Deadly Little Lies (7 page)

The following day at school, I decide to create my own degree of space. With Matt supposedly away in Louisiana, I’m feeling a bit more at ease—a bit more willing to see how things play out before I tell my parents everything.

Not even two seconds down the corridor, I spot the gag-du-jour. Someone’s doused a G.I. Jane doll with what appears to be red corn syrup and hung it from a jump-rope-turned-noose, so that it dangles down in the center of the hallway.

There’s a crowd of people around it, including John Kenneally, Todd McCaffrey, Davis Miller, and a bunch of lemmings from the soccer team. They bat the doll back and forth like a game of handball, like they have nothing better to do than show the entire school how ignorant they are.

It’s all I can do to walk past them—to not tear the thing down and call them out as the losers they are. Except, as twisted as it sounds, there’s also a part of me relieved by the display—relieved that I’m not the only victim of the hysteria, that these stupid jokes seem to be around every corner.

Two blocks later, instead of taking my usual seat in chemistry, I ask the Sweat-man for a new lab partner.

“Rules are rules,” the Sweat-man chirps. “Whomever you sat with on the first day of school is your lab partner for life—or at least until the end of the year. Pick a better partner next year for physics.”

“Please,” I insist, keeping my voice low. “Things haven’t exactly been great between Ben and me.”

“How so?” he asks, oddly eager for the juice.

“It’s sort of complicated,” I say, almost wishing I’d never asked.

The Sweat-man makes a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue, and then runs his fingers through his oily dark hair. I lean back to avoid the flurry of dandruff as it falls to his shoulders. “Well, then let’s uncomplicate things, shall we?” He turns toward the class.

Ben has finally arrived—only three minutes late today. He takes a seat in his usual spot, right beside mine, and stares straight at me.

“Is there anyone who would like to swap lab partners with Camelia?” the Sweat-man continues.

Nearly everyone in the class turns to look at Ben, but no one says anything. Ben’s mouth parts in surprise, which only makes me feel worse.

“Anyone? Anyone?” the Sweat-man asks. An amused smile has inched up his face.

Ben continues to stare at me, his eyes slightly swollen.

“Going once, going twice . . .”

Still no one speaks, and I’m suddenly relieved—as if I can just go take my seat now, as if things could ever possibly go back to normal.

I gather up my books and move in that direction. But then Rena Maruso raises her hand. “I’ll switch,” she says.

“Sold!” the Sweat-man shouts, using a steel beaker as a makeshift gavel.

Rena gets up and crosses the room, taking the seat beside Ben’s.
My
seat. Meanwhile, I clench my teeth, reminding myself that this is for the best—and that this is what Ben wanted too. He all but said so last night.

While the Sweat-man turns away to write something on the board, I slide into my new seat at the front of the class, and then glance back at Ben.

He’s looking at me too. Part of me wants to mouth an “I’m sorry.” But before I can, he glances away, like the moment is completely over for him.

Like maybe our relationship is too.

After school, I head straight to Knead, relieved that I have to work, that I’ll be busy setting up for classes and unloading the kiln and won’t have time to dwell on the dysfunction that is my life.

Actually, after discussing the whole Ben situation with Kimmie and Wes at lunch earlier, I’m feeling a smidgen better. Both agreed that Ben had his chance, that my asking to switch lab partners was the right thing to do.

“You didn’t just ask to switch partners,” Wes declared, driving the point home by punching the air with his juice box. “You took a piece of your life back. You were saying ‘I am desirable,’ ‘I have self respect,’ ‘I deserve more.’”

“I am a Dr. Phil wannabe,” Kimmie mocked.

“You should be celebrating your liberation,” Wes continued, “not dwelling on what
Ben
might be feeling. I ask you: what were
you
feeling last night when he drove away and left you out in the cold?”

“The cold, quite literally,” Kimmie said. “It must have been twenty below last night.”

“Like crap,” I answered, forking through a plate full of pasty red mush, which the cafeteria ladies had dubbed American Chop Suey. “I felt like crap.”

“Precisely,” Wes said. “And now it’s time to move on, to extract the crap from your life.”

“Right,” I said, less than enthusiastic, but still knowing that he was right.

And so now, nearly four hours later, as I lay the work boards out on the table for today’s wheel-throwing class, I chant Wes’s mantra inside my head, telling myself that I’m desirable, deserving, and oozing with self-respect and admiration. For some reason, it helps me relax.

But then I feel a hand on my back.

I whirl around, dumping a cup full of paintbrushes in the process.

Adam is standing right behind me. “Sorry,” he says, moving to pick up the brushes. “I forgot how jumpy you are. For the record, I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past five minutes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been calling your name, but it’s like you don’t hear me. Like you’re someplace else maybe.” He sets the cup of paintbrushes back on the table. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to be nice. “Did you need something?”

“Mold bands.” He flips a strand of his wavy dark hair from in front of his eyes. “I was just wondering if you knew where Spencer keeps them.”

“In the box. By the kiln downstairs.”

“Great.” He ventures a smile and studies my face, making sure that I’m okay. “Can I give you a hand setting up? I should probably learn this stuff at some point.”

I shake my head but then reconsider, because it seems like he’s really trying to redeem himself. I hand him a stack of boards and he follows my lead.

“So what do people do for fun around this town?” he asks, adding the final touch to our otherwise fully stocked table—a centerpiece in the form of sculpting tools, sponges, and spray bottles.

“You mean besides pulling twisted pranks on people?”

“Um, yeah.” He smirks. “Besides that.”

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head at my idiotic response.

“Rough day?”

“Rough year.”

“Hence the jumpiness?”

“I suppose,” I sigh.

“Something you want to talk about?”

“Something I want to
forget
about,” I say.

“Well then, how about Friday night? Are you free? I promise not to pull any twisted pranks.”

