Deadly Little Secret (12 page)

“That was Wes’s T-shirt. Mine says, ‘Killers suck and they belong behind bars, not dating my best friend.’”

“I thought you didn’t believe the rumors.”

Before she can respond, there’s a knock on her door.

“Who is it?” Kimmie shouts.

No one answers.

She rolls her eyes and gets up to open it.

It’s Nate. He falls into the room with a thud, having been leaning up against the door, listening in on our every word.

“You’re such a lame little loser!” Kimmie shouts, ripping the notepad from his clutches. She tears the pages out and flushes them down the toilet in the bathroom across the hall. “Kiss it good-bye, Encyclopedia Brown!”

Nate lets out a scream, gaining the attention of Kimmie’s parents, her older sister, and her grandmother, who lives in the downstairs apartment. Even the dog starts barking at all the commotion.

Definitely my cue to leave.

 24 

I hate seeing her with other guys. The way she flirts with them and laughs at their stupid jokes.

I saw her talking to that dirtbag. So I called her. I had to set things straight. To put her in her place. And to warn her.

She needs to know I’m not going anywhere.

Then maybe she’ll think twice before she tries to make me jealous.

25

Unable to reach Wes over the weekend, I track him down first thing Monday morning to ask if he had anything to do either with calling me Saturday or with the gift left outside my window.

“How would that be possible?” He drapes his camera strap over his shoulder, en route to the photo studio. “I wasn’t even with you guys when you went to the undies store. How would I know which pajama set you picked out?”

“Any chance you were spying on us in the store?”

He lets out a laugh, but then realizes I’m not joking.

“I know. It’s stupid,” I continue.

“Of course, the proof is in the “pj’s,” he jokes.

“And obviously someone
was
spying on me.”

“It wasn’t this someone.” He slams his locker door shut. “I don’t even know your size.”

“And you didn’t call me Saturday?”

“Not that I can remember,” he says, tapping his finger against his bright orange chin—victim of the self-tanner. The poor boy looks like the Sunkist factory exploded on his face. “However, I could be bribed to rethink it with, say, a week’s worth of English homework.”

“Be serious.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Do you know something?”

“Do you have the answers to the
Macbeth
questions?”

“Don’t be a jerk.”

“
Me
? Did you not just accuse me of spying on you, prank-calling you, and trespassing on your property? Not to mention buying you skeevy lingerie?”

“It wasn’t skeevy,” I say.

“Well, that figures.” Wes fakes a yawn. “Bottom line, I’m not the one dating a murderer, remember? So, why don’t you go bark up his guilty ass?” He attempts to brush pass me, but I’m able to stop him by grabbing the sleeve of his brand-new, Kimmie-selected, Abercrombie shirt.

“Don’t be mad,” I say. “I was actually hoping it was you.”

“You were?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” I say, remembering what Kimmie said about him possibly having a crush on me. “I mean, I’d obviously rather it be you than some wacko.”

“There’s a compliment if I ever heard one.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say, suddenly hating the sound of my own voice.

But, instead of indulging me in even one more syllable, he pulls away and heads off to homeroom. Great.

In pottery class, Kimmie is all abuzz, telling me how she heard—but can’t confirm—that Spencer is the substitute for today. “And we didn’t even need to give Ms. Mazur whooping cough,” she says.

“Right,” I say, playing along.

Not even thirty seconds later, the rumor’s confirmed. Spencer walks in, grabs a dry-erase marker, and writes his name on the board, explaining that Ms. Mazur is out for some professional development thing.

“Will she be out tomorrow, too?” Kimmie asks.

“Nope,” Spencer says. “Now, let’s get to work.”

“So much for small talk,” Kimmie coughs out, adding a coil to her clay pot.

I’m making a coil pot, too—one with a bubblelike base and a twisted handle.

Just as Ms. Mazur always does, Spencer takes a trip around the room, making comments and suggestions about everybody’s work.

“What do you think?” Kimmie asks once he reaches us. “Too floppy?” She dangles a wormlike coil at him.

“No substance,” he says, correcting her.

Kimmie looks offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But he ignores her (and the worm), instead looking down at my coil pot. “You didn’t stick around at the studio on Friday.”

It takes me a moment, but then I remember how he’d offered to chat. “Too much homework, I guess.”

“Right.” He nods.

I look down at my work, suddenly conscious of my every move.

“Another bowl?” He gestures at my piece.

“A pot,” I say, as if there were some significant difference.

