Sketchy (2 page)

My urine is poured in the toilet and flushed, the cardboard stick and plastic cup tossed into the trash.

She sighs and hugs me, smelling of garlic and olive oil. “I’m glad you’re home, Bea. Now get a good night’s sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.”

Shit. I’m trying not to think about that—starting my senior year, three and a half weeks late at a new school, the massive local public school, Packard High. Great. Just great.

“U
m, excuse me?” I ask the woman behind the cafeteria food counter with the purple hairnet and googly eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything vegetarian or anything, you know, healthy?” She looks at me as if I’ve asked for caviar, grunts, and points at something fluorescent green.

“Oh. Never mind. I guess I’ll have that.” I motion toward a pile of something red and beige. I think it’s lasagna.

After paying for the plate of mystery food, I take in the vast and seemingly endless high school cafeteria. Packard High is a school with two thousand and something students. Damn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in the same place all at once. Where the hell do I sit?

I pass table after table and see people’s mouths moving up and down, chewing, probably whispering, “That’s the rehab rat. She was kicked out of that fancy private school. What’s with her hair?” Table after table—jocks, bros, stoners,
pretty girls, nerds, loners—I can tell they all shun me like the herpes virus, like I have a red circle around me with a line drawn diagonally through it.

Ah… an empty table by the trash cans—just fine with me, and rather befitting, I’m sure, in the eyes of the teenaged masses.

I pile my wild, thick, Afro-slash-Italian-American, out-of-control dark hair on top of my head to prevent it from dipping into the sludge on the plate and fasten it with a couple of pens. It promptly falls out and into the faux lasagna. I sigh, lose my appetite, and write in my sketchbook:

I blame everything on my hair…

I do.

The pretty girl posse (they’re at every school) pose at the table across from me. They, of course, have thick, luxurious, blow-dried hair and wear ridiculous cheerleading uniforms. I mean, everyone must know that they’re cheerleaders—do they really have to advertise it? They giggle to themselves, dart their long-lashed eyes at me, and whisper.

And, as if on cue, I’m thrust back to Athena Day School for Girls—the school I was kicked out of—and hear the taunting, cruel words from elementary school.
Look at the Chia Pet! Beaver-head!

I was born an artistic accident—sort of like one of Jackson Pollock’s chaotic drip paintings—and was cursed with a combination of nappy Afro hair (from my dad) and
thick, coarse Italian hair (from my mom). I’ve tried cutting it short—that’s when I first heard the name “Chia Pet.” Grew it shoulder length—hence Beaver-head. I tried
everything
. It consumed me, playing with my hair. After a while, I gave up and let it grow long, wild, and free.

And here I sit, alone at a table near the trash in a public high school cafeteria. I’m already behind in classes, already anticipating the attached label of “
Druggie
Chia Pet Beaver-head.” Nightmare material, right?

What the hell. I can handle it.

I sit up a little straighter and “pen” my hair back up. After going through a rehab detox, this is nothing. They can’t hurt me. Nothing, no one can.

Speaking of hair, some odd-looking dude with an Andy Warhol ’do and a camera around his neck is sashaying toward me, holding a paper-bagged lunch. Oh great. He’s smiling and waving like he knows me, and now, oh shit, he’s sitting down next to me.

“Bea? Beatrice Washington?”

“What? What did I do wrong?” I can’t help the knee-jerk reaction.

“It’s Chris. Chris Mayes.” He purses his lips. “You don’t remember me?”

I
so
want to be left alone. “I don’t know. Should I?”

“Art camp, last winter break? I for sure remember you. You were like the best artist in the class. I sort of bleached my hair since then.”

I squint my eyes and make a triangle with my hands, blocking out his hair. “Oh, right! Chris, of course. You were into photography.”

He holds up his camera, points, and shoots. “Still am.”

“Damn, you look nothing like yourself! You didn’t bleach it, Chris—you fried it.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

“Yeah… I remember you—those skinny-ass jeans and the skinny, sexy ass inside them.”

