Deadly Little Lessons (15 page)

A
S SOON AS I CLICK THE PHONE OFF
, I pocket my keys and hurry out of the room, eager to find Wes. I call his cell and he picks up right away. “Where are you?” I ask him.

“Currently? Taking photos of some girls dressed only in feathers.”

“How much are you paying them?”

“Not a single cent,” he says. “This is actually for an assignment—part of an anti-animal-product clothing campaign. Seriously, I love this place.”

“Since when did you get all PETA-fied?”

“Since I started taking photos of girls dressed only in feathers.”

“Okay, well, as much as I hate to interrupt you in your animal-rights obligations, I sort of need you.”

“And so do these chicks,” he says. “Pun intended.”

Still holding the phone up to my ear, I race through the lobby, spotting Ingrid, from the pottery studio. Sitting with a couple of friends, she stifles a laugh when she sees me.

I ignore her and step outside.

“Can I borrow your car, then?” I ask Wes. “Some girl just called and said she wants me to go to a bakery on Chansky Street. Apparently, she’s leaving something for me in the mailbox there.”

“Playing
CSI
without me, are you? I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Well, then, what
would
you recommend?”

“Do you know who this girl is?” he asks. “Or how she got your number?”

“No,” I say to both of his questions, wondering if Mrs. Beckerman has already told someone about me, or if maybe the girl got my information through one of the many online sites I visited. “Is it possible that one of the sites I was researching got hacked?”

“That depends. Did you tell anyone on the Web site that you were interested in Sasha’s case?”

“No, but in order to enter a couple of the sites, I had to give my e-mail address.”

“Which has your name.”

“Yes, but I didn’t get specific about anything. I didn’t tell anyone what my plans were for this summer.”

“It’s actually not so hard to get that info. I mean, once they have your name, age, and state, everything else is a mere Google search and/or exercise in six-degrees-of-separation away.”

“Great.” I sigh.

“Hey, I gotta go,” he says. “I’ve got a couple chicks clucking at me, saying their feathers are making them itchy. Give me ten minutes to finish up, and then meet me by my car.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do chickens lay eggs?”

I hang up and make my way to the parking lot. Wes’s car is there. I take a seat on the curb and cover my ears, focusing hard on Sasha’s whimper, wishing that it would reveal a clue.

About fifteen minutes later, I spot Wes making his way toward me. “Hey,” he says, donning a feather boa.

“Are you sure you’re done with the assignment? Because I really don’t want to hold you down. You’re here for a reason, and accompanying me on a wild goose chase isn’t it.”

“Don’t tempt me with more poultry products, or I may just have to peck you.”

“You’re nutty, you know that?” I stand up and give his boa a flick.

In the car, I fill Wes in on the details of the call.

“So, it doesn’t sound like she was threatening you,” he says. “More like she was trying to find out what you know and
why
you’re getting involved.”

“But she also made a point of mentioning the whole luggage mystery, justifying why Sasha might’ve run away, even though she left her bag behind.”

“In other words, she
wants
you to believe that Sasha ran away.”

“Or, she wants to see if I might argue with her—if I might have any theories of my own as to why the luggage was left behind.”

“Because that
is
a really good question,” Wes says, tapping his chin in thought. “Why
would
Sasha leave her bag behind if she was truly planning to bolt?”

“Or more importantly, why would she even pack a suitcase in the first place? Why not a backpack or a duffel bag—something easier to transport and a whole lot less obvious than an actual suitcase?”

“Sounds like she wanted to be obvious.”

“Like maybe packing the suitcase was a cry for help.” I nod. “Especially since what she packed was pretty bogus: a couple of old sweaters, some books, a few sweats, and a bunch of travel products you get in hotels.”

“No essential jeans, or favorite clothes, or wads of cash for traveling,” Wes says, totally getting it.

“Not at all,” I say. “At least, from everything I read online. I should probably ask Mrs. Beckerman about it.”

