Sketchy (14 page)

The principal looks surprised at my apology and swallows. His big, ugly Adam’s apple travels up and down his neck. I guess he’s not used to student remorse. He gives me the finger once again as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Well, that’s fine for now. But if I hear about any other shenanigans from you, I’ll have to involve your parents, you understand?”

“Please, there’s no need to call them.”
God forbid.
“I
promise you, no more shenanigans from me. Never.”

“Well, I’m glad we had this little chat, uh”—he looks down at my file, clearly searching for my first name—“Brenda.”

I don’t feel the need to correct him—let me be a Brenda, that’s fine. Brenda, I’m sure, doesn’t get into as much trouble as I do and probably has straight hair. “I am, too, Mr. Nathanson.”

“You know, we have a counselor here, if you ever need to talk about things.”

Mrs. Hogan. The teacher who sent me here in the first place.

He opens the door, signaling that it’s time for me to get the hell out.

I push myself up and out of the super-sized chair. He stares at my breasts again, catches himself, scratches the inside of his ear, and takes a look at his finger, like something important came out of it.

Perv.

T
hankfully this long, extremely unpleasant day at school has ended, and I’m at my car, prepared to paper the town, when I notice a note tucked under my windshield wiper.

Hey, DRUGGIE STALKER FREAK, you’d better not say shit to anybody—nobody—or I’ll take you down, hard.

And
she keyed my car! A foot-long scrape is etched along the driver’s-side door.

Shit.

“Bea! Bea!” Chris runs up to me, out of breath. “I’m coming with you!”

“You changed your mind?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t help you out in art class.”

“It’s not your fault. Everyone believes every word she says.”

“I don’t. I believe you. I do.”

I smile at my buddy. “Okay, you sure you’re alright with this? Because I’m not so sure anymore.” I show him the note, the scratch.

“Oh, man. That sucks.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Come on, let’s go.” Chris jumps in my car.

“I have to call my mom first—gotta keep her chill. She’s so spooked!”

“She and me both.”

I dial her number and hear the tinkling of ice in a glass before she says, “Hello?”

“Hi, Mom, just wanted you to know that I’m going to hang out with Chris for a couple hours, get a bite with him.”

I listen.

“You what? Oh come on, Mom. You’re kidding, right?” I hand the phone to Chris. “She wants to talk to you.”

Chris points to himself and mouths “Me?”

I nod.

“Um, hi… um, Mrs. Washington”—he gulps—“yeah, sure.” He listens. “Uh huh, yeah, that would be nice.” He whispers to me, “She invited me over for dinner sometime.”

I snatch the phone away from him. “Okay, you cool now, Mom? I’ll keep in touch. Bye.” I hang up.

“And you said yes?” I scold Chris.

“What was I supposed to say? And what’s the problem, anyway? I think it’s nice.”

“You don’t want to come to my house. It’s weird, they’re weird—and the food is horrible.”

“Speaking of food, I’m hungry. Feel like a burger?”

“We have important work to do first. I tell you what. Let’s put in an hour of posting the flyers, and I’ll buy you a burger—my treat.”

“Deal.”

We start in a hip historic area in downtown Ann Arbor, Kerrytown, loaded with awesome shops that I
so
can’t afford; trendy restaurants; art galleries with bad, overpriced art; and out-of my-league antique stores. Shoppers, students, tourists stroll the tree-lined streets.

We make a good team—walking in and out of buildings, looking for the official police sketch. Once spotted, I yank down the flyer, and Chris, carrying the staple gun, quickly tacks up the new sketch.

I approach a woman in a navy peacoat at the bustling farmers market. “Excuse me. Does this man look familiar to you?” I show her the flyer.

She ignores me, filling a paper bag with McIntosh apples.

“Maybe you could take it with you?” I hand it to her. “You could ask your friends if they’ve seen him, if they recognize him. It’d be so helpful.”

“Sure,” she agrees and walks away from the apple stand.
I watch her throw the flyer in the first trash can she passes.

“Oh, come on!” I dive into the trash and retrieve the flyer. “No one cares, Chris. I’m sure they think I’m just another crazy college student with a cause.”

He ignores my rant. “Great, now you’re digging in the garbage. It’s been over an hour. You promised. I’m tired and super hungry.”

“Okay, okay, burger time.”

