Deadly Little Lies (2 page)

Wait.
WHAT
?
” Kimmie blurts. She sets her latte down on the table with a smack. Her pale blue eyes, framed by a pair of vintage tortoiseshell glasses, widen in disbelief.

It’s Sunday—the last night of winter vacation—and she, Wes, and I are sitting at the Press & Grind, the coffee shop downtown, indulging in an array of over-the-counter stimulants in the form of caffeine and chocolate.

“It’s true,” I say. “I don’t know how it happened.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Wes begins. “It was two a.m., you couldn’t sleep, your mind was racing with all kinds of crazy . . . Might you have been smoking something funky? Surely that would make
me
want to sculpt something kinky.”

“Like an arm is even kinky?” Kimmie says. “Leave it to Camelia to sculpt something G-rated. Now if it were me—”

“You’d be sculpting my ass?” Wes asks.

“Only if I needed a good laugh,” Kimmie says.

“Funky smoking might also help explain the mysterious voices of which you speak,” Wes suggests.

“Was your bedroom window locked?” Kimmie asks.

I nod, remembering how I’d had to unlock it to open the pane.

“So, it
must
have been your imagination,” she continues. “Otherwise, the window would have been open, right? I mean, how do you sneak out a window and then lock it back up from the outside?”

“I know.” I sigh. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Wait, didn’t your dad get an alarm system?” Wes asks.

“He was going to, but instead he just got the window stickers and yard signs to make it look like our house is armed.”

“A crafty one, isn’t he?” Wes smirks.

“Super crafty.” I roll my eyes. “He also added a hyperactive motion detector in the driveway, a security camera that points toward the stairs but doesn’t work, and he trimmed the bushes—”

“The biggest deterrent,” Kimmie mocks.

“Of course none of it really matters,” I continue, “because he constantly leaves the window in the basement open a crack, complaining that the pottery fumes give him a headache.”

“Well, security measures aside, we believe you about hearing voices,” Wes says, flashing me the okay sign with his fingers (as in
not
okay). “Not to mention your nagging need to sculpt Ben’s body parts.”

“Right,” Kimmie says. “And we also believe in the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, and the fact that Wes is a certified stud muffin.”

Wes turns to Kimmie, using his middle finger to wipe the cappuccino froth from his lip.

“You don’t think it’s weird that one minute I’m lying in bed, obsessing over what his scar looks like, and then, not an hour later, I sculpt his entire arm without barely even thinking about it—exactly as it should be?”

“Exactly as you
think
it should be,” Wes says, correcting me.

I shake my head, confident that what I sculpted was right.

“What
I
think is weird,” Kimmie begins, “is that you’re trying to get us to believe that your mind and body weren’t in sync—as if your hands had been invaded by the body snatchers or something.”

Wes stifles a laugh with a bite of brownie.

“Bottom line,” she continues, “the subconscious mind works in mysterious ways—accept it and move on.”

“But it wasn’t subconscious,” I insist. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Maybe you were sleep
walking
,” Wes suggests.

“You don’t understand,” I say, frustrated that they don’t get it, even though I don’t get it either. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”

“You’ve sculpted Ben’s other random body parts in the middle of the night?” Wes asks, attempting to run his fingers through his petrified hair (literally petrified: a hardened shell of gel, mousse, and dark brown spikes).

“Do tell.” Kimmie leans in and bats her mascara-laden eyelashes at me.

And so I fill them in on what happened last week, when I sculpted a key for no other reason than that I felt I absolutely needed to. Later, that same day, when I got home from work, I couldn’t find my key ring and my parents weren’t home. “I ended up locked out of the house for more than two hours.”

Wes and Kimmie stare at me—Kimmie with her ruby-stained lips hanging open in sheer bewilderment, and Wes readjusting his wire-rimmed glasses like that will make a difference, bring clarity to where there’s obviously none.

“So, what are you saying?” Kimmie ventures. “You’re having some sort of weird artistic premonitions?”

“Maybe,” I say, biting my bottom lip, realizing how stupid the theory sounds outside the confines of my head.

“Okay, so let’s just say for the sake of insanity,” Wes begins, “that there was no Ben inside your house, that some weird premonition thing inside your head created that voice to lead you up the stairs, into your bedroom, so you would look out your window in the middle of the night. What do you think Ben was doing outside?”

