Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) by Olivia Samms

Author:Olivia Samms [Samms, Olivia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyscape
Published: 2014-04-01T00:00:00+00:00

3 days

16 hours

My alarm goes off at eight—a gruesome hour on a Saturday. I groan and sit up, attempt to swing my legs around, when suddenly, extremely rude, aching pains shoot through every muscle, tendon, ligament, screaming at me, What the hell did you do to us? Huh? Running? Are you nuts? We don’t run. You’re going to pay for it today!

I brush my teeth then limp down the stairs in my “still-warm-with-sleep” plaid flannel pajama bottoms tucked into a pair of UGG boots (the only shoes that don’t irritate the now-oozing blister on my heel), a baggy U of M T-shirt, and a bandana tied around the twists—the twists my mom hates, the twists that make me look ethnic.

She’s standing at the counter, sipping coffee, reading the newspaper. “Why are you up so early? It’s Saturday.”

“I thought I’d help you with the mural in Bloomfield Hills.”

She arches a brow.

I pull out a carton of orange juice from the fridge. “You know, learn the trade . . . so I can help you out this summer.” Gag.

“Bea. You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to,” I interrupt. “But I want to. I want to see what you do, how you deal with your clients.” Like Mike Connelly.

She folds the newspaper. “Oh, okay. But I’m leaving in fifteen. You’ll have to get dressed.”

I look down at my ensemble. “I am dressed.”

Mom chokes on her coffee. “Oh, for chrissakes, Bea. Really? Your pajamas?”

“Just the bottoms. I’m comfortable, and I won’t care if I get paint on anything. But I did brush my teeth.” I shoot her a sassy smile and down the glass of juice.

“There has to be something else you can wear.”

“You don’t understand. My clothes are special to me. Everything hanging in my closet has a story . . . a history. And if it doesn’t yet, it will, believe me.”

I join her at the counter and pour myself a bowl of cereal. She shifts from one foot to the other, her hand tucked in her back pocket of her . . . “Get out. Are those new jeans, Mom? Turn around—are they Sevens?”

“Uh-huh,” she flatly answers and keeps reading, pretending that I’m not boring a hole in her skull with my eyes.

I’m not letting her get off that easy. No way. If I were to buy—or even ask to buy—a pair of designer jeans (not that I would want to), no way would my mom say yes. That’s frivolous, Bea. Over a hundred bucks for a pair of pants? Ridiculous.

She knows she’s in trouble, and puts the paper down, sips at her coffee. “What? What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing. But kind of low-cut for a mom, don’t cha think?”

The paper’s thrown in the recycling bin. “You think I should wear the high elastic-waist kind, is that it? Now that I’m turning forty?”

“No. Jeez. I wouldn’t be caught dead with you if you did.”

“So your mom feels a little stylish; what’s the problem?”

“Where are the overalls you normally wear?”

“They’re in the wash.

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