Sketchy by Olivia Samms

myself. His eyes are the color of the Caribbean Sea.
    … Two years ago, Christmas, I was fifteen, and my dad was invited to attend a conference down in Jamaica. It was the first conference Mom wanted to join in on. A happy little family vacation, they imagined, I’m sure.
    Well, it didn’t turn out that way, as I immediately zeroed in on another bored teen—a nerd from California. He’d been there a couple weeks and told me that he scored amazing weed from the local maintenance workers. He wasn’t cute and was a bit of a moron, but I decided to hang out with him—for the pot—and got stoned with him on the beach.
    Stupid move on my part, because after we got high, he thought I should pay him for the weed. With sex.
    I was totally grossed out, said “no way,” and he got pissed—majorly pissed. I tried to run from him, but he was fast, caught up with me, and pulled my hair.
    “Fuck you!” I yelled and instinctively elbowed him inhis skinny ribs, and he slumped over. I was surprised—kind of knocked the wind out of him. “Cool,” I thought and swung around and punched, undercutting his jaw. He stumbled back, dazed, and I ran into the ocean and started swimming—fast.
    I lucked out—apparently the stooge didn’t know how to swim, because he stayed on the shore in his tacky board shorts, giving me the finger and swearing stupid shit at me.
    I swam to an anchored raft, collapsed on my belly, and stared at the water. It was good weed, he was right. I was mesmerized, paralyzed by the beauty, the clarity, the greenness of the sea. I think I must have zoned out on that raft for a good five hours until my mom discovered where I was and called me to shore. She tended to my outrageously burned skin for the rest of the week.
    No, it wasn’t a good vacation.
    Anyway, that greenness, that clarity is what I see in Sergeant Daniels’s eyes.
    “And you happen know the truth? What happened that night?” he asks.
    “I do.”
    “How?”
    I wonder if I should dare go there—to my truth. I give him a nibble. “I sort of drew it out of her.”
    Sergeant Daniels raises his eyebrows. “Well, that soundslike quite a talent, Miss Washington. How do you suppose you were able to do that?”
    “Look, that’s irrelevant. All that matters is he’s out there, the rapist. And he looks like this.” I hold up the taped sketch again.
    They both laugh this time.
    “Well, not like
this
. You know what I mean.”
    “Okay, okay. We’ll see what we can do. Why don’t you give me your address and phone number, in case we need to talk to you.”
    I jot my information on a piece of paper and hand it to Sergeant Daniels. “This was a waste of my time, wasn’t it?”
    “Listen, you’re a sweet kid, trying to help a friend, or whatever she is to you.”
    “I’m not a kid—I’m almost eighteen. Oh, and by the way, can I have a note for school, you know, explaining why I’m not there?”
    The sergeant could have laughed at me, I realized after I replayed that last line in my head. But he didn’t. He handed me his card. “Give them this. They can call me if they need to.”

    I sit in my trusty Volvo, wondering if I should go to school. It was nice of Sergeant Daniels to give me his card, but Idon’t know how that’ll fly with the front office. Like I’m really going to ask them to call the police to find out where I was? And with how I look right now? Not happening—not going to school.
    I am cold, wet, dirty, hungry, and man, do I have to pee.
    Why do I care so much? Why am I putting myself in this position for her? For Willa Pressman? Jeopardizing school? Ruining my favorite shoes and losing a fabulous coat?
    I think about all the sketchy situations I’ve put myself in—the dangerous places, the dishonest, abusive people I’ve confronted—the world of an addict. How have I dodged the bullet?
    Luck. Shameful, cowardly luck.
    I pull to the side of the road and redraw the sketch of Willa’s rapist.
    And in black marker, I