Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (3 page)

I texted the Sarge, tipping him off, and Santa’s break was interrupted as he attempted to tuck the sixty-dollar clutch into his black patent leather, silver-buckled belt. He was quietly and calmly taken aside and arrested; and I’m sure Mrs. Claus must have been disappointed, because the clutch went back to the window display.

The other case I helped crack involved insurance fraud. The image of water
whooshed
, flooding through me when I searched a plastic surgeon assistant’s eyes—cascaded down like a waterfall. Sergeant Daniels pressed her with this information, and she caved—blurted it all out. Her boss was hiding away in an Upper Peninsula cabin near the Tahquamenon Falls (they were bonking each other, too).

But today is a first. . . . In the police station. Wow.

6 days
15 hours
55 minutes

I
pull my rusted-out, kick-ass Volvo sedan into the parking lot. I’m in my second semester of my senior year at the local public school, Packard High. The name is appropriate, because it’s packed with over two thousand (mostly) high students. I’ve been here ever since I was expelled from a very elite private school, Athena Day School for Girls, because of my gnarly drug problem (and a messy incident at a rave in Detroit last summer). I was thrown into rehab for three months and then deposited here, at Packrat High—as Chris calls it.

I really don’t want to do this high school thing anymore—get up every morning and deal with another day of the
shoulds
. I’m
so
done and have no idea how I’m going to trudge through the bullshit sludge of the next month and a half. I wish it were just senioritis. But I know it’s not. It’s an ’itis, for sure, though—malignant, doesn’t have a cure—and is spreading fast through my body.

I free-fall into a fit of sneezing, my car swerves, and I almost wipe out a gaggle of geeky freshmen from the birdwatcher’s club. They appropriately flip me the bird. I wave an apology. “Sorry, didn’t mean to almost kill you.”

Damn.
My nose won’t stop running. I feel for the box of Kleenex sitting next to me, shotgun. The box is empty. I dart my eyes at all the junk in the backseat. My car has been sort of a mobile locker for the last year—school stuff, odds and ends, and half my closet lives back there. I rustle through books, papers, a pair of jeans that are way too big for me (I cuff them high on my shins and cinch them around my waist when I’m feeling a bloated day coming on), empty Styrofoam coffee cups, Chris’s extra-large hoodie, red high-top sneakers that look wicked good with my shredded jean miniskirt—but I can’t find a tissue. I get my hand around a roll of toilet paper—try to remember why it’s there . . . actually, on second thought, don’t want to—and tear off a few squares, roll the end of the tissue into a ball, and stick it up my nostril—shove it in like a tampon. Not a pretty sight, but it does the trick, and then I park in the designated senior lot.

Chris is standing behind his car, madly sucking face with his boyfriend, Ian, a junior, and, LOL, the guy he wants me to draw because he’s afraid he
isn’t into him
anymore.

Chris jumps as I toot my horn, and he smooths the long side of his hair. He was there, holding my hand, supporting me when I decided to let my mom buzz me last fall—again, long story—so he decided to let her cut his. But he chickened
out mid-buzz, so baby-fine, bleach-blond hair hangs straight, tucked behind one ear, and the other side he keeps short.

I roll down my window (yes, roll . . . that’s how old the car is). “Jesus, get a room, you two,” I joke.

“What the hell is up your nose?” Chris asks, lifting the camera that hangs around his neck—always (he wears it like an accessory, and is an awesome photographer)—and snaps a picture.

“Toilet paper.”

“Hah,” he mocks. “I knew you were full of shit.”

I stick my tongue out at him, and he shoots another pic.

Ian’s red bangs fall down into his freckled face—his blue eyes are thinly lined with black. “You guys act like you’re two.”

“Do not,” I say.

“Do too,” Chris parries.

“Nice Guyliner, Ian,” I say.

He punches Chris’s shoulder. “Told you it looked good.”

“What does she know?” Chris says.

I get in his face and cross my eyes. “Everything, you moron.”

Click, click.
“Yeah . . . full of shit, like I said.” He leans in, whispers, “I don’t know . . . what do you think—is Ian acting different?”

“Stop being so paranoid, dude,” I whisper back.

“Dang. I love those bell-bottoms you have on, Bea,” Ian says as we walk toward the school.

“Yeah, they’re so wide, you could hide small children under them.” Chris laughs.

