“Thank you,” I whisper, on my feet now.
“You’re welcome,” he says. His lips curl into a slight smile, relieved maybe by what he’s sensing—or what he’s not sensing, more likely.
Maybe the danger is finally over.
52
It’s been five days since Matt’s arrest and I’m off from school with the principal’s permission. Word is he even called Ben’s aunt to apologize personally for all the harassment Ben’s had to endure, and to thank him for saving my life.
“I feel like such a shit for giving you a hard time about not being a good friend,” Kimmie says.
She, Wes, and I are sharing a Peanut Butter Barrel at Brain Freeze.
“I mean, we knew you were in trouble, but who expected that?” she says. “Tied up and handcuffed—”
“And not willingly,” Wes adds.
“Well, I’m done being out of the loop,” I say. “From now on I want the full scoop on what’s going on with you guys—every detail about your workshop at the Fashion Institute,” I tell Kimmie, “and all the drama about both of your dads.”
“I’ve hired a girlfriend,” Wes says. “Her name is Wendy, she’s eighteen years old, and I met her at the Pump & Munch. She filled my tank, checked my oil, and we got to talking.”
“And why am I just hearing about this now?” Kimmie asks.
“She’s pretty,” he says, ignoring the question, “charges a reasonable hourly fee, and comes by my house once a week to hang on me, which makes my dad happy.”
“Well, that sounds healthy,” I tease.
“Say what you will, but I’m done talking on this subject.” He takes a giant shovelful of ice cream to avoid answering any more questions.
“Okay, so, speaking of disturbing and dysfunctional,” Kimmie continues, “my mom has finally caved to my dad’s wacko ways. They’re going to a body piercer Saturday night to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary.”
Wes shivers in response, but I can’t help letting out a giggle.
“Laugh now, but it won’t be too funny when they’re asking to borrow your sterling silver hoops to decorate their various body parts.”
“Very true,” I say, glancing down at my watch. Only ten minutes until Ben is supposed to meet me here. I haven’t really spoken to him since Matt’s arrest. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to. It’s just that my mother’s kept me on a pretty short leash ever since I went missing.
Needless to say, my parents completely freaked when I didn’t come home that night or the following day.
Only, instead of breaking my mother down even more, it actually seemed to help put things into perspective for her.
“Maybe if I hadn’t been so out of it,” she said, sitting beside me on her meditation mat last night, “you could have confided in me. We could have avoided this whole situation.”
“It’s not your fault,” I assured her. “I should have said something sooner.”
My mother hugged me, promising she’d always be there for me, and that she’s even decided to go visit Aunt Alexia at the hospital once and for all.
“So, what happens now with Stalker Boy?” Wes asks, his mouth full of peanut butter ice cream. “Community service with a slap or somebody’s boy-bitch behind bars?”
“Maybe neither. It’s still too soon to tell.”
“I bet it’ll be a whole lot worse for him if Debbie doesn’t get better,” Wes says.
I nod, knowing he’s right. It turns out Debbie wasn’t getting stalked at all, but her so-called friends thought it would be funny to make it look as though somebody was after her. They were the ones who left notes on her locker and put ideas in her head, totally messing with her mind. Apparently the same friends were responsible for a lot of the school’s graffiti, including the mascot sign in the back parking lot. Debbie had gotten paranoid, completely convinced somebody was following her on a constant basis. Even though nobody was.
A witness came forward, saying he’d seen her walking home on the night of the accident. He said she’d kept looking over her shoulder, not really paying attention to where she was going. He’d even tried to get her attention, because she’d kept stumbling out onto the street. The guy had thought she was drunk, but there was nothing found in her system—just pure paranoia. In the end it was a car that hit her, not a motorcycle.
“Honestly,” Kimmie says, “did you ever suspect that Matt was the one leaving those photos of you? I mean, whoever would have thought he could be such a psycho? See, I told you he was lying about dating Rena Maruso. A girl like me doesn’t miss a scoop that scandalous.”
