Deadly Little Lies (9 page)

I spend the next day and a half trying to talk to Ben, but he doesn’t go to the cafeteria at lunchtime. I don’t see him between classes or after school. And he isn’t answering my phone calls.

And so all during lab I try to get his attention by looking in his direction, clanking two graduated cylinders together so they make an annoying ping sound, and letting the spine of my book smack down hard against the table. But he doesn’t as much as glance up in my direction.

Not once.

While Tate, my new lab partner, orders me to begin chopping up a head of red cabbage (we’re doing an experiment that measures the pH levels of a rabbit’s favorite food), I watch Ben laugh over something Rena said, and try not to cut my finger.

It seems Ben and Rena already have their cabbage chopped. While Ben, clearly avoiding Rena’s touch, reads the directions aloud, she places the perfectly diced cabbage pieces into a beaker and pours hot water over the top.

“The pieces are too big,” Tate squawks, referring to my cabbage shreds.

At the same moment, Rena lets out a loud and grating laugh. Ben’s eyes crinkle up and his lips spread wide into a smile worthy of a magazine cover. Meanwhile, a fist-size lump forms inside my throat and I seriously want to be sick.

A second later, Tate nabs the knife right out of my hands, completely agitated by my lack of focus. “It was so much better with Rena,” he snaps.

But obviously Rena didn’t agree.

She and I were lab partners last year in bio. She’s one of those students who has to get an A in everything she does, including gym, or else the world, as she knows it, will come crumbling down around her. Her pursuit of perfection is undoubtedly the reason she ditched Tate in the first place. The boy isn’t exactly known for his good grades.

While Tate scurries to keep up with the rest of the class, cramming a fistful of barely chopped cabbage leaves into our beaker and dousing water on top of it, I try to redeem myself by taking the lab book and reading him the directions aloud.

“Sharp objects, please,” the Sweat-man announces. He moves around the room collecting the numbered knives into a large steel box, muttering something about how the administration insists he keep them under lock and key and for experimental purposes only, even though he has fantasies of alternative uses. “Kidding, of course.” He chuckles. “Well, not really.”

I give the Sweat-man our knife and then proceed to tell Tate to filter the cabbage material from the beaker, letting the water remain. “The solution should be a red-purple color,” I say, peeking out from behind the book to see. But our color is more like muted pink at best.

“What happened?” Tate asks. He gives his straggly ponytail a frustrated tug.

“I don’t think we left the water in long enough,” I say, rereading the directions. “Was the water steaming when you poured it in?”

Naturally Tate blames me, telling me that I should have said something in advance, that I wasn’t paying attention, and that he’s already failing chemistry big-time.

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking back at Ben and Rena. Their solution is a pretty shade of red that reminds me of valentine roses. They’ve already got the liquid separated into several glass jars, and they’re adding various household products to each—lemon juice, baking soda, vinegar, and antacids—to measure the pH levels.

Rena goes to hand one of the jars to Ben, but he avoids it by jotting something down in his notebook.

“What should we do now?” Tate asks, interrupting my gawking. He pops one of our antacids into his mouth.

I glance at the Sweat-man, wondering if he’ll let us start again, but before I can ask, the classroom wall phone rings.

“Mad science,” he says, answering the phone. A few seconds’ worth of muffled conversation later and the Sweat-man finally hangs up. “Nature calls,” he announces. “And so does my wife. This could take a bit, but keep working.” He opens the door that adjoins the Spanish classroom next to us, tells Mrs. Lynch that he needs to step out for a few minutes, and then leaves us.

Alone.

I gaze back at Ben. He and Rena look pretty finished with the experiment, each recording their findings in their lab books. They seem to have just about every color of the rainbow going—from red to greenish yellow.

“I’ll be right back,” I whisper to Tate.

“Wait—
what
? Where are you going?” he barks.

I ignore him and make my way over to Ben and Rena’s table.

Rena’s mouth twitches, as if my mere presence irritates her. “Can we help you with something?” she asks.

“Ben?” I say, forcing him to look up at me finally.

“We’re a little busy,” Rena continues.

“It’ll just be a second,” I say, keeping focused on him. “Then I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

Ben studies me for about half a second before turning to Rena: “Would you mind giving us a minute?”

