Deadly Little Secret (7 page)

Spencer gives me a thumbs-up and then leaves me alone. But I’m not alone for long. Not even ten minutes later, Kimmie comes bursting through the door. “I knew I’d find you here,” she announces.

“Is something wrong?”

She sets her design portfolio down against the table with a thud. “I’ll say something’s wrong. You didn’t even call me. Word is he practically took you down in chemistry.”

“Wait—
what
?”

“Everybody’s talking about it—about him—and how he tried to maul you today.”

“Ben?”

“Was there someone else who tried to maul you?”

“That’s not how it happened,” I say, squeezing and resqueezing my clay in an effort to remain calm.

“I know, because apparently you didn’t even put up a fight.
Apparently
you didn’t even seem to mind.”

“He touched me again,” I say, my heart tightening at the mere words.

“From what I heard, it was way more than just a touch.” She folds her arms and taps her patent-leather Mary Jane against the linoleum floor.

“No,” I say. “You don’t understand. He
touched
me, like in the parking lot that day—and it got all weird.”

“Weird as in creepy?”

“Weird as in unbelievable,” I say, still able to picture it, to picture him—the way our faces were only inches apart and how his bottom lip quivered when he told me to shush. “It’s like he touches me on my arm or my stomach, but my whole body feels it.”

“Honestly, Camelia, do you know how cheesy that sounds? Even for you.”

“You know what I mean. I need to know what he’s all about.”

“Is everything okay?” Spencer asks, inserting himself into our conversation. I glance toward his work area at the back of the shop, wondering how long he’s been standing behind us and how much he actually heard.

“Better than okay,” Kimmie says, openly admiring his Rambo-like physique. “Especially if you’ll be substituting for Ms. Mazur anytime soon. I’d love to show you my technique. I call it the thump-and-slap.”

“Sounds like you’re having fun. Maybe if Ms. Mazur calls in sick.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says, practically drooling. “Camelia, do we know anyone with whooping cough? I hear it’s supercatchy.”

“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that,” I say.

“I’m heading out to pick up some molds,” Spencer says. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour. Camelia, will you be around when I get back?” A lock of his wavy dark hair falls into his eyes, turning Kimmie to virtual mush. “I thought maybe we could talk about stuff.”

“Talk is cheap,” Kimmie interrupts. “Don’t you have anything to show?”

“As in, what I’m working on?” Spencer asks.

“For starters.”

“Well, I’m about to begin sculpting a six-foot-tall ballerina in bronze.”

“Need a model?” She stands on her tiptoes. “I could wear my stilettos.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says, and turns to me. “So, will I see you later?”

“I don’t know,” I say, glancing at his hand. It still lingers on my shoulder. “I kind of have a lot of homework.”

“On a Friday?” Kimmie asks.

“So, maybe another time,” he says, reminding me to lock up when I’m done.

Kimmie bops me on head with a sponge once he’s gone. “Honestly, what is your problem?”

“You’re the one with the problem. What are you doing hitting on my boss?”

“
He
was hitting on
you
,” she says, correcting me.

“No way,” I say. “Spencer’s just like that . . . he’s just
nice
.”

“Yeah, well, nice boss plus open invitation to hang out after hours equals a very happy lizard . . . meaning you, Miss Chameleon. You want a spicier life? Well, then, he’s your chipotle pepper.”

“I am
so
not interested in Spencer.”

“Because he didn’t supposedly kill anybody?”

“Okay, I’m done having this conversation.” I roll my clay up into a ball and plop it down against my wedging board.

“Fine,” she says, drying her hands. She tosses the wad of paper towels to the floor, in lieu of the garbage barrel, and it catches on her heel. “Call me later.”

“Will do,” I say, watching as she walks off, the roll of paper towels trailing along after her like industrial-strength toilet paper, totally making me giggle.

 15 

She’s become my addiction and she doesn’t even know it. Part of me wants her to know—wants her to feel me out there. Watching her. Checking how she dresses. And what she eats. And who she spends her time with. Watching as she opens her bedroom curtains first thing in the morning. And walks to school. And shops for nail polish in town.

I take note of some of her favorite things—like yogurt-covered pretzels, pale peach lip gloss, and hooded sweatshirts with big front pockets.

And I know when she goes to bed, usually around eleven thirty, right after chatting online with I can only wonder who.

That’s the hard part—not knowing EVERYTHING about her, despite how hard I try. Even when I’m up close, I can’t always hear what she’s saying in conversation. I can’t always watch her lips, for fear she’ll catch on, which would ruin everything.

I want to talk to her. And sometimes we do talk. But it’s never for very long and we never say anything important.

I can’t be myself around her. I can’t relax or open up, or show her all the pictures I’ve got tacked up on my wall: pictures of her at the beach, in front of her house, at the mall, and in the bakery downtown.

Lately she’s been talking to everyone, even to people she never normally associates with. She’s been asking them questions about something that shouldn’t even matter to her, something she shouldn’t even know about.

Luckily, she redeemed herself, though. We got really close recently. Or, should I say, I got really close to her. At first I thought it made her nervous, but then it seemed like she kind of enjoyed it. Because she didn’t back away.

I want to get close to her again. I want to see how far she’ll let me go—how far I’ll have to push before she has no choice but to let me in.

