Sketchy (8 page)

“I’m not too sure about that.”

Eva Marie and Sarah are escorted to the side of the field, to a horse-drawn carriage adorned with hundreds of handmade pink tissue flowers. They climb on and wave to their admirers.

Willa kisses her mom and dad on the cheek and takes her boyfriend’s hand, ready to step onto the carriage, when a lightning bolt cracks, brightening the purple sky.

The horses are spooked. They whinny and buck up on their hind legs, pull away from the handler, and race wildly around the track. Eva Marie and Sarah yell for help, their faces terrified.

A couple of football players chase after the carriage and finally rein in the horses at the goalpost. Sarah steps out of the carriage sobbing. Eva Marie appears to be swearing like a fullback.

A roll of booming thunder rocks the stadium stands.

Willa stands frozen on the track. Her hair, falling out of her bun now, tangles around the lopsided tiara and down her neck. Her face is stuck, twisted in horror, as if she is staring at something, someone in the crowd.

My head explodes with an image again, but not the crown of thorns and not Marcus. I pull the WANTED poster out from my Moleskine.

“Bea, what are you doing now?”

It blasts through my mind like the bolt of lightning in the sky. I see it. I draw it—a cleft, a well-defined cleft in a chin. I draw it on the face on the poster and then collapse onto a folding chair.

“Bea, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just a little dizzy. Shit, my head hurts.”

Chris hands me a cup of water.
I wish it were something stronger
.

I look at Chris and swallow. “If I tell you something, do you promise to not laugh?”

“Sure.”

“And you promise you won’t run away from me in fear?”

“Bea, what is it already? You’re creeping me out.”

“I can, like, draw things.”

“Duh.”

“I mean, the truth about things. I know it sounds crazy, but when I’m drawing people lately, I can see stuff when I look at them—like what they’re thinking about, things that are on their minds. Like this.” I hand him the WANTED
poster. “The cleft in his chin. I saw it when I looked at Willa—she saw it, or she was thinking of it.”

Chris laughs.

“You promised me you wouldn’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry, Bea. It just sounds a little Ouija board weird, a little psychic, like some sixth-sense shit.
I see dead people.
”

I shove my chilled hands into the pockets of my coat. “I’m serious, Chris. I don’t know why this is happening. I can’t seem to help it. And it’s been happening more and more lately. Freaky, right?”

“Uh, yeah. It is. When did this start happening?”

“When I got sober—isn’t that weird? I didn’t understand it at rehab—I thought it was like, I don’t know, a heightened sensitivity because I was clearheaded for the first time in a long time—or because I was going through withdrawal and the wiring in my brain was off. But it’s still happening, and I’ve been sober for over three months.”

Chris scrunches his forehead.

“You don’t believe me, do you? Fine, I’ll prove it to you.” I flip through my sketchbook and turn to a page with a drawing of a guy at school who hasn’t outed himself yet but should. I show it to Chris. “Who’s that?” I ask.

“Ian McKinley. Why do you have a drawing of Ian in your sketchbook?”

“Because his face popped into my head when I was sketching you at lunch. Ian was on your mind—
in
your mind. Am I wrong?”

His face flushes. “Okay, that’s creepy.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. “And it happened again in lit class, when I was taking notes during one of Mr. Kleinman’s boring lectures. At first it was like static, and then it flickered. Suddenly I saw Mr. Kleinman wearing a bra, women’s panties, and lipstick.” I show him the sketch.

Chris doubles over in laughter. “He’s a cross-dresser? Mr. Kleinman?”

“I don’t want to know this about him, believe me!”

“Wow. This is pretty heavy shit. You can read people’s minds?”

“It’s only when I draw.”

“And you’re not using?”

“I’m not using! But it would probably stop if I were. This isn’t a good thing, you know. I don’t want to have this…”

“Power.” Chris finishes my sentence.

Another crack of lightning, a boom of thunder. It starts to rain, hard. The soaked pink tissue flowers fall off the carriage, and the ride is nixed. Willa’s dad covers her with his coat as they rush to the sidelines. Umbrellas pop open, and the concession stand is mobbed under the awning. I jump up, put my sketchbook down on the counter, and join Chris, pouring sodas, filling bags of popcorn, and making change, earning our service-learning hours as orders are tossed out:

“Milk Duds! Do you have Milk Duds?”

“My popcorn is wet… I need another!”

“I wanted diet pop, and this tastes like it has sugar in it!”

“You gave me the wrong change, you moron.”

The buzzer blares, and the players continue on with the game, rain and all. The concession stand clears. I plop down on the chair, rub my feet, itch my arms, and begin to regret that I told my only friend in the world the weird truth about me.

“Talk about crazy!” Chris sighs.

“The crowd or me?”

“Both.” He laughs.

“I probably shouldn’t have told you. Promise me you’ll still be my friend?”

“Move over.” I do, and he sits on the corner of the chair. “Bea, I will always be your friend, no matter what.”

I turn to him, almost falling off, so he puts me on his lap and scratches my itchy back. “I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t. I mean, I don’t even understand myself. It’s, like, not normal.”

“Normal? What’s
normal
? We all have stuff.”

I kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For not running away.”

“A Diet Coke for Willa! Fast! Hurry!” Eva Marie barks. Willa and her ladies of the court stand at the concession stand.

“Of course,” Chris says.

Sarah asks for a cup of water.

“That was horrible, what happened with the horses.” I hand Willa the pop.

“Are you okay?” Chris asks the girls.

Willa, still wearing her father’s coat, looks down at the counter, at my open sketchbook, at the modified WANTED poster, and gasps. “Who did that? Who drew on that?”

“Who did what?” Chris asks.

“Drew on that—that face?” Willa points at the flyer.

