Still holding the phone in my hand, I’m tempted to give Kimmie a call. A moment later it rings—the sound cuts through my bones. I click the receiver on and place it up to my ear.
“Camelia?” a male voice says before I can speak.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s me.” The voice brightens. “Ben.”
My heart tightens, and my stomach twists.
“Did you call before?” I ask.
“Yeah, but the line was busy. I would have tried your cell, but you didn’t give me the number.”
“How did you know I was home?”
“I didn’t. I just thought I’d give it a shot.”
“But I just got here,” I say. “How did you know the precise time to call me?”
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Maybe I should be asking you the same. You never made it back to school today.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“We really need to talk,” I say, trying to be brave.
“About what?”
“Not over the phone.”
“Are you alone?”
“No,” I lie.
“Good. Your parents are there?”
I look out the living room window, noticing that the streetlamp in front of our house is still out. It seems my neighbors aren’t around, either. The porch lights across the street and next door are all off.
“Camelia?”
“I’m here.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I grab an afghan from the foot of the sofa and drape it over me, to try and take the chill off.
“You’re alone, aren’t you?” he says, his voice is barely above a whisper.
I reach up to yank the curtains closed and then check around the room, making sure no one can see me through any other window. “I’m coming over,” he continues. “You don’t sound right.”
“I’m fine,” I say, to reassure him. It’s quiet on the other end for several seconds, but then he tells me he’s coming over anyway. “I’ll be there soon,” he says. I hang up, opting not to argue, but instead to go with my gut, especially since there’s so much I need to ask him about. A few seconds later, the phone rings again. “Hello?” No one answers, but I can tell someone’s there. I can hear breathing on the other end, followed by a weird scratching sound. “Hello?”
“Don’t forget the mailbox,” a voice whispers finally, sending chills straight down my back. “Excuse me?”
“The mailbox,” he hisses. “You forgot to check it on the way in.”
“Who is this?” I move to a corner window and peek out from behind the curtain. But I don’t see anyone. “Good things come to those who wait,” he says, his voice softening again. “I’ve waited for you. Now it’s your turn.”
“Who is this?” I shout. “Luckily, you won’t have to wait too long.” He hangs up. The receiver clutched in my hand, I go to the door.
Meanwhile, the phone starts ringing again. I ignore it and peer through the peephole. The mailbox flag is in the up position.
41
Instead of checking the mailbox, I end up pacing across the living room floor, trying to decide whether or not to call my parents and ask them to come home. I’m dialing my dad’s number when I hear a car door slam in front of the house.
A second later, there’s a knock on the door—a hardfisted bang, followed by the sound of the doorbell ringing. Too afraid to go to the door, I grab a pottery bowl and position myself behind the buffet, away from the windows so no one can see me. Meanwhile the doorbell continues and so does the banging.
I take a deep breath, trying to stop the tightening sensation inside my chest.
The outer door swings open. The doorknob jiggles back and forth. I click the phone on, prepared to dial 911. But then the banging stops—just like that. The outer door closes, too. A few seconds later, I hear the car door slam again.
Slowly I move from behind the buffet to look out the window. A small dark car peels away with a screech.
But then the doorbell rings again.
Shaking, I walk toward the door.
“Camelia?” a male voice calls from just behind it.
I peer through the peephole. It’s Ben. And he’s holding a pizza.
I unlock the door and whisk it open, having completely forgotten I ordered dinner.
There’s a huge grin across his face. “Did you order a large cheese with mushroom? You owe me fifteen bucks, by the way.”
“You scared me.”
“I can see that.” He gestures toward the pottery bowl, still gripped in my hand.
The mailbox is in full view now, just behind him, with the flag pointed upward. I close my eyes a moment, still able to hear the caller’s voice in my mind’s ear, telling me to look inside.
“What is it?” Ben asks.
I motion to the mailbox.
“Do you want me to check?”
I shake my head and step outside, wondering if I’m being watched. But I don’t see anyone, and nothing looks unusual.
“What’s wrong?” He takes a step closer to me.
I inhale the cool night air and let it filter out slowly in one long and visible puff. Aside from the screeching of Davis Miller’s electric guitar at the end of the street, it’s eerily quiet. I glance around, spotting Ben’s motorcycle parked on the corner. “Did you just get here?”
He nods.
“Are you sure?” I ask, almost positive I would have heard the motor rumble his arrival.
“Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know,” I say, meeting his eye.
“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” His dark eyes narrow.
I ignore the question and look away, back toward the mailbox. With trembling fingers I open it up.
There’s a large manila envelope inside with my name written on the front. “Another photo,” I say, recognizing the red lettering. I take the envelope, lead Ben inside, and then lock the door.
“Let me open it,” he says. “If he recently left it, it may still have his energy. I might be able to sense something.”
