Deadly Little Games (3 page)

I
GLANCE BACK AT BEN
a couple of times in chemistry, waiting for him to look at me. Finally, he meets my eye, but it’s only for a second.

Our teacher, Mr. Swenson, aka the Sweat-man, for obvious reasons, has got us pretty preoccupied today making snowflakes, using borax and pipe cleaners.

“These will have to sit overnight,” the Sweat- man explains, “and then we can hang them in the windows.”

“Doesn’t he have enough flakes of his own?” Tate, my lab partner, nods toward the bits of dandruff sprinkled about the Sweat-man’s shoulders and back.

But I’m too tense to laugh. As soon as Ben gets up to set his snowflake jar on one of the shelves in the back of the room, I follow suit, purposely crossing his path.

“We need to talk,” I tell him.

He nods like he knows it’s true.

I take a step closer, able to feel the sheer electricity between us. “How’s your back, by the way?”

“Apparently a lot harder than the gym floor.” He smiles slightly.

“So, everything’s okay?” I ask, completely aware that the question is fully loaded.

“I don’t know.” His dark eyes soften. “Is it?”

I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, knowing his question is loaded, too. But instead of unloading either of our questions, we make a plan to go to the Press & Grind after school.

Ben picks me up on his motorcycle, and I get on right behind him, holding him close, hugging his waist and wishing the ride could go on forever. But we’re at the café in four minutes flat.

Ben orders a mocha latte for me and a large black coffee for himself, and then we sit in two cushy chairs toward the back—ironically, the same place where Adam and I sat on one of our dates.

Ben stirs his coffee, even though there’s nothing in it, as if, maybe, he’s every bit as nervous as me. “So, you have something you wanted to talk to me about?”

“I’m sure you already know. You were able to sense it, weren’t you?”

“Just tell me,” he insists, still focused on his stirring.

There’s a good three minutes of silence before I can finally conjure up the nerve to tell him. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Adam,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“What about him?” He looks unfazed.

“You don’t want to hear it. Just trust me when I say that it’s you I want to be with.”

“I
do
want to hear it.” He looks up finally, making telling him the truth even harder for me.

I loosen my coat, but my face still feels hot. “I guess I’ve mostly been thinking about the way he looked,” I venture.

“And about kissing him?” he asks, having obviously sensed the detail.

I look away, trying to avoid the question, remembering a kiss that Adam and I did once share. It was tiny and quick and happened sort of unexpectedly over a pizza and a pitcher of root beer.

“Camelia?” Ben says.

“I think he might be in trouble,” I say, feeling a tunneling sensation inside my heart. I proceed to tell him about my sculptures and about how the words
you deserve to die
kept repeating in my mind.

“I guess we’ve never really talked too much about your power,” he says.

“It’s different from yours. It’s like my mind locks on an idea, and I just start sculpting it. There’s not even much creativity involved. It’s as if I have no other choice but to get it out—the image fixed inside my head—whether I like it or not.”

“And do you always hear voices when that happens?”

“Not always, but definitely sometimes, and I’m not the only one this happens to.” I tell him about a blog I found a few weeks back. It was called Psychometrically Suzy, and the woman who wrote it talked about how one day, when she touched her father’s old hat, she was able to hear his voice, even though he had long since passed away. “There are also people who are able to smell scents or experience certain tastes—all relevant to whatever they’re touching,” I continue.

“Sounds complicated.”

“It is,” I say, wishing things could be simpler. I reach out to take his hand, but he pulls away. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head.

“Now it’s your turn to be honest.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it filter out slowly. “I sensed that you and Adam were together again.”

“But we’re not.”

“But maybe you will be.”

“Never,” I whisper, reaching out to touch his hand again.

This time he lets me. His fingers close around my palm.

“This sculpture thing with Adam,” I continue, “it’s only happened a couple times. And maybe we’re over-analyzing things. I was thinking that my sculptures could even be the result of a delayed response—premonitions that came too late…. I mean, it was only a few weeks ago that Adam and I were together.”

“And what about the voice you heard, the
you deserve to die
message? If that’s the result of psychometry—of something in your future—you can’t just let it go.”

“Yes, but it could be the same sort of thing. Maybe I was picking up on something from the past, something Debbie Marcus was thinking. This ‘touch’ stuff is new for me. I’m still trying to figure it all out.”

“I couldn’t bear to lose you.” His dark gray eyes look wounded.

“You’ll never lose me,” I say, joining him in his chair. I rest my head against his chest and feel his heart beat. “We’re meant to be together, remember?” I move to kiss him, but his lips are cold, still, brooding. And he doesn’t try to kiss me back.

“I mean, what are the odds that we’d even meet?” I continue. “That two people with psychometric powers would ever find each other?”

Ben doesn’t say anything. And we don’t talk about Adam again for the rest of our time together. We actually don’t say much at all. There’s a tense silence between us.

A silence that we can’t seem to fill even with small talk about school or our families.

A silence that gnaws away at the moment and prompts us to leave shortly afterward.

I
SIT UP IN BED
and switch on my night-table lamp. The street outside my window is barren and dark. I wish that Ben were here—that he would come and sit beside me on my bed, and that we could talk things through a bit more. Because I feel like we left so much unsaid.

