Sketchy (7 page)

Some guy asked me if I was okay and handed me a drink. I thanked him and stumbled to the john. “Aggie. You there?” I slurred. I looked for them behind the club. I think I tried
to text them, but my fingers felt like fat toes.

I couldn’t find them anywhere. So I decided to drink the drink. I don’t know if there was anything else in it—like something more than booze—but I got shit-faced wasted after that. I ingested, snorted, and inhaled, and in my inebriated stupor I took off my stupid halter top, threw it in the air, and was lifted up and passed around topless, like a tray of hors d’oeuvres. I blacked out and was apparently dropped.

I never felt my rib crack.

Aggie somehow got safely home and into her bed. She played dumb and innocent with her parents and the teachers at school, telling them all that I was the druggie; and that I tried to force her to go to the rave; and that when she said no, I snuck out of her window while she was sleeping; and that she never wanted to have anything to do with me again.

Fuck her. But since the library at Athena Day was named the Rand Library, I guess fuck
me
, right?

Regardless, someone called 9-1-1. I was rushed to the emergency room as an overdosed, topless, crazy-haired Jane Doe.

I woke up in a hospital bed. My mom was crying over me, blubbering, her dark, mascara-tinged tears dripping onto my crisp white pillow as she prayed on a rosary, making the sign of the cross with her long, blue-veined hands. My dad was pacing, swearing, and punching the walls like a gang member from Detroit.

“Hi,” I uttered.

“Bea!” They shouted in unison. “Beatrice!”

And the first thing I thought of was how much pain I was in and that I could possibly manipulate them in
their
pain. “Um, Mom, Dad? Do you think they could, um, give me something? Like a painkiller? OxyContin? Maybe I should give Marcus a call… where’s my phone?”

I manipulated myself right into rehab.

I look at my parents at the kitchen table and bite into a piece of cold, waxy polenta. It tastes like guilt, if guilt had a taste. “Fine, whatever. You can test me, and I’ll call you every hour. You’re so uptight.”

Everyone swallows.

Dad puts his fork down on the table like a punctuation mark. “I think this is terrific—nice that we’re having dinner together again. I like this.” He doesn’t.

Another ping on my cell—I’m sure from Chris, wigging out.

Mom darts her dark eyes at me. I don’t dare answer it.

“So,” my dad says, looking for something to talk about, “you should start on your college applications, what do you think?”

“Oh, for chrissake, she just got out of rehab,” Mom cuts in.

“I know that. But it’s time to look ahead to the future.
In fact, I’ve scheduled a tour for Bea at the university,” he announces.

“You what?” Mom asks, more surprised than me.

“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with all that college crap.”

He throws his arms up into the air. “It’s just a tour!”

“Her future doesn’t have to mean college. I never finished college, you know.”

“I know, Bella, I know.”

“But then, you did, didn’t you? A few times.”

“Bella.”

“And then you moved me away from my school, my family.”

And there they go, like a million times before. She had to go to work, painting murals for brats, because her parents cut her off after their little bambino mated and married a black man from the ghetto of Detroit.

“Stupido idiota,” Mom utters under her breath.

“I heard that, Annabelle, but will chose to ignore it.”

“Fine. Let’s change the subject.”

I sigh, ready to get the hell out of here. “I have to go. Chris is expecting me, like half an hour ago.”

“A storm is blowing in tonight. You’d better bring an umbrella. And be careful driving,” Dad cautions.

“Be vigilant, Bea. Make sure no one is following you. That Chris boy… he’ll walk you to your car, right?”

“Yes, he will. And there will be cops everywhere.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Dad sighs.

“Plus, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m pretty street smart.” I regret it as soon as I say it.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Street smart? Richard, what does she mean by that?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it! Stop reading into everything I say!”

“Okay, fine. Richard, would you pass the osso buco, please?”

“Oh, is that what this is supposed to be?” Dad says as he hands her the plate.

“Excuse me?” Mom says, standing up and knocking over her chair.

“I was just kidding…”

Mom storms out of the kitchen, spewing her repertoire of Italian expletives.

That
is family dinner at my house.

Kumbaya, right?

I make my way down a dark tunnel toward the concession stand—the bowels of Packard High Stadium.
Shit, it’s dark.
My boots stick with each step on the soda-covered, concrete floor, making me trip a little.

Something squeaks, runs by my feet. “Shit!” I yell out, my voice echoing off the walls.
There are fucking rats in here!!!

I hurry down the tunnel, reach the stand, and pull open the heavy door. I am blinded by the stadium lights. “Chris, where are you? I can’t see a thing!”

I hear his laugh and feel his hand in mine as my eyes adjust to the brightness. The high school stadium is packed. The marching band’s cymbals clash, drums rattle and roll, tubas bellow. Cheerleaders flip, cartwheel, and throw one another around like rag dolls on speed. The players pump their fists, grunt, and butt their heads together.

“Holy shit. I’ve gone to the circus!”

“Where have you been, Beatrice Washington?” Chris scolds.

“I’m sorry, I was held against my will.” I look around, down at the floor. “Do you know there are rodents running around here? Now I know why you call it Packrat High.”

“You’ll find that the rats are a lot nicer than the sweating ingrates I’ve been pouring pop for! Now come over here and let me check you out and snap a couple of quick photos before we’re ambushed with orders.”

“Where should I put my purse? I don’t want anything furry running off with it.”