We sit opposite one another at the kitchen island. Ben brushes his fingers over the surface of the envelope.
“Do you feel anything?” I ask.
He closes his eyes to concentrate. The muscles in his forearms pulse. “Soon,” he whispers, letting out a giant breath.
“Soon what?”
Instead of answering, he opens the flap and reaches inside. He pulls out a bunch of cut-up photos. I take a closer look, noticing how they appear to be part of a whole.
Ben flips through them, running his fingers over the edges.
“It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?” I say.
Ben spreads the pieces flat on the marble surface and begins to put the image together. The bright red letters scrawled across the photo’s surface makes it easier. It’s only a matter of seconds before the message becomes clear.
“Time’s almost up,” I whisper, reading the words aloud.
It’s a picture of me glancing down at my watch. “It was taken today,” I say, noting that my clothes and hair are the same. “On my way to Knead.”
Ben turns to me. A strand of his dark, wavy hair falls into his eyes. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he says.
“Promise?”
He reaches for my hand, but then stops just shy of it. His fingers tremble, like he wants to touch me but can’t.
Please, I scream inside my head. There’s an aching inside me so strong my head feels suddenly dizzy.
Ben grazes my thumb with his finger. I wonder if he can read my mind—and this is all he can manage for now. “I promise,” he says. “But right now we need to keep focused.”
“Right,” I agree, glancing back at the photo and the message scribbled across it. “Because there isn’t much time.”
And my life depends on it.
42
Ben and I spend the next full hour discussing the photo and the phone call I
got earlier.
“He’s definitely close.” Ben presses a piece of the photo between two fingers and looks toward the kitchen window, but the blind’s already drawn.
“I think it’s time to call the police,” I say.
Ben shakes his head and presses harder, nearly mangling the piece. “I’ve had it with police.”
“Because of before?” I ask.
“Because of right now.” He drops the photo piece and swivels on his stool to face me. “They gave me a warning.”
“The police?”
He nods. “That Debbie girl told them I’ve been following her.”
“And they believe her?”
Ben shrugs. “I don’t know what they believe, but they started asking me all these questions—where I’ve been at certain times, who I hang around with, and what I do when I’m alone.”
“And what did you tell them?”
“The truth. What else could I tell them?”
“I talked to Debbie,” I say, eager for the truth myself.
Ben nods, seemingly unsurprised.
“She really believes it,” I continue. “She really thinks you want to hurt her.”
“I know. I’ve heard it.”
But, still, he doesn’t deny it.
It’s quiet between us for several moments—just the hum of the refrigerator and the clicking of the second hand from the cat-shaped kitchen clock.
“So, why would she say all that?” I ask, cutting through the silence.
Ben inches in a little closer. His clothes smell like burning leaves. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you have to trust me.”
“She said you guys are in history class together.”
“And so, what does that prove? I’m not after Debbie.”
“Then who are you after?”
“Nobody.” He shakes his head.
“So touch me again.” I slide my hand toward his. “And tell me when all of this is going to end.”
Ben eyes my hand, clearly tempted, but then he swivels away. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s complicated.”
“What is? I mean, we’ve already been through this. You’re not going to hurt me.”
“How do you know?” He runs his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “But if you don’t even try, then why did you bother telling me about your touch powers? Time’s almost up.” I gesture toward the photo. “And that could be me.”
“I know.” His jaw is visibly tense. “But you don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand. Tell me what’s going on inside your head.”
“I’m haunted by her,” he whispers.
“You mean Julie?”
He nods. “I keep seeing her face. I keep seeing her fall off that cliff.”
“It was an accident,” I remind him.
Ben hikes up his sleeves as if he’s suddenly hot, revealing the narrow gash that runs up his forearm.
“Is that where you got your scar?” I ask.
He nods and looks down at it. “It’s like a permanent reminder of what happened. After she fell, I tried to climb down the cliff—to get to her—but I ended up tearing my arm open on a jagged rock.”
“Was that incident the first time you sensed stuff?”
He shakes his head and tugs his sleeves back down. “But before that it was only small stuff. I’d bump someone’s shoulder and know their car would get a flat, or I’d shake someone’s hand and picture what they’d be having for dinner that night. At first I thought it was coincidence, but then it got kind of obvious—I’d be able to predict stuff.”
“Did you ever use that to your advantage?”
“I never wanted to use it, period. Plus, this touching thing . . . it isn’t always predictable. I can’t always sense what I want to. I mean, I can try—I can concentrate really hard. But, like, with you, for example, sometimes I’ll sense danger, and other times I’ll feel something else entirely.”
“Like what?”
He stares at me as if he doesn’t want to say. “I did research on psychometry when the symptoms first started,” he segues. “I needed to know what was happening to me, why I was able to see such vivid details by merely touching someone—like with Julie.”