“Groovy, aren’t they? Vintage sixties—from Leila’s place.” I remove the snot-ridden clump from my nose and toss it in the trash. “Damn these allergies. To hell with those bees and their sex lives.”

“Speaking of a Bea’s sex life, how’s Wendell?” Chris nudges me.

I sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t seem to be ready for that yet.”

“Are you kidding me? He’s like a god.” Ian fans himself.

Chris’s brow furrows.

“He is, isn’t he?” I shrug my shoulders. “It’s weird—but it doesn’t feel . . . right. Not with him at least.” I mumble the last part.

“I heard that. What do you mean
at least
? You got someone else goin’ on? Let me see your phone.” He shoves his hand in my purse.

“Stop it.” I slap him away.

“Why? What’s on it that you don’t want me to see—who’ve you called, huh?”

“Nobody.” I can’t help smiling. But, I don’t want him to see the texts from Sergeant Daniels.

The bell rings on the prison yard, and students scurry out of their cars, from behind cinder-block walls, up from the bleachers in the football stadium, out of parked school buses. Clouds of cigarette and marijuana smoke hover, dissipate, floating up into the sky as they approach the sprawling redbrick walls of higher learning . . .
not.

I wave and mouth
hi
at the security camera tucked away
on the ceiling as we enter the heavy metal doors. Principal Nathanson monitors the camera every morning like an SS guard. Who knows what he’s scanning for or what he’d do if he actually saw someone smuggling something bad in the school. I could be hiding a couple bricks of weed under the bells of my bottoms, and he wouldn’t have a clue.

“I’ll see you at lunch?” Chris pinches Ian’s ass.

“If you’re lucky.” Ian winks and walks off.

Chris bites his knuckles. “God, I love him so much it hurts. Who do you think he’s into?”

“
You
, you idiot. You were all over each other in the parking lot, sheesh.” I open my locker and brace myself for the crap that will undoubtedly fall out.

Books, shoes, art supplies, and my crumpled PE T-shirt tumble toward me. “Oh, cool. I was looking for that.” I toss the tee into my bag, shove the rest of the shit back in my locker, and slam it shut. “The coach said I’d get a detention if I forgot my uniform again.”

“How the hell do you know where anything is, Bea?”

“I don’t. I’ve given up trying to control things. I figure if it’s meant to be in my life, it’ll surface somehow, right?” I wipe my runny nose on the sleeve of my sweater.

“Bea! Chris!” Willa Pressman, wearing her cheerleading uniform, prances up to us, her sleek, blond ponytail swaying back and forth like a palomino’s tail.

“Hey, Willa.”

She gives me a once-over, scans me up and down like I’m a
bar code, then pulls a compact box of tissues out of her purse and hands it to me.

“See, Chris? Meant to be.” I blow my nose. “Allergies,” I say to Willa.

She then pulls out a large bottle of hand sanitizer from her rolling backpack, obviously not believing me. “You should keep this on you at all times.” And then she gives me a European air-kiss on both cheeks. It’s a greeting all the cheerleaders have adopted, and weirdly, somehow, I’ve been included in the ritual—accepted in the pack, whether I like it or not. Very odd—me being a part of the rah-rah crowd. I’ve always been an outcast, made fun of by those types. But Willa accepted me into her world, and that meant everybody else has to, because she’s, like, the school rock star.

Got to give props to her, though, because rock star or not, Willa went through hell and back last fall, surviving the brutal beating and rape in September and kicking a wicked drug and alcohol problem in the butt (she’s been sober almost six months—a little longer than me). Now she flits around the school, organizes dances, manages clubs, and tirelessly works every week on a rape hotline. It’s hard to keep up with her.

The rest of the uniformed pack approaches.

“Hi, Bea.” Sarah waves a curled pinky. “Mwaa.” Air-kiss #2 for the day.

“Hey, girlfriend.” Eva Marie hip-butts me. Air kiss #3.

The girls finish their mimed greetings (very sanitary, if you
think about it) and hand Willa the floor. “Listen up. A special person is turning eighteen next week . . .”

Oh no, she remembered. Please, Willa, don’t make a big deal.
But why am I surprised? She probably has the birth date of every person in the whole school neatly filed away in the contact app on her phone. All eyes are now on me, and I’m expecting a piñata or disco ball to break through the heavens and descend upon us.

Instead, Willa’s asshole boyfriend, Zac—unfortunately my neighbor—joins us, leans against a locker, and pulls her in, wrapping his thick, hairy arms around her waist.

