Deadly Little Lies (19 page)

After mom and I finish making the brownies, I head down to my pottery studio in the basement. The horse sculpture has dried into a dark charcoal color, reminding me of some of the iron sculptures Spencer’s got on display at Knead.

The detail is what strikes me most. The horse’s head is cocked to one side. Its nostrils flare out and there’s definite tension in the jaw. I take a step back, knowing that it’s like nothing I’ve ever done before, which almost makes me want to show Spencer first. But instead I wrap it up in tissue paper, noting its ample weight and the way it feels beneath my fingertips, a smooth and chalky texture. I slide it into a gift bag and head up to my room.

My cell phone is ringing when I get there.

“Hey, roomie,” Kimmie says when I answer. “I assume your mom told you the plan? Just don’t forget to pack a bulletproof vest. It’s been vicious between my parents.”

“Maybe they’ll play nice with company over.”

“Except you’re hardly company.”

“What am I, then?”

“Smarter than I am in algebra. Care to help me study tonight? I have a massive test tomorrow and my head is spinning from an overdose of letters. Too many X’s and Y’s for my liking . . . and don’t even get me started on the P’s, Q’s, L’s, and M’s.”

“Well, unfortunately I have an errand to run,” I say, gazing over at the gift bag.

“Can I come?”

“You have to study, remember?”

“Right,” she says with a giant sigh. “Call me later?”

“You bet.” After we hang up I make my way to the kitchen. Mom’s just about to take the brownies out of the oven. “Care to try one while they’re still hot?” she asks.

“I was actually hoping I could borrow your keys. I forgot it was Wes’s birthday today,” I lie. “And I’d like to drop this off for him.”

“What did you get him?” She glances at the bag.

“Just something I sculpted from self-hardening clay.”

“Can I see it?” She wipes her hands clean on a dish towel, preparing to take the bag.

“It’s all wrapped up,” I say, feeling the blood rush into my face. I keep a tight grip on the bag handles and nod toward the tissue paper.

“Oh,” she says, clearly disappointed. Still, she gives me the car keys and tells me not to be long. “Dinner’s in an hour.”

I turn on my heel and head out the door. Ten short minutes later, I find myself parked outside Ben’s house.

I know he’s home. His motorcycle’s in the driveway. And so is his aunt’s car—a black Pontiac sedan, just like Debbie Marcus said.

I step out of the car, confident that it wasn’t Ben who hit Debbie that day. But I glance toward the front fender of his aunt’s sedan anyway.

There’s a dent there—a long and narrow gash that stretches around to the side, just beyond the headlight.

My hands shake, nearly dropping the gift bag. I look toward the house. The door’s closed. The shades are drawn. And so I scoot down closer to inspect the dent.

There’s a smear of dark red on the bumper. At the same moment, the headlights go on, shining right in my eyes. The engine roars.

I jump back, away from the tire. And then I hear the car door slam, followed by someone approaching.

“Can I help you?” a woman asks, glaring down at me. Dressed in a long wool coat and high-heeled boots, she’s as tall as she is intimidating.

“Mrs. Carter?” I ask, assuming it’s Ben’s aunt.

“
Ms.
Carter,” she says. Her mouth is a straight tense line.

I stand and extend my hand. “My name’s Camelia. I’m a friend of Ben’s.”

“I know who you are,” she says, ignoring my hand.

“Now, can I ask why you were inspecting my car?”

“I was just looking for Ben,” I say, knowing the answer sounds ridiculous.

She glances toward his motorcycle—possibly checking that he’s home—and swipes a few strands of her choppy dark hair away from her eyes. “Did you try ringing the doorbell?”

I shake my head, wondering what she was doing in her car, why she started her ignition and then shined her lights in my eyes. Was it to scare me?

“Do you know something about that?” she asks, gesturing to the dent in her car.

I shake my head, feeling my face flash hot.

She looks me over for several seconds, as if deciding whether or not to believe me. “Follow me,” she says finally, then leads me up the front stairs.

The inside of Ben’s house smells like fresh flowers and newly cut wood. I glance around, noticing potted plants lined up on all the window ledges. There’s a working water fountain on the table in the living room, and the furniture is a mixture of iron and wicker.

