Deadly Little Lies (15 page)

My cell phone rings, startling me awake. I roll over to glance at the clock. It’s 3:05 a.m.

I roll back over, figuring it must be a wrong number, waiting for my voice mail to pick up. But then it dawns on me that it might be Kimmie—that she might be having a problem at home—and I reach for my bag to retrieve my phone.

“Hello,” I whisper, folding it open. My voice is a tired slur.

No one answers.

“Kimmie?” I ask, speaking louder this time. I check the caller ID, but the number is blocked. “Either say something or I’m going to hang up.”

Someone’s breathing on the other end. I can hear a slight whistling sound, but the caller still remains silent.

I sit up in bed and glance toward the window. The shade and pane are both pulled down. I wait a few more seconds, just about to shut the phone, but then I hear a crinkling noise on the other end. “Hello?” I repeat.

“Be careful,” the voice whispers finally.

“Who is this?” I ask, once again unable to tell if it’s a male or female.

“Be careful,” the voice repeats.

“Excuse me?” I ask, wondering if I’m hearing right. Those were the same words that played in my head earlier, when I was sculpting the horse statue.

“If you’re not careful, you might just wind up as victim number-three.”

“Who is this?” I ask again.

“You’ll be dead,” the voice hisses, ignoring the question. “Do I have to put it in writing? Oh, wait, I already did. I hope you got my message.” A menacing giggle ripples through the phone.

A second later the phone clicks off.

Meanwhile, there’s a knifelike sensation stuck beneath my ribs, making it hard to breathe. I’m tempted to turn on my night table lamp, to scream until my throat burns raw, or to go rushing into my parents’ bedroom to tell them every detail.

But instead I can’t seem to move. And so I burrow my head underneath the covers, hoping the darkness will hide me.

At school the following morning, I head to the counselor’s office, completely at a loss for what else to do. Ms. Beady seems receptive to seeing me, which helps put some of my reluctance at ease. Instead of sitting behind her giant block of a desk, she points me toward the cushy chairs in the corner of her office, and then offers me a cup of tea.

“No, thanks,” I say, taking a seat, not really knowing where to begin.

“So, how are things going?” she asks. “Are you feeling a bit more secure? We spoke last time about all the pranks going on here at school.”

“We spoke about me getting trapped inside the girls’ bathroom,” I correct her.

“Right.” She purses her lips.

“I told you about the lights being shut off,” I continue, “and about the note that got slipped underneath the door.”

“And the note said . . . if I recall . . .” She flips back and forth in the pages of her notebook.

“It said I was next.”

She looks up and nods uneasily.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” I say.

“No, Camelia, stay. There’s no need to get upset. I’m listening. I want to hear you.”

“It hasn’t stopped,” I whisper.

“What hasn’t?” She angles herself more toward me.

“Stuff. Like what happened in the bathroom.”

“More pranks?”

“Except they’re not pranks,” I insist.

“Well then, why don’t you tell me what they are?”

I bite my lip, wondering if she’s only being patronizing— if, in her mind, she’s already got this whole thing figured out. I look toward her walls, taking note of all her degrees: a bachelor’s from SUNY, a master’s from Yale, and a PhD from the University of Texas.

She must really know something.

“Camelia?” she asks, checking her watch.

“I heard a voice,” I say.

“What kind of voice?” The expression on her face doesn’t show even a hint of surprise.

“A female one. It told me to be careful.”

“I see,” she says, studying my face, maybe trying to judge whether or not to believe me. “And what did this voice want you to be careful
of
?”

“I don’t know. That’s just it; it wasn’t clear at the time. But then later, I got a phone call, and the caller told me the same thing . . . to be careful.”

“I see,” she says, taking more notes. “So the second time you heard the voice, it was over the phone. And the first time?”

I feel my eyes begin to water.

“You can say it, Camelia. Don’t be afraid to tell me whatever’s going on.”

“I heard it in my head,” I whisper. “It was like the voice was leading me outside. And then, when I
got
outside, there was some writing scribbled on the bulkhead doors.”

“Did you show it to your parents?”

I shake my head. “It was gone before I could.”

Her face furrows for just a moment, before going neutral again.

“Someone must have erased it,” I continue.

“Was that the first time something like that happened? The first time you saw something was there and then it wasn’t? The first time you heard a voice in the way you describe . . . inside your head?”

“No,” I say, feeling my lower lip tremble.

“Do you want to tell me about the other times, then?” she asks, getting me a glass of water.

I take a sip, hesitant to say anything more, but for some reason I do. I tell her about last week, when I heard Ben’s voice calling out to me in the basement, and then leading me up to my bedroom.

“And no one was in your bedroom when you got there?” she asks.

“No, but I saw someone outside . . . across the street.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. They were gone before I could tell.”

