Deadly Little Lies (23 page)

It’s been four days since the incident at my house, and I still haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep. I’m sitting at the Press & Grind with Kimmie and Wes, trying to caffeine-and-sugar myself awake so that I won’t nod off this afternoon—so that maybe I can get a normal dose of shut-eye tonight.

“I still can’t believe Debbie,” Wes squawks. “I mean, talk about crazy. She puts the nutter in butter.”

“Excuse me?” Kimmie asks; her Pepto-pink lips bunch up in confusion.

“Nutter Butters,” Wes explains. “The world’s trippiest cookie . . . ?”

“Whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes.

The ironic part of this whole Debbie-prankster thing is that she worked so hard at getting Ben to go away. But now she’s the one who’s gone.

Since no one was seriously hurt, and since my parents knew about Debbie’s history with the coma and her grandfather’s death, Mom insisted that we not press charges. Dad agreed. Instead, Debbie’s parents pulled her out of school, in hopes that she’ll be able to get some much-needed perspective, not to mention a bit of counseling.

As soon as my parents heard the news about Debbie and the break-in, they got the first flight home.

“I feel really bad about that,” I tell Kimmie and Wes. “This was my mom’s opportunity to make real progress with her sister.”

“Stop guilting yourself,” Kimmie says. “It’s our job to screw things up for our parents. Just look at me and Nate. If we’d never been born, my parents would probably still be together.”

“Since when are you the poster child for self-pity?” Wes asks, through a mustache of cappuccino froth.

“It’s not like my dad didn’t say so himself.”

Not so surprisingly, Kimmie’s parents have decided to separate for a while. Her dad’s already renting an apartment in the city, with promises to see Kimmie and Nate on the weekends. “My life sucks goat cheese,” she says, banging her head against the table.

“Well, let’s hope that goat cheese is organic,” Wes says. “Remember when Camelia’s mom told us they let pus leak into the regular stuff. And I doubt you’d want to suck pus?”

“You’re sick,” Kimmie tells him.

“Just look on the bright side,” he continues. “At least your dad isn’t leaving dirty magazines all over the house for you to find. Underneath your pillow, in your gym bag, tucked beneath your place mat at dinner . . .”

“And tell me, oh wise one, why would that side be brighter? Maybe I could use a little dirty distraction.”

“What does your mom say about all that dirt?” I ask him.

“Mom’s a mouse, even Dad calls her that. If you’re not listening closely enough, you won’t even hear her squeak.”

“Honestly, I don’t know how that woman stays with him,” Kimmie says. “I think
she
needs a shrink.”

“Yeah well, maybe she’s not the only one.”

“Are you referring to
me
?” she asks him.

He shakes his head and looks away, his face all sullen and pensive.

“Um, Earth to Wes,” Kimmie sings.

“Don’t worry about it.” He forces a half-smile. “I think maybe the coffee-grind fumes are starting to get to me. Does anyone else feel bold and nutty?”

“You know you can talk to us,” I say, wondering if the pressure at home is starting to get a little too intense for him.

“I know,” he says, choosing instead to make fun of Kimmie’s 1960s pillbox hat.

Kimmie and I exchange a look, knowing full well that he’s not giving us the full story, but that he clearly doesn’t want to elaborate.

Instead, I tell them about the situation with my aunt: how she told my mother she’s been hearing voices whenever she paints.

“Seriously?” Kimmie asks. “So this power of yours might actually be a hereditary bonus.”

“Like having nice hair?” Wes says, running his fingers over his thickly lacquered coif.

I nod. “Except they don’t exactly think of it as a power—more like that she’s crazy.”

“Which would mean they’d probably think you’re crazy too,” Kimmie says.

“Or maybe not. Maybe telling them about me might help Aunt Alexia. My parents could think of her supposed psychosis in a whole new way.”

“Are you really ready to take that chance?” she asks.

I sink back in my seat, knowing that I’m not—not yet, at least. My mom, especially, was hurt that I didn’t say anything, once again, about all the pranks going on. I really don’t feel like adding to the list of things I neglected to tell her.

“Bottom line,” Kimmie says, “you need to talk to your aunt.”

“Agreed,” Wes says. “And I’d like to be a fly on the wall when you do.”

“I know,” I say, wondering if I can convince my mom to let me go with her the next time she travels to Detroit, which is supposedly in a few weeks.

“Were your parents super mad?” Kimmie asks.

“More like super disappointed, but Dad tried to smooth things over, telling Mom about the heart-to-heart we’d had in the parking lot of Taco Bell when I hinted about what was happening.”

“Your dad must be heartbroken about Adam,” Kimmie says. “I guess it’s safe to assume he won’t be your dad’s future son-in-law.”

“Adam is the tricky part in this whole funked-up situation.” After the whole blowout, he wrote me a letter. I pull it from my pocket and slide it across the table at them:

Dear Camelia,


I know you won’t talk to me right now, but I need to tell you my side of things. It’s true that I came to Freetown to try to get back at Ben. I wanted him to know what it feels like to have someone he cares about taken from him, just like he took Julie from me. I know that sounds messed up, but like I said before I never imagined falling for you the way I did.