Rena rolls her eyes, indeed appearing to mind, but she gets up anyway, telling me I’m lucky she has to go to the little girls’ room.

While she heads off to ask Mrs. Lynch for permission and a hall pass, I slide into the seat beside Ben, noticing how he smells like vanilla. And how he looks like a movie star. His crewneck sweater hugs his chest. His dark gray eyes are wide and intense. And there’s a trace of sweat on his brow.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

I nod and pull the photos from my pocket. Using his and Rena’s books as a makeshift barricade so no one else can see, I place the photos down in front of him on the table.

The picture of Julie’s shrine.

And the photo of the graffiti.

I see Ben’s face fall, and suddenly wish I’d never shown him these pictures.

“I’m sorry,” I say, realizing this must be horrible for him.

“What’s that?” he asks, noticing the newspaper clipping still wadded up in my hand.

I reluctantly set it down beside the photos. “Someone left these things for me,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “Somebody called me, too. They said that I’m next.”

“Next
what
?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I flip the shrine photo over so he can see the message scribbled across the back.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think this stuff was from me.”

“Why
you
?” I ask, remembering how Kimmie suggested the same.

“‘Let’s go for a hike’?” he reads aloud. “It’s almost like a threat. Like someone wants you to
think
it’s me.”

“But you have no reason to threaten me.”

Ben nods slightly and searches my face. His eyes linger a moment on my lips, but he doesn’t exactly dispute the idea. “So, do you have any idea who all this might be from?” he asks.

“I was hoping you could help me.”

“Can’t this wait until later?”

“If I’ll have until later.”

Ben lets out a tense sigh and looks around the room. No one’s watching. And so he takes the shrine photo and places it on his lap, under the table.

He closes his eyes. His shoulders tremble slightly, as if his hands are shaking too. A few seconds later he gives the photo back. “Nothing,” he whispers.

“Nothing?”

He shakes his head and quickly glides his fingers over the graffiti photo and the newspaper clipping. “Just cotton,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I just feel you, your clothes, your pants. You must have had this stuff in your pocket for a while. All the original vibe is gone.”

“So then, touch
me
,” I say, remembering what he told me last fall—how his power is most effective when there’s skin-to-skin contact.

I move my hand just inches from his.

“Not now,” he says.

“Then when?”

Ben looks back down at the shrine photo. “This isn’t a good time,” he whispers.

But then he touches me anyway.

His hand skims over mine, causing my insides to bubble and stir. He clasps my fingers ever so gently, like he’s still afraid of hurting me.

Don’t let go
, I want to scream. My whole body aches for him to hold me.

A few moments later, he releases my hand. He opens his eyes and scoots his seat back.

“Well?”

“Nothing,” he says, trying to control his breath.

“What do you mean ‘nothing’? You didn’t feel
anything
?”

“I didn’t feel anything dangerous,” he says to correct me.

“Then what
did
you feel?” I ask, noting his sweaty face.

“You’re supposed to be relieved, by the way,” Ben continues, ignoring the question. “This is
good
news. It probably means someone’s just trying to mess with you.”

I know he’s right about a sense of relief, but I can’t help feeling disappointed too. I mean, how can he touch me and not feel a thing, when all I have to do is look at him and my entire body quakes?

“Maybe you should try again,” I suggest. “You weren’t exactly touching me hard.”

“I’m sorry if it’s not the answer you want to hear.”

“I just don’t understand,” I say, trying to be strong even though every inch of me feels suddenly broken. “How can you feel nothing . . . after
everything
?”

“I’m not exactly feeling anything warm and fuzzy about you either,” the Sweat-man says, standing right over me now.

A sprinkling of laughter erupts in the classroom. The Sweat-man continues to poke fun by telling the class about some puppy love he had back in the fifth grade— something about a girl with braids, a candy apple present, and how he’d asked to switch seats too.

Then he rewards me with a big fat detention for abandoning my lab partner. And a big fat zero for our failed pH experiment.

I glance over at Tate, who’s obviously given up completely. The poor boy is using a cabbage leaf as a makeshift beret. I get up and take my seat beside him at the front of the room, without another single look in Ben’s direction.

