Sketchy (20 page)

I read it again.

Holy Christ! J.W. James Woolf. Someone recognized the poster and texted me!

I sit up in bed, turn my back to the TV, and face my parents. “So Dad? Professor Woolf—that’s his name? The photography teacher?”

“Yeah,” Dad answers, absorbed, watching an appraisal of a grandfather clock.

“You know, I’m thinking that I should check his class out. Chris has inspired me lately with his photos, and maybe I should meet that professor.”

This grabs my dad’s attention—and my mom’s. “But I thought you weren’t interested in college?” Dad asks.

“Well, I don’t know. I guess I could be, a little.”

Mom lowers the volume on the TV. “Really.” It’s not a question.

“Tell me more about the photography professor, Dad.”

“Professor Woolf? Well, he’s a new teacher. I just hired him.”

“Oh. So, he’s only taught since September?”

“Straight out of Northern Michigan University. He’s young, but he impressed me last spring in his interview.”

“Last spring?”

“Yes, he was here right around your birthday. I remember because I had to rush him. I needed to pick up your cake.”

April. Veronica. Arboretum.

“You know, Dad, they’re cancelling school tomorrow. Maybe I could come by the university for a bit, look around again?”

“Of course, Bea. Nothing would make me happier. I’ll arrange an audit.”

“Dad, is it okay if I walk around by myself? It’s kind of awkward when people know I’m your daughter.”

“I understand.”

“And could you give me the prof’s schedule? So I know when he’s there?”

“Sure. No problem.”

I kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

The phone rings. “Hello?” Mom answers. Pause. “This is she.” She turns the television off and gives me a puzzled look. “Yes, I can. I can tell you with all certainty that she’s here, at home, with us. I’m looking at her right now.”

Dad takes off his glasses. Mouths, “What?”

“Okay. Well, thank you, sergeant. Thank you for checking in.” She hangs up the phone.

“Who was that, Bella?”

“A Sergeant Daniels from the Ann Arbor Police Department.”

I swallow.

“He wanted to make sure that you were home, Bea.”

I scramble. “Oh, yeah, Mom… the principal said they were going to make calls to some of the girls at school. You know, see if we’re okay.”

“Well, that’s above and beyond what I would expect. There has to be a thousand girls at your school,” Dad says, surprised.

“I think they’re only calling juniors and seniors.” I fake a yawn. “Well, I’d better go to bed. I’m exhausted. Good night.”

My mom squints at me, chews the side of her mouth. “Good night, Bea.”

I
wait on a bench in the Arts Quad. It’s one o’clock—Professor Woolf’s scheduled break. My tummy grumbles. I haven’t been able to eat a thing since last night. I’m afraid I’ll puke.

I have to be sure this time. I have to know, without a doubt! I can’t screw up again.

The door to the photography studio opens. Students pour out. He’s the last to leave, locking the door behind him. He wears a woolen cap and flips the collar up on his jacket, responding to the sudden chill in the air, and I follow him across North Campus, toward the student union.

He buys a prepackaged sandwich and a cup of coffee from a vendor and sits on a couch by a fake fireplace. He removes his coat, bites into the sandwich, sips his coffee, and stares at the fire.

I take a seat at a table across the hall from him, behind a potted plant. I open my sketchbook and peer through the
plastic leaves at his face. I draw his profile: dark sideburns that lead to a trimmed beard on a strong jaw, long nose, full lips. I scootch my chair a little to the left to get a good look at his face—his eyes. They’re set far apart under a heavy brow.

He looks up at a passing student, waves, mouths a “hi,” takes another bite of his sandwich, and then
… whoosh
—a hand, a man’s strong hand rushes in and takes hold of my brain.

It’s there, right in front of me—reaching out, touching, stroking something… what is it?

I begin to draw dark, tangled, wild lines on the paper, entwined in the hand. My head throbs with the image.

Oh my god.

I look down at the sketch.

Hair. He’s thinking of hair!
My
hair! Reaching for it… touching it!

I look up at the professor.

His lips curl like ugly, swollen worms, just like Willa described.

And he’s smiling at me…

I pull into my driveway, right behind my dad. He kisses my pounding head. “I saw you today on campus, Bea. It took a lot of control not to say hi to you. You looked good, walking around—comfortable. Did you get to see what you wanted?”

“I guess you could say that, yeah.”

Woolf’s creepy smile flashes in my head like a shorted-out neon light. My nerves still raw, I shiver, massage my temples.

“Yeah, it’s a little nippy out here.” My dad rubs my arms. “The weather’s crazy. Said it may snow tomorrow, can you believe that? It was in the sixties yesterday.”

“I know. It’s weird.”

“Come on, let’s go inside. I wonder what your mother’s up to, what she’s concocting.” He laughs.

We walk into the kitchen. It’s empty. No Mom, nothing burning on the stove.

“Guess we’re ordering in,” Dad says, taking off his coat. “Bella?”

We hear a wail, my mom’s voice coming from upstairs.

“Mom? Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Bella? You alright?”

