Deadly Little Lies (4 page)

Instead of heading to the cafeteria or the library, Ben leads us down the hallway behind the old computer lab. The corridors have pretty much cleared out, but I spot Debbie Marcus hustling toward the art room door at the very end, probably worried about making it in before the bell rings. She sees me, and then she notices that I’m with Ben, and a scowl forms across her face.

Last semester, Debbie was stalked as well. Everybody blamed Ben, but it turned out that her friends were the ones responsible. Like many of the clowns at this school, her friends thought it would be funny to take advantage of Ben’s mysterious past. They spread a rumor that he was following her, hiding in the bushes in front of her house, and staring at her in class. They fabricated threatening notes, promising Debbie she’d be his next victim.

Eventually Debbie’s mind started playing tricks on her. On a walk home from a friend’s house one night, she imagined Ben was following her. She kept looking over her shoulder, stumbling out into the street, not really paying attention to where she was walking.

A car ended up hitting her as a result, and Debbie went into a coma that lasted ten full weeks. This is the first time I’ve seen her since the accident.

She looks different somehow—harder, thinner, a little less vulnerable maybe. Her auburn curls are held back in a barrette, and her eyes look tired; dark circles ring their steel-blue color.

After her accident, everybody assumed Ben was responsible, that he’d hit her with his motorcycle. But a witness came forward saying it was, in fact, a car that struck her,
not
a motorcycle. Unfortunately they never caught the driver.

I wave, but Debbie isn’t looking at me. She’s glaring at Ben. Finally the bell rings and she slips inside the classroom.

“What was all that about?” I ask Ben as he leads us away.

“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging it off. He steps into a storage room and opens the door wide. “I thought this might be a good place to talk. It’s private, so there’s less chance of you getting caught for skipping.”

I hesitate a moment, noticing how dark the room is, but then I spot Principal Snell down the hallway, and quickly duck inside.

Ben closes the door behind us and tugs a chain, turning on an overhead light. The room is small, packed with shelves full of old computer printers, various cables, and reams of paper.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

I give a reluctant nod. “How do you even know about this place?”

“When people hate you as much as they hate me, you find any hole to hide in that you can.”

“They don’t
all
hate you.”

“Oh
no
?”

I shake my head and meet his gaze. “I missed you,” I say, surprising myself.

Ben’s lips part, then quiver slightly, as if maybe he wants to tell me the same. Or maybe my honesty makes him nervous.

“So,” I say when it’s just awkward silence between us. I bite the inside of my cheek, almost wishing I could take the words back.

“Relax,” he says, noticing maybe how my face is burning hot.

“I guess this is a lot harder for me than I thought. I mean, just being here . . . with you . . . trying to talk about important stuff when I really can’t—”

“Concentrate?” he finishes for me. His eyes are wide and searching.

“Yeah,” I say, wanting more than anything to press my face against his chest, to feel his heart pulse beneath my skin.

Ben must sense it, because he takes a couple steps back, against the opposite wall now—as far away from me as he can get.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks away, as if facing me is way too hard for him. “We can’t do this.”

“We’re not doing anything. We’re just talking.”

“You don’t honestly believe that.”

I start to tell him I do, but then stop just short of the lie.

“So, you wanted to talk?” he asks, getting right down to business.

I fish around my brain for something remotely intelligent to say. “Were you in Boston?” I ask, remembering how just before he’d left he’d mentioned possibly visiting a cousin there.

“That isn’t really important. What matters now is that I’m here.”

“And why
are
you here?” I say, disappointed by how closed off he’s being.

“I don’t know.” He looks away. “Maybe I’m sick of homeschooling.”

“And that’s it?” An impromptu hiccup escapes from my throat. I try to cover it up with a lame little cough.

“You want a better answer?”

“I just thought there might be more to it.”

“More, like what?”

“Like maybe you thought I was in danger again.”

“How would I know that?” he asks. “I haven’t touched you in months.”

“Maybe you heard something or sensed it somehow. . . .” I pull the bathroom note from my pocket and try to hand it to him, but Ben refuses to touch it. He starts to take another step back, but between the wall and me, he’s totally pinned. “Here,” I say, opening the note up for him. I hold it out just inches from his face.

“‘It’s not over yet,’” he reads.

“I got it today, right after I spotted you spying on me in the art studio.”

“Spying on you?”

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Where did you get that?” he asks, gesturing to the note.

“That isn’t an answer.” I take a step closer, and he folds his arms across his chest. “Why were you outside my house the other night?” I ask.

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw you across the street, looking up at my bedroom window.”

He shakes his head and looks away again. “Not me.”

“And why should I believe you?” I ask, thinking back to last September, when he lied to me about his identity— when he didn’t want me to know that it was him in the parking lot that day, when he pushed me out of the way of that oncoming car.

“Believe what you want,” he says, “but it wasn’t me in front of your house.”

“But it was you outside the art studio today,” I say, to be sure. “I saw you watching me in the door glass.”

“And so what does that prove? I was looking for you.”