Chris and I nudge our way into University Tavern, a crowded student hangout that happens to serve
the best burgers in southern Michigan
, the sign outside brags.

And I’m hit. Hard.

Slammed
with the smells and sounds of
fun
: laughter marinated in booze, clinking glasses filled with yeasty beer and wine, stories and secrets whispered, laughed, and shared over goblets and mugs. I immediately resent my enforced sobriety and sense the foreboding, revved-up semi-truck barreling toward me.

It’s not fair! How can they all have so much fun, and I can’t?

Chris and I stand, squeezed in with damp-smelling people waiting for a table. I crack my knuckles, my neck, my toes. Beads of sweat dampen the back of my sweater. I check my phone for messages from my nonexistent friends.

“You okay?” Chris pokes me. “There’s a lot of partying going on here.”

“Yeah, fools.” I loosen my scarf and then snatch the stapler from Chris. I feel the urge to staple everyone’s hands to the
shiny, lacquered wood bar.
Cha-chink. Cha-chink. Cha-chink. Cha-chink… fuck you fools! You can’t have a drink!

But instead I push my way through the crowd to the front bulletin corkboard.

“Excuse me,” I say to a stupid guy with an ugly dark beard blocking the board. I try to shove past him. My hair gets caught in one of his top coat buttons. “Ow! Fuck! That hurts!”

“Sorry,” he lamely says, as his fingers detangle the knot.

“Whatever.” I scratch my head and staple the flyer to the board, not once, twice, but eight friggin’ times—fantasizing the whole time that they’re the hands holding the drinks that
I can’t
.

“Bea!” Chris calls out. “We got a table. Come on!”

The waitress weaves us through the crowd, and we collapse into a cracked red vinyl booth and say in unison, “Two burgers with everything on it and a couple Diet Cokes.”

“Jinx.” Again, said in unison.

I pull off my coat and spot a guy with a “you really should wash your hair now and then, but it’s still sexy” kind of look, smiling at me in the next booth, kitty-corner from us. He’s with another dude, and they’re drinking a pitcher of beer and slopping down a pizza.

I smile back, sort of. My smile still feels like it’s not quite working at full capacity yet with the opposite sex; it’s jerky, like it needs a squirt of oil or something.

I lean forward and whisper to Chris, “Check it out: seven o’clock, your time.”

Chris casually removes his coat, looks over his shoulder, and reports back. “Meh. Not my type.”

“Really? You don’t think he’s hot?”

“He looks like a bro.”

“I don’t know.” I finger a strand of frizz hanging down my face. “This whole flirting, hooking-up thing. I’ve been out of it for a while.”

“As you should be. Do you really want to complicate your life any more?”

I jiggle my legs under the table. “Yeah. I do.” I smile again at the guy, a little more confidently this time. “Hi.”

He says “hi” back. “I’m Malcolm. He’s Eric.”

Chris kicks me.

Ouch.
“I’m Bea.”

The waitress sets our burgers and pop on the table.

“Bea, I have to go to the little boy’s room—be back in a sec. Stay out of trouble.” Chris gestures with his head toward Malcolm’s table. “Okay, promise?”

“Of course.” I shoo him off, already pulling a flyer out of my bag.

Chris walks away, and I hand the sketch to Malcolm. “Hey. You wouldn’t happen to recognize this guy, would you?”

Malcolm and Eric mull it over, whisper to each other.

“What do you think?” I ask. “Look familiar to you?”

“Oh man, it’s strange.” Malcolm scratches his dirty hair. “I think we may know him, a guy named Winston.”

Eric snaps his fingers. “Yeah, Winston, right. The eyes, a little bit. And the chin thing for sure. Weird.”

“Really? You sure?”

“Join us.” Malcolm pats the seat next to him.

“Okay.”

He scootches over, and I sit. He smells like a clump of wet clay for some reason—it’s not a particularly bad smell, not good either, just clayish. “So, Winston? That’s his name?”

“Yeah, he’s that loner dude, right?” Malcolm jabs Eric.

Eric nods. “Always alone. Doesn’t talk much.” He leans forward and whispers, “The rumor is that he catches rodents around campus and brings them up to his dorm room like they’re his pets.”

“And I heard that he tortures them and decapitates them,” Malcolm adds.

I shiver. “That’s horrible.”

