Sketchy (5 page)

He laughs. “You came here to ask me if I know the strung-out chick who was raped?”

“Strung out? What are you talking about, Marcus? She’s like a goddess to everyone at that school.”

“Yeah, that may be, but she’s a strung-out goddess.”

“Seriously? She uses?” I sit down on his desk chair, stunned.

“Oh, come on, an addict can recognize another a mile away. Don’t act so surprised. How do you know her, anyway?”

“I just met her today. I go to her school now.”

“Ah, Packard High, know it well. A frequent stop for me. Those kids there keep me busy.”

“So you supply her?”

He laughs. “Ah, I think a few of us do—her appetite is insatiable.”

“Wow. Really. Well, I heard her bring your name up in the lunchroom, and I wondered—”

Marcus panics. “She’s not, like, talking shit about me, ratting me out, is she?”

“No, no. It’s not like that. I was sort of surprised she knew you.” I scramble. “And it got me wondering about you—how you’re doing.”

He kneels, eye level with me, rolls my chair closer to him. “I’m doing just fine… especially now. I’ve missed you, baby. I’m glad you came.” He leans in and kisses me, and I taste him, succumb to his sweet, warm mouth—and realize
it wasn’t just his drugs I was addicted to.

The words fly out of my mouth before I can think. “Oh, Marcus, I’ve missed you, too… so much.”

He pulls me up off the chair and backs us onto his bed. Whistler hisses as he is forced off the pillow. Marcus, lying above me, starts to unbutton my cardigan, kissing the skin underneath.

The door suddenly slams wide open, and Aggie stands above us. Agatha Rand, my ex-best friend from Athena Day.

“Aggie!” Marcus sits up.

She can barely stand. Her long, dark auburn hair falls over half of her face. Mascara is smudged under her eyes. She stumbles on her heels as she walks over to the bed and sits down by us. Her tight black dress scootches up, revealing her firm, spray-tanned thighs.

I stand. “What are you doing here, Aggie? What’s she doing here?” I ask Marcus. “Are you two… oh my god, while I was in rehab? You two hooked up?”

Marcus looks irritated at Aggie. “Of course not, Bea. She’s just a friend.”

“Holy shit.” Aggie starts laughing. She crumples down onto the pillow, smiles, and says, “Oh my god, this shit, Marcus, this shit you gave me, it’s like—oh my god, come here and gimme a hug. Oh, wow… Beeeeea… isthatyou? Shit I thi’ I gonna be—” And she vomits over the side of the bed.

“Holy crap!” Marcus rushes to the bathroom for a towel.
Whistler leaps up onto the windowsill, his fur fluffed.

I button my sweater and look down at Aggie, now sleeping soundly, looking very comfortable in Marcus’s bed. Her breath is calm and relaxed through her drooling, slack jaw. Chunks of barf cling to her auburn curls. Her left breast falls out of the top of her dress.

Is that what I looked like? Was that me?

Marcus cleans the puke off the floor. “Bea… she just comes to me for shit, that’s all.”

I grab my purse. “Fuck you. I have to get out of here.”

I make it to the last fifteen minutes at St. Anne’s so the mediator can sign my card and prove to my parents that I was there, at the meeting. I barge in, out of breath, make up a crazy story about a flat tire and having to walk miles to a gas station to get help.

The group looks at me, no expression on their faces, no “yeah, right, your dog ate your homework” kind of look. They seem to accept the lie. The Hawaiian-shirt guy signs the card, no problem. “We look forward to seeing you again, Bea.”

Unreal.

I make it home by curfew.

“T
his is nice, Chris.” I breathe in the crisp, clean autumn air as we eat our paper-bagged lunches on the bleachers above the football field. Chris snaps photos of the colorful maples across the stadium.

“Look at the beautiful colors—the orange blanket of leaves,” Chris says, looking through the lens.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” But I’m not looking at the maples—I’m looking at Chris, how happy he is—how content he is with a simple tree. I sketch, but it isn’t the tree I draw.

Suddenly and rudely, the blanket of leaves is trampled and crushed by the incoming cleats of the football players.

I close my sketchbook. “Shit, it was so peaceful. Why do they have to practice during lunch?”

“The homecoming game. It’s Friday, remember?” He puts his camera cap on.

I roll my eyes. “Right. Can’t wait.”

Chris elbows me. “Hey, it’s our first date. I happen to be looking forward to it.”

I offer him a celery stick. “You know… I saw a couple old friends the other night.”

Chris looks at me with concern. “Uh-oh. You stayed out of trouble?”

“Yeah, yeah, I did, thank goodness. But it got me thinking.”

Chris dips the celery into the peanut butter on his sandwich. “About what?”

“That maybe they weren’t friends after all. And I don’t know… it makes me sad. I feel like a fool.”

Chris puts his arm around me. “Well, now you have me.”

I smile. “I do, don’t I?”

“You do.”

“Hey, Chris, you want to go shopping with me after school?”

“Really? Wow, could I?”

“I was planning on going to my favorite thrift store. Maybe we could find something kickass to wear Friday night?”

“I’m in. Thanks.”

The football players begin to run up the bleacher stairs in formation, two at a time, chanting “hut hut” with each step.