“I don’t know.” I sip my cappuccino. “Maybe he wanted to talk to me.”

“Then why not say hello when you called him on the phone?” Kimmie asks. “Are you sure it was even Ben outside?”

I shrug, not wanting to admit that, despite the street-lamp, I couldn’t exactly see much detail. From what I could tell, the figure was tall, slim, and wearing a dark coat.

“Right, it could have been some other random stalker,” Wes suggests.

“Like Matt, for instance,” Kimmie offers. “I mean, let’s face it, the boy is as free as a jailbird.”

“No pun intended,” Wes says, referring to Matt’s punishment. At his trial two months ago, he was sentenced to just two years of probation. “Did you even
see
Ben’s motorcycle?” he asks.

I shake my head and sink back in my seat, fairly confident I would have noticed his motorcycle—or at least heard it—if he were actually there.

“Hmmm . . .” Kimmie says, raising her stud-pierced eyebrow at me, perhaps not wanting to break the news— that I sound like a complete and utter nut.

The thing is, nutty theories aside, ever since Ben Carter pushed his way (literally) into my life seven months ago, things haven’t quite been the same.

The first time we met, I was crossing the parking lot behind the school when a car came screeching in my direction. The next thing I knew, someone, Ben, pushed me out of the way just in the nick of time.

And in doing so, he touched me.

He rested his palm on my stomach and then something really weird happened. He stared at me with new intensity, his eyes wide and urgent, his lips slightly parted, as if he could feel something I couldn’t.

It turned out that Ben had psychometry—the ability to sense things through touch. When he accidentally brushed his hand against my stomach that day, he sensed I was in danger—and beyond just the danger of getting hit by a car. The better he got to know me, the more the feeling intensified.

And he was right. I was in danger. My ex-boyfriend Matt had been plotting to keep me captive in the back of his parents’ camper—in a sick and twisted scheme to win me back. Luckily, Ben had been around to save me for a second time. You’d think that would have brought us closer together.

But instead it only tore us apart.

“You want my theory?” Kimmie asks, taking a bite of éclair. “I think you’re missing Ben to the kagillionth power, and so your mind is playing tricks on you.”

“Let’s face it, Miss Chameleon,” Wes agrees, “you’ve got more longing in your eyes than I have stylish footwear in my closet.”

“You call those things stylish?” Kimmie evil-eyes his man-clogs.

“Are you kidding? The saleslady told me I looked hot in these. I had to pay through the nose.”

“Are you sure you didn’t
pull
them out of your nose, too?”

“This from a girl who dresses like the Bride of Frankenstein meets June Cleaver.” He gives her outfit the once-over. Today Kimmie’s got on a pink and white bib-dress reminiscent of hospital volunteer wear, circa 1973.

She’s also wearing a necklace made of rusted nails, with torn up fishnet stockings, combat boots, and a newsboy cap to cover her dyed-black locks.

“Jealous that I’m going to be a rich and famous fashion designer one day?” Kimmie asks him.

“A fashion designer for
Night of the Living Dead
culties maybe.” Wes extends his arms and shuffles his feet to make like the sleepwalking dead.

Meanwhile, I glance out the window at the street, thinking about tomorrow. Word is Ben’s finally coming back to school after having spent the past four months on his own, following Matt’s arrest.

“I wonder how Ben will get treated,” I venture.

Two years before our incident in the parking lot, while on a hiking trip, Ben had touched his girlfriend, Julie, and sensed that she was cheating on him. Unable to control his power, he grabbed her—hard—wanting to know more. Julie pulled away, completely spooked by the urgency of his grip. And though he tried his best to stop her, she ended up tumbling backward off a cliff, and dying almost instantly.

Ben was devastated after it happened—so much so that he spent his days avoiding touch altogether, afraid of his own powers and what he could sense. For two full years, he barely touched anyone. But then he ended up at our high school, anxious for a somewhat normal life again.

And that’s when he accidentally touched me.

“I’m just surprised he’s coming back at all,” Wes says. “I mean, the poor boy was practically ridiculed to death.”

It’s true. Because of what happened with Julie, everybody at the school—the administration included— couldn’t have made him feel more unwelcome. And so there were countless complaints from parents, havoc wreaked in the form of student pranks, and posers pretending to be victims of Ben’s villainous ways. Nobody was willing to give him a fair chance.

Including me.