“I don’t know,” I say, completely taken aback. “I mean, I don’t think so.”

“You’re busy?”

“Not exactly.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

I open my mouth, about to formulate some sort of explanation, but then: “Don’t worry about it,” he says, letting me off hook. “I mean, it’s no big deal. It’s just that I know we got off to a bit of a rough start. Maybe some time when you’re free, you’ll let me make it up to you. We can grab a cup of coffee or something.”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep the peace, even though I have no real intention of going anywhere with him. Even though just moments ago I was fixated on getting over Ben.

“So, I think my work here is finished.” He looks at the table. “Unless there’s something else I can help you with?”

“No,” I say, following his gaze, noting that even the water cups are symmetrical. “Everything looks pretty perfect.”

“I agree,” he says. But he isn’t looking at the table now. He’s looking toward the side of my face. I can feel the weight of his stare.

I glance up to meet his eye, my insides completely rattled. A second later, the door jingles open.

“Greetings, workers,” Spencer announces. He’s carrying a crate full of molds. “We have a lot of work to do in preparation for Valentine’s Day. Nothing says lovin’ like boob mugs and penis straws. I need to get these poured, cleaned, and fired, pronto. The group from the senior center will be in next week to work on them. Camelia, can I count on you?”

I nod, relieved when Adam heads back downstairs. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the fact that he’s trying to be nice. I’m just not ready for that kind of niceness—not yet at least.

February 23, 1984


Dear Diary,


Mrs. Trigger is fed up with my so-called morbid art. But I’m fed up with her so-called brilliant assignments, so I guess we’re even.


What if I don’t want to sketch a bowl full of fruit? What if I want to draw the image inside my head: my mother lying on the ground, with a torn bag of groceries dumped out around her, and a patch of blood beneath her head?


I tried to draw the fruit. I really did. But once I started working, I sort of got sucked into a zone and didn’t really think about the assignment. The next thing I knew, Mrs. Trigger was ringing the bell for critique. I looked around at everybody else’s sketch pads with their pretty bowls of fruit.


And then I looked down at mine. At mymother with blood running from her head and pooling onto the sidewalk.


My palms started sweating and I felt my face go white. I think Morgan McCarthy might have noticed, because she gave me a sickened look.


I ripped the sketch right out of the pad and tore it to bits, saying that it didn’t come out the way I liked. Mrs. Trigger tried to snatch the remnants, but she only managed to grab my mother’s hand, which is ironically more of my mother than I’ve ever touched.


I know Mrs. Trigger suspects something’s off about me. I know she thinks there’s something very dark and scary going on inside my brain. And she’s right.


Love,
Alexia


At home later, my parents have already eaten, but my mom has saved me a plate of chick-un fajitas, made from seitan (or “satan,” as my dad and I like to call it), ground macadamia nuts, and pimentos.

“This is a new recipe for me,” Mom buzzes. “Let me know what you think.”

“Dee
lish
,” I say, followed by a giant gulp of coconut milk to wash it down.

She slides onto the stool beside me at the kitchen island. “How was school?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“That’s it?” She balks. “How was Ben? Is he back?”

I nod, reluctant to tell her anything more, even though I know she wants the full scoop. My mom has wanted the full scoop on just about every detail of my life ever since I was abducted last fall. I know it’s because she still feels guilty about having been out of the loop back then—she never saw anything even remotely as horrific as that coming—but she definitely had her reasons.

I wasn’t exactly filling her in on everything that was going on with me at the time—all the weird notes and all the cryptic warnings. But I had my reasons too. Aunt Alexia, my mom’s sister, had just tried to commit suicide, and my mom was dealing with drama of her own.

“Did you talk to him?” she asks, still fishing around about Ben.

“Briefly.”

“And?”

“And he doesn’t really want to see me anymore. He just wants to get on with his life.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. She smells like the inside of her yoga studio— sandalwood incense and candle wax. “But maybe that’s for the best. For now, anyway.”

I purse my lips, fighting the urge to get emotional all over again.

“Are you okay with his decision?” she asks.

“What do
you
think?”

“I think it takes a lot of courage for him to come back to school. It must be very difficult with a reputation like his. With so many people against him before he even has a chance to open his mouth.”

“
I’m
not against him.”

“I know. But it still might be a good idea to give him a little space, especially since he’s asking.”

“You sound like Wes and Kimmie.”

“Well, they’re pretty smart friends, don’t you think?” As she gets up to fix herself a cup of dandelion tea (her surefire cure for tension), I wash my plate off in the sink and snag a couple granola bars for later.

Before I head off to my room, I grab my mail off the kitchen table and then turn to say good night, but Mom isn’t paying attention. She sneaks one of her tranquilizer pills and sips it down with her tea, not even noticing that I’m still standing here.

“Mom?”

“Huh?” she says, finally tuning in.

“How’s Aunt Alexia doing?”

“Not so great, I guess. She’s being transferred to a hospital in Detroit. They have a specialist out there who wants to work with her. . . . She specializes in treating women her age who have suicidal tendencies.”

“Don’t they have specialists here?”

She takes another sip. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“But maybe I want to know.”

She looks away. “Well, I really don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?”

I give a reluctant nod, wondering if this is the kind of thing she opens up about in therapy. After everything that happened last fall, my once chemical-free mom started meeting with a pill-prescribing therapist once a week, though she barely ever mentions it at home.

“Did you have enough to eat, sweetie?” she continues.

“More than enough.” I give my stomach a good patting, grateful that she didn’t see me throw most of my food away.

“Well, there’s plenty more in the fridge if you want a second helping.”

“Thanks,” I say, then give her a kiss on the cheek.

I tell her good night and head off to bed, part of me feeling guilty for keeping things a secret; another part glad to be sparing her the truth.