He’s King Jock Itch here at Packard High—the star wrestler, with season record-breaking pins. Full of BS, he somehow successfully pins down teachers and Principal Nathanson, talking them into passing grades with a wink and a flex, and, unbelievably, he aced the SAT—a nearly perfect score. He won’t shut up about it.

“What are you all talking about, huh?” Zac’s smile disappears when he sees that I’m part of the crowd. And then his jaw does this weird twitchy thing—seems to happen whenever he sees me. It spasms like an imaginary tie is tightening around his neck.

“Your SAT score, of course.” Chris falsely swoons. “What else is there to talk about?”

“Fuck off, dweeb.” Zac flicks the words out at Chris like he’s toe fungus.

“That’s enough, you two.” Willa stands on tiptoe and kisses Zac on the cheek. “We were talking about Bea’s birthday, and I was thinking we could pull together a little party . . .”

“No, really, Willa, that isn’t necessary,” I mutter.

“Of course it is.” She checks the calendar on her phone, flipping her finger through dates as if she’s conducting the string section of an orchestra . . . up-tempo. “I have the evening of the seventh free. That would be the day before your birthday, but you wouldn’t mind that, would you, Bea?”

“Uh, I think I have plans that day,” Zac, the jerk, spits out.

“Oh, well, maybe another day, then . . . ,” she says, her calendar closed, eyes on Zac.

This is so not cool.
Truthfully? I wanted to enjoy the fuss over the planning, the stress of it all for just a second, at least, so I could say no, try and talk Willa out of it, complain to Chris, and then despair for days over what I should wear.

I love Willa. Really, I do. But her choice in men? Majorly flawed—big time. Unfortunately, boyfriends seem to be her new drug of choice, and she has absolutely no bullshit radar.

Last semester, when she was stoned out of her mind, she dated the captain of the football team, Jackass Jones. (Okay, I added the ass part, but he was—and still is.) By the time Willa came back to school from rehab, he was dating skanky Scarlett Ross. Willa pretended it didn’t hurt her feelings and bought them a Hallmark card congratulating them on their relationship.

Personally, I would have castrated the guy. Come to think
of it, Jack has been kind of castrated, at least online. He was defriended by almost everybody. But the next week? Willa was
in love
with Rob.
Bea, he’s so dreamy, he’s the greatest.
That lasted only about two weeks, before she moved on to my jerky neighbor.

“Come on, Willa, let’s go,” Zac demands, pulling her arm.

“We’re going to be late for art class, you guys,” Eva Marie says, scooting down the hall.

“I’m going to have to miss it. There’s a special student council meeting.” Willa gazes proudly at Zac. “Tell them what you’re doing, babe.”

“Um, I’m talking to the juniors—giving them tips on taking the SAT.” He tightens the imaginary tie again.

“Oh, yeah. Ian told me about it.” Chris mimes a gagging gesture.

Zac sneers and walks away. Willa follows.

“Major douche,” Chris says as we hurry to class.

“I know. I have no idea what she sees in him.”

“Probably six to eight inches.” Chris gestures the length with his hands.

“Oh my god, you whore.” I slug him. “But you know something? I miss her—hanging with her.”

“You miss the Willa that needed you.”

“You’re probably right. And she
so
doesn’t need me anymore; that’s for sure.”

Chris wraps his arm around my shoulder. “You did a great thing for her.”

“I just wish she didn’t need a boyfriend to rely on.”

“Well, she does. Not everyone’s strong like my best buddy.”

Mrs. Hogan, our art teacher, jumps up from her chair as we enter the room. “Bea, there you are!” She wears a few hats at the school. Not only is she the art teacher, she’s also the counselor, nurse, librarian—and no, she doesn’t wear the hats very well. Her eyes lit up once she found out that I was “an artist” (
oh my gosh, Bea, you can draw
), realizing that she could spend fifty minutes every Wednesday and Friday reading trashy novels or gossip mags, pretending that she had sick students to tend to or library books to check out (even though most kids don’t read books here and certainly have never checked anything out of a library).

She hands me her thick paperback textbook. “I have to see a couple students in the office. They think they have mono.”

“It’s probably allergies,” I say, blowing my nose.

“You think you could get the class started on the new-expressions chapter?”

“New expressions?” It sounds like a cheesy choral group. “Neo-expressionism, you mean?”