Chris’s backpack is in the way of Jersey #9, a hulking fullback, and before Chris can move it, the jerk kicks, slamming the pack into Chris’s leg. “Get your fucking bag outta the way, you limp-wrist homo!”

“What the…?” I jump up, ready to chase after the asshole, ready to take the stairs three at a time and punch his lights out, when Chris holds me back.

“Rule number five, Bea: don’t try to take a football player down.”

“Did you hear what he called you?”

“Leave it alone. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a name.” Chris takes an apple out of his lunch bag and starts munching away like it’s no big deal.

“I can’t believe that doesn’t bother you! You shouldn’t let people get away with it.”

“Stick and stones may break your bones, but names will never hurt you,” Chris singsongs.

“Are you kidding me?”

He laughs. “It’s okay, Bea, don’t stress.”

“It’s not okay! Name-calling is worse than a broken bone—it can’t be set in a cast and healed in six weeks. I would know. It hurts!”

“Jesus”—he laughs at my fury—“you’d think you were the one called a homo.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my friend. And I guess I’m a little sensitive about bullying,” I growl. “Give me your apple.”

“What for?”

“Just give it to me.” I snatch the apple from his hands, aim, and throw it at Jersey #9. The fruit splatters on the back of his clean white jersey.

Chris jumps up, slings his backpack over his shoulder.
“You shouldn’t have done that. He’s going to think I did it. I’m getting out of here.” He starts running up the bleachers.

I follow him. “Oh, come on… he didn’t even feel it. It bounced right off of his steroidal shoulders.”

“Girls and boys!” a voice blasts through the loudspeakers.

“Holy crap!” I startle. “Who was that?”

Chris turns, looks to the stadium speakers. “That would be the great Oz, our principal Mr. Nathanson.”

“Please come to the auditorium immediately!”

“Do you think he saw me throw the apple? Am I in trouble?”

Chris laughs and puts an arm around me. “No, he’s not Big Brother. I’m sure he’s just calling an impromptu pep rally.”

“Oh goodie—a pep rally!” I roll my eyes. “Ra, ra, sis boom bah!”

The whole student body, all couple thousand of us, is corralled into a squeaky-clean, state-of-the art, gigantic gymnasium. I look up, marveling, taking in the dozens and dozens of giant felt banners hanging high above us on the towering walls, boasting of championships in soccer, baseball, basketball, hockey—every sport imaginable. I nudge Chris. “I guess there are no budget cuts happening in the sports program, huh?”

Chris finds us seats on the edge of one of the lacquered maple risers.

The sweaty football players are the last to enter and are slouching by the locker room doors, adjusting their cups and shoulder pads.

At their appearance, a couple of cheerleaders run into the middle of the floor and begin to flip over each other like golden retriever puppies. They start an impromptu cheer. “PACK HIGH, PACK HIGH, PACK HIGH!!!”

“Excuse me, ladies!” a voice booms over the loudspeaker. This time, I see where it comes from—a portly, balding man in glasses, standing at a microphone underneath one of the basketball hoops.

“I take it that’s the great Oz?” I ask Chris.

He nods.

“Please, please, girls, please take your seats. This is not a pep rally. I didn’t call you in for that.”

The stands roar with laughter—especially the football players—and I almost feel sorry for the two girls as they leave the floor with their tails between their legs.

“Thank you, girls and boys, for joining me. I called you here to tell you some rather disturbing news. A girl has gone missing. She is, um, from a neighboring high school. That’s all we know.”

A collective inhale—two thousand and something audible gasps suck the air out of the gym.

“Holy shit,” Chris and I say together.

“Calm down, calm down. We don’t know yet if foul play is involved,” the principal continues.

The buzzing starts, the audible whispers. “Where’s Willa?” “Who was she?” “Where did it happen?”

“Don’t worry about Miss Pressman, we already sent her home,” the principal says. “But we have no idea if this has anything to do with, well, what happened to her. So, on a happier note, after great deliberation, we have decided to go ahead with the homecoming game Friday night.”

Big cheer. The cheerleaders, apparently over their shame, perform cartwheels across the squeaky floor.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask Chris. “Why would they go ahead with a stupid football game? A girl is missing. A rapist is loose. This is crazy!”

The principal continues. “We feel you all deserve a night of levity, with everything that’s happened. The police will have a heavy presence, but please, please be extra cautious. Stay close to one another. Stick with a buddy.”

Chris puts his arm around me and squeezes. “Will you be my buddy? I won’t lie—I’m spooked.”

“Of course.” I pat his hand.

“And, boys and girls, if you need to talk, you all know that we have a school counselor on hand.” The principal gestures toward Mrs. Hogan, the art teacher/librarian/nurse/counselor with the bad breath. She waves.

Groans from the stands.

“Okay, okay, now, I believe the bell will ring in—”

And it does, drowning out Principal Nathanson’s parting words.

Chris looks at me. “I wonder who she is, the poor girl.”

I rifle through a rack of vintage coats at the thrift shop and take a big sniff. “Chris, don’t you love the smell? Every piece of clothing here has a history, a story.”

Chris holds up a pair of whacked-out bell-bottoms. Erect penises are embroidered on the back pockets. “I wonder what his story was.” He laughs.