click.
“You could make me straight, right now, the way you look.”
I bat my eyes at him. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
A blast of cold wind comes barreling through the concession stand like a mini-cyclone, knocking over paper cups and bags of popcorn, blowing flyers off a bulletin board.
“Brrr.” Chris catches the flying debris.
“My dad said a storm was coming. At least we’re under a roof in case it starts raining. You don’t want to see what my hair does when it’s wet.”
A WANTED poster flies off the bulletin board and floats down onto the counter. A generic, bland drawing of a man’s face stares up at me.
WANTED!
AGGRAVATED SEXUAL ASSAULT
“Is this the guy they think raped Willa?” I ask.
“I guess so.” Chris shrugs and starts to help some customers.
I laugh. “A robot raped her?”
“What are you talking about?” he says, looking back at me.
I hold up the poster. “Chris, a kindergartner could have drawn a better face.”
“They say she doesn’t remember anything. I guess the police did the best they could,” Chris says, making change.
“I’m sorry. He doesn’t look like a real person.”
“Yeah, he does kinda look like a Ken doll.” Chris giggles.
“So he couldn’t have raped her. Ken dolls don’t have genitals.”
“Mine did.” Chris winks. “I drew them on.”
“You whore.” I play-slap him. “Well, let’s see what I can do with this Ken doll.”
I pull out one of the pens from my hair and shadow the nose and cheekbones, fill in his eyebrows, and sharpen his eyes. I crosshatch, adding dimension and badly needed shading.
“You like?” I show it to Chris.
“Shit, Bea, you’re good. You made that face look real in a matter of seconds.”
“I touched it up a little, that’s all.”
“But I don’t know if you should be messing with a police sketch.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I fold and tuck the flyer into my sketchbook.
“I can’t believe he’s out there somewhere,” Chris says, filling a bag of popcorn for a fan.
“Maybe he’s here in the stadium,” I whisper in his ear, “or maybe he’s the man right in front of you, the one you’re handing the popcorn to.”
The guy walks away from the stand.
“Stop it. Stop it right now, Beatrice Washington. That’s not funny, you’re scaring me!”
“Oh, quit acting like a girl,
Christina
.”
Chris throws a handful of popcorn at me.
The halftime buzzer blares in my ear.
“Ladies and gentleman, we now present to you our homecoming princesses!” the announcer shouts.
The fans go crazy, whooping and hollering, throwing confetti.
“Oh, please,” I mutter to myself.
“Princess Sarah Alam!” the announcer burps out.
A little waif of a girl walks onto the football field, her heels sinking into the turf with each step. The gusty wind hits her hard and almost knocks her down. She stumbles, and her arms flail but find the shoulder of a kneeling football player. She safely clutches his grass-stained jersey as she’s presented with a bouquet of yellow carnations.
“Princess Eva Marie Evans!” The second princess, unlike Sarah, is meaty and plows ahead like a gladiator facing a tiger in the arena. The wind wins the contest, however, as her geometric-patterned minidress balloons up over her thighs, revealing a lovely pair of Spanx. A football player presents her with a bouquet of orange carnations as he stares at her ass.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you have all been waiting for… this year’s Queen of Packard High!” A drumroll from the marching band: “Queen Willa Pressman!”
“Oh my gosh.” Chris bounces. “She’s here—look! She came! I can’t believe it!” He starts snapping pictures.
“Wow. Unreal.”
A spotlight shines on Willa as she steps onto the field, escorted by her weeping, proud parents. Police officers skirt the sidelines, whispering into walkie-talkies.
“Poor thing. She looks so scared,” Chris says,
“You could make me straight, right now, the way you look.”
I bat my eyes at him. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
A blast of cold wind comes barreling through the concession stand like a mini-cyclone, knocking over paper cups and bags of popcorn, blowing flyers off a bulletin board.
“Brrr.” Chris catches the flying debris.
“My dad said a storm was coming. At least we’re under a roof in case it starts raining. You don’t want to see what my hair does when it’s wet.”
A WANTED poster flies off the bulletin board and floats down onto the counter. A generic, bland drawing of a man’s face stares up at me.
WANTED!
AGGRAVATED SEXUAL ASSAULT
“Is this the guy they think raped Willa?” I ask.
“I guess so.” Chris shrugs and starts to help some customers.
I laugh. “A robot raped her?”
“What are you talking about?” he says, looking back at me.
I hold up the poster. “Chris, a kindergartner could have drawn a better face.”
“They say she doesn’t remember anything. I guess the police did the best they could,” Chris says, making change.
“I’m sorry. He doesn’t look like a real person.”
“Yeah, he does kinda look like a Ken doll.” Chris giggles.
“So he couldn’t have raped her. Ken dolls don’t have genitals.”
“Mine did.” Chris winks. “I drew them on.”
“You whore.” I play-slap him. “Well, let’s see what I can do with this Ken doll.”
I pull out one of the pens from my hair and shadow the nose and cheekbones, fill in his eyebrows, and sharpen his eyes. I crosshatch, adding dimension and badly needed shading.
“You like?” I show it to Chris.
“Shit, Bea, you’re good. You made that face look real in a matter of seconds.”
“I touched it up a little, that’s all.”
“But I don’t know if you should be messing with a police sketch.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I fold and tuck the flyer into my sketchbook.
“I can’t believe he’s out there somewhere,” Chris says, filling a bag of popcorn for a fan.
“Maybe he’s here in the stadium,” I whisper in his ear, “or maybe he’s the man right in front of you, the one you’re handing the popcorn to.”
The guy walks away from the stand.
“Stop it. Stop it right now, Beatrice Washington. That’s not funny, you’re scaring me!”
“Oh, quit acting like a girl,
Christina
.”
Chris throws a handful of popcorn at me.
The halftime buzzer blares in my ear.
“Ladies and gentleman, we now present to you our homecoming princesses!” the announcer shouts.
The fans go crazy, whooping and hollering, throwing confetti.
“Oh, please,” I mutter to myself.
“Princess Sarah Alam!” the announcer burps out.
A little waif of a girl walks onto the football field, her heels sinking into the turf with each step. The gusty wind hits her hard and almost knocks her down. She stumbles, and her arms flail but find the shoulder of a kneeling football player. She safely clutches his grass-stained jersey as she’s presented with a bouquet of yellow carnations.
“Princess Eva Marie Evans!” The second princess, unlike Sarah, is meaty and plows ahead like a gladiator facing a tiger in the arena. The wind wins the contest, however, as her geometric-patterned minidress balloons up over her thighs, revealing a lovely pair of Spanx. A football player presents her with a bouquet of orange carnations as he stares at her ass.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you have all been waiting for… this year’s Queen of Packard High!” A drumroll from the marching band: “Queen Willa Pressman!”
“Oh my gosh.” Chris bounces. “She’s here—look! She came! I can’t believe it!” He starts snapping pictures.
“Wow. Unreal.”
A spotlight shines on Willa as she steps onto the field, escorted by her weeping, proud parents. Police officers skirt the sidelines, whispering into walkie-talkies.
“Poor thing. She looks so scared,” Chris says,
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