“I see,” she says again, a look of self-assurance on her face. “And so that person disappeared too.”

“I know how all this must sound.”

“You do?”

“Like I’m crazy?”

“Crazy is a word I don’t like to use. But, no,” she says, setting her glasses on top of her head. “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“Then what?” I ask, wishing there could be an easy answer.

“I think people who’ve been through something traumatic—something like what you went through last semester—can experience a backlash of stress. That stress can play out in a multitude of forms, from hearing voices to bouts of pure paranoia.”

“Is that what you think this is? Stress?”

“Posttraumatic stress to be exact. But just to be sure, we could have you evaluated. I’d be happy to recommend someone in town. Have you spoken to your parents about all of this yet?”

I shake my head. “And you won’t tell them, right?”

“I could help
you
tell them if you’d like. But, no, I’m only obligated to tell parents when I think the child is in danger. But even so, I really think your parents should know. I really think they’d
want
to know.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, grateful that I didn’t tell her anything else, especially about what the caller said, how if I’m not careful, I’ll wind up dead.

Instead of going to the cafeteria for our free block, Kimmie and I head to the library, picking a relatively isolated corner of the reference area. I tell her about the phone call I got last night and how the caller told me to be careful, just like the voice I heard in the basement.

“The voice inside your head,” Kimmie says to be clear.

“Right,” I say, proceeding to tell her how the caller also insinuated writing the message on the bulkhead.

“And did the voice inside your head tell you that too?”

“No,” I say, thinking how the voice in my head sounded altogether different—more concerned, less menacing. The giggling was different too. The laughter inside my head sounded almost genuine, whereas the caller’s was definitely meant to intimidate.

“Well, whatever, so there’s your proof.” Kimmie props an encyclopedia up beside us as coverage. “You’re not going crazy. That message was there. Someone had to have erased it.”

“Except the words on the bulkhead were a little different from what the caller said;
‘You’re dead’
as opposed to
‘you will be dead
.
’
”

“Close enough, especially when the caller said she put it in writing.”

“She?”

“Or he. I’m only assuming it’s a she, since the voice in your head was female.”

“But the voice the first time was a male,” I remind her. “Remember, it sounded like Ben’s. . . .”

“To further complicate things . . .” She peeks out from over the top of the encyclopedia. Mr. Wayland, the librarian, is too busy showing Lily (peace-loving) Randall how to use an online database to care that we’re speaking in hushed tones.

“So why do you think whoever wrote that message decided to erase it?” I ask. “I mean, why put it there only to erase it a little while after—”

“And then call to make sure you got it,” Kimmie continues. “I know; it’s totally messed up. But maybe the person was forced to erase it for some reason. Maybe someone saw them do it.”

“Like who?”

“Who do I look like, Nancy freakin’ Drew?”

“More like Madonna from the ’80s,” I say, referring to her fingerless lace gloves and dangling crucifix earrings.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she says, readjusting her black leather headband. “Did you get your sweatshirt back, by the way?”

I shake my head, suddenly realizing that I didn’t notice it in homeroom today.

“And so you went to Ms. Beady about it?”

“No. I went to Ms. Beady because I needed advice and I wanted perspective.”

“And you thought of her? The woman wears gaucho pants and moccasins, for God’s sake.”

“Apparel aside, I wanted to talk to someone who’s qualified. I mean, no offense. It’s just that it made sense at the time to sit down with someone outside my immediate circle . . . someone with authority, who deals with people’s problems on a regular basis. . . .”

“Ms. Beady is the devil,” Kimmie says, using her pencil as a makeshift pitchfork to stab the table. She reminds me how last year, during the pep rally, Ms. Beady sent her home for wearing a cheerleading outfit adorned with spikes and chains. “The spikes and chains weren’t even real.”

“How dare she?” I mock, gazing at the window beside me, where someone’s left a cheat sheet on the ledge.

“Exactly,” Kimmie says. “Which is why I can’t even believe you went looking for her advice. You want my advice? You need to go talk to Debbie.”

“Why would I talk to
her
?”

“The caller
did
mention you’d be victim number-three. . . .”

I shake my head, still unable to follow her logic.

“Seriously, are the moldy encyclopedia fumes getting to you?” she asks. “Victim number-one is already dead.”

“You mean Julie?”

“Do you know any other dead victims? And so, seeing as Julie’s deadness makes it just a tad bit difficult to communicate, maybe victim number-two has some answers.”

“Well, here’s my question: why aren’t
I
a victim. Was I not tied up and left in the back of a trailer four months ago?”

“That’s just it.” Her face softens. “Whoever this is doesn’t consider you a victim.”

“Because I’m not a victim of Ben’s,” I say, meeting her eyes.

“Time to talk to your parents now?”

I nod, knowing I have no other choice. “But first I’m going to talk to Debbie.”