peering through the camera lens.
Willa makes her way to midfield, the band plays something inappropriately upbeat, and the students leap to their feet with a standing ovation, applauding their queen.
A daisy-appliquéd, pink chiffon dress hangs on her bony frame and billows around her ankles in the wind. Her hair is piled high in a bun. A few wispy strands trickle down the side of her face.
Willa’s parents release their hold on their daughter as the team captain presents her with a large bouquet of pink carnations—fit for a racehorse. Sarah drapes a sash around her fragile body. Eva Marie places a tiara, crookedly, on the top of her head.
Willa looks up at the stands and begins to turn in circles, around and around like a pink ballerina on a little girl’s wind-up jewelry box. She waves to her adoring fans under the hot, bright wattage of the football field.
“I don’t know”—I chew the tip of my pen—“I think this whole thing is sick, Chris. Raped and then crowned?”
“I think it’s touching.” Chris wipes a tear from his eye.
I look at Willa as she struggles with the heavy, crooked tiara, holding it in place, stopping it from falling off her head. My pen is poised, and I wait. I wonder if it’ll happen again—if I’ll see Marcus’s face.
But no, it isn’t Marcus that charges through my head. I draw a crown of thorns, digging into Willa’s skull.
Chris looks over at the sketch. “What’s that?”
“I don’t think she likes it much, being homecoming queen.”
“What are you talking about? Willa loves this. She’s been campaigning for this since, like, preschool.”
“I’m not too sure about that.”
Eva Marie and Sarah are escorted to the side of the field, to a horse-drawn carriage adorned with hundreds of handmade pink tissue flowers. They climb on and wave to their admirers.
Willa kisses her mom and dad on the cheek and takes her boyfriend’s hand, ready to step onto the carriage, when a lightning bolt cracks, brightening the purple sky.
The horses are spooked. They whinny and buck up on their hind legs, pull away from the handler, and race wildly around the track. Eva Marie and Sarah yell for help, their faces terrified.
A couple of football players chase after the carriage and finally rein in the horses at the goalpost. Sarah steps out of the carriage sobbing. Eva Marie appears to be swearing like a fullback.
A roll of booming thunder rocks the stadium stands.
Willa stands frozen on the track. Her hair, falling out of her bun now, tangles around the lopsided tiara and down her neck. Her face is stuck, twisted in horror, as if she is staring at something, someone in the crowd.
My head explodes with an image again, but not the crown of thorns and not Marcus. I pull the WANTED poster out from my Moleskine.
“Bea, what are you doing now?”
It blasts through my mind like the bolt of lightning in the sky. I see it. I draw it—a cleft, a well-defined cleft in a chin. I draw it on the face on the poster and then collapse onto a folding chair.
“Bea, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just a little dizzy. Shit, my head hurts.”
Chris hands me a cup of water.
I wish it were something stronger
.
I look at Chris and swallow. “If I tell you something, do you promise to not laugh?”
“Sure.”
“And you promise you won’t run away from me in fear?”
“Bea, what is it already? You’re creeping me out.”
“I can, like, draw things.”
“Duh.”
“I mean, the truth about things. I know it sounds crazy, but when I’m drawing people lately, I can see stuff when I look at them—like what they’re thinking about, things that are on their minds. Like this.” I hand him the WANTEDposter. “The cleft in his chin. I saw it when I looked at Willa—she saw it, or she was thinking of it.”
Chris laughs.
“You promised me you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m sorry, Bea. It just sounds a little Ouija board weird, a little psychic, like
Willa makes her way to midfield, the band plays something inappropriately upbeat, and the students leap to their feet with a standing ovation, applauding their queen.
A daisy-appliquéd, pink chiffon dress hangs on her bony frame and billows around her ankles in the wind. Her hair is piled high in a bun. A few wispy strands trickle down the side of her face.
Willa’s parents release their hold on their daughter as the team captain presents her with a large bouquet of pink carnations—fit for a racehorse. Sarah drapes a sash around her fragile body. Eva Marie places a tiara, crookedly, on the top of her head.
Willa looks up at the stands and begins to turn in circles, around and around like a pink ballerina on a little girl’s wind-up jewelry box. She waves to her adoring fans under the hot, bright wattage of the football field.
“I don’t know”—I chew the tip of my pen—“I think this whole thing is sick, Chris. Raped and then crowned?”
“I think it’s touching.” Chris wipes a tear from his eye.
I look at Willa as she struggles with the heavy, crooked tiara, holding it in place, stopping it from falling off her head. My pen is poised, and I wait. I wonder if it’ll happen again—if I’ll see Marcus’s face.
But no, it isn’t Marcus that charges through my head. I draw a crown of thorns, digging into Willa’s skull.
Chris looks over at the sketch. “What’s that?”
“I don’t think she likes it much, being homecoming queen.”
“What are you talking about? Willa loves this. She’s been campaigning for this since, like, preschool.”
“I’m not too sure about that.”
Eva Marie and Sarah are escorted to the side of the field, to a horse-drawn carriage adorned with hundreds of handmade pink tissue flowers. They climb on and wave to their admirers.
Willa kisses her mom and dad on the cheek and takes her boyfriend’s hand, ready to step onto the carriage, when a lightning bolt cracks, brightening the purple sky.
The horses are spooked. They whinny and buck up on their hind legs, pull away from the handler, and race wildly around the track. Eva Marie and Sarah yell for help, their faces terrified.
A couple of football players chase after the carriage and finally rein in the horses at the goalpost. Sarah steps out of the carriage sobbing. Eva Marie appears to be swearing like a fullback.
A roll of booming thunder rocks the stadium stands.
Willa stands frozen on the track. Her hair, falling out of her bun now, tangles around the lopsided tiara and down her neck. Her face is stuck, twisted in horror, as if she is staring at something, someone in the crowd.
My head explodes with an image again, but not the crown of thorns and not Marcus. I pull the WANTED poster out from my Moleskine.
“Bea, what are you doing now?”
It blasts through my mind like the bolt of lightning in the sky. I see it. I draw it—a cleft, a well-defined cleft in a chin. I draw it on the face on the poster and then collapse onto a folding chair.
“Bea, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just a little dizzy. Shit, my head hurts.”
Chris hands me a cup of water.
I wish it were something stronger
.
I look at Chris and swallow. “If I tell you something, do you promise to not laugh?”
“Sure.”
“And you promise you won’t run away from me in fear?”
“Bea, what is it already? You’re creeping me out.”
“I can, like, draw things.”
“Duh.”
“I mean, the truth about things. I know it sounds crazy, but when I’m drawing people lately, I can see stuff when I look at them—like what they’re thinking about, things that are on their minds. Like this.” I hand him the WANTEDposter. “The cleft in his chin. I saw it when I looked at Willa—she saw it, or she was thinking of it.”
Chris laughs.
“You promised me you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m sorry, Bea. It just sounds a little Ouija board weird, a little psychic, like
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