Sketchy (17 page)

Eve comes flying out the school doors and dashes over to her.

Amanda takes the pad of paper off my lap and walks up to the woman. “She did. She took Maisy. Bea drew her.”

The mom sinks to her knees. She holds the drawing, wipes tears from her eyes. “But… that looks just like my sister-in-law.” She drops the sketch, pulls her phone out of her purse, and dials. “Grace? Grace, listen… did you happen to pick up Maisy today?” She listens, nods, exhaling with relief and smiles. Tears flood her eyes again, and she hangs up. “It’s okay, it’s all okay. It’s her son’s birthday party this afternoon—Maisy’s cousin. She told my husband that she was going to pick up Maisy a little early. But I guess he forgot to tell me. I’m so sorry I put you through this.”

Eve sits down on a bench, fanning herself as if she might pass out.

The mom turns to me. “How did you know to draw my sister-in-law? Did you see her?”

“No. She was in the classroom with me.” Eve looks at me, puzzled. “How
did
you know it was her?”

I shrug. “I just listened to them—the kids. They told me what to draw.”

A cop car pulls into the parking lot. Detective Cole charges out.

“I called the police,” Eve says to us, “just in case.”

“What do we have going on here, ladies?” He sees me. “What are you doing here?” He looks at Eve. “What’s she doing here?”

“She works here, why?”

“Did she have anything to do with this incident? Did you?” He fires a look at me.

“Yes, actually, she did. She drew this.” Maisy’s mom hands him the sketch. “It’s my sister-in-law. She’s the one who took my daughter.”

“I’m so sorry I called you here, officer. It was a misunderstanding,” Eve adds.

“The little girl is fine?” He squints at me.

“Thanks to Bea.” Eve sighs.

I lay a big, fat, triumphant grin on the detective.

Police lights flash and a siren blares behind me as I drive home.

Shit! I shouldn’t have rolled through that stop sign.

I pull over in a diner parking lot and dig through my glove compartment, looking for my insurance card and registration.

I sigh.
Just what I need! A ticket!

Tap tap tap.
Sergeant Daniels stands at my car window.

I open it. “What are you doing here? You’re not a traffic cop. If it’s about the stop sign back there…”

“Forget the stop sign. I need to talk to you.”

“You couldn’t find a better way than to pull me over? Christ. You scared me.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Wait. Are you following me?”

“No, don’t be silly, I’m not following you.”

“Really?”

“You feel like a coffee, a pop?” He points at the diner. “I need to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Or would you rather talk in my car?”

Hell, no.
“Fine.”

We walk through the parking lot, he opens the door for me, and I sit on a stool at the counter.

“Why don’t we take a booth?” he says, already heading toward one.

“Guess I don’t have a choice.” I sit down across from him. A girl, Emily, who I recognize from my physics class, takes our order.

Great, I’m sure she’ll blab about me talking to a cop, start a new rumor that I’ve been arrested or something.
“I’ll have a Diet Coke, Emily, thanks.” I smile, not getting one in return.

“Make it two,” the sergeant adds. He waits for her to leave, then leans in toward me, lowering his voice. “So, listen, talk to me more about that thing you do.”

“That thing I do? I told you everything this morning—but probably shouldn’t have. It just happens sometimes.”

“Detective Cole told me what happened at the preschool today—that you drew the woman who took the kid.”

“Yeah, you should have seen the look on his face. Priceless!”

“How? How does it happen? How do you know what to draw?”

“I don’t know, I just see it.”

“It’s… unreal how you drew him, my son, Max.”

“So, do you believe me now? That sketch of the rapist?”

“Miss Washington, listen to me. This is important. Unless Willa changes her story and confirms that the face you drew is the guy who raped her, there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.
She
has to be the one to make a positive identification, not you.”

“But it’s true about Willa. I’m not lying.”

“I know you’re not, now. I don’t understand how you do it, but I believe you. That’s why I wanted to see you—to tell you that.”

“So you
were
following me!”

His face reddens. Emily sets down our Cokes.

I stir my straw. “I have a confession to make.”

“Uh-oh.”

“You know, we met before—you and I.”

He nods with acknowledgment. “At that all-girls school last year. I was a detective—canine unit.”

“Get out. You remember me?”

“Yes, I remember you. You’re the one who hightailed it out of the room when Sally the beagle bayed at you.”

“So, you knew I had drugs on me?”

He nods. “I suspected it.”

“Well, why didn’t you do anything? I mean, you could have had me arrested.”

“We did do something, Sally and me. After the assembly, she sniffed down the school. Wasn’t hard to find. A bathroom trash can—not too clever.”

“But you knew it was me.”

“I had a hunch but couldn’t prove it.” He puts his hand on top of mine—makes eye contact. “And it’s a dangerous thing to act on hunches—you have to have proof, Bea, understand?”

I smile at him using my first name and then free-fall into his Caribbean Sea green eyes. And I’m without words—a first for me. A warm buzz vibrates in my belly, and it’s not about Marcus, it’s not drug-related. It takes me totally by surprise and stops my breath. I’m afraid to exhale. Afraid to move into the next moment. Neither of us breaks the stare. Neither of us breathes.

“You want a refill?” Emily asks.

We both exhale. The sergeant sits back in the booth. “No thanks,” he answers, looking at his watch. “I have to pick up Max soon.”

“Yeah, and I’d better get home before my mom calls the police.”

“Funny.” Daniels pays the bill and walks me out to my car.

We avoid eye contact. “Good-bye.” He hops in his car and drives off.

“Bye.”

A cop? Are you kidding me?

