Sketchy Behavior

by Erynn Mangum

  Suddenly, I found myself wishing for another natural “disaster” like the Great Tornado of 1993 that took out a woman’s leaning storage shed and knocked over a couple of other people’s grills. That story lasted on the local news for about three weeks.

  DJ and I made it inside, barely, and then the real chaos started.

  “Hey, it’s Kate Carter!” one guy I’d never seen before in my life shouted.

  “Kate Carter?” another girl I did not know repeated.

  “Kate Carter?”

  “Kate Carter!”

  Suddenly, my name was being repeated so consistently and on such a good beat that I was waiting for the music to start and my personhood to be sung about like what happens in High School Musical. DJ kept pushing me toward my locker.

  “Wow, that was really brave,” one guy said as we passed him.

  He was actually kind of cute, so I wouldn’t have minded talking to him, but DJ didn’t seem to care. It was all for the better, anyway. We already know my history with guys.

  I grabbed my pencils and sketchpad from my locker and then heard another rousing chorus of “Kate Carter!” and “Wow, that was amazing what you did!” as I was rounded into art class.

  Considering my history of tardiness, I wasn’t even sure what to expect as I pushed open the classroom door at ten minutes until class time. Miss Yeager was busy writing instructions on the board, and no one else was there yet.

  She turned when she heard the door close and at first she smiled. “Kate!” she said excitedly. Then I guess she noticed the man behind me and the firm set to my jawline.

  “How are you?” she asked all hesitantly, putting the dry erase marker down and walking over slowly.

  “Well,” I started, ready to unload on her.

  Which of course is when Silent Justin walked in. I almost growled in frustration. I couldn’t lambaste Miss Yeager in front of a classmate. It’s like the highest form of insult to get mad at an authority figure in front of her subordinates.

  Or so I thought. My knowledge of authority and subordinates is completely from movies like The Guardian and Remember the Titans. Which was about the only thing I took from those movies, other than a fear of boating or swimming in the ocean.

  “Good morning, Justin,” Miss Yeager said to my classmate. She got a grunt of recognition before turning back to me.

  “Miss Yeager,” I said, carefully, keeping one eye on Justin as he started arranging his pencils on our table. “Were you aware that we were sketching a nationally known and state-feared criminal when you had me complete the last assignment?”

  Miss Yeager looked at me and then at DJ.

  “Kate,” she started.

  “Did you know we were sketching John X?”

  She took a deep breath. “No, for the record, I did not know it was John X. I knew it was a man who had committed a crime and hadn’t been caught, but I was not aware it was him.”

  Which placed the blame squarely on the good Detective Masterson’s shoulders.

  “I see,” I said. I went to my table and sat down.

  “Kate,” Miss Yeager said again, apology reigning in her tone.

  “Miss Yeager, I can barely even go to the bathroom by myself now. My dad’s constantly got his 9mm strapped to his chest, my mom is on the verge of a mental breakdown, and I’m constantly shadowed by him.” I jerked my thumb toward DJ.

  He smiled and waved at Miss Yeager. “Officer Kirkpatrick. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” She was smiling back at him.

  I really hoped I wasn’t interrupting the moment. Oh wait, yes I did.

  “Seriously, you guys?”

  “Okay, okay,” Miss Yeager said, coming over and putting a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, Kate, I’m very sorry about the sketching assignment. But, if it makes you feel better and it should, you are the person to thank for protecting our state from a very dangerous man. And you wouldn’t have gotten that opportunity without the detective providing you with that assignment.”

  Justin was sitting directly to my left, and he made a tiny noise in the back of his throat like he agreed.

  That sent me over the edge. “Look, instead of grunting like a caveman, why don’t you just speak? We all know you can. Gosh!”

  “Kate Carter!” Miss Yeager exclaimed, only it wasn’t in the adoring way that everyone outside in the halls was proclaiming it.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. I rubbed my head. I hadn’t even taken a good shower this morning — I was so weirded out by the fact that DJ was standing in the hall waiting for me. I could feel the start of several zits along my hairline.

