Is that you? Was that you following me?”
She hangs up.
The storm continues outside my window as I stand in my bathroom, looking in the mirror.
Beatrice Beaver-head, Chia Pet Washington.
I pull my hair back into a ponytail and see the scared hazel eyes of a little Bea hiding behind heavy, dark eyeliner. I spread a glob of Vaseline on those eyes, coating and covering all the dirt, the filth, the seedy alleysof my life. I wipe off the grime with a cotton ball, soiling the pure white fluff with the blackness of my soul. I stare at my naked, greasy face in the mirror.
It started when I was in the eighth grade. I was thirteen and away on a school trip to Cedar Point Amusement Park, about an hour away in Ohio.
I was in my Beaver-head phase. Trying my hardest to look like one of the pretty girls at Athena Day. I would flatiron my shoulder-length hair every morning, burning the crap out of it, making it frizz even more.
We had assigned seats on the bus—a failed attempt by the teachers to break up some of the mean-girl cliques at the school. I was next to Agatha. Agatha Rand. Not only one of the prettiest girls in the school but one of the most popular, and for sure, one of the richest.
Agatha wasn’t too happy about sitting by me, and she made that abundantly clear. She talked on her cell phone for most of the ride with her best friend, Marissa, who was sitting ten rows ahead of us, until one of the teachers, Miss Metzler, confiscated her phone.
“That bitch,” she muttered.
“I know, right?” I commiserated.
Agatha looked at me, surprised, as if she just noticed I was there. She dug through her purse and took out a tiny little white envelope and hid it on her lap, in the pleats of her uniform skirt. She pulled out a foiled sheet of pills.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Nothing.” I looked away and started drawing in my sketchbook.
Agatha leaned over and watched me sketch Miss Metzler with a fat ass and clown lips. She cracked up. “That’s hilarious!”
“Thanks,” I said, trying to hide my smile.
“Hey,” Agatha whispered. “You ever done speed?”
“Uh, no.”
“Want to now?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. What will it feel like?”
“Not very different. It’ll make things go a little faster, make the rides a little more fun. We could do a roller coaster together.” She laughed to herself. “Riding on ice would be bitchin’!”
“Really? You and me? On the roller coaster?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Okay, why not?” I giggled and closed my sketchbook.
And that was it. That’s all it took.
I was hooked from that moment on, to Agatha and to any drug I could get my hands on. And she had plenty of them.
I became more relaxed with myself as the eighth grade continued on. It’s when I let my hair go wild and free, pierced my nose, rolled my uniform skirt up to my butt cheeks, discovered my retro look, and became one of the cool girls—and Aggie’s best friend.
I jump at the loud knock on my bedroom door.
“Bea!!! Bea, let us in!!!” my parents yell.
I open the door and they stand there, looking as if the air’s been sucked out of them, like two deflated balloons.
“Aggie. Agatha Rand,” Mom squeaks, tears streaming down her face.
“What? What about Aggie? What’s wrong? Dad?”
“She’s the girl who was missing,” he says.
“Oh, no! Is she okay? Is Aggie okay?” I yell.
My dad reaches out, holding on to my shoulders. “No, Bea. She’s dead. Agatha is dead. They think it was an overdose.”
I pass out, collapsing into his arms.
Darkness.
3 months
7 days
12 hours
T he storm has blown over Ann Arbor, spitting its way east toward Lake Huron and into Canada. High, blustery clouds float weightlessly in the scrubbed-clean, blue gray sky.
It’s Sunday. I’m still numb and speechless with the news of Aggie’s death, but Jewish tradition dictates burying the body as soon after death as possible, as a mark of respect. I sit in the backseat of my
She hangs up.
The storm continues outside my window as I stand in my bathroom, looking in the mirror.
Beatrice Beaver-head, Chia Pet Washington.
I pull my hair back into a ponytail and see the scared hazel eyes of a little Bea hiding behind heavy, dark eyeliner. I spread a glob of Vaseline on those eyes, coating and covering all the dirt, the filth, the seedy alleysof my life. I wipe off the grime with a cotton ball, soiling the pure white fluff with the blackness of my soul. I stare at my naked, greasy face in the mirror.
It started when I was in the eighth grade. I was thirteen and away on a school trip to Cedar Point Amusement Park, about an hour away in Ohio.
I was in my Beaver-head phase. Trying my hardest to look like one of the pretty girls at Athena Day. I would flatiron my shoulder-length hair every morning, burning the crap out of it, making it frizz even more.
We had assigned seats on the bus—a failed attempt by the teachers to break up some of the mean-girl cliques at the school. I was next to Agatha. Agatha Rand. Not only one of the prettiest girls in the school but one of the most popular, and for sure, one of the richest.
Agatha wasn’t too happy about sitting by me, and she made that abundantly clear. She talked on her cell phone for most of the ride with her best friend, Marissa, who was sitting ten rows ahead of us, until one of the teachers, Miss Metzler, confiscated her phone.
“That bitch,” she muttered.
“I know, right?” I commiserated.
Agatha looked at me, surprised, as if she just noticed I was there. She dug through her purse and took out a tiny little white envelope and hid it on her lap, in the pleats of her uniform skirt. She pulled out a foiled sheet of pills.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Nothing.” I looked away and started drawing in my sketchbook.
Agatha leaned over and watched me sketch Miss Metzler with a fat ass and clown lips. She cracked up. “That’s hilarious!”
“Thanks,” I said, trying to hide my smile.
“Hey,” Agatha whispered. “You ever done speed?”
“Uh, no.”
“Want to now?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. What will it feel like?”
“Not very different. It’ll make things go a little faster, make the rides a little more fun. We could do a roller coaster together.” She laughed to herself. “Riding on ice would be bitchin’!”
“Really? You and me? On the roller coaster?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Okay, why not?” I giggled and closed my sketchbook.
And that was it. That’s all it took.
I was hooked from that moment on, to Agatha and to any drug I could get my hands on. And she had plenty of them.
I became more relaxed with myself as the eighth grade continued on. It’s when I let my hair go wild and free, pierced my nose, rolled my uniform skirt up to my butt cheeks, discovered my retro look, and became one of the cool girls—and Aggie’s best friend.
I jump at the loud knock on my bedroom door.
“Bea!!! Bea, let us in!!!” my parents yell.
I open the door and they stand there, looking as if the air’s been sucked out of them, like two deflated balloons.
“Aggie. Agatha Rand,” Mom squeaks, tears streaming down her face.
“What? What about Aggie? What’s wrong? Dad?”
“She’s the girl who was missing,” he says.
“Oh, no! Is she okay? Is Aggie okay?” I yell.
My dad reaches out, holding on to my shoulders. “No, Bea. She’s dead. Agatha is dead. They think it was an overdose.”
I pass out, collapsing into his arms.
Darkness.
3 months
7 days
12 hours
T he storm has blown over Ann Arbor, spitting its way east toward Lake Huron and into Canada. High, blustery clouds float weightlessly in the scrubbed-clean, blue gray sky.
It’s Sunday. I’m still numb and speechless with the news of Aggie’s death, but Jewish tradition dictates burying the body as soon after death as possible, as a mark of respect. I sit in the backseat of my
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