F
riday after school, my dad takes me to his campus for the tour. He is pumped, walking and talking a little faster than normal. I dress “properly” for him, wearing practical UGG boots.

I’ve been here, visiting him at work a gazillion times over the years, but he still insists on an exhausting tour of the full seven-hundred-acre campus. We finally sit on a stone bench, and he drones on and on about the Art and Architecture Building that stands in front of us. I try to stifle my yawns.

“I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

“No, no. Not at all.”

“Okay, I’ll stop talking. Your turn. Why don’t you share a little with me. Tell me what you’ve been doing at school.”

“Not much, Dad. It’s just school, not too exciting.”

“Well, how about your art class? Are you doing anything interesting there?”

“Not really, no.”

“But you’re an artist. Aren’t you working on something, drawing anything?”

“Well, yeah, Dad, I draw in my sketchbook.”

“Can I see some of your work?”

“I don’t know, it’s kind of rough—you know, work in progress.”

He laughs. “I understand. I used to be the same way. I didn’t want to share my work until I was satisfied with it… which wasn’t often.”

I kick at a clump of dead sod, look at him. “I remember you drawing in our loft in Chicago.”

“You do? That was so long ago.”

“Why did you stop? You’ve never explained it. You never talk about it.”

He doesn’t answer, just stares ahead at the Art and Architecture Building.

“Dad?”

“Today is about
you.
” He stands. “Let’s walk over to the studios. Come on. I happen to have a little surprise for you.”

“Do we have to? You know I hate surprises.”

“Too late. I’ve arranged for you to sit in on a life drawing class with one of the most revered art professors we have here at the University of Michigan.”

I sigh as we walk to the Art and Architecture Building, down a long hallway, and into a cavernous art studio. Easels are arranged in a circle, and it’s pin-drop quiet except for the sound of students drawing, erasing, and shading on paper.

“Bea, I’d like you to meet Professor Wright.”

I shake the professor’s crooked hand. He’s at least one hundred years old and bent over so far that he can’t make eye contact with me. “Welcome, Bea. Welcome to life drawing,” he says to the floor.

They walk me over to an empty stool in front of an easel. Dad settles in on a chair behind me, smiling—so awkward. I hand him my coat and try to act the way any other seventeen-year-old who doesn’t want to be here would act.

A model walks to the center of the room, and the lights dim. She disrobes and steps up onto a raised platform, lies down, and a spot lights her as she strikes a pose. With my charcoal pencil in hand, a visual drops in, nudges me.

This isn’t the only venue where she strips. I could easily draw her in a cheap, smoky lounge, pole dancing. But I don’t. I erase the bad girl out of my head and concentrate on the present—the respectable, probably boring good-girl side of her life—here in Professor Wright’s life drawing class.

I try to capture every detail: her slender right arm draped over her face, her fingers dripping like icicles, her ample left breast falling to her side like a weighted sandbag, the indentation in her soft belly leading to her navel, the curve of her hips tapering down to bony knees, her arched foot, the bunion on her big toe. I draw it all. And have to admit, it’s fun.

The session ends. The lights come up. The model slips on her robe and leaves.

Professor Wright lifts his head with effort and studies my drawing. He releases what sounds like a satisfied sigh, and I can feel my dad smiling behind me. The two of them then exchange an inordinate amount of nodding—a silent professorial language between them.

I thank the professor for his time. Hard of hearing, he answers, “It’s five-thirty.”

“You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?” My dad preens as he buys me a cup of coffee in the student commons.

“I did, yeah, sorta.”

“Professor Wright, now
he
would be a great mentor for you, Bea. You’d learn so much from him.”

“If he makes it through the year.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dad, he’s ancient.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry, we do have a few younger instructors here. Would you like to meet a couple of them?”

“No, no, Dad. Thanks. I’m good—pretty pooped out.” I stretch my arms. “It’s been a long day. Can we go home now?”

He stirs his coffee, and we sit at a table. “I thought you’d enjoy this. See what could be your future.”

“You mean, what could be
your
future—seeing me here. I’m not sure about college, you know that.”

He sighs.

“Not yet, Dad, okay? I need some time.”

“I know, I know. But I’m so proud of you, of your talent. I want to show it off—watch it grow.”

“I’ll always have it—the talent. It’s not going away.”

He nods. “It won’t, you’re right.”

“Home?” I plead. “I’m hungry.”

“Okay, we can go. But first I need to pick up some spray paint for your mother.” He stands. “I pay for it, Bea, you know that, right? The supplies I bring home?”

“Of course you do, Dad. I know.”

I follow him down a dark metal stairway in an old building off the Arts Quad. He jingles a ring of keys at the bottom of the stairs.

“Jesus. You have enough keys there?”

“I know. It’s cumbersome, but it comes with the job.” He unlocks the door to a supply storage room, and the smell hits me—the familiar and satisfying smell of paper, paint, and graphite. Shelves of supplies are stacked ceiling high.

“Wow.” I look around. “This is like being a kid in a candy store for an artist.”

“Now you know why your mother loves it here so much. This is her favorite place on campus. Do you know that I actually have to hide these keys from her?” He laughs and points to a door across the room. “That’s the photography studio. You want to meet the professor?”

“I’m not into photography, Dad, you know that.”

“Too bad. The students love him. You can take a peek through that window. He’s young—I don’t think he’ll be dying for a long time.”

“Funny.”

“You sure you don’t want to—”

“Daaad!”

“Okay, okay, it looks like we’re running low on spray paint.” He flips open a utility knife on his key chain and slits open a box. “Bea, help me put some of these cans on the shelf up there.”

I help my dad, and we grab one of each color for my mom.

“This had better make her happy.” My dad sighs.