amanda. It’s nice to meet you, too. And yes, I do have pens in my hair, because I like to draw.”

A curly-haired girl plops herself down on my lap. “My name is Maisy, and I like to draw, too. My mom says I’m going to be an artist when I grow up. What do you like to draw?”

I take a piece of paper off a table, pull a pen out of my hair, and draw a picture of a bee.

The kids gasp.

“That looks just like a bee!” Amanda exclaims.

“Yup. That’s me! But I don’t buzz, and I don’t have a stinger,” I tease.

The kids giggle.

“Oh, wow, you are an artist!” Maisy looks up at me wide-eyed.

“Thank you, Maisy.” I smile.

“But why do you have crazy hair?” Amanda asks.

“I think it’s pretty.” Maisy pets my hair. “It tickles.” She giggles. “Could you draw me a kitten? I wuv kittens.”

“Sure I can,” I say, drawing.

“Oh, she’s so cute. She looks real, like I could pet her,” Maisy says. “I like you, Bea.”

“I like her, too, Maisy,” Amanda adds.

“Now draw the kitten pooping,” Cameron blurts out. The girls look disgusted. “And frowing up.”

“How old are you, Cameron?” I ask before the kitten has diarrhea.

“I’m four.” He stands and pounds his chest.

“We are, too,” Amanda calls out. “We’re all four.”

“How old are you, Bea?” Maisy asks.

“I’m four, too,” I joke.

“No, you’re not,” Cameron protests. “You’re lying. It’s not nice to lie.”

“You’re right. I’m not four. I’m four, plus four, plus four, plus four, plus one. I’m seventeen years old.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of fours. You’re old,” Cameron says.

The director stands. “Okay, kids, it’s time to go outside.”

“But we want to stay here with Bea,” Maisy pouts.

“Not right now, Maisy,” the director says. “But maybe Bea will come back here and play with us?” She smiles at me and asks, “You think you could?”

It wasn’t as bad as I thought.
“Sure, Maisy. I’ll see you in a couple days, okay?”

Maisy hugs me around the neck and whispers in my ear, “I want to be just like you when I get all growed up.”

I hug her back.
Oh, no, you don’t, honey. No, you don’t.

I
t’s Tuesday morning, and I trudge through the halls of Packard High. Chris is waiting for me at my locker. He looks anxious, flushed.

“Bea! Where were you yesterday? And why didn’t you answer your phone? Willa is spreading vicious rumors about you.”

I unlock my locker. “Sore throat in the morning, had to work at that preschool in the afternoon, AA at night. I’m beat.”

“Willa is telling everyone that you’re a slut—that you slept with everybody and anybody for drugs!”

“Uh-huh, what else?” I pull my books out.

“That you tested positive for HIV and want to infect the whole school.”

I laugh. “Gotta hand it to her… that’s a good one.”

“Wait, it gets better”—he laughs now, too—“you’ve been practicing witchcraft for a while, and you’ve made a voodoo doll of her and pierce her every night with needles!”

“I’ve always wanted to be a Wiccan!” I slam my locker shut.

“Seriously, how did you manage to piss her off so much? What did you do?”

“I drew the truth out of her.”

“Oh, shit. Does this have something to do with”—he looks around and whispers—“your power?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not using again, right, like she says?”

“Believe me, I’m not using. I’d be in a better mood if I were.” I sink my back against the cold metal door. “She told me, Chris—everything that happened that night. It was horrible, so horrible.” I show him the stack of flyers tucked away in my bag. “And this is the guy, the rapist.”

“Why would she do that? Tell you what happened?”

“Because she’s scared and she wants help. She
needs
help. And I’m the only one around here who sees the lie she’s been living, the only one who hasn’t been suckered into her fantasy life.”

“What are you talking about? She’s, like, perfect. Willa Pressman has never done anything wrong.”

I sigh. The bell rings, I look around at the walking dead in the halls, and decide to write down the mind-blowing words to Chris.

Willa is a drug addict!

He reads, slams my book shut, and shoos his hands at me like I’m a pesky gnat. “Bea, come on, get real. Did you draw that?
See
that?”

“I didn’t have to. It’s like a secret language we have. Look, Chris, it’s okay if you don’t get it.”

“What are you planning on doing with those flyers?”

“I’m going to paper them around town after school, in stores, restaurants, bowling alleys—anywhere I can. I mean, what do I have to lose? My reputation?” I look at him and smile. “Wouldn’t mind a little company.”

“I don’t know. I have the gay/straight alliance club at four today.”

“Whatever. I don’t blame you.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to help you…”

The bell rings.

“Let’s go. We can’t be late for art class. I think it’s ‘how to draw a stick figure’ today,” I joke.

“Today is movie day,” Mrs. Hogan announces. The class, listening for once, applauds her decision. “We’ll be watching the classic film
Lust for Life
.” Some of the students snicker. “No, it’s not about that, it’s about the famous painter Vincent van Gogh.” She pronounces “Gogh” like
gog
, with a hard
g
.

Chris rolls his eyes at me.

A sleepy stoner takes a pack of cigarettes from the side pocket
of his backpack—doesn’t even attempt to hide them. “Ah, Mrs. Hogan? Could I be excused? I have to go to the john.”

“Fine, make sure you take the pass hanging on the board. But ten minutes, that’s it. And be quiet when you come back in. You don’t want to interrupt the movie.”