“And while you’re at it, ask her if anyone had access to Sasha’s room—any friends or frenemies—who might’ve staged the suitcase to look like Sasha ran away.”

“Duly noted,” I say, ever impressed by his suspicious mind.

Wes types the address of the bakery into his GPS and begins driving in that direction. After about twenty minutes, we pull in to Chansky Street. The bakery is a tiny shack of a place overlooking the harbor.

Wes parks a couple of stores down from it. “Puck’s?” he says, reading the sign out front. “And I’m assuming that’s the mailbox in question?” He points to a bright red mailbox at the side of the building. Its flag is pointed upward.

“Must be,” I say, wondering if the caller might be here, too. I look around, searching the cars parked in the lot and on the street, but there’s only an older woman on her cell phone in a minivan, and a guy reading a newspaper in his pickup.

“No dark green Buick,” Wes says, also peering around.

“Do you think I should go inside?”

“Not without me you won’t.” He pulls a pair of binoculars from the storage compartment in his door. “I’ll bet you my right nut that someone’s keeping a close eye on us right now.”

“Okay, but I’m not really into nuts these days.”

“Are you into Adam? You still haven’t given me the dish about his visit, by the way. And, for the record, I had no idea he’d drop everything and come to your rescue. I mean, I only said that you’d had a bad day.”

“We’ll dish about it later,” I say, opening the car door.

“Just to the mailbox,” Wes orders. “And I’ll be watching you the entire time. Here, take this.” He digs around in the glove compartment and then hands me a broken CD case with a jagged edge—as if that’s supposed to protect me.

Still, I take it and walk to the large, rusty mailbox. I look around to see if anyone’s watching, but it appears that the coast is clear. My heart pounding, I pull the box’s lever and peek inside, spotting a large envelope.

I pull it out and check the front, curious to see if it may simply be something for the bakery. But instead it has my name scribbled on it in ballpoint pen—and there’s a return address in the corner.

I hurry back to Wes’s car. Without a word, I lock the doors and tear at the envelope’s flap. I tip the envelope over, dumping the contents out onto Wes’s console.

A gold clip falls out.

“Hold on,” Wes says, pulling a pair of latex gloves from the backseat, where he has a whole box of them. He puts them on and picks up the clip. “A money clip,” he says, holding it up in the light.

I peek inside the envelope, searching for a note that might explain the clip. But there isn’t anything.

“Any luck?” Wes asks.

I shake my head. “Just the return address. It has to be another clue.”

Wes turns the clip over in his hand, and that’s when we’re able to see it. The letter
t
, engraved in cursive script and similar to the
t
that I sculpted.

“What do you think it stands for?” Wes asks.

“It’s obviously someone’s initial—someone connected to Sasha, most likely. Maybe the person who has her.”

“Assuming that someone has her at all. We have no proof that she’s being kept against her will.”

I run my fingers over the return address. “The girl who left this definitely knows something.”

“So, then, why not come out and say it? Why leave us such cryptic and tacky clues?” Wes attaches the money clip to his finger and wiggles it in the air at me.

“Maybe this girl’s afraid. She told me not to get involved—that I’d be getting in over my head. Maybe she’s already in way over hers.”

“Or maybe she has something to hide.” Wes grabs both a Sharpie and a Ziploc bag from his glove compartment.

“Do you think we should give this to the police?” I ask, noticing the scratches on the
t
.

“We
could
,” he says. “I mean, it’s probably the right thing to do, but if we give these clues to the police, then you can bet they’ll want to know where they came from.”

“And so I’ll just tell them.”

“Yes, but it’s not that simple. What if they want to tap your phone, in case that girl calls you again? What if they trace all the calls that come in on your line and then listen to your conversations? They might also want to use you,” he continues. “To have you act as bait to try and lure the mystery girl. Are you prepared for that kind of involvement?”

