Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (18 page)

“With my schedule? I’ll be lucky if I see Max once a month—and weeknight visits—those will never happen. Do you know that last time I was there, picking him up? I actually heard him call the other guy
daddy
.”

“Ouch. So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet, except enjoy every minute I have with him. I’m thinking of taking him to the new aquarium on Belle Isle this week, on my day off.”

“This week?” I hold my breath.

He puts his hand on top of mine, like he’s reading my mind. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you on your birthday.”

“You mean follow me on my birthday.” I work up a smile.

He takes his warm hand off mine and stuffs it in his pocket. And I find myself suddenly jealous of the damn pocket.

“I’d better get back to work—I do that, you know, work.”

“I know, I know. It just seems to take so long to get anything done. You think you could give me a ride back to my car at Skyline?”

“Will you go straight home from there?”

I nod. “Are you going to check on the ceiling tile?”

“I will, if you promise me something.”

“What?”

“That you’ll never lie to me again. Promise?”

“I swear, never again.”

“And no more track practice with those kids.”

“Hell, no. I don’t think I could run, anyway, the way my knee is.” So,
maybe I’ll tag instead
.

1 day
5 hours
45 minutes

I
don’t see her car in the drive. I guess she’s not home from Chicago yet. That means no explanation about what I’m wearing or the bloody bandaged knee. But more important, it means I won’t have to deal with the wrath of Mom for making her lose her job—or more accurately, for the truth of
why
she lost her job.

I start up the stairs.

“Why did you do it, Bea?”

I peek around the corner and see her in the dining room, her back to me. She’s wearing her overalls, standing on a chair, painting, covering the full wall—all the way up to the ceiling.

“Mom. I didn’t know you were home. Where’s your car?”

“In the shop. It needed an oil change after the long drive.” Her right hand flings a swirl of angry black paint at a scary face—a mouth screaming, wide open, bloodshot eyes—a hand pulling at hair. Not exactly a children’s mural. Far from it.

“How was Chicago?”

“Fine. Give me a cigarette.”

“What?” I feel my face flush. “I quit.”

“Bull. I saw a pack in your purse the other day.”

“Okay,” I fess up. “But I’m cutting back. They don’t really help with my allergies.”
Or my running.

“So, give me one.” She holds out her hand from behind her.

“But you don’t smoke.”

“I have been lately. Been lifting a few from your bag.”

“Mom.”

She snaps her fingers.

“Fine.” I pull the pack out of my backpack and hand her one.

She steps off the chair, turns, and faces me. “I need a light.”

I flick my Bic. She inhales. “I hope you do quit.” She ironically exhales. “Your father and I hate that you picked up that habit back in rehab last year.” She taps ash into a coffee mug and sits. “What are you wearing? And what happened to your knee?”

“I fell.”

“Why did you do it, Beatrice?”

“What?” I play dumb. “Fall?”

“You know what I mean.”

“You tell me what I know.”

“Mr. Connelly told me what you said to him.”

“You mean Michael?”

“It wasn’t appropriate.”

“Appropriate? Are you kidding me? Like you have the right to tell me what’s appropriate, Mom?” I pull up a chair and sit across from her. Our eyes are level. “Do you still love Dad?”

She abruptly stands, facing the wall, dangling the cigarette in her mouth, and adds a bloodred flame shooting out of the snaggle-toothed monster.

“Why do you want to hurt him?”

“I don’t.”

“Then why?”

“Why what?” she growls, throwing her paintbrush down on the floor. I watch the red paint bleed into the beige carpet.

“Why are you cheating on him?”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand the whole situation, Bea.”

“Explain it to me then.” I stand. “I’m going to be eighteen . . . an adult. Stop babying me, okay?”

“I don’t baby you.”

“Yes, you do. You treat me like I’m handicapped. I messed up. I admit it. But I’ve been working like a dog to try and prove to you and Dad that I can stand on my own two feet.”

She faces me, her eyes filled with tears. “You have, and I’m proud of you.”

“Good, I’m glad you are, because after graduation I want to get an apartment and move out—live on my own.”