Chris plops his foot up on a chair, pointing at his colorful high-top Converse sneakers. “And these?”

“I can’t believe it! You still have those?”

“Give me a break, Bea. Of course I do. They were hand-painted by a talented young artist—namely, you.”

I finger the design—a red dragon, a few obscenities in purple, surrounded by gold and green swirls—painted when I was definitely high on something. “If I do say so myself, they are pretty damn cool. A little gay, but cool.”

“Well, that would be me. Gay and cool.” Chris puts his foot back on the ground. “You wouldn’t believe the compliments. You still painting?”

“Ah, no. Been a little busy… rehabbing.”

“Oh, of course… of course you have. I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

“No, no, Chris. No worries. I’m thrilled I actually know someone in this penitentiary. I had no idea you went to school here.”

“It’s unfortunate, but I do.”

He looks down at my plate of food. “Holy Christ, Bea, what are you doing, eating that crap? Are you trying to poison yourself? Die young?” He tosses my tray into the garbage. “I’m going to have to lay down some rules for you. Rule number one: never, ever eat the food here. The woman who doles it out?”—he looks over at the googly-eyed lady—“The rumor is that she never graduated from high school, resents us all, carries a spray bottle of antifreeze in her pocket, and spritzes it on the food. Here, have half of my sandwich.”

“Shit, that’s gruesome. Okay, thanks, Chris.” I happily take half of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “How did you find me, anyway? There’s like a gazillion people here.”

“Are you kidding? Your hair kind of stands out!”

“Um, look who’s talking!”

Chris suddenly goes serious on me and plants his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands. “To tell you the truth, I was looking for you—heard through the gossip chain that you were coming sometime this week. They kicked you out, huh? Athena Day?”

I choke on a clump of peanut butter, and Chris hands me his water bottle. “Yeah. Athena Day School for Bitches—just got out of rehab yesterday.”

“Wow, that’s pretty heavy.”

“Tell me about it. But I’ve been sober for three months—exactly three months, one day, and twelve hours.” I look at
the time on my phone. “And now fifteen minutes.” I sigh.

Chris smiles, holding up his hand for a high five. “That’s awesome!”

I question returning the slap.

“Uh… Bea? I’m waiting. You’re not going to let me hang up here all alone, are you?”

“I’m not used to that, getting high-fived for being sober. Not from the people I hung out with, anyway.”

“Well, poo on them. They’re all at Bitch School, while you’re here at Packrat High! Whoo hoo—high-five me already!”

The gazillion bangles on my wrist crash like cymbals as I slap his hand.

Chris likes the sound. “Nice.”

“A nickel per bangle.”

“I see you haven’t stopped your hot retro look.”

“Never, are you kidding me? Man, I missed my clothes—been wearing sweats for months.”

“Did I happen to see vintage Doc Martens under the table?”

Now it’s my turn to lift my foot. “Good eyes. Fifteen bucks, eBay.”

“Get out of here.”

I stand. “And this silk chiffon scarf I’m wearing around my waist? An original Yves Saint Laurent. I googled it—an old woman at a garage sale had no idea what she gave me for a dollar fifty!”

“Shut up! And that skirt… to die for.”

“Fifties petticoat, in black!” I do a little curtsy for him and sit back down. “Trippy, don’t you think? Thought it was perfect for my first day of school.”

Chris beams. “You are the answer to my prayers, Beatrice Washington. I’ve been looking for a model.”

“A model?”

“Yeah. I’ve been looking for someone to shoot—get my portfolio together, you know, for college. And all the girls around here are so… boring.”

“College? Shit, that’s the last thing I’m thinking about.”

A cheerleader passes our table on the way to the trash and gives me the snooty once-over.

I give it a go and say, “Hi, my name is Bea. What’s yours?”

She flips her flatironed hair over her shoulder, rolls her eyes, and rejoins her posse.

“How typical. They hate me already, and I haven’t even done anything yet. It’s my hair.”

“Your hair is fierce, Bea! Rule number two: don’t speak to the cheerleaders unless you are spoken to first.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re harmless. Besides, they’re in mourning.”

