is a bee—a bug. Ewww.”
A bossy little girl corrects him. “Cameron, a bee is not a bug. It’s an insect.” She looks at me. “My name is Amanda, and he’s Cameron. And you have a funny name, and your hair looks messy, and there are pens sticking out.”
“Hi, Amanda. It’s nice to meet you, too. And yes, I do have pens in my hair, because I like to draw.”
A curly-haired girl plops herself down on my lap. “My name is Maisy, and I like to draw, too. My mom says I’m going to be an artist when I grow up. What do you like to draw?”
I take a piece of paper off a table, pull a pen out of my hair, and draw a picture of a bee.
The kids gasp.
“That looks just like a bee!” Amanda exclaims.
“Yup. That’s me! But I don’t buzz, and I don’t have a stinger,” I tease.
The kids giggle.
“Oh, wow, you are an artist!” Maisy looks up at me wide-eyed.
“Thank you, Maisy.” I smile.
“But why do you have crazy hair?” Amanda asks.
“I think it’s pretty.” Maisy pets my hair. “It tickles.” She giggles. “Could you draw me a kitten? I wuv kittens.”
“Sure I can,” I say, drawing.
“Oh, she’s so cute. She looks real, like I could pet her,” Maisy says. “I like you, Bea.”
“I like her, too, Maisy,” Amanda adds.
“Now draw the kitten pooping,” Cameron blurts out. The girls look disgusted. “And frowing up.”
“How old are you, Cameron?” I ask before the kitten has diarrhea.
“I’m four.” He stands and pounds his chest.
“We are, too,” Amanda calls out. “We’re all four.”
“How old are you, Bea?” Maisy asks.
“I’m four, too,” I joke.
“No, you’re not,” Cameron protests. “You’re lying. It’s not nice to lie.”
“You’re right. I’m not four. I’m four, plus four, plus four, plus four, plus one. I’m seventeen years old.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of fours. You’re old,” Cameron says.
The director stands. “Okay, kids, it’s time to go outside.”
“But we want to stay here with Bea,” Maisy pouts.
“Not right now, Maisy,” the director says. “But maybe Bea will come back here and play with us?” She smiles at me and asks, “You think you could?”
It wasn’t as bad as I thought.
“Sure, Maisy. I’ll see you in a couple days, okay?”
Maisy hugs me around the neck and whispers in my ear, “I want to be just like you when I get all growed up.”
I hug her back.
Oh, no, you don’t, honey. No, you don’t.
3 months
9 days
8 hours
I t’s Tuesday morning, and I trudge through the halls of Packard High. Chris is waiting for me at my locker. He looks anxious, flushed.
“Bea! Where were you yesterday? And why didn’t you answer your phone? Willa is spreading vicious rumors about you.”
I unlock my locker. “Sore throat in the morning, had to work at that preschool in the afternoon, AA at night. I’m beat.”
“Willa is telling everyone that you’re a slut—that you slept with everybody and anybody for drugs!”
“Uh-huh, what else?” I pull my books out.
“That you tested positive for HIV and want to infect the whole school.”
I laugh. “Gotta hand it to her… that’s a good one.”
“Wait, it gets better”—he laughs now, too—“you’ve been practicing witchcraft for a while, and you’ve made a voodoo doll of her and pierce her every night with needles!”
“I’ve always wanted to be a Wiccan!” I slam my locker shut.
“Seriously, how did you manage to piss her off so much? What did you do?”
“I drew the truth out of her.”
“Oh, shit. Does this have something to do with”—he looks around and whispers—“your power?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re not using again, right, like she says?”
“Believe me, I’m not using. I’d be in a better mood if I were.” I sink my back against the cold metal door. “She told me, Chris—everything that happened that night. It was horrible, so horrible.” I show him the stack of flyers tucked away in my bag. “And this is
A bossy little girl corrects him. “Cameron, a bee is not a bug. It’s an insect.” She looks at me. “My name is Amanda, and he’s Cameron. And you have a funny name, and your hair looks messy, and there are pens sticking out.”
“Hi, Amanda. It’s nice to meet you, too. And yes, I do have pens in my hair, because I like to draw.”
A curly-haired girl plops herself down on my lap. “My name is Maisy, and I like to draw, too. My mom says I’m going to be an artist when I grow up. What do you like to draw?”
I take a piece of paper off a table, pull a pen out of my hair, and draw a picture of a bee.
The kids gasp.
“That looks just like a bee!” Amanda exclaims.
“Yup. That’s me! But I don’t buzz, and I don’t have a stinger,” I tease.
The kids giggle.
“Oh, wow, you are an artist!” Maisy looks up at me wide-eyed.
“Thank you, Maisy.” I smile.
“But why do you have crazy hair?” Amanda asks.
“I think it’s pretty.” Maisy pets my hair. “It tickles.” She giggles. “Could you draw me a kitten? I wuv kittens.”
“Sure I can,” I say, drawing.
“Oh, she’s so cute. She looks real, like I could pet her,” Maisy says. “I like you, Bea.”
“I like her, too, Maisy,” Amanda adds.
“Now draw the kitten pooping,” Cameron blurts out. The girls look disgusted. “And frowing up.”
“How old are you, Cameron?” I ask before the kitten has diarrhea.
“I’m four.” He stands and pounds his chest.
“We are, too,” Amanda calls out. “We’re all four.”
“How old are you, Bea?” Maisy asks.
“I’m four, too,” I joke.
“No, you’re not,” Cameron protests. “You’re lying. It’s not nice to lie.”
“You’re right. I’m not four. I’m four, plus four, plus four, plus four, plus one. I’m seventeen years old.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of fours. You’re old,” Cameron says.
The director stands. “Okay, kids, it’s time to go outside.”
“But we want to stay here with Bea,” Maisy pouts.
“Not right now, Maisy,” the director says. “But maybe Bea will come back here and play with us?” She smiles at me and asks, “You think you could?”
It wasn’t as bad as I thought.
“Sure, Maisy. I’ll see you in a couple days, okay?”
Maisy hugs me around the neck and whispers in my ear, “I want to be just like you when I get all growed up.”
I hug her back.
Oh, no, you don’t, honey. No, you don’t.
3 months
9 days
8 hours
I t’s Tuesday morning, and I trudge through the halls of Packard High. Chris is waiting for me at my locker. He looks anxious, flushed.
“Bea! Where were you yesterday? And why didn’t you answer your phone? Willa is spreading vicious rumors about you.”
I unlock my locker. “Sore throat in the morning, had to work at that preschool in the afternoon, AA at night. I’m beat.”
“Willa is telling everyone that you’re a slut—that you slept with everybody and anybody for drugs!”
“Uh-huh, what else?” I pull my books out.
“That you tested positive for HIV and want to infect the whole school.”
I laugh. “Gotta hand it to her… that’s a good one.”
“Wait, it gets better”—he laughs now, too—“you’ve been practicing witchcraft for a while, and you’ve made a voodoo doll of her and pierce her every night with needles!”
“I’ve always wanted to be a Wiccan!” I slam my locker shut.
“Seriously, how did you manage to piss her off so much? What did you do?”
“I drew the truth out of her.”
“Oh, shit. Does this have something to do with”—he looks around and whispers—“your power?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re not using again, right, like she says?”
“Believe me, I’m not using. I’d be in a better mood if I were.” I sink my back against the cold metal door. “She told me, Chris—everything that happened that night. It was horrible, so horrible.” I show him the stack of flyers tucked away in my bag. “And this is
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