Sketchy by Olivia Samms Page B

some sixth-sense shit.
I see dead people.
”
    I shove my chilled hands into the pockets of my coat. “I’m serious, Chris. I don’t know why this is happening. I can’t seem to help it. And it’s been happening more and more lately. Freaky, right?”
    “Uh, yeah. It is. When did this start happening?”
    “When I got sober—isn’t that weird? I didn’t understand it at rehab—I thought it was like, I don’t know, a heightened sensitivity because I was clearheaded for the first time in a long time—or because I was going through withdrawal and the wiring in my brain was off. But it’s still happening, and I’ve been sober for over three months.”
    Chris scrunches his forehead.
    “You don’t believe me, do you? Fine, I’ll prove it to you.” I flip through my sketchbook and turn to a page with a drawing of a guy at school who hasn’t outed himself yet but should. I show it to Chris. “Who’s that?” I ask.
    “Ian McKinley. Why do you have a drawing of Ian in your sketchbook?”
    “Because his face popped into my head when I was sketching you at lunch. Ian was on your mind—
in
your mind. Am I wrong?”
    His face flushes. “Okay, that’s creepy.”
    “Tell me about it,” I say. “And it happened again in lit class, when I was taking notes during one of Mr. Kleinman’s boring lectures. At first it was like static, and then it flickered. Suddenly I saw Mr. Kleinman wearing a bra, women’s panties, and lipstick.” I show him the sketch.
    Chris doubles over in laughter. “He’s a cross-dresser? Mr. Kleinman?”
    “I don’t want to know this about him, believe me!”
    “Wow. This is pretty heavy shit. You can read people’s minds?”
    “It’s only when I draw.”
    “And you’re not using?”
    “I’m not using! But it would probably stop if I were. This isn’t a good thing, you know. I don’t want to have this…”
    “Power.” Chris finishes my sentence.
    Another crack of lightning, a boom of thunder. It starts to rain, hard. The soaked pink tissue flowers fall off the carriage, and the ride is nixed. Willa’s dad covers her with his coat as they rush to the sidelines. Umbrellas pop open, and the concession stand is mobbed under the awning. I jump up, put my sketchbook down on the counter, and join Chris, pouring sodas, filling bags of popcorn, and making change, earning our service-learning hours as orders are tossed out:
    “Milk Duds! Do you have Milk Duds?”
    “My popcorn is wet… I need another!”
    “I wanted diet pop, and this tastes like it has sugar in it!”
    “You gave me the wrong change, you moron.”
    The buzzer blares, and the players continue on with the game, rain and all. The concession stand clears. I plop down on the chair, rub my feet, itch my arms, and begin to regret that I told my only friend in the world the weird truth about me.
    “Talk about crazy!” Chris sighs.
    “The crowd or me?”
    “Both.” He laughs.
    “I probably shouldn’t have told you. Promise me you’ll still be my friend?”
    “Move over.” I do, and he sits on the corner of the chair. “Bea, I will always be your friend, no matter what.”
    I turn to him, almost falling off, so he puts me on his lap and scratches my itchy back. “I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t. I mean, I don’t even understand myself. It’s, like, not normal.”
    “Normal? What’s
normal
? We all have stuff.”
    I kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks.”
    “For what?”
    “For not running away.”
    “A Diet Coke for Willa! Fast! Hurry!” Eva Marie barks. Willa and her ladies of the court stand at the concession stand.
    “Of course,” Chris says.
    Sarah asks for a cup of water.
    “That was horrible, what happened with the horses.” I hand Willa the pop.
    “Are you okay?” Chris asks the girls.
    Willa, still wearing her father’s coat, looks down at the counter, at my open sketchbook, at the modified WANTED poster, and gasps. “Who did that? Who drew on that?”
    “Who did what?”