Deadly Little Games (9 page)

I
T’S AFTER SCHOOL
, and Kimmie, Wes, and I are sitting in Wes’s car outside the sandwich shop where Adam’s insisted I meet him. “I thought he said coffee,” Kimmie says, peeking out at the shop’s logo of a rat eating a meatball sub.

“He did, but apparently this place has really great food.”

“Or so the rats think,” she says, lowering her cat’s-eye sunglasses to get a better look at the place.

Wes squirts two jets of breath freshener onto his tongue, the peppermint smell of which reminds me of an old lady’s purse. “Are you planning to tell him about all your funky touch stuff?” he asks, followed by a couple of obnoxious exhalations.

I shake my head and lean back to avoid the peppermint fumes. “Nor am I going to tell him about how my aunt painted his portrait.”

“Not ready to come out of the touch-and-tell closet, eh?” He points to the heart-shaped decal on his dashboard, the center of which reads:
LOVE IS THE ANSWER. GIVE DIVERSITY A CHANCE.

“It’s not like he’d believe all this touchy stuff anyway,” Kimmie says. “And who
would
? Does Adam even know about Ben’s powers?”

“No,” I remind her. “No one really knows about that except us. And let’s keep it that way.”

“So, then, how are you going to convince him that his ass is grass, that his dude is dead, that his crust is dust?” Wes asks.

“I’m just going to fish around,” I tell them. “I’ll take mental notes, ask lots of questions, and see if anything seems off.”

“Sounds like a stellar time to me,” he says mockingly. “I’m sure Adam will be thrilled.”

“This isn’t about stellar times,” I say. “It’s about making sure that he’s okay—that nothing bad is going to happen to him.”

“I repeat,” Wes yawns, “I’m sure it’ll be stellar.”

I ignore him and open the car door. Wes waits until I enter the shop before pulling away from the curb.

Adam is already inside.

“Hey,” he says, standing up from one of the back tables.

He looks good—even better than I remembered. His wavy brown hair is a bit shaggier than the last time I saw him, and his shoulders seem broader, too.

I make my way toward him, noticing how small the place is inside, set up sort of bistro-style, with checked tablecloths and cityscape posters on the walls. A giant chalkboard menu hangs behind the counter, and cooks prepare the food in full view of the customers.

“Hungry?” Adam asks, gesturing for me to sit.

At the same moment, one of the cooks rings a bell for what turns out to be Adam’s order—a brimming bowl of curly fries with tartar sauce on the side. “I took the liberty of ordering us some hors d’oeuvres,” he jokes. “But you’re welcome to get whatever else you like.”

“This looks perfect,” I say, peeling off my coat.

Adam sets me up with a plate and napkin, and then starts gabbing away about how he and his study buddies come here at least every other night.

“So, you’ve made a lot of friends at school?” I ask, eager to steer the conversation into more personal territory.

We end up talking about how his semester’s going, how he’s taking an Intro to Drafting class, and how he’s thrilled to have an apartment of his own.

“At first I thought I wouldn’t be able to afford it,” he says. “But I got a really good job at an art-supply store down the road. I get a discount on drafting tools, and they pay me time and a half on the weekends and holidays.”

“That’s great,” I say.

“It’s actually better than great, because I’ve already met a couple of architects in the area. With some good old-fashioned schmoozing, I’m hoping to be able to work my way into one of the firms, maybe as an intern.”

I nod, genuinely happy for him, because I know this is what he really wants, and I’ve seen how truly talented he is. About a month ago, he crafted me a model of Camelia’s House of Clay, the pottery shop I might own one day, even adding in tiny wooden tables, and shelves full of greenware.

“And how’s Ben doing?” he segues. “Are you two still seeing each other?”

“Do you really want to be talking about this?” I ask, for the sake of his feelings.

He pauses midchew. His dark brown eyes scrunch up in confusion. “Why not? Unless I’m touching on a sore spot?”

“No sore spots. Things between Ben and me are good.”

“Then how come you don’t sound so sure?” He grins.

“I
am
sure,” I say, but I don’t think he hears me. There’s a girl standing at our table now. She’s pretty, with bobbed dark hair and eyes the color of pale blue sea glass.

“Who’s your friend?” she asks Adam, before either of us has a chance to say hello.

“Camelia, this is my friend Piper,” Adam says, by way of introduction.

A couple of girls stand slightly behind her. “And that’s Melissa and Janet,” he continues.

“Make that Jungle Girl Janet,” Piper says, “who just won her fourth competition for her talent on the trapeze.”

“Piper’s sort of my biggest fan.” Janet blushes.

“Well, congratulations,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” She smiles, tugging nervously on her braid. “Do you go to Hayden, too?”

“Actually, I’m still in high school,” I confess.

“My sympathies to you,” Piper says. “I would absolutely
die
if I had to go back to raising my hand just to get up out of my seat, or answering to a school bell.”

“Not to mention immature boys, the humiliation they call gym class, and tons of pointless homework.” Melissa brings a strand of her strawberry blond hair up to her mouth for a chew.