“Yes, but
why
?”

Still shaking his head, he chews his bottom lip. His forehead is sweating and his jaw is visibly clenched.

“Just say it,” I demand. “I want to hear the truth.”

“Okay, fine,” he says, letting out a breath. “Even though I’m back, I still think we should keep our distance from one another. I think it’ll make things easier.”

“Easier for who?”

“For both of us.”

“You can’t honestly mean that,” I say, suddenly feeling like the walls are closing in, like the ceiling is bearing down onto the crown of my head.

“It’s for the both of us,” he repeats.

I shake my head, refusing to believe it—to believe
him
—especially since he can’t look me in the eye.

“But I still care about you,” he continues, glancing back at the note. “I mean, we don’t have to stop talking completely. We can still be lab partners.”

“How generous of you.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” I snap. “Aren’t you even a little bit concerned?”

“Did you ever think that maybe the note is a joke?”

“But look at the writing—it’s the same as in Matt’s notes. Nobody else saw those notes but us.”

“That’s what you think, but who knows? Maybe Matt showed them to someone else.”

“Why would he do that? He’d risk someone telling on him.”

“I just don’t think you should make assumptions.”

“You sound like Ms. Beady.”

“Well, maybe she’s right.”

“Then who was outside my house?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe a neighbor, maybe a salesperson—”

“At three in the morning?”

“I don’t know,” he insists.

“Something isn’t right,” I say, thinking about what happened in my pottery studio that night. I glance toward his arm. The treelike scar is in full view—with three branches, not four.

Just the way I sculpted it.

“If it’s Matt you’re worried about,” he continues, “he’s been ordered to keep his distance. I doubt he’d be stupid enough to come after you again.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out.” I take another step toward him—so close that our faces are only inches apart. “Touch me,” I say.

Ben’s mouth tenses. He tries to move away, to act like it doesn’t bother him, but I’ve got him completely cornered.

“Please.” I reach out to take his hand, stopping just shy of his fingers.

“Don’t,” he whispers. His voice is soft and broken. “Please . . . this isn’t easy for me.”

“I thought you said it would make things
easier
.”

Ben lets out another breath, as if trying to stay in control.

“Touch me,” I repeat, staring at his lips and at the sharpness of his jaw. “And tell me if I’m in danger.”

Ben finally looks at me. His eyes draw a zigzag line down my face, stopping at my mouth. He unfolds his arms and extends his palm to my shoulder. But he doesn’t touch it. His fingers tremble. His breath is warm and erratic against my neck.

“I can’t,” he says, wiping a droplet of sweat from his cheek.

“You won’t hurt me,” I tell him.

“Go,” he says, staring straight into my eyes, making it clear that he truly doesn’t want me here. That he no longer wants any part of me.

January 23, 1984


Dear Diary,


My birthday sucked. My mother took Jilly to the movies. They saw Sixteen Candles and my mother kept raving about how great it was.


It’s fine that they didn’t ask me to go. I didn’t want to see that movie anyway.


I know my mother hates me. I know she wishes I wasn’t here. And I know she thinks that if I’d never come to be, my father wouldn’t have left.


At least that’s what she tells me. I never had the chance to ask him if it’s true. Because once he left, he never looked back. And my mother’s been punishing me ever since.


Love,
Alexia


After school, I head straight to Knead, even though I’m not scheduled to work. I just really want to get away.

The thing is, as soon as I unlock the door—as soon as the smell of clay and glazes hits me—I realize that maybe I’ve come to the wrong place. On one hand it’s almost instinctive to come here—to retreat into my safe haven of clay, slip, and carving tools. And yet, the idea of sculpting anything new absolutely terrifies me right now.

I just can’t shake my last three sculptures. It seems so far from coincidental now, like maybe subconsciously I already know the future somehow, but my mind doesn’t want to face it. Or maybe my sculptures force me to look at what I already must know.

And yet, how could I have known I’d forget my key?

How could I have predicted that Ben’s eyes would peer at me through the door of the art studio?

And how could I have known exactly how to sculpt his scar?

My head throbs just thinking about it all and what it could mean, especially coupled with what happened last September.

I never really questioned it too much at the time, but back when I was getting weird notes and packages—when Matt was plotting to take me captive—I started a new way of sculpting.

My boss, Spencer, convinced me to stop trying to control my work, to let my pottery take on its own shape for a change. A control freak by nature, I’d been sculpting bowls and bowl-like things since the first time I’d held a ball of clay. It was easy and I was good at it. But when he suggested a new approach, I thought I’d try it.

The result had been an abandoned car. I’d sculpted it over a handful of days: the dented doors, the crushed grille and bullet holes in the side. It was the same car I’d spotted in the trailer park where Matt had kept me captive . . . right down to the missing wheels.

Should I be calling that a coincidence too?

To add to my confusion, it doesn’t help that Ben swears it wasn’t him in front of my house the other night. So, is he lying? Was I imagining things?

Could it possibly have been Matt?