“I know, right? Damn, where are my manners?” Malcolm tops off his glass of beer from the pitcher and hands it to me.

“Thanks, but I have a Coke.”

“Come on, you look a little stressed.”

“Well, I am sort of, yeah.”

Eric holds up his glass. “Cheers.”

I stare hard at the beer and lick my lips.
What would a little sip hurt, anyway? No one would know. It’s not like I’d go out using again—a little buzz, what’s the harm? It’s just a beer,
not a semi-truck coming at me—more like a flat-tired pickup. It wouldn’t show up on a test.

I hold the cold glass dripping with condensation and bring it to my lips. The frothy foam at the top tickles my nose and my belly—sends a zingy feeling up from my gut to my head. A head so tired of being filled with people’s shit.
Yes. Fill me up with something else, please!

Slap!
The glass flies out of my hand, splashing my fantasy all over the table and onto Malcolm and Eric’s laps.

“Bea!” Chris stands above me. “What are you doing?”

Malcolm and Eric jump up, their jeans soaked with beer. “You dick! What’s your problem, faggot?”

“Hey,” I yell at Malcolm. “He’s my friend! You can’t talk to him like that!”

“We’re going home! Now, Bea!” Chris pulls me up from the booth.

“Chris, I know they’re jerks, but they know who the rapist is! His name is Winston and he’s a loner and captures rodents on campus, brings them up to his dorm room, makes them his pets, and he tortures them, decapitates them, and, oh no…” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I get the joke. I’ve been duped. They made the whole thing up.

I’m
so
the fool.

Malcolm and Eric grab a pile of napkins from a dispenser and wipe up the mess, continuing to razz me. “Yeah, and he holds satanic rituals in the Science Quad every full moon
and runs naked through the campus on the first Monday of every month.” Malcolm snorts. “You and Winston will make a great couple!”

Chris wraps up our burgers, throws some money on the table, and drags me out of the tavern.

We pass the corkboard. “Shit, look! Someone took down the flyer already!”

Chris pushes me out the door.

He drives my car and delivers a well-deserved verbal spanking. “What were you thinking? Why would you give it all up, all the months you have, for those assholes and a lousy beer?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” I light up a cigarette, open the window. “I feel like I’m on a Ferris wheel of confusion that doesn’t stop. Just when I think I can step out, it flies up to the top again and dangles, swaying back and forth. I think about it every day—using. Every day.”

Chris pulls my car into his driveway and parks. “Bea, you should give it a rest—this Willa thing. It’s stressing you out too much. She isn’t worth it.”

“It isn’t just about Willa.” I pinch my nose between my eyes, hoping the tears don’t start up again. “That girl in Ann Arbor—the girl found dead last week. She was my best friend at Athena Day. Her name was Aggie.”

“What? Oh, Bea. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I saw her that night. I was one of the last people to see her. I could have helped her.” My eyes burn with shameful tears.

Chris reaches out, cups the back of my neck.

“I can’t seem to help anyone, Chris.” I look out the window and blow out a trail of smoke. “Not Willa, not even myself. It’s so hard, so damn hard.”

Chris takes the cigarette out of my hand. He inhales, coughs, gags, and sputters, “Ick. Ugh.”

I pat him on his back. “Jesus, what are you doing?”

“I just wish I knew what you were going through,” he says through coughs. “How hard it must be. Maybe, somehow, I could help you then.”

“Thanks, Chris, but you can’t. And I don’t think getting sick on a cigarette will do either of us any good.”

“Bea, maybe you don’t see yourself the way I see you, but you’re fighting the fight. Every day, every hour, every minute. It’s the fire in your eyes these days—different from last winter at camp. It’s raw, real, and yes, pained. Maybe the Ferris wheel isn’t letting you off today, but it will. Or maybe being up in the sky, looking down, is exactly where you need to be right now.”

“Are you kidding me?” I take the cigarette back from him. “When did you get to be so smart?”

“The moment I knew for sure that I was gay. Fifteen. And no, the ride didn’t stop; it just continued around and around, picking up speed. I thought I was mad until I realized one day, whoa, I’m in control, no one else. I’m not the one on the Ferris wheel, it’s the people around me who are spinning. Not me. I’m grounded. I know who I am.”

I’m silenced by his insight.

Ping
. I get a text and read: