Deadly Little Lies (5 page)

I end up coming straight home after Knead, determined to get to the bottom of things. I tear off my coat, drop my books to the floor, and rush to my computer. I start by Googling the word “psychometry,” recognizing some of the sites I’d visited when I first learned about Ben’s powers.

Most of the sites say the same thing. People who have psychometric powers experience them in different ways. Some are able to touch an object and know where it’s been or what its history is. Others, like Ben, can touch a person or thing and get an image inside their head—an image that helps foretell the future.

I navigate through a bunch of sites, learning more and more about psychometry—how some people, instead of getting a mental image, taste different flavors or imagine specific textures inside their mouths, all relevant to what they touch. And then there are those who hear things— like music, voices, and other sounds—whenever they touch something.

I lean back in my chair, thinking how that’s sort of like what happened to me when I was in the basement, sculpting Ben’s arm, when I heard his voice calling out to me, leading me up into my bedroom.

I spend another full hour reading everything I can, learning tidbits about how psychometric powers can be developed, but still unable to find the answer to what I’m really looking for: Can the power be transferred from person to person?

I know it sounds completely crazy, and there’s absolutely nothing in these Web pages that even suggests such an occurrence. But how else do I explain what’s been going on?

“Camelia?” my dad calls, knocking on my open bedroom door. “Dinner’s ready.”

I swivel around to face him. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Since when does hunger have anything to do with your mom’s cooking?”

“You mean her
not
cooking,” I say, referring to her latest obsession with raw cuisine. The stove has become more of a storage space than a place to prepare food.

“She’s making raw pizza.”

“Sounds delish,” I lie.

“That’s what I told her. Please”—he shudders, flashing me a container of Tums—“don’t make me do it alone.”

“Okay.” I cave. “I’ll be there in a few.”

But no sooner do I say it than my cell phone rings. It’s Kimmie, announcing that her parents are driving her crazy and she’s coming over—
stat
.

I hang up and break the news to Dad—that I won’t be joining them for dinner after all. He’s a little ticked at first, but softens up when I promise him a trip to Taco Bell later, my treat.

When Kimmie arrives, we camp out in my room and talk over bags of barbecue chips and Reese’s peanut butter cups—essentials she’s brought along. She tells me that her parents are fighting hard core, yelling at each other at all hours of the night.

“And then the other day,” she continues, “I was working on some of my designs, something from my Bad Girl & Breakfast line.” She gestures to her outfit, which appears to be a silk black pillowcase with cutouts for the neck and arms. A chain-link belt is strapped around her waist. “And my dad told me I was wasting my time.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch her arm.

She shrugs, wiping a mascara-stained tear from her cheek. “It’s like he’s not happy about anything anymore, especially when it comes to me and Nate. It’s even worse for Nate. The kid’s only eight years old. He looks up to my dad like he’s a freakin’ superhero or something.”

“Well, I hate to get all Oprah on you,” I say, giving her arm a good squeeze, “but it’s not your fault. Whatever your parents are going through has nothing to do with you and your brother.”

“Tell my dad that. He’s constantly complaining that money’s tight because he’s stuck spending it all on us. Meanwhile, my mom’s so busy trying to make him happy. Trying to look ten years younger and fit into clothing two sizes too small. Now she’s reading all this weird couples stuff. Books about the ‘sensual years’ and satisfying your man. It’s all so gross.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, not really knowing what else to say.

“Whatever,” she says, blotting her black tears with a tissue. “I mean, at least it gets them off my back, right?”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You’re already doing it,” she says, gesturing around my room with a chip. “Just don’t kick me out, okay?”

“You can stay here as long as you want.”

“What were you up to, by the way?” She glances toward my computer.

“We don’t have to talk about me.”

“Are you kidding? I’m so done talking about my parents. Let’s move on to something normal. Or at least as normal as your life can possibly be.”

“Exactly,” I sigh.

“Do I smell something scandalous?”

I take a deep breath and tell her about the note I got in the bathroom today, about my conversation with Ben in the storage room, and then I segue into what happened at Knead with the bottle and the new boy.

“Was he hot?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Right.” She nods. “The point is that I can’t believe you played ten minutes in the closet with Ben and you didn’t even touch him.”

“More like
he
didn’t touch
me
. But you’re still missing the point.”

“And you don’t think there’s any possibility that all this sculpture stuff could be a coincidence? I mean, weirder things have happened—like with me, for example. I was once having these dreams about some random girl from grammar school, someone I hadn’t seen in years. And then, a week later, I bumped into her.”

“Sounds like a premonition.”

“More like selective memory. A couple weeks before the dreams started, my mom had shown me a newspaper article about the girl. I’d completely forgotten about it, because, let’s face it, the girl and I had nothing in common, what with her Gap attire and all—”

“Sort of like mine?”

“The
point
is that I may have forgotten seeing the article, but obviously my subconscious mind didn’t, because for whatever reason I dreamed about her. The fact that I saw her later—now,
that
was a coincidence.”

“Well I’m done calling what’s been happening a coincidence. Plus, I heard Ben’s voice in my basement,” I remind her. “How do you explain that?”

“Insanity?”

“I’m being serious here. I mean, even
you
said the whole incident in sculpture class was like what happened when I sculpted my house key.”

“Well, I honestly think you’re asking the wrong person,” she says. “You really need to talk to Ben again. If anyone would know about all this seeing-the-future stuff it would be him.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“And maybe it’s catching.”

“Psychometric powers?”

“You never know,” she says, rubbing my leg, hoping some power will rub off on her. “I’d kill to know who I’ll be taking to the prom.”

“I can’t think that far ahead.”

“Because of the note?” She pulls it from under the chip bag.

“I just don’t want to do this again,” I whisper, feeling a knot form in my gut. “Do you think it’s a joke?”

“That’s my vote. I mean, just think about all the pranks that went on last semester. Someone obviously saw you go into the bathroom and thought it’d be funny to harass you. Do you remember anyone specific in the hallway?”

“John Kenneally.”

Her face freezes, midchew. “I really doubt it’d be him.”

I roll my eyes, wondering why she continues to defend him. All last September, John was completely obnoxious to Ben, harassing him whenever he had the chance. Somehow, despite all that obnoxiousness, Kimmie still found John attractive, telling me on a fairly regular basis how hot she thought he was.

“And you don’t think there’s any chance it could be Matt?” I ask, pointing out the similar lettering on the note.

“Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” I can feel the flush of my face.

“There’s a restraining order against Matt.”

“Talk about a joke.”

“Matt wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“Then what about the similar lettering?”

“So the person used a red marker and wrote in capital letters, big deal. If I were writing a stalker note, I’d probably write in all caps too.”

“Oh would you now?” I manage a smirk.

“Actually, I’d probably type it instead. I’d also wear gloves, so that no one could trace my fingerprints. And I’d make all my stalker calls from random phone booths.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out.”

“Honey, I’ve got more plans than Wes has ugly shoes.”

“And that’s a lot.” I laugh.

“It sure is,” she says with a sigh.

February 7, 1984


Dear Diary,


Yesterday in art class, Mrs. Trigger made me rip up my painting and throw the pieces away in the garbage. It was a portrait of me with bright red streaks running from both my wrists. At least that’s what I told Mrs. Trigger: bright red streaks from a bottle of spilled nail polish, instead of trickles of blood.


Mrs. Trigger said the streaks, nail polish or not, looked too scary and that girls my age should be painting pretty things like ponies and fields full of wildflowers.


But that’s just not me.


I use art as a way to get things out. Though just about everything I draw or paint seems to come out anyway. I mean, it comes true, which is one of the reasons I think maybe I should stop doing art altogether. Except knowing what happens before anyone else makes me feel sort of special, when I have nothing else to feel special about.


Love,
Alexia


After Kimmie leaves, and after my dad and I have taken a trip to Taco Bell to fill up on nonraw food goodness, I lie awake in bed wondering if I should take Kimmie’s advice and give Ben a call.

It’s a little after eleven and I can’t sleep. I’m almost tempted to go downstairs to my studio. Instead I grab a random book off my shelf—
Teens, Tweens, & Yogi Machines
, obviously something my mother bought me. There’s a lengthy forward about finding your inner
om
. I try reading the first few pages, but I can’t concentrate. Finally I reach for my cell phone and dial Ben’s number.

“Hi,” he answers on the first ring.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

There’s silence between us for several seconds—just the sound of each other’s breath—but then a few moments later a car alarm screeches in the background, on his end of the line.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Riding around. I just stopped at a gas station.”

“Where?”

More silence.

“You don’t want to tell me?” I ask.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Still, he doesn’t answer.

“Forget it,” I say, my heart beating fast. “I was just hoping that maybe we could talk. Not over the phone, though. I need to see you.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“Not really,” I say. “It’s sort of important.”

There’s another long pause on the other end. Meanwhile, I can hear police sirens blaring on his end of the phone. They seem to be getting closer to wherever Ben is.

“What’s going on there?”

“Okay,” he says, ignoring the question. “I’ll swing by your house.”

He hangs up and I reach for my coat, hoping we can go for a ride. Not two minutes later, I hear the rev of his engine from down the street. I open my window wide as he pulls up in front of my house, steps off his bike, and removes his helmet.

He looks even better than earlier today. A black leather jacket clings to his chest, and his hair is rumpled to perfection. He gazes up at me, his silhouette highlighted by the moon.

I wave, barely able to hold myself back—to not go tearing out the window and running into his arms.

“Hey,” he says, when he gets within earshot.

“Hey,” I repeat.

He smiles slightly, as if he wants to talk to me too, as if caught off guard in the moment—like the way things used to be.

“So, shall we go someplace?” I ask.

“We don’t have to,” he says. “You can just say what you have to tell me right here . . . right now.”

My pulse stirs, almost tempted to invite him in, just imagining him inside my room. I peer over my shoulder at my bedroom door, noticing how my schoolbag is caught in the doorway.

“Please,” I whisper, suddenly eager to get away, to not have to worry about my parents busting in and catching us together. “Can you take us somewhere?”

He looks toward his motorcycle. “How about we go for a walk? The streets are a little slippery tonight. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if we wiped out.”

I know it’s a lame excuse, that he doesn’t want to go for a ride because that would mean I’d have to touch him. I crawl out my window, shutting the curtains and drawing the pane closed behind me. Then I hop to the ground, completely aware that Ben doesn’t help me.

We walk down the length of my street, passing by Davis Miller’s house on the right. His bedroom light’s still on. Maybe he can’t sleep either.

It’s quiet and awkward between Ben and me again; there’s just the sound of our boots as they crunch over gravel and patches of snow. I glance at his hands as he crams them inside his pockets, remembering that night at Knead last September, when his clay-soaked fingers slid up the back of my T-shirt, against my skin, turning my insides to putty.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Ben says, breaking the silence. “I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole.”

“You didn’t,” I lie. Except maybe it’s only a half-lie.

“I really care about you.” He stops to face me. His lips are chapped from the cold.

“I’m glad,” I say, feeling my cheeks blaze. “Because I really care about you too.”

Standing beneath the streetlight, he pauses a moment to study me—my hair as the wind whips through it, the tearing of my eyes from the cold, and how I can’t stop nibbling my lips. At least I think that’s what he’s looking at.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” he asks, walking again.

“Touching.” I look over at his face to check for his reaction.

“You know I can’t touch you.”

“I know you don’t
want
to touch me,” I correct him, “but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“So, what then?”

“I was just kind of wondering”—I take a deep breath—“if the power of psychometry can be transferred from person to person.”

He stops again, his face scrunching up like he’s genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s not a virus,” he continues. “Psychics don’t just sneeze and pass their power along to the person standing next to them.”

My face turns hotter, fully aware of how crazy the whole theory sounds. Ben stares at me, waiting for some explanation. Meanwhile, my palms are clammy and my ears begin to sting from the chill.

“What’s going on?” he insists.

“It’s hard to explain,” I venture, “but all this weird stuff has started happening to me.”

“Like what?”

And so I tell him about the key and the bottle sculpture, how I sculpted his arm, and then about his eyes through the door glass.

“That’s it?” He smiles as if relieved. “A bottle? A door key? They’re pretty common objects, don’t you think?”

“Not really,” I say. “Not when one of those objects had a very specific pomegranate label.”

“Maybe you saw the label in a store. Maybe for some reason you subconsciously retained it. It could be the same thing with the key. Maybe part of you knew you’d left it at home.”

“But then how do you explain all that other stuff—the stuff I sculpted about you?”

He swallows hard; I watch the motion in his neck. “I don’t know,” he says, trying to cram his hands deeper into his pockets, even though they’ve reached the bottom seam. “Maybe you just sculpted that stuff because you’re missing the way things used to be.”

“I do miss it.” I wait for him to return the sentiment, but instead he stays silent.

I look away, trying not to show my emotion, even though I can feel it in my eyes, a deep and penetrating sting.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod.

He must sense how upset I am, because we end up moving forward again, taking a turn onto Columbus Street.

The street where Debbie Marcus was hit.

“Maybe we should call it a night,” I say, feeling a chill snake down my spine.

“Are you sure?”

I nod and turn back, my pace quickening, eager to get home, to get away—when only minutes before I couldn’t wait to be with him.

We walk for several blocks in silence—just the sound of our steps and the panting of breath as Ben hurries to keep up. It doesn’t take long before we’re back in front of my house. I mumble a faint good-bye and head back toward my window. Meanwhile, a storm of tears rages behind my eyes.

“Camelia, wait,” Ben calls.

I reluctantly stop and turn to face him. Our motion across the driveway has triggered the spotlight.

“Don’t be like this,” he says.

“Like what? Don’t feel anything? Be more like you?”

Ben takes a couple steps toward me, as if he wants to give me a hug, but instead he stops. His lips move, as if to form words, but no sound comes out, like maybe he doesn’t know what to say either.

Or maybe what he has to say is too painful for me to hear.

“If I can’t
be
with you, then I can’t be
with
you,” I say finally, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “I can’t pretend like what we had didn’t exist.”

Ben looks away. His eyes are as red as mine now. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry too.” A crumbling sensation fills my chest. I turn back around, half hoping he’ll stop me again.

But instead I hear his motorcycle rev, followed by the sound of him pulling away.