I look toward the back of the studio, wondering if I should turn around and head out the door. It’s not like anyone’s actually seen me yet. The place looks empty, and Spencer’s work light is switched off.

I turn to leave, only to find that I’m not alone after all. There’s a boy standing just inside the door, staring right at me.

I take a step back, my heart beating fast.

“Are you okay?” he asks. He’s about my age or a little older, with wavy brown hair and olive-toned skin.

“Sorry,” he says, approaching me slowly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Where’s Spencer?”

“Downstairs, loading the kiln. Are you okay?” he repeats.

“Where did you come from?” I ask, bumping into the worktable behind me. I look toward the door, knowing I would have heard him come in.

“Medland, originally.” He smiles. “It’s about a three-hour drive from here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I was behind the counter. You walked right by me.” He extends his hand for a shake, but I don’t move an inch. “I’m Adam. Spencer hired me to pull molds.” He flexes his muscle to be funny.

“How come Spencer didn’t mention a new hire to me?”

“I don’t know; why don’t you ask him?” He gestures behind me. Spencer’s there.

“I take it you two have met,” Spencer says, wiping a smear of slip on his jeans.

“Not really,” I say.

“Camelia, Adam; Adam, Camelia,” Spencer says, still wiping. There’s a streak of green glaze down his scruffy face.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Camelia.” Adam extends his hand again. This time I shake it, noticing his sweaty palm.

“Camelia’s an ace at throwing bowls,” Spencer says. “Don’t let her demure demeanor fool you.”

“Hardly demure,” Adam says. “For a second there, I thought she was gonna take my head off.”

“You startled me.”

“No worries,” Adam says. “We’re working together now; I’ll let you make it up to me somehow.”

“You’ll
let
me?”

“Sure,” he says. “I’m new to the area, so I might be needing a tour guide.”

“How new?” I ask.

“This is my first semester at Hayden.”

“The community college?”

He nods. “And you?”

“I’m a junior, actually . . . at the high school. That’s where Spencer and I met. He was subbing for my pottery teacher.”

“And I couldn’t take my eyes off her soup bowls.” Spencer winks. “I’m telling you, this girl’s got talent.”

“Can I see some of your work?” Adam asks.

“Maybe some other time. I have a soup bowl to throw,” I joke.

“Well, be sure it has big round coils.” Spencer winks again. “The extruder’s all fixed, by the way.”

“The extruder is for wusses,” I say, referring to pottery’s version of a pasta maker, complete with various attachments that can transform even the biggest wads of clay into long noodlelike strands.

While he and Adam head off to the back room, I use the wire cutter to slice myself a fist-size clump of clay. I’m determined to sculpt something simple and predictable today—something, ironically, exactly like a soup bowl.

I know exactly the way I want my bowl to look: a bubblelike base with a tulip-turned rim, big enough for flowers, but not for a full bowl of fruit. I end up working for well over an hour, rolling my coils out by hand, stacking them atop the oval base, and then weaving them together to form ripples along the sides. The whole familiar process of it helps me relax—to concentrate on something simple—even though, for some reason, despite how supposedly foolproof coil pots are, I can’t seem to get mine the way I want it. It looks more like a bottle than an actual pot. The tulip spout has more of a screw-cap look. And the pot’s much taller and thinner than I’d imagined—more like a water bottle or a very narrow vase.

I sit back on my stool, wondering how this happened. I mean, I used to have so much control over my bowls. I knew exactly the way they’d turn out before I even began.

Instead of letting it bother me, I decide to call it a day and add the finishing touch. On the surface of the bottle, for no other reason than I think it might look good— might provide an interesting contrast to the shape of the bottle—I use a carving knife to draw a pomegranate.

I’m just about finished perfecting the starlike end of the stem, when I feel someone’s watching me. I turn around, startled to find Adam.

“Hey,” he says, standing only a few feet away. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Just a few seconds. What are you working on?”

“Nothing much,” I say, about to turn back around. But that’s when I notice what’s in his hand.

I see the pomegranate first. It adorns the front of his juice bottle, under a label that reads “Perfectly Pomegranate.”

“Are you okay?” he asks, obviously noticing the confusion on my face.

I look back at my sculpture—same bottle shape, same tubular ripples. Even the angle of the pomegranate is the same—the stem cocked to the right.

He takes a sip from the bottle. Meanwhile, I hurry to cover my sculpture with some plastic.

“Is something wrong?”

“Where did you get that?” I ask, wondering if maybe I saw the bottle before, if maybe, subconsciously, it stuck somehow.

“Where did I get
what
?”

“That bottle,” I demand. “Did you have it before, when you were standing by the doorway, when I first came in?”

“Um, no,” he says, his eyebrows arched, like I’m full-on crazy. “I got it out of my bag just a second ago. Are you sure you’re all right?”

I shake my head, feeling my face flash hot.

“Do you want a sip?” He holds the bottle out as an offering, but I can’t even look at it now.

“I want to get back to my work,” I mutter, feeling like an absolute freak—and knowing I must sound like one too.

Finally Adam gets the message and turns away, leaving me alone.