Free Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) by Olivia Samms

miserable.
    Unbelievable. I know Willa got in, but Zac did, too? That bonehead? This really pisses me off.
    Zac was the first person I met (sort of) when we moved to Ann Arbor. I saw him from way up high in the tree, that day we moved into our house. He was one of the boys playing football in the yard next door; he was taller and huskier thanthe rest, and I could tell, even then, that he was the neighborhood bully as he charged, chased down a boy half his size, and tackled him—smashing his little body into the lawn.
    “That’s not fair, Zac!” the little boy cried. “It’s supposed to be touch football. That was the rule.”
    Zac ignored his cries and snatched the ball from the kid’s puny arms, ran across the grass to the drive, raised his arms, and shouted, “Touchdown.” Then he jackknifed the football onto the asphalt. It ricocheted off the drive and like a bullet, crashed through the front window of the house.
    They all froze. I froze, too, along with the birds sitting in the tree. It was like all the oxygen was sucked out of the air. The front screen door squeaked open, and a woman came stomping out. She looked at the broken window, whirled around to the boys, and yelled, “Who did this? Who?”
    They all stood there—tight-lipped—all stared at Zac.
    He lowered his head; his voice cracked. “Jeremy did, Mom.” Zac pointed to the scrawny kid. “I saw him. He did it.”
    “I did not, he did!” Jeremy sputtered, protested, “I can’t believe you just said that, Zac.”
    The Zac kid started to cry big, phony fat tears, and then wailed, choked out, “Guh . . . you’re such a liar, Jeremy. Mom told us to never lie. Fine. I’ll take the heat for you.” He skulked to his mom, head hung low, and tightly hugged her. “I’m sorry,” he feigned. “I’ll clean it up, and you can take it out of my allowance.” His voice was muffled in the waist of her jeans.
    The mom stuttered, stammered, and then we all watched her make the call, like a referee on the field, as she petted the thick, brown, sweaty mop of her older son’s head. She then shouted the penalty: “Jeremy. You get in this house right now, young man, in your room. You’re grounded for a week.”
    Jeremy whimpered, “But, Mom . . .”
    “Don’t
but Mom
me. Now! Did you hear me?”
    His skinny shoulders slumped as he passed his big brother, walking toward the house, whining under his breath. The screen door squeaked open and slammed closed. The other kids scattered.
    And there I was, sitting way up in the tree, getting my first big dose of suburban family dynamics, thinking . . .
the big brother is ratting on his little brother? Lying about it?
Even at six I knew it was obviously WRONG.
    I wanted to jump down from the tree, right the wrong, knock on the door, and tell the mom the truth. But Zac, alone in the yard now, kind of snickered, high-fived the air, started toward his house, and then spotted me—caught me spying on him from the tree.
    Our eyes locked, and he did that weird twitching thing with his jaw and then gave me the finger, pulled the back seam of his shorts out of his butt crack, and huffed inside his house.
    He was a jerk then, and a bigger jerk now.
    I pull over to the side of the road, roll down the window, and yell out to Jeremy, “How did he manage that?”
    “I dunno. Beats me.”
    “Well, why are you putting up the banner, and not him?”
    “What . . . you expect the king to do it in the rain? I’m just happy he’ll be out of the house.” He turns, walks to his front door—his shoulders slumping in defeat like they did twelve years ago in his front yard; like they probably did so many times in his life.

    I fly up the stairs to my room before my mom sees my gangsta getup.
    She calls out, “Bea . . . dinner in a half hour. Dad’s coming home.”
    Dad’s coming home?
Huh.
My dad hasn’t been home for dinner in ages, ever since this dean job thing came up. “Okay, Mom.”
    My phone pings with a