Deadly Little Secret (9 page)

18

It’s Tuesday morning, just before the first bell, and I’m sitting outside on one of the benches that overlook the Tree-Hugger Society’s prize-winning garden, eating the remainder of the whole-grain granola bar that my mother insisted I take with me this morning. A bunch of people pass by me on their way inside and, though I’ve resolved to put the whole photo issue out of my mind, I can’t help wondering who the jokester is, and whether he or she might be lurking somewhere now, camera in hand.

John Kenneally, Kimmie’s flavor of the week, waves to me as he drives around to the parking lot behind the school. And so does Kimmie herself, her 1920s flapper boa flailing out the window of Wes’s car.

With only two bites left, I hear it—him. Ben’s motorcycle pulls into the traffic circle with a rumble. But, instead of driving past me, he stops, removes his helmet, and raises his hand to wave.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks, approaching me.

I flash him my granola bar. “Just having a little breakfast before the bell rings. Want a bite?”

He shakes his head. “I was actually hoping we could talk.”

“Sure,” I say, thinking back to everything Matt told me last night, and suddenly feeling a slight twinge in my stomach.

Ben sits down beside me on the bench.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, trying to sound calm.

He nods and looks off toward the garden. “I just wanted to say, sorry about what happened the other day in chemistry.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

He shrugs. “Detention for a week, starting tomorrow.”

“That seems harsh.”

“Everything at this school seems harsh.”

I bite my lip, unsurprised by his perception of this tiny-town place.

“So, I suppose you’ve heard some stuff about me,” he continues.

“A little.”

“Care to elaborate?”

I shrug and follow his gaze, still focused on the garden. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Maybe another time,” he says, finally turning to look at me. “I just thought, since we have to work together and all, we should probably start over.”

“What do you mean?”

He gazes at my hair, noticing maybe how I’ve got it pulled into two artfully messed-up braids. “You know, like we never met.”

“Like you never saved my life?”

He smiles slightly; the corners of his pale pink lips curl up. “Something like that,” he says, staring at my mouth now.

“So, you’re admitting it?”

He smirks, angling his body toward me more. He smells like maple sugar mixed with motorcycle fumes. “I admit to nothing.”

“So, what
did
happen the other day . . . in chemistry class?”

“I accidentally dropped the test tube.”

“No, I mean just after that . . . when you touched me—when you grabbed my wrist.”

“It was just an accident.”

“That was no accident.”

“It was.” He looks away again.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

Ben shakes his head and I purse my lips, wondering why he insists on keeping all these secrets, when he’s obviously trying to clear things up.

“So, shall we start over?” he asks.

“I guess,” I say, still utterly confused.

“Hi, my name’s Ben Carter.” He smiles, fully aware of how cheesy this is.

“Camelia Hammond.” I grin. “And before you ask, yes, it’s true, my parents are hippies and thought it’d be fun to name me after a lizard. I changed the spelling, against their wishes.”

“Well, I guess that means you have good survival instincts,” he says, edging in a little closer. “You must adapt well to your surroundings.”

“Oh my god, you sound
exactly
like my mother.”

“I’ll try and forget you said that.” He smiles wider. “So, do you get out much, Camelia Hammond?”

“Like, for good behavior?”

“Like, on dates. What do you say? Are you free Saturday?”

I take a deep breath and mutter the word
no
. Only it comes out as
yes
.

“Great,” he says. “How about around two? We can meet for a late lunch.”

I nod, and he gets up, bumping his knee against mine in the process.

“Are you okay?” I ask, noticing how upset he suddenly looks. His eyes narrow, and he takes a step back.

“I gotta go,” he says, refusing to look me in the eye.

“What is it?” I ask, standing up, too.

But instead of answering, he heads back to his motorcycle and speeds away—just as fast as he did on the day that he saved my life.

 19 

She was out in front of school this morning, looking for attention. Like a total slut.

The front of school is her new place to be noticed. Nobody else ever just hangs out there, but she wants to be on display, so people look at her as soon as they pull up.

I said the alphabet forwards and backwards and counted up building bricks to keep myself calm. It was either that or haul off and smack her stupid little face.

She just makes me so mad sometimes, so mad that I can’t quite think straight. She wants to see me lose control.

20

Ben and I have arranged to meet at Seaview Park for our date. He’d wanted to pick me up, but Kimmie insisted on tagging along.

“I know the rumors aren’t true,” she says, “but if anything weird ever happened and I didn’t do anything to try and stop it, I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

“Anything weird?”

She shrugs. “Like if you wound up tied up, dead, and buried in a shallow grave somewhere.”

“Seriously?”

“Kidding.” She rolls her eyes. “But that still doesn’t change the fact that Mr. Touchy-Feely completely creeps me out.”