“I did,” I confess.

Chris mouths, “Uh-oh.”

Willa chokes up. “Are you mocking me? Are you making fun of what happened to me?”

“Oh god, no. I’m so sorry. I was just playing with it a little,” I sputter.

“Give it to me!” She grabs it.

“That’s an official police sketch, not a coloring book!” Eva Marie barks. “Are you nuts?”

Willa looks at me. Her voice drops down a half-octave. “Who are you, anyway?”

“She’s the new druggie girl at school. A rehab rat,” Eva Marie snorts.

“My name is Bea, Bea Washington,” I correct her. “And yes, I’m new at the school. And I’m sorry, I’m really sorry I drew on the poster.” I glance at Chris, hoping for some support.

He mimes closing a zipper on my mouth.

The school photographer approaches the girls and saves my sorry ass. “We’re ready to take pictures now, in the gym.”

“Oh! I must look like a wet rat,” Willa panics. “I need a mirror.”

“We’ll go with you,” Eva Marie chimes in. Sarah nods in agreement.

Willa squints her baby blues at me one last time as she pops open an umbrella and walks up the stairs of the stadium toward the gymnasium.

Eva Marie hands me an empty cup. “Bitch.” She marches off and joins her queen.

“Open mouth, insert stiletto,” Chris quips.

“Hey, Chris, cover for me?” I grab my bag from the safe. “I need a smoke, like, big time.”

“You know, you really should quit.”

“I know, I know, it’s a nasty habit.”

“I’m not going to want to kiss you on our first date with your mouth tasting like an ashtray.”

“I’m crushed.”

“You should be. I’ll have to save it for Ian, I guess.”

“Hey, thanks again for not bolting on me… with what I told you before.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m going to use you. Win the lottery with your power.”

“Shut up.”

I walk fast up the dark ramp, using my phone as a flashlight, hopefully scaring off the critters. I step out of the tunnel
and into the parking lot. The wind scoops in and inverts my umbrella.
Shit
. I know my hair is skyrocketing to the moon, so I duck back into the tunnel, lean against the wall, and take a cigarette out of my bag.

“Need a light?”

I startle at a figure, a man standing next to me in the shadows. A cigarette lighter flicks on in the darkness.

“Who the fuck are you?”

He lowers his cap, and a shiny badge reading POLICE glistens in the dark.

“Oh! I’m sorry I swore, officer.”
Just what I need, trouble with a cop.
I hide my cigarette.

“Well, do you or don’t you want a light?”

“You sure?” I ask.

He nods.

“Um, thanks.” I put the cigarette in my mouth, and he lights it, then lights his own, illuminating his eyes for a fraction of a second.

He exhales. “You know, you shouldn’t be out here all alone.”

“I know. I have a buddy down in the concession stand. Just needed a smoke.”

We stand in silence.

Okay… this is awkward.

“Shouldn’t you be patrolling, looking for bad guys or something?”

“I’d rather be here with you.”

“Um… I’m going to go to the little girl’s room.”

“I’ll walk you there.”

“No, thank you. I think I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, be careful. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Yeah, well, thanks again for the light.”

I jog through the rain to the back entrance of the school and turn when I get to the door, stubbing out my cigarette with my boot. He’s still standing there in the tunnel, the red embers of his lit cigarette like a firefly in the darkness.

Talk about a creepy cop!

I push open the door. The hallway is empty. My heels click and echo on the tiled floor as I walk into the ladies’ room.

It’s dark. I flip a switch. The fluorescent lights flicker on with a buzz. I look in the mirror, at my crazed hair, and sigh at the mess. The door suddenly slams open. I turn, ready to kick the creep in the balls with my “don’t fuck with me” boots.

“How do you know him?” She stands there, wet and shivering.

“Willa, you scared the shit out of me.”

Willa locks the door. She holds the WANTED poster in her hands. “I said, how do you know him?”

She’s a little wobbly and looks scared. The bruises on her neck stand out under the fluorescent lights, and all of a sudden I feel like hugging her.

“I don’t know him. I was playing around on the poster.
It was stupid of me. I’m into art, it’s what I do—draw.”

She walks toward me—her eyes wild, pupils dilated. “So you don’t know him. You’ve never seen him?”

“Does that look like him? The guy who raped you? Did you see him here tonight, in the stands?”

“How the hell would I know?” I smell her breath. The sweet, familiar odor wafts my way and fills my pierced nostrils. She turns, looks into the mirror, and straightens her crown. “I don’t remember anything from that night.” Willa takes makeup out of her bag and touches up the bruises on her neck.

“Does it still hurt? Your neck?”

“What do you think?”

A little blood trickles out of her nose and lands on an embroidered daisy on her dress.

“Um, your nose. It’s… I think it’s bleeding.”

Willa dabs the blood with the corner of a wet paper towel and glares at me through the mirror.

We couldn’t be less similar, Willa and me. My dark, ethnic look; her fair, all-American look. And yet, at that moment, standing side by side, looking at each other through the mirror, we are one and the same.

And then I see it—like a little light clicking on in her head. She knows I know, and I know that she knows I know.

“I can try and help you, Willa. I can, if you want.”

“What are you talking about?
You
help
me
?”

I hear Eva Marie and Sarah in the hallway. “Willa? Willa? Are you okay? You in there?” they yell, pounding on the door.

I jot my cell phone number on the flyer and hand it back to her. “I’m here if you need me.”

Willa looks down at my number, folds the flyer, and slips it into her purse. She unlocks the door, and the girls fall into the room. They stop when they see me and make a face like they smell something bad.

“Are you okay?” Sarah hugs Willa. “We couldn’t find you. We were so worried.”

“I’m fine—let’s get our pictures taken.”

The door slams in my face.