The plan was stupid. I was stupid. And I’m embarrassed to even have to own up to it now. I hope one day you can forgive me.


I’ve quit Knead, by the way. It’s your place, not mine. But I’m still staying here at the community college. You have my number. I hope you’ll use it. I hope one day you’ll even be able to forgive me.


Love always,


Adam


“Oh my freaking word,” Kimmie blurts.

“You know what I want to know?” Wes asks. “How did he even know where to find Ben? And how did he know you guys were an item last fall?”

“The same way people here found out about Ben’s past,” I say. “People talk. Rumors spread.”

“And losers listen,” Kimmie adds. “I mean, obviously Ben was a celebrity in his hometown, or so to speak. The boy probably couldn’t even piss in private without someone knowing the color of his briefs. If they are indeed briefs . . .
are
they, Camelia?” She shoots me an evil grin.

“I wouldn’t know.”

She makes a grimace, clearly disappointed.

“So, are you going to forgive Adam?” Wes asks.

“Or shall it be the dark and dangerous Touch Boy?”

“Do you honestly think that going back to Touch Boy would be a rational decision for our dear Chameleon?” Wes asks her.

“Love isn’t rational,” she argues. “It’s instinctive.”

“Well, instinct tells me that I’ll know what to do when that time comes.”

“Just be sure to keep me posted,” Wes says. “Otherwise, I’ll be forced to have to deal with my own drama. And, honestly, what fun would that be?”

I look away, thinking about all the loose strands in my life—all the big questions I have yet to answer. “Not very fun at all,” I agree.

After coffee with Kimmie and Wes, I head to Knead, hoping some work on the wheel might serve as a diversion to my otherwise complicated life. Spencer’s there, and he’s not alone. It seems he’s already hired someone to fill Adam’s spot.

Svetlana Stepankov is as tall as she is beautiful, with long and loopy almond brown hair, wide violet eyes, and angular cheeks.

Spencer introduces us, explaining how it’ll be my job in the upcoming weeks to show Svetlana the ropes, i.e. to teach her how to fire, how to pull and clean greenware, how to glaze, do the register, set up for classes, and center on the wheel.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, unable to avoid sneaking a peek at the overwhelming cleavage that oozes from her blouse, and the ballerina tattoo that adorns said ooze.

“Yes,” she says, all smiles.

“Are you new to the area? How did you find out about this place?”

“Yes,” she repeats.

“She doesn’t have much experience,” Spencer says, like I couldn’t have figured that out already, “but I think she’ll do wonders for the store. Just talk slowly.” He hands me an English–Russian dictionary.

Needless to say, it’s pretty apparent why Spencer hired her, but I don’t care, because at least this means he’ll stop flirting with me, and maybe I’ll finally be able to leave all drama at the door.

While he resumes showing Svetlana around (and admiring the dancing ballerina as he does so), I throw a ball of clay onto my spinning wheel, eager to create something great.

But then the door jingles open.

It’s Ben.

“Hey,” he says. There’s a bandage over his temple from when I clobbered him in the basement.

“Hey,” I wave, knowing that I should probably run in the other direction. But instead I remain on my stool.

“So, I just wanted to say hello,” he says, walking across the studio toward me.

I look behind me for Spencer and Svetlana, but they must be downstairs.

“How have you been?” he asks.

“Not very well, actually,” I have to admit.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.” He looks as lost as I feel. His eyes are tired; his skin is sallow. He can’t stop fidgeting in his pockets.

“So, I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see again,” he continues.

“Are you leaving?” I ask, feeling myself stand, feeling my eyes well up at the mere idea of him going away again.

He shrugs. “I just thought that maybe—”

“Are you leaving?” I repeat, cutting him off, eager for the answer. My container of sculpture tools topples to the floor.

Ben takes my hands. The clay is moist and slippery between our palms. “You’re here,” he whispers, his eyes tearing up too. “So how could I leave?”

I resist the urge to wilt into his embrace, knowing that this probably isn’t rational, but it’s definitely instinctive.

“So, we should probably discuss your power of psychometry,” he says. “Not to mention mine . . . what you can do, what I can do—what I’m capable of. I’d die if I ever hurt you.”

“You’d never hurt me. I know that now.”

“Well, you do realize we have a ton to talk about.”

“And you do realize you’re touching me right now.”

He nods and moves closer. His breath is warm against my ear: “And this time I don’t ever want to let go.”

I look up into his face, noticing how he’s started to sweat, and how he’s trying his best to control his breath. “Well, I don’t really feel like talking right now,” I say.

“Neither do I.” Ben runs his lips along the length of my neck. And then he kisses me full on the mouth, making my legs feel wobbly and weak.

I kiss him back, resisting the urge to jump into his arms or tackle him onto the floor. He tastes like honey and sea salt.

Ben slides his hands up my back, beneath my sweatshirt, lingering at my waist. His touch is warm and tender.

My pulse races. My head starts to spin. And all I can think of is that maybe Kimmie was right. Maybe in some weird and twisted way, Ben and I really do need each other.

“For always,” he says, as though reading my mind. “For always,” I repeat. I draw him closer, and feel his heart beat against my chest.