“I’m a florist,” she says, following my gaze. She takes off her coat, revealing a pair of faded jeans and a soil-stained sweatshirt.

Keeping a firm grasp on the gift bag, I glance toward the stairs. Ben’s aunt watches me for a couple more seconds before calling Ben down.

No response.

She shouts his name again, louder this time, then mutters something about how he sometimes has his headphones on. “He can’t hear a thing with those on,” she says, heading up the stairs. She returns a few seconds later. “I don’t know where he is.” She looks out the window.

His bike is still there.

“Could I leave him something?” I ask, setting the gift bag down.

“What are you doing here?” Ben calls out from behind me. I turn to see him standing in the living room doorway.

I look toward his aunt, hoping she’ll leave us alone. “I’ll just be in the other room,” she says, giving me one last glare.

“Don’t mind her,” Ben says, once she’s out of earshot. “She’s just being protective of me. After everything that happened last fall, it was pretty much one prank after another around here.”

I nod, unsurprised.

“So, it’s good to see you.” He smiles, just like old times, as if there’s barely been a rift between us.

“I saw you in school,” I say, like it wasn’t completely obvious.

“I know.” His smile widens and he takes a step closer. I can smell cologne on his skin, a sweet and spicy scent.

I look up into his eyes, reminding myself to be strong. Ben’s lips part, as if he wants to tell me something, but before he can, I hand him the gift. “I made you something. You don’t have to open it now. Actually, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

Ben’s eyebrows furrow, like he doesn’t quite get it.

“It’s my good-bye gift to you,” I explain.

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.” I take a step back. “It’s just . . . this is all just a little too hard for me. Being friends, and then hardly ever talking—”

“And then what happened last night?” he asks.

I nod again, feeling my whole body tremble. “I think pretending you don’t exist would be easier for me than what we’ve been doing.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t want to make things more confusing for you.”

I’m tempted to ask why he continues to keep tabs on me. Why he pushes me away and then comes back for more.

“This isn’t easy for me either,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I ask, almost wishing he’d tell me once again how much he misses me.

“Were you talking to the school counselor, by any chance?” he asks.

“Why? Did she say something to you?”

“Not just her, the principal too. They talked to me separately—first Ms. Beady, then Principal Snell. Beady pretended to be interested in my transition back to school, but then she started asking me where I’d been at certain times, whether I was hanging around the girls’ bathroom on the first day of school. Sound familiar? She also wanted to know what I’ve been doing in my free time.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, though a part of me is reassured. At least the school is taking some of what I’ve told them seriously.

“Beady started getting all psychobabbly on me, asking if I’ve been upset about all the pranks going on, and how I handle my anger, whether I ever think about hurting anyone or myself. Principal Snell was less sneaky about things. He just stood there, arms folded, reminding me about the school’s no-tolerance policy on pranks and hazing, and that he has no problem expelling anyone who tests it.”

“Well, obviously that isn’t true,” I say, thinking about the G.I. Jane doll stunt in the hallway.

Ben shrugs. “There’s going to be an assembly about it tomorrow.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Ben manages a smile and then looks down at the gift bag. “So what’s this gift
really
about?”

“Like I said, part of it’s a good-bye—”

“And the other part?” He stares straight into my eyes, making my stomach flip-flop.

“You told me before that I should just go with my impulses,” I say, trying to stay focused. “With my pottery, I mean. You said that I shouldn’t try to overanalyze things, that I should just see where my impulses take me.”

“I remember.”

“So, I wanted to thank you for that. This is probably my best piece yet.”

“I’m glad.” He smiles a bit wider. “But then maybe you should keep it.”

“No,” I say. “I want you to have it. If it weren’t for your advice, I probably never would’ve finished it.”

Despite what I said about not wanting him to open it now, Ben moves the tissue paper to have a peek inside.

“I have to go,” I say, suddenly eager to get away. Without another look in his direction, I hurry out the door and to my mom’s SUV. But then I come to a sudden halt at the sight of the windshield.

An envelope is sticking out from the wiper. With shaking hands, I pull it free and unfold it. It’s a snapshot of Julie’s gravestone. But someone has crossed out her name and written mine in its place.

June 12, 1984


Dear Diary,


Yesterday in math class, Mrs. Higley caught me scraping the paint off my deskusing one of those pointy compass things. She asked me to stay after class, shook her head at the scratches I’d made, and then asked me if there was anything I wanted to talk about.


