write on the top:
WANTED RAPIST
(POSSIBLE MURDERER)
CALL 734-555-1289
WITH ANY INFORMATION!!!
Then I pull into a Kinkos and make one hundred copies.
I run up to my bedroom, collapse on the bed, and pull the covers over my head—and try not to think, not to feel, not to care. Just for an hour, a minute… I’d even take one second.
Knock, knock.
My mom opens the door to my room. “Why are you home from school? You okay, Bea?”
I fake a cough. “I have a sore throat.”
She sits on my bed, pulls down the comforter, and feels my forehead. “Well, you don’t have a fever. But you do look horrible. What’s that in your hair?”
“Bird shit… don’t ask.”
“Oh god. Go take a shower.”
“I just want to sleep, Mom.”
“I’m sure you do, but you have that interview today—at the preschool, remember?”
I put my pillow over my face. “Oh, come on, Mom, please don’t make me do that.
Please
.”
She removes the pillow. “I know you’ve been through a lot. But maybe working with kids will be a good distraction, get your mind off what happened.”
“I doubt that.”
“Bea, I promised the preschool director that you would come. It’s a couple of afternoons a week. Now, why don’t you go take a shower, and I’ll heat up some soup.”
“But the sore throat thing, Mom… I could get the kids sick.”
“Are you kidding me? They’re walking petri dishes.”
Oh great. Just great.
3 months
8 days
16 hours
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. I’ve never spent more than a couple minutes—that is, consciously—with a kid, and that didn’t turn out too well.
I was hired to babysit my neighbor’s eight-year-old about a year ago, and I thought,
How hard could it be? Watching a kid for a couple hours—a few extra bucks.
I turned on a video for him and fell asleep, into a deep sleep. (I was coming down from a high.) He got hungry and couldn’t wake me, so he proceeded to make his own dinner. The screeching smoke alarms are what woke me—that, and the smell of burnt macaroni and cheese. The house didn’t burn down, no one was hurt, thank goodness, but I was never asked again to babysit—duh—and my mom had to replace the scorched pan.
The perky director of Happy Days preschool greets me with a big smile. “So you’re Annabelle’s daughter. I’m Eve.Eve Stuart.” She checks me out, seems unconvinced.
“I’m Bea,” I say, wondering how much she knows about me, what my mom has told her.
“Don’t you love the mural your mom painted? The kids sure do.”
The familiar puppy-dog and kitty-cat theme that wraps the walls of my house also wraps the walls in the school. “Sure. It’s great. Original,” I lie.
“So the actual day for the kids ends at three o’clock. But a few of them stay after until their parents pick them up—can be as late as six. I would need your help keeping an eye on them, playing with them, pushing them on swings”—she eyes my platform shoes—“and helping them in the bathroom.”
You’re kidding me. Ick.
“Of course, I’ll be here the whole time—you’ll be assisting me. So, why don’t you have a seat with the kids?” She gestures toward a few brats on the floor playing with LEGO blocks. “Let’s see how you get along.”
“Oh, okay.” I sit down on the rug, cursing the low-rise skinny jeans that I decided to wear. It’s hard to bend my knees and, for sure, my butt crack is peeking out.
I smile at the kids. “Hi.”
They ignore me. I’m not a LEGO piece.
“It’s called parallel play,” Eve says from across the room. “Start playing along with them, you’ll see.”
I pick up one of the blocks and connect it to another.Doesn’t seem so hard, so I build a box. A little boy uses my arm as a ramp for the car he has constructed.
“Vroom.” He races.
I look at Eve. She smiles, nods, and mouths, “See?”
“What’s your name?” the little boy asks, still driving.
“Bea.”
He laughs, holding his belly. “Her name
WANTED RAPIST
(POSSIBLE MURDERER)
CALL 734-555-1289
WITH ANY INFORMATION!!!
Then I pull into a Kinkos and make one hundred copies.
I run up to my bedroom, collapse on the bed, and pull the covers over my head—and try not to think, not to feel, not to care. Just for an hour, a minute… I’d even take one second.
Knock, knock.
My mom opens the door to my room. “Why are you home from school? You okay, Bea?”
I fake a cough. “I have a sore throat.”
She sits on my bed, pulls down the comforter, and feels my forehead. “Well, you don’t have a fever. But you do look horrible. What’s that in your hair?”
“Bird shit… don’t ask.”
“Oh god. Go take a shower.”
“I just want to sleep, Mom.”
“I’m sure you do, but you have that interview today—at the preschool, remember?”
I put my pillow over my face. “Oh, come on, Mom, please don’t make me do that.
Please
.”
She removes the pillow. “I know you’ve been through a lot. But maybe working with kids will be a good distraction, get your mind off what happened.”
“I doubt that.”
“Bea, I promised the preschool director that you would come. It’s a couple of afternoons a week. Now, why don’t you go take a shower, and I’ll heat up some soup.”
“But the sore throat thing, Mom… I could get the kids sick.”
“Are you kidding me? They’re walking petri dishes.”
Oh great. Just great.
3 months
8 days
16 hours
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. I’ve never spent more than a couple minutes—that is, consciously—with a kid, and that didn’t turn out too well.
I was hired to babysit my neighbor’s eight-year-old about a year ago, and I thought,
How hard could it be? Watching a kid for a couple hours—a few extra bucks.
I turned on a video for him and fell asleep, into a deep sleep. (I was coming down from a high.) He got hungry and couldn’t wake me, so he proceeded to make his own dinner. The screeching smoke alarms are what woke me—that, and the smell of burnt macaroni and cheese. The house didn’t burn down, no one was hurt, thank goodness, but I was never asked again to babysit—duh—and my mom had to replace the scorched pan.
The perky director of Happy Days preschool greets me with a big smile. “So you’re Annabelle’s daughter. I’m Eve.Eve Stuart.” She checks me out, seems unconvinced.
“I’m Bea,” I say, wondering how much she knows about me, what my mom has told her.
“Don’t you love the mural your mom painted? The kids sure do.”
The familiar puppy-dog and kitty-cat theme that wraps the walls of my house also wraps the walls in the school. “Sure. It’s great. Original,” I lie.
“So the actual day for the kids ends at three o’clock. But a few of them stay after until their parents pick them up—can be as late as six. I would need your help keeping an eye on them, playing with them, pushing them on swings”—she eyes my platform shoes—“and helping them in the bathroom.”
You’re kidding me. Ick.
“Of course, I’ll be here the whole time—you’ll be assisting me. So, why don’t you have a seat with the kids?” She gestures toward a few brats on the floor playing with LEGO blocks. “Let’s see how you get along.”
“Oh, okay.” I sit down on the rug, cursing the low-rise skinny jeans that I decided to wear. It’s hard to bend my knees and, for sure, my butt crack is peeking out.
I smile at the kids. “Hi.”
They ignore me. I’m not a LEGO piece.
“It’s called parallel play,” Eve says from across the room. “Start playing along with them, you’ll see.”
I pick up one of the blocks and connect it to another.Doesn’t seem so hard, so I build a box. A little boy uses my arm as a ramp for the car he has constructed.
“Vroom.” He races.
I look at Eve. She smiles, nods, and mouths, “See?”
“What’s your name?” the little boy asks, still driving.
“Bea.”
He laughs, holding his belly. “Her name
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