March 5, 1984


Dear Diary,


Yesterday I had a voice stuck inside my head. It was my mother’s, and she was screaming.


At first I thought it was really happening, that she was really yelling out in pain and pleading for help. I stepped out of my bedroom and looked around the house, trying to find her. I even went outside. But she wasn’t around, and her car was gone.


I thought I was going crazy, but then Jilly called from the hospital about an hour later, telling me that our mother had slipped on a patch of ice coming out of the grocery store. She’d fallen hard against the pavement, and needed stitches on her scalp.


I hung up the phone, thinking about thesketch I ripped up in Mrs. Trigger’s class. Then I cried myself to sleep.


Love,
Alexia


By the end of the school day, pretty much everyone’s heard about what happened in chemistry—that Ben no longer feels anything for me . . . quite literally.

Most people say it’s a good thing, joking that if Ben and I were to wind up a couple, my body would probably end up ditched in a shallow grave somewhere.

But I overhear a freshman girl tell her friends the news is tragic. “He saved her life,” she reminds them.

Kimmie says the news is neither good
nor
tragic. “You’ve already heard me lecture you on the merits of moving on, but the fact that Ben abandoned his whole ‘no-touch’ policy and felt you up in chem lab . . . now
that’s
promising. Not to mention hot.”

I know she’s right about the moving on part, especially since Ben didn’t sense anything dangerous when he touched me. Plus I promised him that I’d leave him alone.

And he didn’t seem to object.

It’s after school, after my double detentions for gym and chemistry, and I’m at Knead, about to begin working on a new piece. I wedge the clay out against my board, enjoying the therapeutic quality of each smack, prod, and punch.

As the clay oozes between my fingers and pastes against my skin, images of all sorts begin to pop into my head. I try my best to push them away, to focus instead on the cold and clammy sensation of the mound and the way it helps me relax. But after only a few short minutes of solitude, I hear someone storm their way up the back stairwell. At first I think it’s Spencer, but then I hear the voice:

“I’m coming up the stairs,” Adam bellows. “I’m approaching the studio area, about to pass by the sink.”

I turn to look, noticing how he’s standing only a few feet behind me now.

“I hope I didn’t startle you this time,” he says.

“Ha-ha.” I hold back my smile.

“I would have called your cell to tell you I was coming up, but you never gave me your number.”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, unable to stifle a giggle.

“So what are you working on?” He looks toward my workboard.

“I don’t know yet. I’m having too much fun thwacking to actually sculpt something meaningful.”

“Should I be scared?”

I hold the clay mound like a baseball, ready to pitch at him, but instead I plop it back onto my board.

“I take it you had another rough day?” he asks.

“I already told you; it’s been more like a rough year.”

“And still you won’t let me treat you to coffee.” He shakes his head as if the idea of it is appalling. “I poured, pulled, and cleaned all the Valentine’s Day stuff, by the way. I think the ladies at the senior center will be pleased.”

“Seriously? We’re done?”

He nods. “The pieces are in both kilns as we speak.”

“Thank you,” I say, practically in awe.

“No sweat.” He smiles. A dimple forms in his cheek. “I was bored. I’ve been spending way too much time here.”

“And why’s that?”

“I could ask
you
the same thing. Isn’t this your day off too?”

I shrug and gaze back at my workboard. “Sculpting helps me unwind, I guess. It’s sort of my escape.”

“Well, I’m escaping too. I have an obnoxious roommate with an even more obnoxious girlfriend. They spend all their time in our apartment, monopolizing the TV, eating all my food, and arguing over who loves the other more. It’s really pretty sickening. Plus, Spencer doesn’t seem to mind if I hang out here.”

“Not if you’re getting all the work done.”

“Well, I thought I’d be nice and spare you from having to clean boob mugs and penis straws.”

“Thanks,” I repeat, feeling a smile spread across my face.

“So, is that still a no on the coffee?”

I look away, almost able to hear Kimmie’s voice telling me to go, that this doesn’t mean I have to marry the guy, and that this is obviously what Ben wants too.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll even treat you to a scone.” “Well, when you put it that way, why not?”