“Give it to me.” Chris parts the tacky gingham curtain that’s hanging around the counter. “There’s a little safe under here.”

“Wait. I need my Moleskine.” I pull it from my bag and tuck my purse away.

Chris looks me up and down through the lens of his camera. “Ooh, I love that sweater.”

“So do I, but it itches like hell.”
Damn. My mother was right.
“How do you like the boots?” I pose for his camera.

“Very Jane Fonda in
Barbarella
.”
Click click click.
“You could make me straight, right now, the way you look.”

I bat my eyes at him. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

A blast of cold wind comes barreling through the concession stand like a mini-cyclone, knocking over paper cups and bags of popcorn, blowing flyers off a bulletin board.

“Brrr.” Chris catches the flying debris.

“My dad said a storm was coming. At least we’re under a roof in case it starts raining. You don’t want to see what my hair does when it’s wet.”

A WANTED poster flies off the bulletin board and floats down onto the counter. A generic, bland drawing of a man’s face stares up at me.

“Is this the guy they think raped Willa?” I ask.

“I guess so.” Chris shrugs and starts to help some customers.

I laugh. “A robot raped her?”

“What are you talking about?” he says, looking back at me.

I hold up the poster. “Chris, a kindergartner could have drawn a better face.”

“They say she doesn’t remember anything. I guess the police did the best they could,” Chris says, making change.

“I’m sorry. He doesn’t look like a real person.”

“Yeah, he does kinda look like a Ken doll.” Chris giggles.

“So he couldn’t have raped her. Ken dolls don’t have genitals.”

“Mine did.” Chris winks. “I drew them on.”

“You whore.” I play-slap him. “Well, let’s see what I can do with this Ken doll.”

I pull out one of the pens from my hair and shadow the nose and cheekbones, fill in his eyebrows, and sharpen his eyes. I crosshatch, adding dimension and badly needed shading.

“You like?” I show it to Chris.

“Shit, Bea, you’re good. You made that face look real in a matter of seconds.”

“I touched it up a little, that’s all.”

“But I don’t know if you should be messing with a police sketch.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I fold and tuck the flyer into my sketchbook.

“I can’t believe he’s out there somewhere,” Chris says, filling a bag of popcorn for a fan.

“Maybe he’s here in the stadium,” I whisper in his ear, “or maybe he’s the man right in front of you, the one you’re handing the popcorn to.”

The guy walks away from the stand.

“Stop it. Stop it right now, Beatrice Washington. That’s not funny, you’re scaring me!”

“Oh, quit acting like a girl,
Christina
.”

Chris throws a handful of popcorn at me.

The halftime buzzer blares in my ear.

“Ladies and gentleman, we now present to you our homecoming princesses!” the announcer shouts.

The fans go crazy, whooping and hollering, throwing confetti.

“Oh, please,” I mutter to myself.

“Princess Sarah Alam!” the announcer burps out.

A little waif of a girl walks onto the football field, her heels sinking into the turf with each step. The gusty wind hits her hard and almost knocks her down. She stumbles, and her arms flail but find the shoulder of a kneeling football player. She safely clutches his grass-stained jersey as she’s presented with a bouquet of yellow carnations.

“Princess Eva Marie Evans!” The second princess, unlike Sarah, is meaty and plows ahead like a gladiator facing a tiger in the arena. The wind wins the contest, however, as her geometric-patterned minidress balloons up over her thighs, revealing a lovely pair of Spanx. A football player presents her with a bouquet of orange carnations as he stares at her ass.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you have all been waiting for… this year’s Queen of Packard High!” A drumroll from the marching band: “Queen Willa Pressman!”

“Oh my gosh.” Chris bounces. “She’s here—look! She came! I can’t believe it!” He starts snapping pictures.

“Wow. Unreal.”

A spotlight shines on Willa as she steps onto the field, escorted by her weeping, proud parents. Police officers skirt the sidelines, whispering into walkie-talkies.

“Poor thing. She looks so scared,” Chris says, peering through the camera lens.

Willa makes her way to midfield, the band plays something inappropriately upbeat, and the students leap to their feet with a standing ovation, applauding their queen.

A daisy-appliquéd, pink chiffon dress hangs on her bony frame and billows around her ankles in the wind. Her hair is piled high in a bun. A few wispy strands trickle down the side of her face.

Willa’s parents release their hold on their daughter as the team captain presents her with a large bouquet of pink carnations—fit for a racehorse. Sarah drapes a sash around her fragile body. Eva Marie places a tiara, crookedly, on the top of her head.

Willa looks up at the stands and begins to turn in circles, around and around like a pink ballerina on a little girl’s wind-up jewelry box. She waves to her adoring fans under the hot, bright wattage of the football field.

“I don’t know”—I chew the tip of my pen—“I think this whole thing is sick, Chris. Raped and then crowned?”

“I think it’s touching.” Chris wipes a tear from his eye.

I look at Willa as she struggles with the heavy, crooked tiara, holding it in place, stopping it from falling off her head. My pen is poised, and I wait. I wonder if it’ll happen again—if I’ll see Marcus’s face.

But no, it isn’t Marcus that charges through my head. I draw a crown of thorns, digging into Willa’s skull.

Chris looks over at the sketch. “What’s that?”

“I don’t think she likes it much, being homecoming queen.”

“What are you talking about? Willa loves this. She’s been campaigning for this since, like, preschool.”