“Don’t you ever get tired of sculpting bowl-like things?”

I shrug, feeling my face flash hot.

“So, what was your inspiration?” he continues.

I wipe my hands and pull out my drawing pad, where I’ve sketched it all out. “It’s a spiral staircase,” I say, referring to the crude pencil drawing. “I was hoping I could replicate it in a pot.”

“Do you always put so much time into your plans?”

I nod, trying to get my handle just so. It keeps drooping from the weight of the twist. “I like knowing where I’m going before I even begin. It’s sort of like having a map.”

“Maybe that’s your problem.”

Problem? My face falls, just as saggily as my pot handle.

“You plan too much,” he continues. “You don’t let the work guide you. Maybe the piece doesn’t want to be a staircase. Maybe it wants to be a slide.”

“In other words, my pot doesn’t work?”

“It doesn’t have a pulse,” he says.

“
I
have a pulse.” Kimmie offers him her wrist. “Wanna check?”

Spencer shakes his head, suggesting to Kimmie that she worry less about her pulse and more about her lack of focus.

“Can you believe that ass?” she says, once he’s out of earshot. She murders her clay worm with a wooden spatula.

I shake my head and chew my bottom lip, my face grew hot from the sting of his words.

“Oh, puh-leeze,” she says, obviously noticing my funk. “I wouldn’t put much stock into what he said. He’s obviously just being pissy because you didn’t play in his sandbox after school.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because you didn’t stick around to chat with him in the studio the other day.” She rolls her eyes, frustrated at having to explain this to me.

I shrug, watching as my handle falls off completely.

“Maybe he’s the one who left that gift,” she continues. “I mean, he obviously wants to see you in your pj’s.”

“And tell me, oh, wise one, why is that obvious?”

“Hmmm. . . . I wonder,” she says, nodding toward the front of the room, where Spencer is sitting at Ms. Mazur’s desk, staring right at us.

26

I’m just about to join Kimmie and Wes in the cafeteria for lunch when Matt crosses my path from out of nowhere, not even two steps past the soda machines. “A ninety-eight,” he beams. “Huh?” I ask, feeling my face twist up. “On the French quiz,” he explains, giving his back a good pat. “It would have been a hundred, but I screwed up with the
le-la-
masculine-feminine thing.”

“That’s great,” I say, “about the ninety-eight, I mean.”

“So, where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you.

I wanted to give you the good news.”

“Right,” I say, suddenly remembering how my mom mentioned that he’d been trying to reach me. “Things have been sort of intense lately.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

I shake my head and peer over his shoulder, noticing Kimmie and Wes already sitting in our designated spots.

I wave, and Kimmie gives me a thumbs-up, but Wes, obviously still miffed about our last conversation, barely even nods in what would have to be the saddest attempt at a nonverbal greeting ever.

“So, I hate to ask you this,” Matt continues, “but, any chance you can help me again for the next quiz? I mean, I know it’s a hassle, so if you want, I can pay you.”

“No,” I say. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

He continues to jabber on—something about not wanting to let his grades slip and some scholarship he’s applying for. I’m only half listening.

Because Ben just walked in.

He takes a seat in the corner, but he isn’t eating. Instead, he opens a book and starts to write something, but I can tell he’s faking it, because he’s staring right at me now.

“You still fixated on that guy?” Matt asks, following my glance.

I shake my head, reluctant to tell him about our date, especially since I doubt we’ll be going on anymore. “I guess I didn’t realize he had this lunch period,” I say, practically stuttering.

“Probably because he spends most of his lunch periods in the library—at least, that’s what I heard. I also heard that parents have been calling the school like crazy to get him kicked out.”

“For real?”

“It’s not exactly a secret. Didn’t you hear about that freshman girl—Dorothy, or Daisy, or something like that. . . ? She said he was following her the other day. She made a big scene about it—started crying and saying her parents were going to sue. Everybody wants him gone.”

“Apparently so,” I say, motioning to John Kenneally and a pack of his soccer buddies. They’re standing in a huddle just a few feet behind Ben.

“What do you think they’re up to?” Matt asks.

I shake my head just as John approaches Ben, soup bowl in hand. He pauses right behind him to await more attention.

And it works. People start snickering. The lemmings are pointing. Mr. Muse, the gym teacher, turns his back, pretending not to see anything.

John raises the bowl high above Ben’s head.

“No!” I shout, from somewhere deep inside me—I have no idea if the word actually comes out.