Deadly Little Voices (9 page)

“You’ll have fifteen minutes to sketch the model in his first pose,” Dwayne tells us,

“after which he’ll reposition and you’ll begin anew.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. The model gets into his pose, with his arms folded in front of him. He turns his head ever so slightly.

And I notice.

The way his chin juts out and the line of his jaw.

My pencil drops from my hand, and I feel my heart pound.

“Camelia?” Kimmie asks. She touches my shoulder, perhaps wondering if I’m having another one of my psychometric episodes. “Do you need to go get some water?”

I nod and start to get up, bumping into my easel. It scratches against the floor. My sketch pad topples over with a
smack
.

“It’s no big deal,” Kimmie says, scrambling to pick it up.

But it
is
a big deal. Because people in class turn to look.

People, including naked Adam.

“Camelia?” he asks, seemingly as horrified as I am. He grabs the first thing within reach—a piece of wax fruit from a bowl near him—in a futile attempt to cover himself.

“Is there a problem?” Dwayne asks; he seems annoyed by the disturbance.

“I’m sorry,” I say, collecting my things.

Meanwhile, Kimmie gawks at Adam as he holds the apple over his serpent. “Holy Garden of Eden,” she whispers, making the sign of the cross. “That Eve’s a lucky girl.”

I FLEE FROM THE STUDIO, eager to get away.

Kimmie reluctantly follows. “It’s just the novelty of the nudity,” she assures me. “By the second pose, you’ll be so used to seeing his naked ass you won’t even give it a second thought.”

“How can you honestly say that?” I whirl around to face her. We’re standing in the middle of the hallway, a good six doors down from the studio. “He practically had that ass in my face.”

“And the problem with that
is
…”

“It’s just too weird,” I say, shaking my head, feeling my heart beat at triple its normal speed.

Kimmie looks crushed, the way she did the time I accidentally spilled glaze all over the front of her favorite poodle skirt.

“I won’t be mad if you want to go back in,” I tell her. “I’ll even wait for you.” I point to a group of sofas in an alcove at the end of the hallway.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

I nod, almost surprised that she wants to take me up on the offer to sketch Adam naked.

Almost.

Kimmie turns to go back to the studio just as Adam comes rushing out.

Wearing his robe again, he looks relieved to have caught us. “Hey,” he says, moving in our direction. His face looks sweaty. His neck is splotchy. Still, all I can picture is that wax apple between his legs.

“Do you have a second?” he asks me.

“Don’t you need to be in the studio?”

“I need to be right here,” he says, pointing toward the sofas. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Wait, does this mean that they need another model?” Kimmie taps her chin in thought.

“Don’t even think about it,” I tell her.

“Actually, they’re sketching one of the students,” Adam says. “With clothes on.”

Even so, Kimmie seems interested. She excuses herself and heads back to the studio.

Meanwhile, Adam and I move to the alcove to talk.

He takes a seat on the sofa, and his robe falls open. “Sorry,” he says, turning all shades of red. He holds his legs closed, keeping the robe firmly in place. “So…” he says, clearly awkward.

But I’m awkward, too. I fidget in my seat, not quite sure where to look.

“Come here often?” he jokes.

“Spencer suggested that I take this course.”

“Are you sure that’s the real reason you’re here?” he asks, still trying to be funny. He pulls up on the robe, revealing a bit of his knee.

“You’re such a dork,” I say, unable to hide my smile.

Adam bumps his shoulder against mine. “Yeah, but you know you love me.”

I swallow hard, not quite sure how to respond.

“And, hey,” he continues, before I have the chance, “any time you want to see me naked, just say the word. No need to make up excuses and go to all this trouble.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, playing along. “So, when did you start modeling?”

“A month ago.” He shrugs. “I’m just trying to earn a few extra bucks.”

“By baring your bod for cash?”

“Why not? No animals are harmed while I pose.”

“My PETA-loving mom would be so proud,” I say, noticing the golden-blond hair on his calves. “Are you still working at the art supply store?”

He nods. “But I’m also hoping to transfer to a good architectural program in the fall, so I need all the extra money I can get.”

“And now you’ve lost your gig.” I look toward the studio door, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t go back in.

“Yeah, but the view is better out here.” He’s staring straight at me now. “And I’m not just talking about my hairy legs…though they’re pretty fine, too.”

I laugh, but Adam’s expression remains serious.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. His dark brown eyes focus hard on mine.

“It’s only been a couple weeks,” I say, feeling stupid for even saying it. Because deep down, I’ve missed him, too.

AFTER A GOOD THIRTY MINUTES or so spent catching up, Adam goes off to change into his clothes, while I remain in the alcove waiting until the drawing class lets out.

“They should be wrapping up right about now,” he says when he comes to join me back on the sofa.

He’s dressed in a pair of dark-washed jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, but still I can’t help picturing him just moments ago: like a Greek god statue in the center of Athens.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, noticing maybe that I can’t stop staring.

“It’s fine,” I say, relieved when people finally start to filter out.

I make a beeline for the door and hurry inside to apologize again to Dwayne. “I shouldn’t have run out of the room like that,” I tell him.

“It’s just that seeing her ex au naturel totally caught her off guard,” Kimmie says, calling out from her seat. She’s putting the finishing touches on her sketch.

Dwayne smiles, seemingly far more amused by our awkward situation than angered by it, and so he offers Adam the opportunity of modeling for his Tuesday night class and tells me to come back next week.

“Thank you,” I say, grateful for his patience.

Meanwhile, Kimmie closes her sketchbook and thanks Dwayne as well. “I learned a lot.”

She gives him a thumbs-up. “But next week I want to sketch skin.”

I drag her out of the studio before Dwayne can change his mind. Just a few steps down the hallway, Adam stops us. “What’s the rush?” he asks.

I check my watch. It’s almost nine. “I should probably call my mom to come pick me up.

Kimmie, do you need a ride?”

“
I
could drive you guys home,” he says. “It’s on my way.”

“Since when?” I ask. Freetown is a good twenty minutes away; his apartment is barely two.

“Yeah, but the Press & Grind is open late, and they have the best mocha-chip brownies in town. I could use a little pick-me-up.”

“Perfect,” Kimmie says, accepting for the both of us. “And why don’t we stop for a pizza en route? All that sketching has got me starving.”

The next thing I know, I’m calling my mom to give her the scoop, and then hopping into the front seat of Adam’s old ’70s Bronco. The familiar rumble of the engine, coupled with the syrupy scent in the air—from Adam’s bacon-scented air freshener—takes me back to just months ago, when, sitting in this very car, Adam leaned toward me to touch my face and I couldn’t wait to kiss him.

“This is a sweet ride,” Kimmie says, angling herself over the front seat to appeal to Adam’s ego. “You do know how much Camelia here loves vintage cars, don’t you?” (A big fat lie.)

“Seriously?” Adam asks, practically beaming.

“Are you kidding? Camelia can barely get enough of those car restoration shows on TV.…You know, the ones that feature old classic hotrods being restored to their original condition by a bunch of gearheads.” (Lie number two.)

“Wow, that’s totally cool,” Adam says.

I don’t have the heart to tell him the truth, and so I merely gaze out the window as we pull into the parking lot of Pizza Rita’s.

We order a large cheese pizza, then chat about the class. Kimmie is beyond excited, telling us how inspiring Dwayne is, and how he said she has an eye for balance and proportion.

“Dwayne’s a great teacher,” Adam says in agreement. “I’ve learned a lot just from posing—just from listening to the way he instructs his students.”

“Speaking of posing,” Kimmie says, practically sprouting a pitchfork, tail, and horns,

“what does it feel like up there…hanging around on the platform? I mean, do you care that people are staring at your junk and stuff?”

“Well, I’m not exactly
hanging around
.” He clears his throat. “And I’m not so sure they’re staring.”

“Trust me,” she says, her eyes as big as fishbowls. “They are.”

A moment later our food comes, but Kimmie still doesn’t let up: “What does a gig like that even pay?”

“It’s not such a bad deal,” Adam says, trying to remain aloof. “I mean, aside from today’s incident, it’s relatively painless. Plus, I get to contribute to the world of art.”

“By showing your schlong?” she asks, completely straight-faced.

Instead of getting upset, Adam humors her for several more minutes, which reminds me just how generous he is.

And how much I really like him.

We continue to talk, eat, and laugh for another full hour, pausing only once while I call home to give my dad an update. Kimmie seems much happier than when she was in her previous

“anti-D” state. And I have to admit I’m feeling pretty human again, too. She even jokes that the
D
on her hand should really stand for
ditz
.

“Because, let’s face it,” she says, “this baby ain’t coming off for weeks.”

“Yeah, but it looks pretty cool,” Adam says. “Plus, I’m sure you’ll be able to dress around it.”

“So right,” Kimmie says. “I can also change what the
D
stands for according to my mood.”

“One day, anti-Drama,” I suggest. “The next day, anti-Dad.”

“The following day, anti-Dolls,” she says with a wink. “Especially creepy ones with eyes that open and close.”

“We should probably get going,” I say, unwilling to get into my own drama in front of Adam.

Adam agrees, and he drops Kimmie off first. She steps out of the car, but then pokes her head into the passenger-side window to give me a pleading look. “Call me if anything good happens, okay?”

“Will do.” I smile, able to read her corrupt and suspicious mind.

Adam drives me home, filling the silence with small talk about his midterm exams and a project he’s working on involving the redesign of an elementary-school playground. He asks me questions about my classes as well, but I’m feeling far too nervous for chitchat.

Finally, we pull up in front of my house. Adam puts the car in park and turns to me. “I want to see you again,” he says, before I have a chance to say good night. “Can I call you?”

“That’d be nice.”

“Really?” he says, seemingly surprised by my response. “So I can take you out sometime?”

“Sure,” I say, gazing at the scar on his lower lip. “But just as friends, okay?”

“No sweat.” He smiles.

I smile, too, reminded of how happy Adam always makes me and how easy it is to be with him compared to Ben. For a change, that feels really nice.

LATER, IN MY ROOM, I do all my homework and then settle into bed, grateful for the routine and for the fact that things are starting to feel somewhat normal again.

I grab a comb and make an attempt to work it through the kinks in my hair. But the truth is that I’ve been all kinks lately, because I haven’t been pursuing my pottery—not really, anyway.

Part of me wonders if I
should
be pursuing it—if I should be using my pottery to figure out the story behind the voices. But another part of me is terrified of those voices, because hearing them—and getting so caught up in what’s going on inside my head that I feel completely confused about what’s really happening—brings me one step closer to being like Aunt Alexia.