Deadly Little Voices (12 page)

Wes reaches out to touch my hand, clearly sensing how fragile I feel. “We’re just playing devil’s advocate. You know we’re on your side, right?”

“Have you called that doctor?” Kimmie asks.

“I actually went to see Dr. Tylyn this morning. And the good news is that she doesn’t think I’m schizophrenic.”

“Did you tell her about what happens when you sculpt stuff?” Kimmie asks.

“Or when you just
dream
about sculpting stuff?” Wes adds.

“There wasn’t enough time. She mostly just asked me a bunch of questions: if I have trouble keeping friends, if I think my friends might be conspiring against me, and if I’ve stopped caring about my appearance.”

“And you answered yes to all three, I presume,” Wes says, giving my corduroy jeans a curious look.

I fake a laugh.

“So, this is
good
news,” Kimmie says. She clinks her seltzer bottle against my container of flax-infused hemp milk (more of Mom’s warped idea of lunch).

“It’s
very
good,” I say, proceeding to fill them in on the artwork that Aunt Alexia showed me last night.

“And you hadn’t told your aunt about the hallucination you had in sculpture class?”

Kimmie asks. “Or about the dream in which someone was taking your photo?”

I shake my head. “Plus, my aunt had obviously painted the picture of the camera long
before
I’d dreamt about it. I mean, that dream only happened last night.”

“So how did she know?” Wes asks. “Just by touching the stuff around your room, or by being in your presence?”

“I guess the same way she knew about the ‘there are two’ phrase,” I say, not even sure what that answer means.

“So, what happens now?” Wes asks.

“I don’t know, but there’s no point in my giving up pottery. I mean, if what I’m sensing comes through anyway…” I look away, remembering what Aunt Alexia said about ignoring my artistic impulses—how it only makes the voices louder. “You know what’s really weird?”

“As if all of this hasn’t been weird enough?” he says.

“I sort of remember a flash of light in the hallucination I had while in sculpture class,” I continue. “The episode that took place in the locker room.”

“Like a camera flash?” Kimmie asks.

“So the camera is definitely significant,” Wes says.

“And any guesses about the sea glass or the whole skating theme?”

“Not a one,” I tell them.

“I just don’t get it,” Kimmie says, folding her arms. “I mean, I thought things were getting back to normal.”

“Do we know any skaters?” Wes asks. “Does this town even have a skating club?”

“We have a rink,” I say. “And I should probably pay it a visit.”

“Any chance that the camera might be significant because of Matt?” Wes asks, referring to the time my stalker ex-boyfriend was taking candid snapshots of me last fall. “Let’s also not forget about the photo that Piper took,” he says, reminded of Adam’s crazed admirer from earlier this semester; she secretly took a photo of Adam and me kissing, and then sent said photo to Ben.

“Or the photo of me,” Kimmie adds, seemingly eager to change the subject. She tells us about a photo that was posted online—a picture in which she’s wearing an unflattering pair of underwear. “It appeared on an anonymous SocialLife page.”

“Have you actually seen the photo?” I ask. “Or is it just lame-o hearsay?”

“Does this look like hearsay to you?” She chucks a wadded-up piece of paper across the table at me.

I unfold it to find the photo in question: a color shot of Kimmie wearing a superbaggy pair of floral cotton underwear. There’s a boldfaced heading over the snapshot that reads: FREETOWN HIGH’S MOST DISASTROUS DRESSER.

“Period panties,” she explains, covering her face with her bejeweled hands (she’s got clunky cocktail rings adorning every finger). “It’s not like I normally dress like that. Or like this,” she says, gesturing to her outfit. She’s wearing layers of brown and beige in hopes of camouflaging herself amid the school’s morbidly oppressive colors.

“Who cares how you dress? This is clearly a violation,” I squawk. “Whoever took this photo literally did it behind your back.”