  Fabulous.

  I held my head for a few seconds and then looked over at Justin, who was flipping through his sketchbook. “Sorry,” I said.

  He nodded.

  Wordlessly, of course.

  Miss Yeager sighed. “Listen, Kate, I understand that you’ve been through a lot of emotions in the last twenty-four hours. In fact, I really wasn’t even anticipating you being here today at all.”

  “I’ve got a geography exam.”

  She smiled at me. “I think Mr. Walsh might have let you take it later, all things considered.”

  I just blinked at her. If I didn’t come to school, what would I do? Sit on the couch with DJ and Lolly and watch E! reruns?

  All last night, I dreamt about some shadowy figure sitting in a jail cell and carving Get Kate Carter over his cell door like the poor man in The Count of Monte Cristo. Only that man was carving the name of the woman he loved.

  I was fairly sure that John X did not harbor feelings of affection of any kind toward me. Even though my dad said that prison these days was better than the outside world, because apparently they get cable, no taxes, basketball games, and pot roast. Dad said that if he weren’t an upstanding citizen, he would have hoped to get into prison years ago.

  Part of me thought my dad was just kidding because I’ve seen some of those documentaries on the Discovery Channel about life in the slammer. I’ve never seen anyone playing basketball in the yard. All the clips they ever show are the ones where the guards were breaking up one of the daily fights with tear gas and bean bag guns.

  No, it was better to be at school. At school, I have to concentrate on art and math and what the population in the capital of Brazil was. At home, I would be researching prison and worrying.

  “I’m fine,” I said, pretty much lying through my teeth, but trying to look calm as I wove my fingers together and set my hands on top of my sketchbook.

  Miss Yeager didn’t look like she believed me, but she nodded. “Fine.”

  She walked back to the board, DJ moved to the back corner of the class, and the bell buzzed once as a flood of bodies came through the door.

  I felt Justin looking at me, but when I looked over at him, he snapped his head around so fast I heard his neck pop.

  Then again, he wasn’t the only one looking. Everyone was craning their heads as they sat down, gawking at me and whispering.

  I will never stare at babies in McSweeny’s Market whose mothers dress them in horrendous clothing again. I know now what it feels like.

  “Okay, everyone, stop staring at Kate,” Miss Yeager said finally, as the second bell rang.

  Allison Northing dropped into her chair beside me right as the bell finished. “Oh my gosh, Kate, I cannot believe you are here today!” she tried to whisper but didn’t really succeed. “Oh wow, did you know who we were drawing? Did you get like an award or something? Holy cow, you should totally hang it in your locker!”

  “Today, we are going to continue with our discussions on how to use art in the career world,” Miss Yeager started and, thankfully, Allison quieted.

  I tried to focus on what Miss Yeager was saying, but honestly, the word career just reminded me of Deputy Slalom’s job offer yesterday.

  Now, granted, I had told Mom and Dad that I wanted to look into getting a job over the summer. Something with casual work attire, nice hourly pay, and good ben
efits. I was thinking about maybe working at Kelly’s Creamery and serving ice cream. For every ten cones you sold, you got one free.

  That sounded like good benefits to me.

  Dad wanted me to consider working at the local hardware store. I figured he wanted some discounts for when he finally built that shed he’d been talking about building for years.

  I didn’t like the smell of sawdust, however, and the hardware store always smelled of sawdust and wood glue. Which also made me worry a little bit about the architectural integrity of the store.

  But working as a forensic sketch artist? With the police?

  I was willing to bet there was no free ice cream with that job.

  “… makes it one of the best choices for an art major’s career,” Miss Yeager said, and I shook my head slightly, trying to bring myself back to the present.

  I raised my hand.

  “Yes, Kate?”

  “I’m sorry. What’s one of the best choices for an art major’s career?” I asked, feeling dumb but not wanting to miss what she was talking about. Justin wouldn’t have answered me if I’d asked him and Allison doesn’t know the meaning of whispering.

