Deadly Little Secret (19 page)

“So, what does that prove?” Wes asks.

“Maybe hers is a joke, but mine isn’t.” I shrug.

“I don’t know,” Wes says. “It seems pretty weird that Ben’s been hanging around you both.”

“And randomly shows up at both of your houses when you least expect it,” Kimmie adds.

“Not to mention the notes, the stares, the way he’s always touching you,” Wes says.

“But he doesn’t touch
her
,” I pipe up, as though that’s supposed to defend him.

“Oh my god!” Kimmie squeals, spotting John Kenneally in the crowd. She straightens out the hem of her poofy skirt. “Is he coming over here? How do I look?”

“How can you even be interested in him?” I ask.

“Are you blind?”

“Are
you
? Did you not see the way he acted in the cafeteria the other day—how he dumped a bowl of soup over Ben’s head?”

“Okay, no comment.” She exchanges a look with Wes—complete with bulging eyes and raised eyebrows.

“Right,” Wes says. “Let’s talk about something a bit safer, shall we?”

“Forget it,” I say, getting up from the table.

“Camelia!” Kimmie squawks. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” I snap. “How can you be attracted to someone so openly cruel?”

“And how can
you
can be attracted to someone so completely creepy?”

I look away, not knowing what to say, deciding not to tell them about my mirror, the shredded pj’s, or my night out with Ben.

“Seriously,” she continues, “you can’t honestly tell me this Sour Patch Kids mood of yours is all because I happen to think John’s hot.”

I shrug, suspecting she’s right—that it has more to do with who I can trust. I glance back in the direction of the sign and, as if by fate, Ben’s motorcycle comes pulling into the parking lot.

“Shit, meet fan,” Wes says, somewhat under his breath.

Ben parks his bike and then sees the sign. Meanwhile, everyone is staring right at him, waiting for his response.

I clench my teeth, hoping he won’t let it bother him, that he’ll take the proverbial high road and let it roll right off his back. But instead he takes his helmet and whips it at the sign, then hops back on his bike and revs up the engine so loud I feel my insides explode.

He peels out of the parking lot, and it’s quiet for several moments—there’s just the hum of his engine as it continues down the street.

38

The day is a complete and total bust, one I never should have gotten out of bed for. Ben doesn’t come back to school. Kimmie and I don’t really talk much. The principal calls for an impromptu assembly, where he lectures about the Polly Piranha vandalism, the havoc wreaked since the very first day of school, and the way the reputation of our high school has been seriously damaged (the real impetus for the assembly). Top all of that off with the Sweat-man’s brilliant idea of throwing a near-impossible pop quiz, and I’m an emotional wreck.

And so, in spite of how weird things got between Spencer and me in school the other day, I head to work early, hoping that the sensation of sticky red clay against my cold and clammy fingertips will help me relax and put things in perspective. The good thing is that Spencer isn’t even there when I arrive. I’ve got the entire studio to myself.

I line up all my tools, grab my board, and unwrap the piece I started, removing the plastic tarp and damp paper towels—essentials that keep the clay from hardening. With my eyes closed, I spend several moments just breathing into the clay, trying to block out any stray thoughts, to focus instead on my fingers as they smooth over bumps and glide across cracks.

After several minutes, I feel the clay begin to take shape beneath my fingertips. My eyes still closed, I prod a little further, creating what feels like a sharp angle extending up from a boxlike base. I open my eyes to see what it looks like.

Spencer’s there. He’s standing just a few feet away.

I let out a gasp and take a step back, knocking a stack of cups off the shelf behind me.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “You just looked so inspired. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Where did you come from?” I ask, looking toward the door, knowing I would have heard the bells jingle if he’d just come in.

“I was downstairs pulling molds.” He takes a step closer to view my piece. “What are you working on?”

“Something with a pulse, I hope.”

Spencer smiles and runs a hand through his dark hair. “I had a feeling you were bothered by that.”

I shrug and look down at my piece, anxious to see what’s become of it. There’s a rectangular form at the bottom, with a smaller version of the same on top—sort of like a car, minus the wheels.

“I only said that to push you deeper,” he says. “You have a lot of talent, but sometimes I think you take the easy way out. You don’t take the time to examine the guts.”

The guts?

“Dig a little,” he continues. “Search. Examine. Sculpt from the inside out, and not the other way around. Don’t be afraid to screw up along the way.”

“I screw up plenty,” I tell him, still looking at my lame-o car figure.

“Good.” His smile morphs into a smirk. “You need to screw up to learn. You need to experience to create greatness. It’s not just about bowls, you know.” He takes another step, as if he wants to get an even closer glimpse of the angles of my piece, but instead he’s looking at me, his face just inches from mine now. “It’s good to see you experimenting. I can’t wait to see what comes of it.”

“Yeah,” I say, noticing the razor cut on his neck. “Me, too.”

“And that invitation’s still open if you ever want to talk.”

I nod, suddenly feeling as if the walls are closing in. I try to move away, but between the shelf and Spencer I’m totally pinned.