It’s a sideways shot of Kimmie as she bends slightly forward. There’s a tear by the hem of the aforementioned underwear, and the seams look ratty and frayed. As if all of that weren’t mortifying enough, the photo also shows her pulling on a pair of gym shorts with one hand, while one finger of her other hand is lodged up inside her nose.

I take a closer look, almost unable to believe my eyes. On closer inspection (which includes squinting), I can see that Kimmie is actually scratching rather than picking.

But still.

“Not a fan of my work?” Wes jokes, pulling a camera from his bag—one that looks frighteningly similar to the one I dreamt about. He’s taking photography as an elective this term.

“Please say you’re bullshitting.” Kimmie squeezes her eyes shut.

“You know I am.” He puts the camera away. “Besides, how would I get into the girls’

locker room?”

“Good point,” I say. “The person who took this must’ve been female.”

“Better point: all publicity is good publicity, right?” Wes winks.

“Tell me that when they’ve got a picture of your G-string-wearing self posted online for the whole world to see,” Kimmie snaps.

“And that would be bad because…?”

Kimmie gazes over her shoulder, where some boys are pretending to pick their noses.

One of them has a pair of old and tattered gym shorts on over his jeans to suggest a pair of undies.

“I seriously hate this school,” Kimmie says, turning back to face us.

“Did you report the picture to Snell?” I ask her.

“Yes, but the picture had already been taken down by the time I tried to show Principal
Smell
—as had the pictures of all the other ugly-underwear-wearing offenders.”

“So, it could’ve been worse.” Wes shrugs.

“Only if I were Danica Pete,” she says, nodding toward the front of the lunch line, where Danica lingers, tray in hand, seemingly searching the tables for someone.

“Am I missing something?” I ask, wondering if Danica was one of the other ugly-underwear offenders.

“Besides the obvious?” Kimmie says, shaking her head at Danica’s outfit du jour (a pair of pleated navy blue pants, a turtleneck sweater two sizes too big (probably to hide her slender figure), and brown ankle boots. “Though, I’ll have to admit, I could’ve sworn I noticed a cute pair of vintage flats on her yesterday.”

“They
were
vintage,” Wes confirms. “I recognized the lining when she accidentally tripped going up the stairs and lost one.”

“I’m still not following,” I tell them.

“Am I to assume you haven’t heard about the whole cheating incident that went down in Puke-o’s class last week?” Wes asks me. (Puke-o is our name for Mr. Pulco, the calculus teacher.)

“It happened between Danica and a couple of the Candies,” Kimmie explains.

The Candy Clique is a group of girls whose names all rhyme with “candy.” There’s Shandy, Mandy, Andy (short for Anderson, her last name), and Sandy (whose real name is Jen, but whose mother’s maiden name is supposedly Sandy).

“For the record, I have no idea what either of you are talking about.”

“Tell me, oh, dearest Chameleon,” Wes says, “does the rock under which you live have heat and running water?”

“Apparently, a couple of the Candies wanted to cheat off Danica in precalc,” Kimmie says, “and Danica told them where they could stick their slice of
pi
.”

“But really loudly,” Wes adds. “She announced it to the entire class, and then said that their brains, collectively, amounted to the size of a pea. People initially thought it was funny.

Supposedly, even Puke-o was caught smirking.”

“Good for her,” I say, flashing back to an incident that happened in junior high, when I wish she’d been as brave.

And when I wish I’d been brave, too.

“But now the Candies are mad as hell, and the masses have joined their stampede.”

Kimmie points to the soccer table, where John Kenneally (who just happens to be dating Andy Candy) and his team of lemmings appear to be plotting something evil. They’re eyeballing Danica and huddling in close.

“People are treating her like dog dung.” Wes sighs. “Even more so than normal.”

“Because no one can think for themselves,” I say, watching the candy-colored clique (literally, since they’re dressed in contrasting pastel colors today) stand up from their table, dump their trash in unison, and move toward the exit.

“You don’t seriously expect any of the Candies to have an independent thought, do you?”