“I have my own theory as to why he wants to come back.” Kimmie winks at me. “I mean, who voluntarily goes to school for the education?”

I bite my lip, hesitant to get my hopes up. The last time I saw him, when he kissed me and told me good-bye, he said that we couldn’t be together, that someone like him could never be fully trusted, and that maybe someday I’d understand.

“I just hope things will go back to somewhat normal between us,” I say.

“I hate to break this to you, Cam,” Kimmie says, “but last I checked, feeling someone up in an effort to sense clues that could possibly cease the plot of a psycho stalker is hardly the norm.”

“It’s all in how you look at it, though.” Wes smirks.

“You could always pretend to be in danger again,” Kimmie suggests. “I could help you draft up a couple good stalker notes.”

“Except he’d be able to sense it was a hoax,” I say, bursting her balloon with a pin of reality.

“Not if I seriously plot to kill you,” Wes says, making his voice all sinister. He stabs his brownie with a plastic knife. “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Probation, that’s what,” Kimmie says, referring once again to Matt’s lame-o punishment.

“The boy got away with barely a bitch-slap,” Wes squawks. “I mean, honestly, you get more for public nudity these days.”

“Not that you would know,” Kimmie says.

“Bottom line,” I segue, “at least Matt won’t be coming back to school.”

“But Ben
will
,” she sings. “And who knows, maybe he’ll touch you and sense something
really
hot.”

“Even hotter than a mad stalker armed with plastic knives?” Wes jokes, continuing to stab at his brownie.

But all joking aside, I’m just hoping that Ben will talk to me—that he’ll tell me it was him outside my bedroom window last night. And that he misses me just as much as I miss him.

Later, at home, I sit up in bed and look in the mirror, once again unable to sleep. My normally bright green eyes are dull and bloodshot, and my wavy blond hair is piled high in a bed-head heap. I just can’t stop thinking about what happened the other night.

I glance out my window at the trees across the street, where I could have sworn I saw Ben. The branches are completely bare, highlighted by the streetlamp. Is it possible that I was only seeing things, that my mind concocted the whole scenario? And yet, when I close my eyes, I can still hear Ben’s voice calling out to me in the basement, and then leading me up to my bedroom.

“Camelia?” a voice whispers from behind me.

I startle slightly before realizing it’s my mother. She raps lightly on my open door. “It’s after midnight, what are you doing up?”

I turn to face her, noticing she’s still dressed in her yoga gear from work. “I could ask you the same.”

She comes and sits beside me on the bed, failing to mention why she’s awake, especially since she’s usually asleep by ten. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

I shrug. “Another restless night, I guess.”

“You had a rough sleep Friday night too, didn’t you? I thought I heard you get up.”

“You did?” I ask. “Did you hear anything else?”

“Like what?” Her eyes narrow.

“Nothing,” I say, forcing a slight smile.

“I just think it’s so wonderful that you have your sculpture,” she continues. “It’s important to have an outlet—a way you can express yourself and work through any stress or anxiety. That’s what you did, isn’t it? I thought I heard you retreat down to your studio.”

“Only for a little while,” I say, as though a short length of time makes a difference—makes the fact that I was up in the middle of the night less alarming.

“So, how come you’re having trouble sleeping?” She gazes into the mirror at my reflection. Her henna red corkscrew curls are pushed back with a bright blue headband, emphasizing her heart-shaped face.

I shrug, tempted to tell her about Ben, but I’m not sure how happy she’d be about the possibility of him entering my world again. I mean, yes, it certainly helps that he saved my life—twice now—but still, I’m sure there’s something unsettling to a parent when she hears her daughter is obsessing about a boy who was once tried for murder, regardless of the outcome of that trial.

“I think I’ll try to go back to sleep,” I lie.

“Want some chamomile pellets and almond milk first?”

“No thanks.” I grimace, remembering how the last time she offered me one of her herbal remedies I ended up with a nasty case of hives—and on my ass, no less.

Mom kisses my forehead and tucks me in, then summons the nighttime fairies to come in through my window and hum a little tune that will lull me to sleep—just like old times.

I try not to giggle out loud. Instead I close my eyes, but I don’t picture nighttime fairies.

I picture Ben.

I turn over in bed and imagine him pulling into our driveway on his motorcycle, knocking on my bedroom window, and leading me outside. In my mind, we ride along the coast, the sea-soaked air tangling the ends of my hair and making my lips taste like salt.