“Well, I already sort of
am
involved,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I guess you are,” he says. “Especially once Mrs. Beckerman informs the police about you, if she hasn’t already.”

“I should call Mrs. Beckerman,” I tell him. “I need to know if she told someone about me. That could be our answer—as to who called me, I mean.”

“Honestly,” his face goes morgue serious, “I’d hold off from calling Beckerman, for now anyway. Because let’s say that
she
was the one who told that girl about you. How much can we really trust her?”

“Maybe the girl who called me is friends with Sasha?” I say, thinking aloud. “Maybe she still keeps in touch with Sasha’s mom?”

“Yes, but then why doesn’t she give Sasha’s mom the clue? Why give it to you—a complete stranger?”

“Unless whoever left me these clues didn’t find out about me from Mrs. Beckerman?”

“I guess time will tell,” he says, dropping the money clip into the plastic bag and then labeling the bag
EXHIBIT A
.

“It’s like a crime lab in here,” I say.

Wes shrugs, pulling off his gloves. “Dad says I need to grow up, that I should’ve gotten over my wannabe detective phase back in elementary school.”

“And I say you’re pretty amazing,” I tell him. “Don’t ever change, okay?”

“
Me?
You’re
the one who shouldn’t change. All this stuff you sculpt that comes true? You’re pretty freaking rock star, you know that? I mean, get a load of what you can do.”

“Seriously?” I ask, feeling a smile creep onto my face, because I’ve never really thought of myself as having rock-star potential. Because Wes’s version of me is so much better than the version I have of myself.

W
ES AND I REMAIN IN HIS CAR
for several more minutes, discussing whether we should go check out the address on the envelope or just drive back to campus.

“My thought is that we should wait to check it out,” Wes begins. “Whoever left this clue
wants
you to go to this address. They probably even expect it.”

“And how is that a bad thing? I mean, there’s obviously more that they want me to know.”

“Yes, but once again, my dear Chameleon, if things were that simple, this person would come right out and tell you. They’re calling all the shots, sending you on a hunt.”

“Yes, but I
am
on a hunt.”

“So, let’s continue that hunt tomorrow, when guards are down and we have a plan. Going right now wouldn’t be smart. Plus, it’s getting late.”

I glance at my watch. It’s a little after six. “Anxious for cafeteria food, are we?”

“Maybe I have plans,” he says, pulling away from the curb.

“Is there another featherbrained photo shoot in your near future?”

“Cluck-cluck.” He smirks.

We return to the Sumner campus and grab a quick bite in the student center—superchewy pizza and overcooked broccoli smothered in a cheesy orange glaze. I’m just about to go pitch it in the trash when I spot Professor Barnes pouring himself a cup of coffee at the self-serve bar.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Wes, before making my way over to Barnes.

Standing right beside the professor now, I look at the side of his face, waiting for him to acknowledge me. But instead he continues to stir cream into his coffee, as if trying to get the color just right.

“Excuse me,” I say, but the words are barely audible. The cafeteria is loud. Someone’s just dropped a stack of dishes. There’s a band setting up (C-squared, featuring Carlie and Courtney from the orientation committee).

“Can I talk to you a moment?” I ask, louder now.

He stops stirring finally, to look at me. His face is absolutely deadpan.

“I’m sorry about what happened in the studio,” I tell him. “And I’m sorry for missing class. I have a lot going on right now…not that that’s any excuse. But if it’s okay, I’d like to try to—”

“You know how lucky you are?” he asks, cutting me off.

“Lucky?”

“If it were up to me, you’d already be out. But
luckily
for you, a certain individual who’s in your corner—one to whom I owe many a favor—plays by the three-strikes-out rule.”

“Spencer,” I say, eternally grateful.

“He assures me that you’ve got some talent, and so I’ll try to forget what I witnessed earlier today.”

“Thank you,” I say, but I’m not even sure he hears me, because he’s already turned away, and is headed for the exit.