Willa raises her hand. “Mrs. Hogan, can I also have a pass to use the ladies’ room?”

The teacher’s head shoots up. “Of course. Do you need help?”

“No, no, thank you, I’m fine.” Willa walks toward the door.

“Take your time, Willa. All the time you need.”

Willa leaves the room, and Mrs. Hogan turns off the lights and closes the shades.

The movie begins, and in the darkness, I find myself nodding off, falling into the swirls of van Gogh’s paint strokes. I drift away into his starry night, into the vibrant palette of golds, greens, and blues, and my head falls to my chest, dreaming about the colors of her dress, my mom’s dress…

… a vibrant, flowing dress. She was beautiful, barefoot, her hair loose.

My parents were having a party in our Chicago apartment. I was four, maybe five, sitting above, watching the whole scene from my railed-off loft bed. Mom was dancing, flitting around friends, sipping at an open bottle of champagne. She looked so happy.

The loft was filled with oils, half-painted canvases, charcoal nudes covering the tall white walls.

Dad was across the room, eying my mom, watching her. He didn’t look as happy as she did.

Mom opened the sliding glass door to the terrace and tripped, spilled champagne, laughed at herself, and then closed the door behind her. My dad, looking bothered, walked toward the terrace. He opened the door, and I smelled the sweet, smoky scent of…

… pot as the stoner floats back into the classroom. The smell awakens me.

Willa comes in shortly after.
Maybe she’s found a replacement for Marcus.

She walks in the darkness, trips on something, and takes hold of the back of my chair.

I whisper, “You okay?”

Willa falls, crumbling to the ground, and wails, “Oh my gosh, you tripped me!”

The lights flip on, and Mrs. Hogan stops the movie. “What happened? What happened, Willa?”

Willa holds her right knee and points at me. “That new girl. She tripped me. Ow. It hurts, my knee.”

I look around the room in defense, not knowing what to do or say. “I didn’t trip you, Willa. I didn’t. I just asked if you were okay.”

Willa gasps. “You’ve been so mean to me, ever since you
came to this school. Why do you have to be so mean? What did I ever do to you, anyway?”

“I’m not mean to you, Willa. In fact, I think it’s the other way around, what you’ve been saying about me.”

“Did you hear that?” Willa howls. “She tripped me and won’t even admit it. She’s been stalking me, talking crap about me. Lying. Saying horrible, just horrible things about me, Mrs. Hogan!” Willa pretends to sob.

“I am not. And I didn’t trip her.” I look to Chris for help.

“Mrs. Hogan,” Chris tries to come to my rescue. “There’s no way Bea would have tripped her, no way.”

“Stay out of this, Chris,” Mrs. Hogan orders and helps Willa off the ground, walking her to her desk. She scratches off a note and hands it to me. “Beatrice, you are to go directly to Principal Nathanson’s office. He’ll know how to handle this situation.”

I hold the note in my hand. “You’re kidding me, right? I have to go to the principal’s office? I don’t even know where his office is.”

“Now!” she barks.

I look at Chris. He mouths the words “I’m sorry.”

I rise. And as I leave the room, I look at Willa. She shoots me a wry, crooked smile.

Swallowed up in a gigantic, brown pleather chair, I sit in Principal Nathanson’s office, doodling in my book, waiting
for him to finish up an important phone call dealing with a football player and his failing grades. He looks like a rat: beady eyes, ugly teeth, chomping away at the phone.

His glasses keep sliding off his sweaty nose, and he pushes them up with his middle finger like he’s saying “Screw you” to me over and over. He finally finishes up the phone call, conceding, “I’ll make sure the D is raised to a C.”

He hangs up the phone and looks at me. “Well, well, well,” he stalls. He has no idea who I am, why I am here.

An image surges through my head—
oh crap, he’s thinking of my breasts, my cleavage… I don’t want to know what else!

I tuck my pen in my hair, close my book, pull my sweater up, and sit on my hands.

The creep!

He sighs, reading the note from Mrs. Hogan. His fat lips move as he reads; spittle forms at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, dear,” he mutters, then looks up at me and gives me the finger again. “You tripped her? Willa Pressman?”

“She said I did, but I didn’t. She tripped on something and grabbed my chair for balance. I asked her if she was okay, and she threw herself on the ground, got hysterical, and accused me. That’s what happened.”

Principal Nathanson clucks his tongue. “How could you be so insensitive? Tripping her like that?”

“But I
didn’t
.”

“And this note says you’ve been making up lies about her. After all she’s been through?” He pulls up my file on
his computer screen. “If I recall correctly, didn’t we take you into this school as a last resort? Quite a generous gesture, I would add, given all your”—he reads—“issues.”

“I didn’t trip her. And I haven’t been harassing her or making things up.” I try again.

“She says you have.”

“And of course, you believe her word over mine,” I resign.

“Miss Washington”—he stands, pacing behind his desk—“Willa has been at our school since the seventh grade. She’s been a model student—outstanding, even. She’s from a well-respected family. You, however, have been here, what, a week? I know nothing about you or your family. Tell me, why
wouldn’t
I believe Willa over you?”

I almost laugh. Willa is good—better than I ever was with the deceit. She has everyone fooled. There’s not one person in this moronic school who knows Willa for who she really is.

I realize it’s time to wave the white flag and continue on with my crappy day—fake it till you make it—and get back to art class to watch the end of Mr. van
Gog
. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nathanson. It won’t happen again. I promise.”