Deadly Little Secret (4 page)

“Aunt Alexia
is
kind of off.”

“She’s working now,” she continues, “trying to stay busy, to get her life back on track. She goes to a therapy group twice a week and painting classes every Saturday afternoon.”

“Then what?”

Mom shakes her head. The corners of her mouth quiver downward. And for just a second she looks like she’s going to lose it all over again. “She’s fine,” she says, finally. “I’m sure of it.”

She follows up with a deep yoga breath and then starts pitting the dates.

“Mom?” I ask, sensing her angst.

But she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, instead ordering me to peel the squash, soak the basil, grind the nuts. It isn’t long before we’ve whipped up a dish worthy of Sir Paul-vegan-McCartney himself. I take a stack of plates and start to set the table. And that’s when I notice a large manila envelope addressed to me, sitting atop my mother’s Buddha beads. I pick it up, noticing right away that it wasn’t even mailed. It has no postage, no postmark, and nil for a return address. Still, I rip it open and pull out the contents.

It’s a photo of me, standing outside of school this morning; I can tell by my outfit. Someone’s printed it on a glossy eight-by-ten sheet of paper and drawn a bubbly red heart around my body.

I flip the picture over in search of a name or message, but it’s blank. “Did somebody drop this off for me today?”

My mother shakes her head. “It was in the mailbox, with everything else.”

“And when did you pick up the mail?” I ask, wondering when someone would have had the time—between the end of school and now—to develop a picture and drop it off at my house.

She pauses from kale-rot-juicing to look up at me. “Around five, just before you got home. Why, what is it?”

I flash the photo at her. “Probably just a joke.”

“Looks more like a secret admirer.”

I run my fingers over it, thinking about this morning in front of the school, and trying to remember who I saw hanging around.

“Camelia, are you okay?” My mother pushes. “Did something happen at school?”

I shrug, tempted to tell her about Ben—about all the alleged rumors I heard about him—but it seems she’s too preoccupied now, her eyes fixed on a big, empty bowl.

“Just the usual first-day-back stuff.” I return the photo to its envelope and head to my room to give Kimmie a call.

There may be no return address, but a stunt like this definitely has her name written all over it.

8

“I have no idea what you’re even talking about,” Kimmie tells me.

Unable to reach her the night before, I end up hunting her down before homeroom. We’re standing in an alcove of lockers, and I’m providing cover while she stuffs the front of her dress with enough tissue paper to wrap Christmas presents in for the next two years.

“I didn’t leave anything in your mailbox,” she continues, “least of all a picture of you with a heart around it. I mean, come on, how cheesy-nineteen-seventies-stalker-movie is that?”

“Are you sure? I won’t be mad.”

“Seriously, Camelia.” She rolls her eyes and checks her bust in her locker mirror. “If I were weirdo enough to go running around taking pictures of people behind their backs, do you honestly think I’d start with you? No offense, of course.”

“None taken.”

“I mean, let’s face it,” she continues. “I can take pictures of
you
anytime. The boys’ swim team, on the other hand . . . now that’s a different story.” She slams her locker door shut, her palms positioned over her stuffed chest, trying to get herself somewhat proportionate.

“Need another tissue?” I ask, noticing how Righty appears just a wee bit plumper than its partner.

Kimmie plucks out a tissue for good measure. “There, now, how do I look? The dress is new—for me, anyway. The saleslady told me it’s vintage 1950. I’m thinking about designing a jumpsuit version of it.”

It’s a jet black, cap-sleeved, knee-length number, with a giant silver bow that sits at the waist.

“Very cute.”

“It’s beyond cute,” she says, correcting me. “It makes me feel like a walking present.”

I’m tempted to ask her if that explains all the tissue paper, but I bite my tongue instead.

“Now, who shall be my birthday boy?” She scopes the hallway for prospective victims, her eyes zeroing in on John Kenneally standing across the hall in a throng of his soccer teammates. John bends down to tie his shoelace, sending Kimmie into an absolute tizzy.

“So beautiful.” She places her hand over her well-insulated chest, completely taken aback. “I mean, honestly, how does one get an ass like that? So firm . . . so symmetrical.”

“Unlike your gift-wrapped boobs.”

“Excuse me?”

“I hate to break this to you, but I have way more pressing issues to contend with than John Kenneally’s butt cheeks.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Maybe Wes left it,” I press on, refusing to drop the whole photo issue.

“Left what?” she mutters, still eyeing John.

“Forget it,” I sigh.

“Wait, are we still talking about the picture?”