“What?” She takes a step toward me. “No. No. We need each other. We only have each other.”

“Uh-uh, Mom.
You
need me. You need something else in your life other than your stupid murals. Is that why you’re fooling around with that guy?”

“Oh my god, will you stop that? I’m not fooling around with him.”

“Yeah, right. The way you’ve been acting, and . . . those jeans you were wearing . . .”

“Those jeans mean nothing.”

“You tell Dad the truth, or I will,” I threaten.

She drops her cigarette into a coffee cup. It sizzles in the pooled dregs.

Her phone buzzes. She doesn’t answer—doesn’t even look at it.

“Is that him? Is that Mike?”

She closes her eyes.

“Go ahead. . . . Answer it. I don’t care. I don’t care anymore what you do.” I run upstairs, take a quick shower—douse my hair with her expensive olive oil—line my eyes with dark, heavy makeup, slip on a maxi dress, jean jacket, and cowboy boots, and grab a suitcase from my closet.
I’ll move in with Chris. That’s what I’ll do. I can’t stay here any longer, with her lying to me, to Dad. . . . I can’t.

My phone rings. It’s Chris:

Me: I was just thinking about you . . .

Chris:
Bea.

Me: I can hardly hear you. You okay?

Chris: No. I’m hurt. I got jumped.

Me: What? Oh my god! Where are you?

Chris: St. Joe’s. Emergency. Please. Come.

1 day
4 hours
40 minutes

I
rush into St. Joseph’s emergency room and am instantly hit with the thick air of pain, worry, and sadness. A family huddles in the corner, crying deep, gut-level sobs. An old lady, who doesn’t smell exactly fresh, is sprawled on two plastic chairs, sleeping, snoring away, plastic bags packed with stuff tightly clutched in her hands. A man in a hospital gown is yelling at the receptionist, “I’ve been waiting for three hours!”

I approach a nurse . . . or doctor. I have no idea who this woman is, but she acts important—wears a white coat and carries a clipboard.

“I’m looking for a patient. Chris Mayes.”

“Uh-huh.” She walks fast across the speckled tile floor of the hallway.

I follow. “He’s been beat up. I don’t know where he is.”

“Bea?” I hear a weak voice coming from down the hall, ten feet ahead.

Chris sits upright on a gurney in the hallway, his bare legs dangling. Half of his head is patched with blood-stained gauze. The other side of his blond hair is tinted red.

I rush to him. Hug him. “Chris.”

“Ouch.” He winces.

I pull back. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

“I’m okay, Bea. It looks worse than it is. Just a couple cuts they had to stitch up—thankfully, it was the short side, ’cause they had to buzz it.”

“But there’s so much blood.”

“They said the head bleeds a lot, I guess. And I’m waiting for them to X-ray my ribs.”

The blood, the smell . . . makes me want to throw up.

The disgust must register on my face because Chris says, “I’m sorry I called you.”

“No. No. Don’t be sorry. I’m here for you. What can I do? You need something?”

“A ride home? They’ve given me some stuff. I don’t think I should drive.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, of course. But what about your parents?”

“Thank god I’m eighteen. They didn’t have to call them. No way will they understand. I’ll tell them I fell off the uneven bars, trying out for gymnastics, or something.”

“Yeah. Right. That’ll fly. . . . You fell into shards of glass.”

“Bea. Stop. Please, don’t make jokes.”

“What about Ian?”

“We broke up.”

“What? Oh, no . . .”

“Yeah, I think that hurts more than my wounds. He needs space, he said.”

“Oh, Chris.” I gingerly hug him. “Who beat you up? Tell me.”

He covers his face with his hand. “It all happened so fast. I messed up. I should have listened to you. I shouldn’t have said anything . . . but I had to. He was in the library, holding court, bragging about his stupid SAT score.”

“No, Chris, don’t tell me . . . Zac . . .”

“I was so upset with the Ian thing. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t say I knew. I whispered something stupid like, ‘Why don’t we ask Billy what he thinks about your score?’ ”

My stomach drops. “Oh, no . . . why did I tell you? I never should’ve.”