  Miss Yeager smiled faintly at me. “Freelance artistry,” she said. She looked at the class. “I have several friends who make a very good living contracting out with people to design their restaurant menus, drawing the winter art you see on store windows, and painting creative pieces on people’s walls. You have to be willing to keep very unusual hours and have very good self-marketing skills, but it can be a great line of work.”

  She told us that we would now spend the rest of class designing a menu. “I want you to use your creative brains and come up with a restaurant, a good description of the kind of food they serve, and a sample menu for me. I need it in color and finished on my desk by Monday morning. Don’t worry about putting prices on there.”

  She walked around handing out huge sheets of paper that had been pre-folded into a menu with three sections.

  Allison immediately started working on hers. She’d only had her paper for seventeen seconds before Allison’s Awesome Appetizer House was written across the top of the front page.

  Justin was lightly sketching a few lines here and there, making what looked like a vine wrapping around the edges of the menu. I was willing to bet his was going to be an Italian restaurant.

  Everyone around me was working and sketching. I stared at my blank piece of paper.

  All I could think about was John X whiling away time in prison by cutting my name into the rubber sole of his shoelace-less shoes, listening to a basketball game outside his window while the smell of pot roast wafted down the barred hallway.

  “Kate?” Miss Yeager said softly.

  I jerked up. “Oh. Yes?”

  She just smiled one of those sad, sympathetic smiles at me. “You don’t have to be here,” she said.

  I nodded. “Yes, I do.” I picked up my pencil.

  I worked quickly and I worked hard. By the time class was over, I had a halfway decent menu about halfway done.

  Granted, it was for a restaurant called Jailbird’s and the main thing they served was pot roast, but it was done very tastefully in an art-deco design.

  The bell rang and everyone stuffed their pencils, menus, and sketchpads into their backpacks. “Have a great weekend everyone, see you on Monday!” Miss Yeager yelled over the chaos.

  DJ waited for me while I gathered up my supplies. “So,” he said as I shrugged on my backpack. “Jailbird’s?”

  “DJ,” I said, walking into the loud hallway and trying to ignore yet another chorus of “Kate Carter! Kate Carter? Kate Carter!”

  “Yes, Kate?”

  “Do they serve pot roast in prison?”

  Chapter Seven

  SOMEHOW, I GOT THROUGH THE REST OF THE DAY WITH minimal visions of John X in his cell and only hearing my name shouted another eighty-seven times. Maddy caught me in the hall right before lunch and warned me to just give her my lunch money and she’d meet me by her car to eat it.

  So Maddy, DJ, and I ate school cafeteria lunches in her shiny, black Tahoe. I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten something that disgusting in something so nice. Our cafeteria excels in only two lunches — pizza and soft tacos with Spanish rice.

  Today’s lunch was cold chicken nuggets and congealed macaroni and cheese.

  Needless to say, both DJ and I were starving when we got home.

  Mom, still on the verge of a nervous breakdown, apparently cancelled her afternoon appointments so she could worry over me when I got home.

  “Kate!” she cried as soon as I walked in the door.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said as she grabbed me into one of those almost-painful hugs, it was so tight.

  “Oh, Kate, I worried about you all day today. School was uneventful? People were kind to you? The pressure wasn’t too hard to take?”

  “I think I passed my geography test,” I told her.

  She looked up at DJ, who nodded. “I think she handled it just fine, ma’am.”

  Mom stopped crushing me to her chest, but kept one hand on my shoulder. “I made cookies.”

  “Great,” I said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. Cookies, to my mom, usually involved some form of natural sweetener that isn’t called sugar. And while I thought that sugar was the only natural sweetener, it is not.

  Two weeks ago, she’d made a batch of honey and wheat germ cookies. No refined sugar, no white flour.

  “You are supposed to dip them into a nice, hot cup of tea,” Mom said to me and Dad when she served them.

