Deadly Little Voices (13 page)

“Let’s go,” Danica says.

“No way,” I say, nodding toward the stain on the front of her sweater.

We wait for the Candy Clique to finish up whatever it is they’re doing. After several moments of whispering and giggling, Shandy Candy finally emerges from behind the wall and stops right in front of Danica. Tube of lipstick in hand, she applies a fresh coat of flaming red.

Mandy, Sandy, and Andy have all done the same—all of them wearing the exact same shade.

“Since you did such a great job cleaning up in the cafeteria,” Shandy says, getting right up in Danica’s face, “and since you probably don’t want us making English class a living hell for you later—”

“And you know we can,” Mandy adds.

“We figured you’d be more than happy to tidy up our little mess,” Shandy continues.

“We’re not tidying up anything,” I assure her.

But, surprisingly, Danica doesn’t say anything. And Shandy couldn’t be less interested in what I have to say.

When Danica still remains silent, Shandy puckers up her red lips and blows an air-kiss at her. Her Candy lemmings follow suit, blowing kisses in Danica’s direction before they finally exit the locker room.

“Let’s go,” I say, leading Danica toward the sink area with barely five minutes left before the lunch bell is supposed to ring.

And that’s when I see it.

One of the mirrors is broken. Shards of glass lie in a sink and on the floor. And there’s writing across what remains of the mirror. In a smear of bright red lipstick, it says, DANICA PETE WAS HERE. SHE’S SO UGLY THAT THE MIRROR BROKE. P.S.: DIE ALREADY, WILL YOU?!

I shake my head and take a step back, rereading the message, and realizing that Aunt Alexia predicted part of it.

“What’s wrong?” Danica asks.

My hand over my mouth, I look toward the windows, feeling the need for some air. But the glass has been covered up with a dark-blue tarp, as if maybe it’s being replaced.

“Afraid that you’ll be branded by association?” she continues. “Because even talking to me can have reputation-ruining repercussions.”

“That’s not it,” I say, noticing a chunk of red lipstick in the sink as well (a piece that must’ve broken off). Water from the faucet pours over it, making the inside of the sink look red.

“Then,
what
?” she asks.

I close my eyes, feeling an array of emotions rush through me—the strongest one being relief. Relief because I predicted this, too. Because my dreams and hallucinations must indeed be part of something bigger—something extrasensory. And not merely part of something crazy.

“Well?” she says.

Instead of answering, I dampen a bunch of paper towels, topping them off with a couple of squirts of green gel soap from the dispenser.

“What are you doing?” Danica snaps.

“What does it look like? I’m trying to help you.”

“Yes, but
why
?” She folds her arms, trying to appear tough, but I can see the dried-up tear tracks on her face, painted down over her freckled cheeks, almost like a mapping of sorts.

A mapping to track years of heartache.

“Look, I know I haven’t given you any reason to trust me,” I say, referring to what happened in junior high. “But I want to help you.” I force some paper towels into her hand.

Danica starts to wipe a smudge off her cheek, then gazes into the sink full of broken glass.

“It’s okay,” I say, wishing she’d show me how she truly feels; but I know that’s not her style.

Freshman year, she barely showed the slightest inkling of emotion when Steve Hartley thought it’d be funny to show up at the Halloween dance dressed in a “Danica costume,”

complete with an ugly brown bathrobe (to replicate the tan cardigan she always used to wear), pink tennis shoes, and a bowl over his head for hair. Appearing resilient to ridicule has always been her first line of defense.

“I could care less what those Candies say,” she tells me. “What
anyone
says, for that matter.”

“Well, they don’t know what they’re talking about,” I say.

But I’m not so sure she’s listening. She picks up one of the glass shards. It has a jagged hook at one end.

Exactly like what I sculpted.

She takes a step closer to the mirror. The cracked surface makes her face appear distorted, cut up into shapes, reminding me of one of Picasso’s paintings.

“We don’t have to clean this up, you know,” I tell her. “We can go to the office and turn them in.”

“It’s easier this way,” she says, perhaps tired of taking their ridicule.

But before we can even start to clean, the door bursts open and the lights go out, leaving us in the dark. The tarp-covered windows block out any sunlight.

“Don’t panic,” I whisper, assuming we’re not alone, that someone else in the room must’ve flicked off the switch.

The sound of giggling erupts from near the door.

I take a deep breath, trying to ease the palpitating of my heart, and thinking how things are finally making sense—the way Danica’s constantly getting ridiculed, the way kids are always putting her down. And the voices inside my head—calling me ugly, telling me I’m stupid, and saying that I’d be better off dead.

There’s no doubt in my mind.

Danica is the one in trouble.

THE BELL RINGS before either of us can turn the lights back on, but luckily I remember the mini-flashlight tucked in my bag (a stocking stuffer from Dad). I use it as we clean up the shards of glass and the writing on the broken mirror, per Danica’s insistence, and guide us out of the locker room.

“Better?” I say, once we’re back out in the hallway. But unfortunately, Danica’s sweater is still stained with red sauce. A bit of sauce remains on her cheek as well. “I’m sure if you go to the nurse’s office, she’ll let you clean yourself up.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” She loops the straps of her backpack over her shoulders and turns away without saying good-bye.

I watch her walk down the hallway, disappearing among the sea of students. For just a moment I wonder if I should try to catch up with her, but I’m not even sure what I’d say.

I try to explain the whole incident to Kimmie after school, but she’s far too busy trying to digest the fact that what happened in sculpture class wasn’t purely psychotic.