16

It’s Monday afternoon, the last block of the day, and a full six minutes and thirty seconds into chemistry class when Ben finally comes in. He smiles at me, totally catching me off guard. And totally making my face heat up.

I saw him earlier today, too, and I had a similar reaction. We were passing one another near the front entranceway of the school when we collided, and his shoulder bumped against my forearm.

It nearly made me drop my books.

I mean, it wasn’t
just
the mild collision. It was the way he lingered there, asking me if I was okay, telling me it was an accident, running his fingers over my arm to make sure I was okay. He gazed into my eyes and smiled an irresistible grin—as if we shared some secret.

My heart pounded, and my insides turned to bubbling lava. I secretly hoped his bumping into me wasn’t an accident at all, but 100 percent intentional.

Ben slides into the seat beside mine and starts flipping through his notes.

“Is everything okay, Ms. Hammond?” the Sweat-man asks, obviously noticing my spaceyness, and how I can’t stop staring.

Ben looks beyond delicious, dressed in layers of chocolate brown. He glances at me, checking for my response, and so I give a quick nod, my insides stirring up even more.

Sweat-man continues with his lecture, failing to say anything about Ben’s lateness, which only confirms the rumor that the principal’s given Ben carte blanche as far as promptness goes. There are several theories as to why his tardiness is accepted. Some think it’s for Ben’s own safety—because he’s constantly getting harassed, and maybe the administration is afraid a fight will break out in the hallway as people are changing classes. Others say it’s because he has a phobia—either claustrophobia or agoraphobia, or possibly a blend of both.

Personally, I don’t know the reason for his lag time. I’m just really happy to see him.

While Sweat-man prattles on—something about chemical and ionic bonding—I can’t help noticing the olive tone of Ben’s skin, the mole on his left cheek, and how every few minutes he turns to glance at me.

When class is finally over, he collects his books in a stack and then moves past me, the sleeve of his shirt brushing against my back, sending tingles all over my skin.

“I’ll see you later,” he says in a hushed tone.

I nod, wondering if he really means it, if he really intends to see me later, or if it’s just his way of saying good-bye.

He heads up to talk to the Sweat-man, and I’m so tempted to hang around and wait until he’s done.

But Kimmie spots me first. She pulls me from the doorway, yanks me out into the hall, all the while babbling on about how she needs to get to the mall—STAT—to buy herself some decent underwear.

“Sounds like a dire emergency,” I say, keeping an eye on the chemistry room door.

“It
is
an emergency,” she insists. “How can a girl this chic—meaning me, before you ask—run around with a rubber band holding up her undies?”

“Wait—
what
?”

“I have three words for you: underwear, broken elastic waistband, down around my ankles in Spanish class.”

“Okay, but that was way more than three words.”

“Whatever,” she says. “Here, feel my ball.” She gestures toward her waist.

“No, thanks.” I grimace.

She smirks and shows me the ball of fabric bulging out from her vintage poodle skirt—where she’s obviously got a rubber band tightened around her panty fabric to hold said panties up.

Meanwhile, I continue to keep focused on the door, anticipating Ben’s exit.

“Did Kimmie tell you about Spanish?” Wes shouts, barreling his way up the hallway toward us.

Kimmie rolls her eyes. “Do we really need to rehash all the details?”

“Of course we do,” he says. “Just picture it: it’s before class, and Kimmie’s on her way up to the front of the room to sharpen her pencil, not even realizing her underwear is falling down around her ankles. The next thing you know, Davis Miller grabs for it—”

“Okay, first of all,” Kimmie interrupts, “let’s just say there’s been a lot of drama going on at my house as of late. A girl—even the most fashionably minded—doesn’t always get it right, especially when she’s racing out the door first thing in the morning for fear her dad might ask for another lesson on setting up a Ferrari blog. By the way, he wants everyone to call him Turbo from now on.”

“And second of all?” Wes asks.

“Davis Miller is clearly the result of birth-control failure,” she says. “He looks like a walking Mr. Potato Head with those bulging eyes, that bulbous nose, and those blubbery lips.”

“But he does play a mean electric guitar. Have you heard his rendition of ‘Walk This Way’? Seriously, it’ll bring tears to your eyes.” Wes uses the corner of his sleeve to dab at the invisible tears on his cheeks.

“Because it’s so horrible?” Kimmie asks.

“Because it would make Steven Tyler proud.”

“
Who
?” Her face scrunches up.

While the two continue to argue over what makes great music, I keep an eye on the door, until I notice them staring at me, arms folded, awaiting my response.

“What?” I ask, feeling the color rise to my cheeks.

“My question exactly,” Wes says. “What’s up with you today?”

“Nothing.” I sigh.

“Not nothing,” he says. “You look like the old woman who swallowed a fly.”

“I guess she’ll die,”
he and Kimmie sing in unison.

“Very funny.” I laugh.

“No.” Kimmie corrects me. “Funny would be Wes continuing to dress like a third grader on school-picture day. I mean, honestly. Dickies and boat shoes?” She tsktsks at his outfit. “Totally two decades ago.”

“This from the girl who wears enough black eyeliner to paint a large hearse, casket included,” Wes says.

“Not to mention granny panties,” I add.

“Okay, minus the geriatric Skivvies, it’s called style,” Kimmie argues. “And we need to get Wes some, pronto. Camelia, are you in? Something tells me you could use some shopping therapy. Nothing like a fresh pair of undies to lift the spirits.”