A moment later, I hear the door jangle open. Spencer moves to pick up the cups that fell off the shelf, and then turns to see who’s here.

It’s Matt, and I couldn’t be happier to see him.

Holding two cups of coffee, he approaches cautiously, glancing back and forth between Spencer and me, like maybe he thinks he’s interrupting something.

“Come on in,” I tell him.

He slides a cup of coffee across the table at me—since my hands are covered in clay. “I was just in the area.” He looks back at Spencer. “I thought I’d say hi.”

“I’m glad you did.” I smile wide, hoping Spencer gets the hint and heads back downstairs.

But instead he sticks around, introduces himself, and starts telling Matt how talented he thinks I am. “This girl is going places,” Spencer says. Eventually, he turns and leaves us alone, and I’m able to regroup.

Matt looks particularly good today—sun-kissed hair, a charcoal gray sweatshirt to contrast with his glowing complexion, and a bit of golden stubble across his chin.

“Thanks for the coffee.” I wipe my hands and take a sip, noticing the hazelnut flavor with just the right amount of sugar and milk. “You remembered how I take my coffee.”

“It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Right,” I say, remembering how our relationship actually started with coffee—with the two of us meeting up at Press & Grind, the coffee place downtown, every Thursday night to study.

“Those were some fun times,” he says. His blue eyes beam right into mine. “Remember Philippe?”

I let out a giggle, recalling the wacko barista who used to juggle espresso cups and do magic tricks with cappuccino foam. “I wonder if he still works there.”

“We should totally go check one day.”

“That’d be fun,” I say, hoping some of the awkwardness has finally lifted between us. It’s just so weird how only three short weeks of dating can screw up what had been an otherwise perfectly good platonic relationship. I tried to explain that on one of our last dates—that things had worked better when it was just coffee, books, and entertaining baristas. But he didn’t really get it, and I didn’t know what else to say.

And what
could
I say? He was the quintessential perfect boyfriend—good-looking, called me all the time, bought me thoughtful little gifts, and remembered everything I told him. Kimmie thought I was verging on insanity, but breaking up with Matt was like having a really good cup of coffee—completely eye-opening and totally essential. I just wasn’t ready for all that intensity. Not the way I am now.

I look down at my mound of clay, thinking about Ben—about the intensity I felt at his touch alone.

“So, what’s up with your creepy boss?” Matt asks.

I shake my head, wondering where he went off to. I didn’t hear him go back downstairs.

“Seems you have a lot of creepy guys in your life,” he continues.

“Have you been talking to Kimmie?”

“Just a little.” He smirks.

“Did she send you down here?”

“She’s worried about you,” he says. “And I guess I am, too.”

“What did she say?”

He shrugs. “Stuff about that Ben guy—how he’s hanging around you a lot.”

I purse my lips, not surprised by her blabbing, but relieved that it seems she didn’t say anything about the whole touching issue. “I can handle Ben.”

“Are you sure? Because you know how I feel about that guy.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“And what
are
you doing? I mean, the guy’s developed quite a reputation for himself, don’t you think?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Well, then make me understand.”

I shake my head, unwilling to get into it—with my ex, of all people.

“Look, I’m not trying to piss you off,” he continues. “I’m just looking out for you. Ex-boyfriends are allowed to do that, right?”

“I suppose,” I grin.

“Well, suppose this,” he says, all smirky again, “I’m always here if you need me.”

“You know you really need to stop being so mean to me all the time,” I joke. “People will start to talk.”

“I like being mean to you,” he smiles.

“Do you like being mean to Rena Maruso?” I ask, regretting it just as soon as the question comes out my mouth.

He takes another sip, clearly amused. The corners of his mouth turn upward, and he stares at me over the rim of his paper cup. “What if I said yes?”

“Then I’d be happy for you.”

“And if I said no? That I much prefer torturing you?”

I feel my face get hot.

“Forget it,” he says. “Don’t answer that. Maybe I don’t want to know.”

“It was really sweet of you to stop by,” I say, trying to fill the sudden and very awkward silence. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“My pleasure.” He turns away, leaving me somewhat hanging, even though a part of me doesn’t want to know the answer either.

 39 

She royally betrayed me, but now it’s my turn to make things right. Part of me wants to rip her in two. Another part wants to laugh out loud, knowing what I’ve got planned for her.

I felt that way in her room. I saw that lingerie still in its box. How ungrateful is that? And so I ripped the material to shreds.

I imagined it was her there, and then I angled my body over the clothes, teasing the fabric with the tip of my knife right before I slashed it up.

It felt good to do it, too. I started to laugh after it happened. I could barely even calm myself down. Everything just seemed funny all of a sudden. But then I saw what I did.

I saw the word Bitch on her mirror. And it even scared me.

I stood there, looking at everything I’d done. I didn’t know if I should laugh some more or be sick. I started shaking. But then I remembered that this is what she wants, that she’s such a selfish bitch, and that she doesn’t know what’s good for her, not like I do.