“It happened really fast. All I remember is that I was in the school parking lot, unlocking my car, and then something crashed over my head. I think it was a glass bottle, and I guess I went down when he kicked me. I remember crawling into the driver’s seat, and I somehow got my ass here.”

“Mayes. Chris Mayes?” A guy in a blue uniform calls out.

“Here.” Chris raises his hand like it’s roll call at school.

The orderly walks over. “We’ll be taking you up to radiation for an X-ray soon. Lie back,” he orders.

Chris does, holding onto my hand as if we’re in one of those
sappy movies—like he’s going into some major surgery and was given crappy odds. He’s rolled ten feet into a sterile room, with three curtained-off cubicles. An old man moans through the thin curtain; he’s mumbling something about Jell-O.

A girl—I think I recognize her from rehab last summer, but hope not, because she’s totally high out of her mind, laughing and dancing with her curtain as if it’s a ball gown, exposing her butt cheeks, chewing a wad of tobacco, and spitting onto the floor. “Isn’t this friggin’ amazing? It’s like, oh my god, I love the music.”

There’s no music playing.

We reach Chris’s designated corner. I sit on a folding chair, try to make myself comfortable—impossible, to say the least.

Chris’s bottom lip quivers. Tears drip down his cheeks. I lean over and wipe them with a tissue.

“I loved Ian.”

I squeeze his hand. “I know you did, but he’s not good enough for you. You’re going to meet a ton of hotties at school and you won’t want to be attached to a high schooler . . . it’ll be open season for you.”

He forces the corners of his mouth to curl. “You’re probably right . . . as always.”

“But, that ass, Zac. . . . I feel like killing him, or hiring someone to beat the crap out of him.” A fabulous fantasy flashes through my mind for a second: Reyna and Roxanne rabidly chewing, gnawing on his bloody carcass.

“Leave it alone, Bea. Like you told me to. He’s a monster. I don’t want you to get hurt, too.”

No way am I going to leave it alone; no way.

The old man suddenly yells, “And whip cream on top, the fresh kind. None of that Cool Whip stuff.”

A girl who looks younger than me parts the curtain. “Hi. I’m Dr. Mendez.” She introduces herself. “And you are?”

I stand, towering over her, and I’m only five foot five. “I’m Beatrice Washington. And this is my best friend Chris Mayes.”

“Very nice to meet you both.”

“Is he okay?” I barrel past the how-do-you-do’s.

She leafs through what I assume is his chart—a clipboard filled with three inches of paper.

“Hasn’t he only been here a couple hours? I mean, what are you doing? Don’t look at those papers . . . look at him.”

“Bea, stop,” Chris pleads. “Let the doctor do her job.”

Dr. Mendez ignores me. “Mr. Mayes, I’m going to ask you to roll over to your left side. From what this paperwork says”—she throws that in my face at a speed of ninety miles per hour—“it seems one of your ribs may be bruised—hopefully not fractured.”

Chris complies, winces.

“Please, Bea,” he whispers. “Don’t tell anyone he did this. Please, let it go.”

I lean into my friend and hold his hand, kiss his tears.

The doc finishes her exam. “The orderly will bring you up
to radiology. It’ll take about an hour,” she says in a brusque tone, and disappears through the curtain.

“You’ll wait here, right, Bea? You’ll stay?”

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.” The orderly whips open the curtain, raises the railing on Chris’s bed, and starts rolling him out of the room.

I peek in on the old man. “I’ll check on the Jell-O.”

“Whip cream,” he yells as I leave the room, “the real stuff!”

“Annie?” I part the curtain. She’s sleeping. I read her clipboard hung on the base of her bed.
Damn.
It is her. The Annie from rehab. Her drug of choice was heroin, smack. She’s one of the nice ones, incredibly sweet when she was sober. And smart—damn, she was one of the most well-read teens I’ve ever met. She loves poetry and quoted Emily Dickinson all the time. Not in a snobbish way—she just got it, life, deeper than anybody else.

It’s that depth, the ability to touch stuff that most don’t see, don’t even know is there. . . . It’s scary, lonely, and can take you down into the hole.

I’ve never met a stupid addict.