You’d think this image might relax me, but instead it keeps me up, reminding me of that night, last September, when I couldn’t sleep—when I’d called him just before midnight to come and pick me up. I told him to take us to Knead, the pottery studio where I work, and we ended up kissing for two hours straight, right there on the worktable, the moist and gritty clay lingering on our fingertips and pasted to our skin.

It still gives me tingles.

* * *

As a result of failing to sleep more than two full hours the entire evening, I’m an absolute wreck at school.

It’s the first block and I’m sitting in pottery class, trying my best to focus on my work—on everything Ms. Mazur’s telling us about the instinct and emotion of a piece—but Kimmie is less than interested, instead lecturing me on my
ensemble du jour
.

“I mean, honestly Camelia, a ribbed black turtleneck with a pencil skirt? You’re sixteen, not sixty. I’d have thought you’d choose something with a bit more oomph after four full months of absent longing.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Don’t be sorry for
me
. It’s
you
that I’m worried about. That ensemble is more likely to score you a discount at the supermarket on senior citizen’s day than a squeeze from a certain touch boy.”

“Whatever,” I sigh, refusing to let her get to me.

“Of course it’s not your fault,” she continues in a hushed tone. “I should have called you this morning to check in about your wardrobe, but my dad had me completely distracted with the shaving of his chest. No joke: he monopolized the bathroom all morning and then had the audacity to leave the floor a hair-infested mess.”

Kimmie continues to prattle on—something about having to change her tights due to stepping on said hair-infested mess, which then prompted her to change her entire outfit. I nod, trying to keep up, even though I’m much more interested in what Ms. Mazur’s saying. She’s allowing us to sculpt anything we want, so long as it evokes emotion in some conscious and meaningful way.

“What are you making?” Kimmie asks, rolling her clay into a giant ball.

I shrug, not really sure. I close my eyes and smooth my fingers over the mass of clay, creating slopes and grooves, trying my best to channel the emotion Ms. Mazur’s talking about. After several minutes, I open my eyes, noticing how it sort of looks like I’m creating the contours of a face.

I go with it, forming the lids, pupils, and irises. Then I sculpt a box around the eyes, as though someone’s looking through a window.

“Nice work, Camelia,” Ms. Mazur says, standing over my shoulder. “Very intense.”

I smile, flattered by the compliment, especially since intensity is precisely what I’m feeling.

“But is it as intense as the broken stiletto heel of someone who just came down the stairs at the Met?” Kimmie asks, referring to her shoe sculpture.

“Cute,” Ms. Mazur says.

“Except I wasn’t exactly going for cute,” Kimmie squawks. “I think ‘tragic’ would be the word that best describes my piece.”

Ms. Mazur raises an eyebrow and moves on to check out the rest of the class’s sculptures. Meanwhile, I continue to work on my boxed-in eyes. About twenty minutes and a pair of eyebrows later, there’s a crowd gathered around me as Ms. Mazur uses my piece to describe the look of desperation and desire.

“It’s like the box represents seeing things from the outside in—like being shut out—when all you really want is to be up close.” Lily (peace-loving) Randall rests a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. Her flower-power ring grazes my neck. “Do you ever feel trapped and helpless?”

“Um, think about who you’re asking,” says Davis Miller, my boy-band neighbor from down the street. “It wasn’t too long ago that the girl was tied up, drugged, and kept captive in the back of an old trailer.”

“Right,” Lily sings. “Cooooool.” She continues to nod and smile at me, like being trapped is actually a good thing.

A nervous smirk inches across my lips. I try not to let it morph into a laugh—despite the topic of conversation— but then Kimmie drops her clay shoe to the floor. It lands in a messy thud against the tile.

“Holy crap!” she gasps.

But she isn’t talking about her shoe.

She grabs my arm and whirls me around to face the door. It takes me a moment, but then I notice a pair of eyes staring right at me through the door’s glass. You can’t see his face, only his eyes.

Just like my sculpture.

“That is
so
wacky,” Lily says, still nodding.

“It’s like that weird key sculpture thing you were talking about,” Kimmie reminds me.

I nod, trembling at the mere coincidence. I recognize the eyes right away. Dark gray, wide, and intense.

There’s no doubt in my mind—they’re Ben’s.