Wes asks, stifling a laugh. “But I certainly like the way you think.” He flashes his bright blue notebook, the cover of which reads: WES’S POETRY JOURNAL. “Sage wisdom such as yours is just one of the reasons why I’m considering letting you be the first reader of my poetry.”

“Since when are you a poet?” Kimmie asks.

“Since I needed to find a way to express myself in a manner that doesn’t include snapshots of period panties and joining my own candy-coated group.”

“Well, just say the word,” I tell him, taking a sip of hemp-milk heinousness. “I’d love to read your work.” I continue to look around, checking for people’s reactions as Danica makes her way across the cafeteria.

That’s when I spot Ben, sitting with Alejandra Chavez.

“I’m almost surprised that Danica doesn’t take her lunch in the library,” Kimmie says. “I mean, it’d probably be a whole lot less painful.”

I bite my lip, surprised that Ben isn’t in the library, either, that he’s elected to be among everybody else, risking the possibility of touch.

And of having me see him with Alejandra again.

Ironically, Danica stops at their table, but Alejandra seems less than excited to see her.

She keeps her focus on Ben, practically ignoring the fact that Danica is standing there, looking completely desperate as she shuffles her feet and finally shrugs her shoulders.

“What’s all that about?” Wes asks, slipping on a pair of tiny, round, wannabe John Lennon eyeglasses.

“The fact that Danica is standing at Ben’s table?” Kimmie asks. “Or that Ben is out of seclusion and lunching with Freetown High’s Most Beautiful Person?”

“Both,” I whisper, relieved to see that Ben doesn’t follow Alejandra’s lead. He makes direct eye contact with Danica and nods toward an empty seat.

But Danica turns away and heads toward the soda machines.

“Paging Camelia Chameleon,” Kimmie says, using an empty juice cup as a makeshift intercom to get my attention.

The next thing I know, Danica’s down on the ground. It appears that John Kenneally has

“accidentally” bumped into her, spilling the contents of her tray down the front of her sweater.

John tries to stifle his laugh with a lame little cough, then scoots down as if to help wipe up the spill.

Finally, Mr. Muse comes over to see what the commotion is all about. He sticks around for a few moments, making sure that Danica and John have things under control, but then disappears inside the kitchen area, most likely to get his fill of swill.

With the coast now clear, John gets up and tosses a napkin at the glob of spaghetti on Danica’s sweater. Meanwhile, kids are laughing and pointing. The soccer-team table cheers John on. “You rock!” someone shouts out.

I grab a stack of napkins and hurry over to help her. Danica’s face is almost as red as the sauce stain on her sweater, and she is holding back tears.

“What are you doing?” she snaps, unwilling to trust me. And I know exactly why. She tucks a strand of her shoulder-length dark hair behind her ear, getting a smear of sauce on her cheek.

I gesture to her face with a napkin, then resume cleaning up the mess. It isn’t long before I get the floor spic-and-span, but Danica still looks upset. “Let’s go get you cleaned up,” I say, giving a reassuring squeeze to her forearm.

Danica heads toward the bathroom. I start to follow her, but then I come to a sudden stop.

Ben is standing up at his table, staring straight at me.

It appears that Alejandra is asking him something—begging for him to sit back down, maybe. Her arms are waving, and there’s a pleading look in her eyes.

But Ben remains focused on me.

My heart hammers, and my mouth turns dry. I’m tempted to stay and see what he wants.

But instead I give him a little wave, and turn to follow Danica.

THE SIGN ON THE GIRLS’ bathroom door says OUT OF ORDER, so Danica and I head across the hallway to the locker room. There aren’t any ice skates in front of the door, as there were in my hallucination in the sculpture class, and the lights inside are all working. But still, just being in here gives me major déjà vu.

Danica stops short just a few steps inside.

We’re not alone: voices come from behind the wall that separates us from the sink area.

A moment later, there’s a crash.

“Holy crap,” one of the voices shouts. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

At the same moment, Mandy Candy peeks out from behind the wall, into the locker area, bursting into laughter when she sees us. “Well, at least the cleanup crew is here.”