I look away tempted to remind him that I’m not her. But then I feel it—he swallows my hand up in his. And then he slides off his stool and takes a step forward, so close that my face is level with his chest.
“What are you thinking?” he asks. The cotton of his sweatshirt presses against my cheek with each breath.
“You tell me,” I say, noticing how that same breath deepens and becomes rhythmic, as if he’s trying his best to stay in control.
He grips me tighter, and threads his fingers through mine.
“Do you feel anything?” I ask.
He meets my eyes, just watching me for several seconds without saying anything. “You’re a control freak, aren’t you?”
“That’s what you sense?”
“It’s what I observe. You like to have things in order. You like everything all planned out. Am I right?”
My mouth trembles, and I manage a nod.
Meanwhile, Ben edges closer. His leg grazes my thigh. “So, what do you do about things beyond your control?” he asks.
“Like what?”
His hand clenches mine harder, in a tightening pressure that nearly makes me lose my breath. “Like whether or not it’s going to rain tomorrow, or whether I’m going to kiss you right now.”
I open my mouth to speak—to tell him he’ll have to find out for himself—but then he moves in to kiss me anyway.
A moment later, the front door swings open with a bang.
He jumps back and releases my hand.
“Camelia, are you home?” my dad calls.
Ben scurries to grab the pieces of photo. He feeds them inside the envelope, then stashes it up the back of his sweatshirt.
A second later, my parents come into the kitchen. They look back and forth between Ben and me, waiting for some explanation, but I don’t even know what just happened myself.
Ben introduces himself as my lab partner from school.
My mother extends her hand for a shake. Ben eyes it, but he doesn’t move. Her face furrowed, Mom looks at Dad and then at me. At the same moment, Ben quickly shakes her hand— their fingers barely touch—and then tells us he has to go.
43
I can’t sleep.
It’s almost midnight, and I’m lying awake in bed, trying my best to put the events of the night behind me and get a little rest.
But it isn’t working.
After Ben left, my mother sat me down for a talk. And while I thought she’d at least mention Ben’s visit and his weird handshake, his name never even came up.
“Where did you and Dad go tonight?” I asked, noticing how she couldn’t even look at me. Her skin was all blotchy, and her normally kinky curls were slicked back into a tight knot.
After several sips of tea and countless yoga breaths, she finally opened up, telling me how she and Dad went to the hospital today intending to visit Aunt Alexia, but how once there my mother couldn’t even bring herself to step inside.
“I couldn’t face her,” she said. “I couldn’t look her in the eye.”
I scooted in closer to pat her back. “Why is she even in there?”
With a pillow clutched over her middle, my mother told me that Aunt Alexia tried to kill herself again (for the fourth time, to be exact).
“Is she going to be all right?”
Instead of answering, Mom started crying, and so dad scooped her up and carried her off to their bedroom.
And meanwhile I went off to mine.
I roll over in bed, looking for my stuffed polar bear, but it isn’t burrowed under my covers or stashed under my mound of pillows. I let out a sigh and gaze toward the window.
The moon is swollen and stirring tonight—just like me. My body feels bruised, and I ca
n’t seem to stifle this tugging sensation inside me. I pull the covers up to my chin only to find that they make me feel smothered. And so I sit up in bed, wishing I were outside, to feel the velvety night air over my skin and allow its darkness to swallow me whole.
I look toward my bedroom door. My mother is still sobbing—I can hear her in the bedroom across the hall. I can hear my dad, too. He tells her everything will be okay. I wonder if he really believes it.
The moon casts a strip of light across my bed, cutting it in two. Slowly I get up and move to the window. I pull up the screen, and a salty breeze blows through, smelling like the sea, reminding me of Ben.
I grab my cell phone and start to call him, but I’m still not getting a signal, and so, without even thinking, I reach for my jacket and crawl outside, hoping that will make a difference. Finally, the call goes through.
“Camelia?” He answers on the first ring.
Standing at the front of my house, I clutch the phone against my ear, not even knowing what to say.
“Where are you?” he asks, not even asking for explanation.
“Outside,” I reply, trying to be mysterious. The light of the moon illuminates a puddle on the street. “And you?”
“Same,” he whispers.
“For real?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I needed some air.”
My pulse quickens, and my blood stirs. It feels like there’s a fire inside me. I look back toward my bedroom window, unwilling to go in just yet. “Will you come get me?” I ask.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he says, “because I’m already on my way.”
He clicks the phone off. A few minutes later, I hear the sound of his motorcycle from several streets away. It moves closer, getting louder and filling my head with a numbing buzz.
I walk to the edge of the street, finally able to see him. He pulls over, hands me his helmet, and tells me to hop on.
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