  Dad had made a face and then dunked his “cookie” into the tea and shoved the whole thing in his mouth. “Mm!” he managed and then got up from the table.

  The cookie was rock solid. I think you had to dunk it in the tea to help it soften enough for your temporomandibular joint to work.

  So I wasn’t too excited when Mom mentioned cookies. This meant more acting and after seven hours of acting like I was fine and focused at school, I was ready to just have some alone time.

  And by alone time, I meant me in my bedroom with the door open while DJ took his post in the hallway.

  “Chocolate chip.” Mom nodded.

  My head snapped up so fast, I nearly bit my tongue. “You made chocolate chip cookies?” I gasped.

  I had to see it to believe it. I went into the kitchen and lo and behold, there on the counter were dozens of cookies dotted with dark chocolate chips.

  DJ and Mom followed me. “It’s not like I never make chocolate chip cookies,” Mom was telling DJ.

  I was pretty sure that the last time she made them, I was still learning the Pledge of Allegiance.

  “With real sugar?” I asked, dubiously sniffing a cookie.

  “Yes,” Mom said.

  Then I rethought my question. “I mean, with fake sugar?”

  She sighed. “Just eat the cookie, Kate.”

  I took a bite. And it was definitely not a chocolate chip cookie.

  But I pulled on my theater skills and managed to swallow it. Whatever was in the cookie was acting like a vacuum on my saliva. I could barely get the last of it down, my mouth was so dry. “You did use real sugar,” I said after downing a glass of water.

  “Yep. This one is made from the leaves of the stevia plant,” Mom said proudly. “And that’s whole wheat flour, carob chips, and don’t tell your father, but I added some whey protein powder to give them a little nutritional boost.”

  DJ was staring at the cookies like they were on the same playing field as our lunch today.

  So much for starving. “I won’t tell Dad,” I said and then grabbed my backpack and went to my room.

  My room was possibly my favorite place in this house. I painted it a deep chocolate color last year, and I’d slowly been adding different colors and textures in my accessories to provide visual depth and interest. My bedspread was a rich ruby red, I’d hung a few shelves that were a creamy color, and I was trying to locate some textured
pillows for my bed.

  I plopped my backpack by my desk and climbed up on the bed, dragging my sketchpad, pencils, and half-finished menu over.

  The menu was due on Monday, and since art was my favorite subject, I always tried to do that homework first.

  I heard the TV turn on in the living room. “In South Woodhaven Falls, Missouri, yesterday, a high school junior was directly related to the arrest of famed murderer, John X …”

  “Oh my gosh!” I heard Mom say. “Kate, get in here! Katie Couric is talking about you!”

  I walked into the living room, and DJ followed me. There was Katie Couric and there was my yearbook picture suspended in the air next to her.

  I hated that picture. Of all the ones they had to use, they had to pick one that made me look like a squinty third grader.

  Katie Couric started retelling the now-infamous story, and the phone rang. Mom answered it and then passed it to me.

  “Did you know that you’re on Katie Couric?”

  It was Maddy.

  “I’m watching it right now.”

  “Did you see the picture they used?”

  I sighed. “Maddy, I’m watching it right now.”

  “I wish they’d come to me for a picture. I would have at least given them the one of us at the zoo last summer.”

  I knew exactly which picture she was talking about and she was right, that was a lot cuter.

  “Since when do you watch the news, Maddy?”

  “Since never. I was flipping through the channels, and I saw you squinting at me. Hey, if Ryan Seacrest decides to interview you, will you let me go with you? I’ll give them the cute picture of you.”

  I just shook my head at the TV, which was now showing a picture of the jailed John X. He didn’t look too happy in his mug shot, and a lone skittle of fear raced up my spinal column.

  “Sure, Maddy. Sure.”

  Mom called me in for dinner at 5:37, yet another sign that not all was well in our house. Dad had just gotten home, and DJ was standing guard in the living room.