It was psychometric.

“Are you seriously telling me that all that moaning and clawing had a point?” she asks.

We’re standing in the parking lot behind the school as a parade of cars screeches by to escape.

“It didn’t just have a point,” I say, disappointed that she doesn’t seem more relieved by the news. “It had a purpose: to warn me.”

“That Danica Pete is a loser?” she asks, picking at her chocolate brown nail polish.

“Because—newsflash—
everybody
at this dumbass school already knows that.”

“Since when do you call
anyone
a loser?”

“Since people like Davis Miller were born,” she says, giving him the evil eye as he makes his way to his car. “Plus, I’m merely stating the general consensus. It’s not like I have an actual opinion about the girl.”

“Do you have an opinion about what I should do?”

“Are you sure you really want it?”

I nod, already suspecting what she’s going to say.

Kimmie confirms those suspicions, telling me that I have enough to worry about in my own life without obsessing over Danica Pete, someone I barely ever talk to. “Have you even considered what people are going to be saying about you?” she asks. “Hanging out with Freetown High’s Most Socially Unacceptable?”

“And high school social politics became a second thought for you
when
?” I nod toward her Tupperware-container-turned purse. “When did you start caring about what other people think? Plus, wasn’t it you who said ‘big whoop’ to the fact that I’ve been labeled a full-fledged freak?”

“I’m just thinking about your own sanity here,” she says. “I mean, are you seriously going to play Supergirl every time you have one of these psychometric episodes?”

“I don’t know,” I say, catching Davis Miller looking back at us.

“Plus, I hate to be the one to break it to you,” Kimmie continues, “but Danica Pete is hardly capable of skating. If you haven’t already noticed, the girl isn’t exactly graceful on her feet. She can barely handle walking up a flight of stairs without tripping.”

“Am I to assume the
D
stands for
Danica
today?” I ask, motioning toward her palm. “As in,
anti
-Danica?”

“Look, I’m not trying to put her down. I’m just trying to bring some common sense into this picture.”

Common sense as opposed to extra sense.

“Did you report the Candies for the locker-room stunt, by the way?” she asks.

“Danica didn’t want to. She said she didn’t need any more Candy drama.”

“That was intelligent,” Kimmie says, in a lame attempt at sarcasm.

“It wasn’t exactly my choice.”

“Look.” She sighs. “I know you want to do the right thing, and I
do
believe that you have some sort of extraterrestrial gift.”

“Extrasensory,” I say, correcting her. “It’s not like I’m an alien.”

“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes at the mistake. “But you have to consider what’s right for yourself as well.”

“I
have
considered it. And just because I’m not friends with Danica Pete doesn’t mean that she deserves to die.”

“Who said anything about dying? The girl needs help, so why not get her some? Talk to a teacher, tell Ms. Beady.…”

“Tell them
what
?” I ask. “About my premonitions? I owe it to Danica to be involved, to see this through, to try and help her.”

“You
owe
it to her?” Kimmie’s voice rises. “Why? Did Danica rescue you from a burning building that I don’t know about?”

“I just do, okay?” I say, too ashamed to tell her about what happened in junior high.

“Well, maybe I just have to do what’s best for me as well,” she says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look,” Kimmie says, turning away slightly so I can’t see her face—how emotional she’s getting just talking about all of this. “You’re my best friend.”

I reach out to touch her shoulder, but she pulls away. “You’re my best friend, too,” I tell her.

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, don’t you think you’ve been through enough? Your aunt wasn’t able to handle all this psychometric stuff. What makes you think that you can?”

I want to assure her that everything will be fine, but I end up remaining silent, because I honestly don’t know if it will.

Dear Jill,

It was only five minutes past the hour, and already you were pacing in front of the window of the coffee shop, worried that I might not show up.

Does it please you to know that I’d been sitting outside your shop for more than an hour, with the engine cut and the lights turned off?

But you had no idea I was even there. No idea that I’d been watching you check your reflection in the handheld mirror you kept stashed beneath the counter. That I’d seen you braid and unbraid your hair at least five times, and reapply that silly lip gloss.

If only you’d known that it wasn’t solely your looks that I found attractive, but also your solitude, your uniqueness, your earnest efforts, and your desire to be understood.

I wanted to understand you. I was pretty sure I already did. I couldn’t wait to find out.

…

Dear Jack:

I remember the stabbing sensation that pressed into my gut because you still hadn’t shown up, and it was already twelve past nine. I watched the clock, unable to stop thinking about the perfect timing of things: not only had you known that I had to work that night, but you’d picked nine o’clock for a meeting time. My shift ended at 8:30, and it normally took me thirty minutes to cash out and clean up.

You obviously had known that somehow—obviously had taken note of my work schedule, when my shifts started, and when I got out. I have to admit: the thought of someone like you taking so much interest in someone like me was beyond exciting.

Still, I remember holding my breath as the seconds ticked away, doing my best to focus on how much happier I’d been since you started coming around. As cliché as it may sound, you gave me a purpose for getting out of bed in the morning, when only weeks before it’d seemed pointless.

When Carl noticed I was still lingering, he asked if I needed a ride home, saying he was giving Dee a ride anyway. But I shook my head, unwilling to give up on you just yet. And so I went to touch the piece of sea glass around my neck in an effort to reassure myself.

But all I felt was panic, because I didn’t feel the stone right away. Was it still there? Had it caught on something? Why did it seem that the cord of the necklace was so much longer than I remembered?