We run up the stairs. My bedroom door is wide open, and my mom stands in my closet, pulling clothes off hangers, tossing shoes and purses over her shoulder.

“Holy Christ! What the hell are you doing, Mom? Why are you in my room, in my closet? And why are you making this mess?”

She doesn’t answer me—she continues on, pawing through my belongings.

“Bella! What in god’s name is going on here?”

“Mom! Get out of my closet!”

She turns. Her eyes are puffy and red from crying. “Why should I, Bea? Do you have something to hide in here? Do you?”

I’m confused as hell.

“Bella, what’s this all about?”

My mom falls to her knees on my closet floor. “She’s using again, Richard. She’s using!”

I’m shocked into silence—incredulous silence.

“Bella!” my dad protests.

“Richard!” Snot runs down her face and spit sprays out of her mouth as she holds out two pills. “I found these in an envelope in her purse!”

The two pink pills—the ones Marcus wanted me to take that night.

Damn him! He dropped them in my bag!

“What are they, huh? Tell me!” she sobs.

“Oh, Bea.” My dad crumbles down on my bed, his head in his hands.

“Shit, Mom, Dad,” I stammer. “I don’t know what they are—probably downers, and they’ve probably been in there for a while, from before. Flush them down the toilet, I don’t care! I’m not using!”

Mom stands, points an accusing finger at me. “I knew something was going on! I knew it. You’ve been acting shady lately.”

“Mom, please stop. You have to believe me! Please!”

But she continues on. “I’ve noticed a police car driving
by, looking at our house, the past week. And that phone call last night? From the sergeant? What was that all about, huh?”

“Mom, I can explain…”

“Richard, are you ready for this? The principal of her school left a message saying that Bea never showed up to her homeroom during the lockdown yesterday. He said that this is her second strike! She’s already been called into his office once before. One more time, and he’ll have to reconsider her enrollment!”

“Bea! What did you do? What’s your mother talking about?”

“Yeah, what am I talking about?” My mother wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Give me your phone.”

“No. I’m not giving you my phone!”

She yanks my purse from my arms, pulls out my phone, and scrolls through the calls. “Aha! You called him—you called Marcus last night! I knew it!” She shoves the phone at my face. “Explain that!”

“Mom, yes, I called Marcus, you’re right. But it was a mistake. I knew it as soon as I did it, and I hung up. Look at the time—the call was one second. I didn’t talk to him!”

“You called him, Bea!”

“Give me the cup—I’ll pee in it, take a hair sample, whatever. I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

“You’re damn right you will! I have a blood test scheduled for you first thing tomorrow morning so you can’t fake it.”

“Fine! Then you’ll see that I’m telling the truth!”

“And I’m taking your keys.” My mother grabs them out of my purse.

“What? My keys, why?”

“Because you’re grounded, that’s why! And don’t try and sneak out like you used to. We’re setting the alarm on the house tonight, and I changed the code.”

“Dad, please.” Now I start the hysterics. “Why is she doing this? Mom, not my keys, I need my car…”

“Bella, aren’t you overreacting a bit? Let’s wait for the test results.”

“Overreacting? You want to see overreacting, Dick?”

She picks up my bedside lamp, pulls it out of its socket, and throws it across the room. It shatters against the wall. “That’s overreacting!”

“Bella, come on!”

“No,
you
come on!” Mom’s rage is now directed at my dad. “I almost lost her once, Richard! I’m not going to sit around ignoring all the signs right in front of my nose, like
you
did before, and risk losing her again! No. Never. Never again!” She turns to me. “Do you hear me? I can’t lose you. I just can’t.” She storms out of the room, marches down the hallway to her bedroom, and slams the door shut.

I can see my dad thinking, trying to sort through all the rubble, the emotional debris in front of him—his large, praying hands poised at his pursed lips, his eyes closed.

“Dad, I need my car. Please talk to her,” I plead.

He looks at me, his eyes dripping with disappointment, and he nods. “We’ll get the blood test tomorrow. That’s what we’ll do. And then we’ll see about your car.”

He leaves my room and closes the door.

God damn you, Marcus!

A couple of hours pass, and my closet is back in order. I feel like a caged animal and have arranged my clothes by color, my shoes by heel height, my accessories alphabetically by the last name of the designer. I pick up the pieces of the broken lamp and toss them into the trash can. I remake my bed, fluff the pillows, collapse, and smell hot dogs and beans.

My mom must still be holed up in her room, because Dad is making his favorite supper—the only thing he knows how to cook—hot dogs and beans. He knows I’m a sucker for that dinner (a welcome relief, not having garlic), and I’m sure this is his way of trying to lure me down to the kitchen table to talk about the damn pills.

A tap on my door. He pokes his head in. “Franks and beans, Bea. Join me?”

“I don’t feel like eating,” I say, starved.

He walks in, his head hanging low, and picks up the trash can with the broken lamp pieces. “Well, I’ll make a tray for you in the kitchen, just in case.” He closes my door, and I hear him set the alarm.

I sit down on my bed and write: