Deadly Little Voices (15 page)

“It’s just that I’ve seen it before,” I explain. “Or at least one that looks a lot like it.”

“You’ve
never
seen it. It was found on the beach.”

“Found by whom?” I ask.

“What are you even doing here?” she asks again; her tone is both irritated and defensive.

“I’m worried about you,” I say, deciding to be honest. “I didn’t like what happened in the cafeteria today. And I definitely didn’t like what the Candies wrote in the locker room.”

“Since when does that sort of thing bother you?” she asks, folding her arms.

“Look, I’m just trying to do the right thing here.”

“Yes, but
why
?”

I look away, remembering how in the seventh grade, Chelsea Maloff dropped a pocketful of crabgrass onto Danica’s lunch tray and dubbed her Horse Face. The following year, Jazz

Minkum drew a picture of a monster in art class. When Ms. DiPietro asked him what his inspiration was, he said, “Danica,” and everybody laughed.

In neither of those incidents was I one of the people cheering, or laughing, or egging the instigator on. But, as in the incident in the park with Finn, I didn’t do anything to stop what was happening, either.

And so Danica has no real reason to trust me.

“I think you might be in trouble,” I tell her, feeling my insides shake.

“What are you talking about?” She takes a step closer. “And why do you care?”

“Because I’m trying to be a friend,” I say, knowing how awkward the answer sounds; but it’s precisely how I feel.

“I know who my real friends are,” she scoffs. “And obviously you’re not one of them.”

She turns on her heel and takes off down the street, as if I’m no longer a second thought, and maybe I never was.

KIMMIE DOESN’T CALL me all weekend, so I know she’s still upset. The last time we went this long without talking, it was over summer vacation and she and her family had gone into the hills of East Bum Suck, Vermont, where her cell phone didn’t get any reception.

By Sunday night, I try giving her a call. When she doesn’t pick up even after my third attempt, I text her that I want to talk.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t text back.

Monday morning, as usual, I wait for her by my locker, where we always meet before homeroom. As expected, she doesn’t come by.

Somehow, I manage to get through my next four classes. Somehow, I manage to beat Wes to the cafeteria (so I’ll have some time alone with Kimmie), even though my last class takes place on the opposite side of the building.

Kimmie is sitting at our usual table in the cafeteria. I hurry over, taking a seat across from her. “We need to talk,” I tell her, all out of breath.

“About what?” she asks, as if she couldn’t possibly have a clue. Still, her demeanor says otherwise: shoulders stiff, body angled away from me, and no eye contact.

“Did you get my text last night?”

Instead of answering, she waves Wes over, lighting up at the sight of him—at the fact, perhaps, that she no longer has to be alone at the table with me.

While Wes quizzes her for a Spanish test, I swallow what’s left of my chick-un sandwich and do my best not to cry.

After school, Mom picks me up, and there’s a brief exchange of nothingness.

“How was school?”

“Fine. How was work?”

“Not bad. Did you enjoy the chick-un sandwich?”

“It was okay.”

Mom pushes the play button on her CD player to resume listening to her daily inspirations. Dr. Wayne Dyer’s voice comes out of the speakers, telling her how to change her life.

If only I could change mine.

Finally we arrive at Dr. Tylyn’s office for my much-needed appointment, and Mom pushes the pause button. “How do you like this Tylyn woman? Do you feel like she’s helping you?”

“I feel like she
can
help me,” I say, hoping it’s the truth.

“That’s good,” she says, relaxing in her seat, failing to ask me anything else, even when I wait a full five seconds. It’s as if she’s finally resigned to letting go—to letting someone else ask all the tough questions. But not even Kimmie is asking them anymore.

“I’ll be back in two hours,” she says.

Two hours: the length of time that Dr. Tylyn recommended we’d meet.

I hurry inside the main campus building and up the stairs, two at a time. Dr. Tylyn is already in her office when I arrive.

“How are you doing today?” she asks, turning away from her computer. The voodoo doll has graduated from her chair to the top of her desk. Without waiting for my answer, she gets up to light a stick of incense, then joins me on the sofa with her tea. “I’d like to start this session by talking about the real reason you’ve come to see me.”

The
real reason
? “I’m here because Ms. Beady said I needed a therapist.”

“Well, I think there’s more to it,” she says, staring straight at me.

I wriggle in my seat, unsure of how to respond.

“I’m a firm believer that people create their own reality,” she continues. “You
wanted
to come see me. It was a conscious choice that you made.”

“Meaning I made all of this happen?” I ask. “The hallucinations? The voices? The instances when I’ve felt like I’m literally coming apart at the seams?”

“No, but I
do
believe that some part of you—subconsciously—chose to bring those voices to a head at a specifically opportune time, so that you’d require some sort of intervention.”

“Except I wouldn’t exactly call freaking out in the middle of art class an opportune time,”

I tell her.

“Why not? It got you here, didn’t it?” she says. “Let’s face it; our brain protects us in so many ways. Perhaps yours was leading you to help.”

“Maybe.” I shrug, wondering if she might be right.

“So, what’s the real reason you’re here?” she asks again.

I sit on my hands to keep from fidgeting, surprised at how good she is at getting to the truth. We spend the next several minutes talking about my aunt—how I found her diary, how she’s been in and out of mental hospitals, and how I know she has the power of psychometry.

“Is that what you think you have, too?” she asks, not showing even a hint of alarm.

I nod and tell her about Ben, about how he used his power to save my life, and about how I’ve been able to predict the future, too. “But through my pottery,” I explain. “Through sculpting, or even just dreaming about sculpting…sort of like how my aunt is able to predict stuff with her paintings.”

“But unlike you, Ben has never questioned his own sanity,” she points out. “Why do you think that is?”

“Maybe because he doesn’t hear voices? Because he doesn’t have an aunt who’s tried to kill herself a bunch of times?”

“Your aunt isn’t you,” she says.

“Yes, but sometimes history repeats itself.”

“It doesn’t always have to—at least, not in your case. Sometimes history repeats itself because people follow patterns that they didn’t create.”

“I didn’t choose to hear these voices,” I assure her.

“No, you didn’t,” she agrees. “But how you deal with the voices
is
your choice—at least, it is for now.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning, you need to create your own patterns. You need to give yourself a chance.”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“I hope so,” she says, leaning forward over her notes. “You chose to find me, after all…and that’s a big step in the right direction.”

I take a deep breath, focusing on the idea of choice. I know that it was Ben’s choice to stop punishing himself for his past, to try and start anew, which is why he moved to Freetown.

“What will
you
choose?” Dr. Tylyn asks me.

If only I had the answer.

BY THE TIME I LEAVE Dr. Tylyn’s office, my head is absolutely spinning. I start down the hallway toward the exit, noticing that Hayden’s night classes are already in full swing; most of the classrooms are packed with students. I’m just about to head down the stairs when I hear a male voice call out my name.

I turn to look, thinking it’s Ben, feeling my heart start to beat at quadruple its normal speed.

But it’s Adam.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.

He’s sitting on a chair outside the dean’s office, partly blocked by a cleaning cart. “Well, last I checked, I was kind of a student here.” He smiles, standing up to greet me.

“Are you taking night classes?” I look toward the chair for a bag or some books, but it appears he’s empty-handed. “You’re posing tonight?” I guess.

He shakes his head, suddenly appearing nervous. He tucks the tips of his fingers into the pockets of his jeans, but then ends up folding his arms. “I was actually waiting for you,” he explains.

“You were?” I ask, completely confused. I gaze back toward Dr. Tylyn’s office, wondering how he could possibly have known that I had an appointment.

“I was picking up my check from Dwayne when I saw you go in,” he explains.

“Two
hours
ago.” I look at my watch.

“I didn’t know how long you were going to be, so I decided to wait. After about an hour or so, I told myself to leave, but then I’d already been waiting so long it would’ve been stupid to give up. Anyway, here I am.” He smiles again. “But, fear not, I had company.” He pulls his cell phone from his pocket and shows me the screen, where he’s got a game of solitaire in progress.

“I also raided the candy machine a couple of times.” He reaches into his jacket for a box of Jujyfruits. “Your favorite, right?” He hands me the box.

“How did you know?” I ask, dumbfounded that he would’ve waited so long, that he
did
wait so long.

Just for me.

“I’m cool that way.” He winks. “So, what do you say? Can I give you a ride home? Can I buy you a late-night dinner? A walk to your car? A coffee to fulfill your all-night cramming needs? An ice cream at the nearest dairy establishment?”

“That’s quite a list of choices.”

“I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“Well, in that case,” I say, reaching for my phone to dial my mom, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Unfortunately, Mom doesn’t pick up; she probably still has her cell phone set to silent mode because of yoga class (a fairly regular occurrence). Adam and I exit Hayden’s main campus building, and I spot her, already parked and waiting by the curb.

She rolls the passenger-side window down when she sees Adam and me approach. “It’s good to see you,” she tells him.

Adam returns the sentiment, saying that he’s missed chatting about soccer with my dad, and that he was recently telling someone about my mom’s Elvis-inspired rawkin’ raw-sagna.

But, before they can continue to bond, I interrupt this program to mention that Adam’s offered to take me out for a quick bite.

“
Now
?” Mom asks.

“If it wouldn’t be a problem,” Adam says. “And I’d be happy to bring Camelia home afterward.”

“It’ll only be an hour or so,” I assure them both.

Mom doesn’t argue, perhaps glad to see me doing something “normal.” Instead, she reminds me that it’s a school night, and that I need to be home by ten. I hop into Adam’s Bronco, and he takes us to a 1950s-type diner. There’s nothing rawkin’ about this place. It’s my mother’s worst nightmare come true, complete with cheddar fries, strawberry milkshakes, and old-fashioned burgers—all of which is served right to your car window by a server on roller skates.

I take a sip of my shake. “You’re just like my dad, you know that?”

“Just what every guy wants to hear.”

“I mean that you always know the best places to eat. It’s a compliment.” I smile.

“Are you sure?” He smiles back. “Because I kind of thought that telling a guy he has a really nice butt, or saying how jacked his arms are, was far more complimentary…especially after seeing him naked.”

“Fishing for compliments, are we?”

“More like begging for them.”

“Well, in that case, you never fail to make me laugh.”

“The kiss of death.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “And now for the burning question.”

“I’m almost afraid to know.”

“What’s with you and a two-hour meeting with Tylyn?”

“Oh, that,” I say, chewing the question down with a fry.

“I hope it’s not because of me,” he continues, “because of all the torment I put you through.”