I want to believe the excuses I told him earlier—all the logical reasons I’ve been so fixated on Adam. But I can’t help thinking that maybe Wes and Kimmie were right. Maybe I
should
give Adam a call, if for no other reason than to safeguard myself from guilt. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something bad happened to him because I did nothing to try and stop it.

I glance at the clock. It’s a little after eleven; Adam’s probably still up. I reach for my cell phone and search for his number. With my finger positioned over the dial button, I stare back at myself in the dresser mirror.

I look the same as always: same loopy blond hair, same wide green eyes, same angular cheeks. But there’s something about me that feels different now. Changed. And I’m not so sure I can ever change it back.

I close my eyes, still able to see the word
bitch
scribbled across the mirror, across my image, from when Matt broke into my room. I can hardly remember a time when things weren’t so complicated, when a part of me wasn’t afraid to fall asleep. Or when I felt completely certain about whom I could trust.

Finally, I push the dial button, eager to get this over with. The phone rings right away. At first I think his voice mail will pick up. But then I hear him answer. “Camelia?” he says. “Is it really you?”

“How are you?” I ask, trying to sound at ease. “I just wanted to call and check in…to see how everything’s going.”

“It’s going better now,” he says.

“So, nothing bad? No unhealthy relationships? No drama at school?”

“No. Definitely not. And hardly ever. Why?” He lowers his voice. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Some ex-girlfriend of mine is telling everyone in town what a sexy playa I am?”

“Seriously?”

“I guess not,” he says, seemingly disappointed. “But I’m not letting you off so easily. Did you hear something that I should know about?”

“No,” I say, suddenly feeling more self-conscious than I ever thought possible.

“So, then, is this just an excuse you’ve devised to call me? Because, trust me when I say that you need no excuses. I love hearing from you.”

“Hardly an excuse,” I say, unable to stop the smile on my face. “I just wanted to check that all was good.”

“Better than good. Ever since my temporary, though still painfully embarrassing bout of vengeance and stupidity, I’m a reformed man. And how about you? Is it safe to assume that life without me means you’re no longer having a rough year?”

“I told you before: it’s more like a rough life.”

“Well, I’ve missed you…
and
your rough life.”

I bite my lip, unsure how to respond, feeling a ten-pound pause drop on the line between us.

But then, “I’m really glad you called,” he says. “I was afraid that I’d never hear from you again. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if that was the case. It’s just—”

“Let’s not rehash the past.”

“Nope. No rehashing here.”

“I’m just really glad to hear that things are going well.”

“Wait, you’re not getting ready to hang up on me, are you?” he asks. “We’ve only been talking for a couple minutes.”

“Well, I don’t really have much else to say.”

“Are you kidding? The possibilities are endless. For starters, you could tell me that you’ll call me again. Or, better yet, you could ask me out for coffee or a slice of pizza. Of course, letting me know that I can call you whenever I want is always a good possibility. Or, if you’re feeling really generous, you could tell me that you miss me, too. I mean, I wouldn’t even care if it was a lie.”

“I should really get going,” I say, holding myself back from letting out a laugh, and thinking how, maybe, in some tiny, totally platonic, just-a-friend-
ish
sort of way, I really do sort of miss him.

DOCTOR:
So, how are things going? Are you getting along any better with your parents?

PATIENT:
They think that as long as I’m not in prison or living on the street, all is well. I’ve even overheard my mother talking about me to her friends, bragging about how great I’m doing in school and how many friends I have. She’s totally clueless…totally in denial.

DOCTOR:
Is
it denial? Or does she really believe those things about you?

PATIENT:
One day I told her that I felt so alone it wouldn’t even matter if I took my own life, because nobody would notice.

DOCTOR:
And how did she respond?

PATIENT:
She said I could try it, but then I wouldn’t know if it was true or not because I’d already be dead.

DOCTOR:
Were you serious about taking your own life, or just trying to get her attention?

PATIENT:
Talking about death doesn’t exactly make someone suicidal.

DOCTOR:
Do you still feel alone?

PATIENT:
All the time. Even when I’m with other people.

DOCTOR:
Do
they
know that?

PATIENT:
I don’t think so. I can put on a pretty good show.

DOCTOR:
And what’s the benefit of that?

PATIENT:
So they don’t think I’m a freak, I guess. Sometimes I almost fool myself into believing that I’m someone else, that my life doesn’t suck, and that I’m more like them.

DOCTOR:
But if you’re putting on shows all the time, how do you ever expect to get close to anyone, to let them in, and get to know the real you?

PATIENT:
Simple. I don’t.

DOCTOR:
You don’t ever want a true friend?

PATIENT:
Want
and
can have
are two very different things.

DOCTOR:
Well, how about this? You
can have
what you
want
by getting rid of that alter ego of yours…by letting people get to know the real you.

PATIENT:
No one would like the real me. If I ever want to be truly close to someone, it’ll have to be by force.

DOCTOR:
What do you mean?

PATIENT:
I’ll have to force them to love me.

DOCTOR:
You can’t force someone to love you.

PATIENT:
That’s
your
opinion.