I watch as she sifts through my bedroom closet for something for me to wear, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I mean, yes, I want to find out the truth about him, but I honestly can’t remember a time when I’ve been more unnerved.

“How about this one?” she asks, holding up a lavender tunic.

I take it and slip it on, too rattled even to pay much attention.

“The winner,” she announces, tossing me a pair of leggings and my strappy sandals.

Originally the plan was that she and Wes would come and we’d make it a foursome, but unfortunately, that plan got snagged when Kimmie was grounded for making her eight-year-old brother, Nate, do all her household chores for a week. As punishment, Kimmie’s parents have declared her Nate’s own personal slave for a period of seventy-two hours. Kimmie has spent the last twenty-four of those hours dodging water balloons, making grilled-cheese-and-gummy-worm sandwiches, playing hide-and-seek, and organizing her brother’s Matchbox car collection according to type, color, size, and year.

You’d think all that torture would suffice. But not quite. Nate refuses to let Kimmie have the afternoon off.

“He says either he comes along, or I can’t go.”

“Are you kidding?” I ask, pulling the leggings on.

“Not kidding. I tried to talk him out of it, but that just made him want to come more. I’m lucky he even gave me this hour off for good behavior. You look hot, by the way.”

“Thanks,” I say, running my fingers through my kinky hair, and seriously wondering if I’m going to be sick.

“Don’t worry,” Kimmie assures me. “You won’t even know we’re there.”

“Right,” I say, fairly confident that that won’t be the case.

But we go anyway—Kimmie and me in the front seat of her parents’ minivan and Nate in the back, armed with his basketball, baseball, and hockey equipment. We pull into the parking lot, my eyes scanning the area, looking for Ben by the pavilion, at the fountain, or on one of the park benches.

I finally spot him sitting on a blanket in the distance, a basket and cooler set up in front of him.

“Who knew Ben the Butcher was such a romantic?” Kimmie whips a pair of binoculars out of her purse for a better view.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my jangled nerves. Meanwhile, Kimmie adjusts the zoom lens on her binoculars, zeroing in on a guy jogging in the distance.

“Hey, that totally looks like your boss. Does Spencer run?”

“Okay, can we just focus on me for a moment?”

“Relax. I’ll only be a slasher-movie scream away,” she teases.

“At the baseball diamond,” Nate specifies. He pulls on his catcher’s mask.

Kimmie gives me a quick hug for luck, and then I climb out of the van and make my way toward Ben. But, before I can even get halfway there, a soccer ball comes flying in my direction.

“Heads up!” I hear somebody yell.

I stop the ball using the heel of my sandal, and then look up in search of the owner. It’s John Kenneally. He comes running to retrieve it.

“Thanks,” he says, catching my throw. “Ever think about trying out for goalie?”

I smile and glance over his shoulder, where it appears his soccer team is having a scrimmage.

“Seems we’ve been bumping into each other a lot lately,” he says.

I nod and scan the park for Kimmie, surprised she didn’t spot John right away, especially with her binoculars. “Do you guys always practice here on Saturdays?”

He nods. “Usually from one to three, just after lunch.”

“Great,” I say, filing the information away so I can share it with Kimmie later.

“Really?”

I nod again, trying not to act too enthusiastic, even though I’ve probably already overdone it.

While John heads back to his teammates, I head in Ben’s direction. It appears as though he’s already spotted me.

“Hey!” he shouts, waving me over.

He couldn’t look more amazing—hair messed up to perfection; torn jeans; and a crewneck sweater that clings just enough to his chest.

We sit, and he pops the cork off a bottle of faux champagne. “I’m really glad you came.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He shrugs and pours me a glass.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip.

Ben unloads the basket. He’s got a whole spread prepared for us, including a loaf of honey bread, thick wedges of sharp cheddar cheese, and an antipasto with olives, marinated peppers, and eggplant.

“This looks incredible,” I say.

“Wait till you see what I’ve got for dessert.”

We end up talking about everything: about how he practices meditation and takes tae kwon do, and how I’ve been sculpting clay since before I could even throw a ball.

“You start with this shapeless mound,” I tell him, “and what you make from it is totally up to you. You’re in complete control of what it becomes.”

“But what if it doesn’t turn out the way you want?”

“Start fresh,” I say, tearing off a hunk of honey bread.

“And ditch the other piece?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Sometimes I think it’s good to be open to the stuff that doesn’t seem to work. Sometimes that’s the best stuff.”

“Are you a sculptor, too?”

“Not since Play-Doh.” He smiles. “But I like to write sometimes.”

“Poetry?”

“Song lyrics.”

“Have you ever been in a band?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a little hard when you’re being homeschooled—a little hard to meet people.”

“How long were you homeschooled?”