“Okay, so minus the gym class, college actually isn’t so much
unlike
high school,” Piper jokes. “So, are we still on for tonight?” she asks Adam, taking a sip of his root beer.

“Or will you be spending the rest of your day hanging out with high school girls?” Melissa mooches a curly fry from our plate. She dips it into the tartar sauce and then shoves it between her freckled lips.

Adam ignores her comment, proceeding to tell me that he and Piper are working on a project together for school.

“Not just
any
project,” she insists. “We’ve been assigned to be husband and wife in accounting class. We have to work out all our bills on his football coach’s salary. I’m a stay-at-home mom with four kids, three dogs, and a parakeet. Is that supercute, or what?”

“More like super high school,” Melissa says before I can answer. “I think I did a similar assignment in health class.”

“Well, whatever,” Piper says, swatting the negative words away. There are frowny faces painted on her candy pink fingernails. “I need an A, and Professor Williams hates me, which means I have to be twice as economical with all my debits and three times as stingy with all my credits. So, I’ll see you at eight?” she asks Adam.

“Sounds good,” he says.

While Piper and her friends head for the exit, Adam leans in close and apologizes for Melissa. “She can be a bit prickly at times.”

“Well, Piper seems nice.”

“A little too nice, actually. She’s one of those girls who gets walked on a lot.”

“But not by you. I mean, you two are just friends, right?”

“Right.” He grins, perhaps misreading my interest. “Friends. Just like you and me.”

I clear my throat, suddenly realizing how little I’ve accomplished during this conversation. “So, everything with you is great?” I say in a final attempt to get some scoop. “No problems? No demons in your closet? Nothing weird going on?”

“Other than this conversation? What’s up with you?” he asks, double-dipping a fry. “You were like this on the phone the other day, too.”

“Just making conversation.”

“Psycho conversation, maybe.”

“Speaking of psychos,” I half joke, “any in your life that I should know about?”

“Just one,” he says, giving me a pointed look.

“Very funny,” I say, wondering if maybe I
am
being psycho—if maybe this whole scene was just a really bad idea.

We sit in awkward silence for several seconds, picking at the shrinking mound of curly fries, and sipping our drinks down to the ice. But then Adam slips his parka on, complaining of a chill.

And that’s when I see it.

The small insignia on his jacket, right by the collar. It’s a diamond-shaped logo with a snail inside.

Exactly like what Aunt Alexia and I painted.

“I mean, seriously,” Adam says, “is it really so hard to believe that for the first time in a long time I’m really happy with the way my life is going?” He continues to jabber on, but I’m not really paying attention.

My pulse races and my mouth goes dry.

“Camelia?” he asks.

I force myself to look into his face.

“So, is it?” he asks.

“Is what?” I gaze at the scar on his bottom lip, reminded of my sculpture in pottery class.

“Is it so hard to believe that I’m happy?” he asks. “That everything is going great with me, for once?”

“No,” I lie, at a complete loss for something better to say. “It isn’t so hard to believe at all.”

DOCTOR:
I’d like to focus our session today on riddles.

PATIENT:
You mean, jokes?

DOCTOR:
More like puzzles, questions, things that don’t readily have an answer.

PATIENT:
Why would you want to talk about that?

DOCTOR:
Because I think you like riddles. I get the sense that you enjoy it when I don’t know all the answers.

PATIENT:
If you can’t figure things out, then maybe you shouldn’t be a therapist.

DOCTOR:
Seems like I’ve struck a chord.

PATIENT:
(Patient doesn’t respond.)

DOCTOR:
You talked last time about wanting to hurt someone. You said this person was a male, and that deep down, he might in fact want to be hurt.

PATIENT:
You read too much into things.

DOCTOR:
It’s what you said. I can play it back for you if you’d like.

PATIENT:
No, thanks.

DOCTOR:
Are you still thinking about hurting this person?

PATIENT:
Like I said, you read too much into things.

DOCTOR:
Do I? Or is this all part of one big game?

PATIENT:
Let’s just say that someone is making a big mistake and I’m doing my best to protect that person.

DOCTOR:
By hurting someone else?

PATIENT:
I didn’t say that.

DOCTOR:
Then why don’t you explain it?

PATIENT:
(Patient laughs.)

DOCTOR:
What’s so funny?

PATIENT:
Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do like puzzles. Maybe I like them a whole lot.

DOCTOR:
And why is that funny?

PATIENT:
Because with every game, there can only be one winner.

DOCTOR:
Sometimes there’s a tie.

PATIENT:
That’s what sudden death is for.

DOCTOR:
Whose sudden death?

PATIENT:
It’s an expression.

DOCTOR:
Is it?

PATIENT:
(No response.
)

DOCTOR:
Would you ever consider forfeiting a game?

PATIENT:
I’m not a quitter.

DOCTOR:
It wouldn’t be considered quitting if you’d learned something, if you no longer
needed
to play and wanted to move on.

PATIENT:
But I do need to play. I need to win.