I didn’t know what to say, and so I didn’t really answer her. It’s just that nobody’s asked me that kind of stuff before.


When I got home from school, my mother told me that Mrs. Higley had called. At first I thought my mother was going to give me hell about the desk, but she didn’t even mention it, so maybe Mrs. Higley didn’t mention it either. According to my mother, Mrs. Higley is concerned about me. She said that I’m withdrawn and she wishes she’d said something earlier in the year.


My mother told her it’s because my father left, because we’re all dealing with his absence. “It’s the truth, after all,” my mother said. Apparently, Mrs. Higley understood completely, relieved to know mymother was so sensitive to the situation.


If only she knew the real truth.


Alexia


When i get home from Ben’s, my parents are so busy packing for their trip that we don’t have dinner together; we don’t even talk much.

Mom is beyond crazed. Her bed is sprinkled with at least ten different outfits. “I feel like I’m back in high school,” she says, obviously clueless about what to pack. “I’ve left you some tuNO salad in the fridge, by the way. You can make a sandwich.”

I nod and go into my room, foregoing her less-than-tempting offer for a glorified shredded parsnip sandwich, and close the door behind me. I glance toward the heap of freshly folded clothes piled high on top of my dresser, knowing that I should probably get packing too, but instead I dial Kimmie’s number.

She picks up right away. “Care to explain what a polynomial is?”

“An equation with constants and variables.”

“Seriously, how do you know that?”

“I gave it to him,” I say, ignoring the question. “The sculpture, I mean.”

“And?”

“And then I left. I didn’t wait around for him to open it.”

“So I guess it’s over, then.”

“I guess.”

“Hardly,”
she bellows. “Steam like yours and Ben’s doesn’t go away after one measly kiss-off. Case in point: How many times has Ben given
you
the kiss-off? And you’re still up to your eyeballs in steam.”

“It’s different now,” I say. “At least it feels different. More final, less promising . . . so much more painful.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

I shake my head as if she can hear it. “I got another photo, by the way.”

“What? Where?”

And so I tell her about what happened after I fled Ben’s house. “I’m almost not surprised,” I say. “I mean, he said his house gets slammed with pranks.”

“Right, but this prank was directed at you, not him. Plus, it follows the same pattern as the other photos.”

“Actually, the writing on this photo was black, not red.”

“That’s not what I meant, but since you bring it up, did the writing look similar to the other notes?”

“I guess,” I say, thinking how the notes were all written with capital lettering, as though in the same hand.

“So maybe color isn’t the key in this case,” she says. “Bottom line—someone’s watching you. They obviously followed you to Ben’s house. Did you ever talk to Debbie about that creepy phone call you got?”

“Yeah. And she still blames Ben.”

“I told you,”
she sings. “According to Todd—who’s yet to call me after sucking my neck, by the way—Debbie’s parents are way determined to find a scapegoat for her accident.”

“A scapegoat or the person who did it?”

“Whichever comes first.”

“Great,” I say. Then I tell her Debbie’s theory about the black sedan. “She was kind enough to point out that Ben’s aunt drives a car that fits the same description as the one that hit her.”

“Don’t listen to Debbie. She wears platform shoes and palazzo pants.”

“So clearly she’s delusional.”

“I won’t argue there, but I also think she’s trying to psyche you out.”

“Maybe,” I say, hearing my voice shake. “But I saw his aunt’s car today. And there was a dent.”

“Coincidence?”

“I don’t know, but his aunt was really weird. She totally caught me checking out her car.”

“Maybe
she’s
the one who’s watching you.”

“Be serious.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you have a better explanation?”

I nibble my lip, thinking how long it took for Ben to appear once his aunt let me in. Is it possible that he left the photo?

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come over?” Kimmie asks.

“No. I need to think. I need to pack.”

“You need some rest,” she corrects me.

“That too.” I glance in my dresser mirror. There are dark circles beneath my eyes and my hair is a mangy mess. I tug at a strand of blond, noticing how the ends are frayed from being pulled up into a ponytail every day.

Kimmie and I say our good-byes, and I drift off to sleep without even changing out of my clothes or wishing my parents good luck on their trip.