Free Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) by Olivia Samms Page B

a treat. I should’ve put out the good china.”
    “Aren’t you going to sit, Bea?” Dad asks, ignoring Mom’s barb.
    “I’m studying for an astronomy test, and it’s easier up here on the counter with my book.” I also don’t want to be hit by a flying dumpling—you never know with them.
    Dad’s cell rings.
    Mom gives him the evil eye. “Work I suppose?” She makes no attempt to hide her frustration, slamming her iced tea down on the table.
    Dad answers abruptly. “I’ll call you later, okay?” He hangs up.
    Mom turns on me. “What’s with your hair, Bea?”
    Whoa . . . okay, that came out of nowhere.
I swallow the shrimp with a little help from my Diet Coke. “I’m trying out a newstyle. Eva Marie did it. She’s applying to cosmetology school, and I thought I’d let her practice on me.”
And I wanted to have a gangsta look going on while I sat with a punk who confessed to murder in a holding cell this afternoon.
    Dad smiles. “I like it, Bella. Makes her eyes pop.” He nods his head in sync with his chewing.
    “I thought so, too, Dad. Thanks.”
    Mom fidgets, tops off her iced tea, pushes the starchy kernels around her plate with chopsticks, as if she’s writing out a secret code.
    Dad stops her hand. “You’re not hungry?”
    She pulls her hand away. “I’m just tired. You got home so late last night. I couldn’t fall back to sleep.”
    “I’m sorry, Bella. The dinner with the provost went on longer than I thought.”
    “Uh-huh.” She lifts her hair and clamps it in a high, messy bun. “I finally fell back to sleep about six, and slept in till . . . what?” Her pocketed phone
pings
with a text—she ignores it. “Was it after eleven, Bea? Is that when you came home?”
    I’m outlining the constellation Serpens, labeling the stars in its tail, and look up at her question, thinking for a second about this morning’s encounter, and with my pen on the paper, the letters
MC
end up on the tips of a northern hemisphere star.
    MC? What does that mean?
And then a dark, thick, bushy moustache appears on the mythological serpent handler’s face, and I shut my eyes—no way I want anything else snapping in my head. I avoid, at all costs, drawing while making eye contactwith my parents for exactly this reason.
TMI—I don’t want to know their secrets.
    Dad tries to change the channel and singsongs, “I’ve got two girls with birthdays coming up this month. Two very important birthdays.”
    “Don’t remind me,” Mom mumbles.
    “Turning forty is a wonderful thing, Bella.”
    “Really, Richard? Tell me about it, please. Impart your knowledge about what it’s like being forty for a woman. I’d love to hear it.”
    Dad’s face sags, and he obviously doesn’t know what to do with that—doesn’t want to touch it—and I don’t blame him. He focuses on me. “So, what do you want to do for your special day, Bea?”
    Get my own apartment.
“Oh, I don’t care. Not much, I guess.”
    “I know. How about we celebrate at the Gandy Dancer, at the train station? You love that restaurant . . . watching the trains chug in.”
    Watching me hopping on one, getting out of town.
“Sure, sounds great, Dad.”
    “You used to get so excited when they barreled in—when you were little.” He chuckles at the memory. “Sound good to you, Bella?”
    She’s gazing at the rain pounding at the window above the sink. The wind has picked up, and it’s pouring down sideways, spitting at the window, leaving angry exclamation points. “What? Um, sure.”
    “Settled.” Dad focuses on me. “Any college acceptances you’ve heard about?” He tries to hide a smile.
    I knew this was coming. . . .
“Well, Chris got into U of M. But of course you already know that, since it’s your department.”
    Dad’s smile grows as he slaps his hands on the table.
    Mom jumps. “Jesus, Richard.”
    “It was hard keeping that from you.” He walks behind me and squeezes my shoulders. “We’re looking