In her mind, John must be down to his Skivvies by now. “Yeah, it was probably Wes,” she continues. “He
is
taking photography this year. Plus, he’s done stupid stuff like this before. Last year he left a Saran Wrapped rubber Teletubby in my duffel bag, along with a note that said, ‘Save me. I’m suffocating.’”

“I’m not even going to ask.”

“Bottom line—I wouldn’t obsess over it, especially when there are way more delectable things to obsess over.” She stares longingly at John.

“You’re hopeless,” I tell her.

“Hopelessly in love.” She fans herself with her anatomy lab book, which is oddly apropos, considering that the front cover has a picture of the human heart on it.

“The weird thing,” I continue, “is that the picture was taken yesterday. I recognized my outfit, meaning whoever took it developed it the same day it was left in my mailbox.”

“So?” she says. “Ever hear of one-hour photo?”

“Actually, I think someone printed it at home. It looked a little rough around the edges.”

“That’s the beauty of digital photography—no middleman, no wait time, and no worries about getting even your most incriminating photos developed. Remember the time I took that picture of my butt in the mirror? The store where I went to have it developed deleted the negative completely.”

“Tragic.”

“You bet it was. So much for my Christmas card idea.”

“I have to go,” I say, checking the hallway clock. There’s only a minute left before homeroom, and I have a full two-minute walk to get there.

I turn to leave, but not even three steps away, I end up smacking right into John Kenneally’s chest. “Sorry,” I say, wondering how that just happened, and noticing how his clothes smell like peony-scented musk.

“No worries.” He smiles. “I enjoyed it.” He lingers for just a moment too long before finally continuing down the hallway.

A second later, Kimmie twirls me back around to face her. “Oh my god, I absolutely
hate
you,” she says. “What did it feel like? What did he smell like?”

“Kimmie,” I say, “get a grip.”

“A grip around him, I hope.”

I watch John walk down the hallway. At the same moment, he turns to look back. He waves in our direction, and I wave back. But Kimmie, too busy fanning herself again, doesn’t even notice.

9

In chemistry, I loiter toward the back of the room, waiting for everybody to file in. Mr. Swenson (nicknamed Mr. Sweat-man, for obvious reasons), has this rule that, whoever you choose to sit with on the first day of class becomes your lab partner for the entire year.

Needless to say, seat selection is definitely critical.

Since the sciences, collectively it seems, aren’t really my strong suit, I search around for someone who I think might do well with things like beakers, test tubes, and Bunsen burners.

Until I finally see her—Rena Maruso, the girl who helped get me through bio.

“Hey,” I say, waving her over. I gesture to a table in the back and sit down. “We can be lab partners again this year.”

But Rena appears less than delighted to see me, despite my stellar organization skills. She may not want to admit it, but thanks to me, we always handed in the neatest, most orderly lab reports.

“It won’t be so bad,” I say, trying to assure her. “At least this year we won’t have to dissect anything, right?”

I know she must still blame me for accidentally spilling my Gatorade on that poor dead frog. Not only did it score us a big fat goose egg on our lab report, but I also got detention for having an open drink container in class.

Rena scans the room to see who’s left, but it seems people have quickly paired off. She lets out a sigh and finally sits down, stacking her books between us to mark her personal science-loving territory. But after a few moments, when everybody has pretty much settled into their places, she switches seats, spotting an open chair at the front of the room, right beside tree-hugging, save-the-planet Tate Williams.

Just perfect.

I look up at the Sweat-man, waiting for him to announce the inevitable: that I’ll have the unequivocal pleasure (not) of pairing up with him this year for my labs— of having to smell his sweaty self and be subjected to the flyaway dandruff in his hair. (
Note to self
: wear lab smock.)

But then Ben walks in.

He hands a slip of paper to the Sweat-man, probably denoting his enrollment in our class. A couple of snickers come from the corner of the room. Mr. Swenson checks and rechecks the slip of paper, comparing it to his attendance list, as if maybe there’s some mistake.

“Take a seat,” Sweat-man finally says. He scratches his head, releasing at least a tablespoon of dandruff over his shoulders.

Ben searches the room, and so do I, but the only remaining chair is the one beside mine. He sees it and our eyes lock. “Is there a problem, Mr. Carter?” The Sweat-man is glaring at him. Ben just stands there at the front of the room. Staring at me. Making my face go hot and my palms clammy. “No problem,” he says, finally. He joins me at my table, but he doesn’t look at me again for the entire block. Not once. Even though I want him to. Even though I know I shouldn’t.