Back in my room, I continue arranging things on my dresser, still trying to get into the idea of being here—and studying art. I set a couple of pieces of jewelry down on one of my pottery dishes, including a bracelet from Adam: a wide gold bangle with a dangling heart charm. I slip it on, remembering the night he gave it to me.

We were sitting on a bench in front of the duck pond at the park. Adam reached into his pocket and pulled out a purple box tied with a silver ribbon.

“These past couple months have been amazing,” he told me.

“For me, too,” I said.

“I’m glad.” He motioned to the box, obviously eager for me to open it.

I took it, untied the ribbon, and lifted off the lid. “Adam, it’s beautiful,” I gushed. “Thank you so much.” I leaned in and kissed his cheek before putting the bracelet on.

“Now you have my heart,” he said. “So take good care of it, okay?”

I touch the dangling charm, thinking how happy we were when things were simple, and wondering if we’ll ever be that way again.

I pick up my phone and dial his number. “Hey,” I say, as soon as he answers.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m glad you called. I feel like such an ass about earlier. I never should’ve bolted like that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, encouraged by his words. “It was my fault, too. I feel like such a mess—like I’m messing up everything.”

“Well, life
is
messy,” he tells me. “But it also goes on, right?”

“I guess I’m finding that whole rising-above-it thing to be a lot easier said than done. I need to figure things out first—not just for myself, but for Sasha, too.”

“Sasha,” he repeats, skepticism in his voice. “Have you talked to your shrink about her?” His tone tells me that he thinks I’m nuts.

“Look, I know that what I’m going through isn’t the most ideal for our relationship—”

“I just want you to be happy,” he says.

“I’ll get there.”

“But that’s just it. You don’t have to get there on your own. Your therapist can help you.”

“I have to go,” I say, frustrated that he’s still looking for something (or someone) to fix me.

“Camelia, wait.”

“Wes just showed up at my door,” I lie. “I’ll have to call you back.”

“Sure,” he says, but he sounds
un
sure. “Maybe we can get together this weekend. I can drive down again…”

“I’ll call you,” I repeat, thoroughly unsure as well.

I hang up, noticing how my bed linens smell like campfire—like the air outside, wafting in through my window. Someone must have a fire going on the beach. I look out the window. The sky is a bright shade of pink, making everything look warm and glowing, including the walls of my room.

I reach for my bag, eager to lose myself in work. I fish the envelope from the side pocket, take out the money clip, and focus hard on the engraved
t
. I close my eyes and try to picture the clip in someone’s hands, but I can’t seem to concentrate. There’s a group of students outside on the terrace. They’re laughing and talking, clearly enjoying the beautiful night, while reaffirming to me that mine sucks.

I’m almost tempted to venture out to join them, but instead I lie back on my bed, debating whether I should show the clip to the police or wait until tomorrow, after I visit the address on the envelope. I sit down at my laptop and type the address into Google. A restaurant pops up right away. The Blue Raven Pub. It’s fifteen miles from campus.

I click on the link, but there isn’t much on the site to help me—some menu highlights and the pub’s hours. I forward the link to Wes and then check my e-mail. To my surprise, there’s a message from Dad.

I open it, even more surprised to see that he’s sent me a video.

“Hey, Camelia,” Dad says, as soon as I click
PLAY
. He’s sitting at the kitchen island, speaking directly into the camera. I spy Mom’s jar of almond butter in the background. “Your mom said that I should respect your privacy. I do want to respect it, but I also want you to know that I’m thinking about you. When you have a chance, call me. I’d love to hear how you’re doing. And in the meantime…” He pauses to open a bag from Taco King. He takes out a chicken chalupa and a basket of nacho chips drizzled in cheesy goodness. “Mom served dehydrated flaxseed sandwiches tonight. Need I say more?” He takes a bite and I can’t help but laugh.

The video ends and so I play it again, missing our late-night junk-food excursions. And missing
him
. More than ever.