“What do they have to be sad about?”

“Oh my god! You didn’t hear about the rape?” Chris whispers.

“What rape? Who was raped?”

“Shhh!” Chris leans in closer to me. “Just the most
popular girl in our school, Willa Pressman. It happened a few weeks ago. Raped, left for dead. She’s like the school’s rock star, head cheerleader, elected homecoming queen.”

“Is she here? With the other cheerleaders?”

Chris nods.

“Which one is she?”

“The blonde in the middle of the pack.”

I look over at the cheerleader table. The girls hover over a frail-looking girl.

“Wow, she looks really zoned out. Is she okay?”

“I heard she was choked and beat up pretty bad—unconscious. A couple kids found her down by the creek.”

“Shit, that’s gruesome. Why in the hell is she here—back at school so soon?”

Chris shrugs. “I guess they think it’s important for her to act ‘normal’… whatever that means.”

“They catch the guy?”

“Nope. He’s still out there, and I guess she doesn’t remember anything.”

I shiver. “That’s creepy. This is like the second attack in the past year.”

“You mean that other girl, in the Arboretum last spring? But she was killed, and who knows if it was even the same guy.”

“Yeah, who knows…” My mind wanders off, and I get caught in a stare.

“Um, Bea, you still with me?”

“Yeah.” I shake off the stare. “It’s just scary.”

“I know, and everyone’s wondering if Willa is going to show up to be crowned at homecoming Friday night—if she’ll be able to handle it—you know, the spotlight, all the attention.”

“You’re not going, are you?”

Chris sighs. “I have to. I’m working the concession stand—service-learning hours.”

“Oh yeah, I need those, too, like a million of them to graduate.”

The bell rings.

Chris yells over the bell. “What class do you have next?”

I scramble in my bag for my schedule and laugh. “Art.”

“Jinx. So do I. How cool is that? We’re in the same class.”

“Thank goodness, you can lead me there. This school is so huge, Chris—like a maze. I ended up in a shop class instead of algebra this morning.”

Chris laughs. “Rule number three: stay away from the dudes in shop class. They all have woodies!”

“Chris! That’s disgusting!”

“Depends on how you look at it.” He giggles. “Don’t worry, Bea. Stick with me. I’ll help you master the Packrat maze and keep you celibate.”

The desks are arranged in a circle, and it instantly reminds me of arts-and-crafts therapy at rehab. Jesus, was it lame. We’d have to sit in a circle and take turns sharing our “feelings”
while gluing Popsicle sticks together, or something just as idiotic.

Chris and I take our seats, and the art teacher walks into the middle of the circle, tossing random objects on a lopsided table: a stapler, a pencil sharpener, a chipped coffee cup with lipstick stains. She takes hold of someone’s ratty backpack and adds a ruler as the final touch.

“That’s Mrs. Hogan,” Chris whispers. “She is also the librarian and the school nurse. Budget cuts. She knows nothing about art. And don’t get too close to her… her breath smells like rancid brussels sprouts!”

“Gross.”

“Okay, everybody listen up.” Mrs. Hogan stifles a yawn. “I’d like to welcome a new student in our class. Ah”—she reads from a piece of paper—“Miss Washington, Beatrice Washington.”

Chris applauds the welcome, and I eyeball him. With my left hand under the desktop, I pull on a strategically placed hole in my black tights, ripping them, snagging the hole bigger, and wait for the whispers and finger-pointing.

But no one seems to take notice, no one gives a shit—they’re all absorbed in their own worlds. A couple of kids text on their phones, a girl files her French-tipped nails, an obvious stoner naps, and my introduction thankfully fizzles away as Mrs. Hogan drones on. “Okay, class, today we’re going to draw a still life. Notice how the light hits the objects, where the shadows fall.” She makes herself
comfortable behind her desk, delving into a gossip magazine.

I look at the chewed-up number-two pencil on the desk, sigh, pull a pen from my hair, and begin to draw the still life on the wrinkled, lined piece of paper in front of me.