I shrug, remembering my good times with Matt, sipping coffee and studying French at the Press & Grind, and then how malicious he got in the back of his parents’ trailer, even drugging me with some tranquilizers he put into the water.
“So, where does this leave things with you and Mr. Benilicious?” Kimmie asks.
“Do I smell a role-playing game involving superhero costumes and lots of body butter?” Wes gives his shovel a good lick.
“Speaking of touchy-feely games,” Kimmie says, “how hot is it that Ben was able to predict that Matt was the psycho in question by feeling up your sculpture?”
I smirk, thinking about the irony of it all—how I’d always spent so much time trying to control my work, to have it fit within the parameters of some self-created ideal, but how it was when I went with my gut and let my art control me, that something really great happened. Something palpable.
After I went missing, Ben went to Knead in search of my latest piece. Spencer pointed him in the direction of my car sculpture. Ben touched it, following the imprints of my fingers, still able to feel traces of me there.
After only a few minutes, he could sense that Matt was the one who was after me. And so he followed him, right to the trailer where I was being held. As soon as he got to the campsite, he knew for sure something wasn’t right and dialed 911.
“I guess my sculpture has a pulse,” I say.
“More than a pulse, honey,” Kimmie says. “That piece must have a brain, breath, and heartbeat.”
“So, what do you think Ben wants to talk to you about?” Wes asks.
I shake my head and look away, not really knowing how things stand or if he even wants to talk to me at all. Aside from agreeing to meet with me today, now that I’m safe—that his work is done, maybe—he’s been acting sort of distant.
“Well, I guess we’ll all find out soon enough.” Kimmie motions to the door.
Ben is standing there. He looks even more amazing than usual—windblown hair, tanned skin, and a bit of scruff on his face, like he just woke up.
He waves, and I head over to join him.
“Hey,” he says, smiling slightly.
“Hi.” I smile back.
But then his smile fades, and he turns away, opens the door wide, and follows me out. We take a walk to the beach, just like last time, and sit on a bench that overlooks the water.
“It’s so much easier to be here now,” he says, finally. “I don’t sit here hating myself for what happened to Julie.”
“I’m glad,” I say, angling myself toward him.
Ben finally looks at me. His expression is as solemn as it was just moments ago at the door. “I’m not going back to school.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m going to take some time off for a bit—go back to the whole homeschooling routine, but with real tutors this time. Maybe I’ll even travel somewhere. I have a cousin in Boston who’s been asking me to visit for a while.”
“You can’t quit school.”
“I’m not quitting. I just need a break. It’s been an intense couple of weeks.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure. Principal Snell’s given me permission to come back for second term, as long as I keep up with all my work.”
“And so, what about us?”
Ben looks back at the ocean. The scar on his arm is completel
y visible now, like he no longer feels the need to hide it. “We should probably take a break, too.”
“What if I don’t want to take a break?”
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand. I mean, things were just getting good.”
“For me, too.”
“Then, stay.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense,” he sighs, “but I’m doing this for you.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Maybe not now.”
“Maybe not ever.”
“And maybe in time you’ll see it’s for the best.”
I let out a breath, unwilling to accept what he’s saying, feeling my eyes turn to liquid. “Why?” I ask. My voice quavers.
“It’s hard to explain,” he says, looking back at me now. “But remember that look you gave me when I touched you that last time, when I squeezed you too hard? It reminded me of Julie—of how scared she was, too.”
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“You’re right.” He nods. “I didn’t. But even after I snapped out of it, I could still see the mistrust in your eyes.”
“I trust you now,” I assure him.
“But that’s just it; maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe somebody like me can’t ever be fully trusted.”
“Don’t talk like that.” I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.
“You’re safe,” he says, his eyes filling up now, too. “Let’s keep it that way.”
“You won’t hurt me. I want to be with you.”
“Maybe someday,” he says, leaning in closer. His forehead grazes mine, making me eager for more.
There’s a crumbling sensation inside my chest. Tears drip down the sides of my face. “Don’t go. I need you.”
“You don’t need me. You have good survival instincts, remember?”
“Don’t go,” I repeat, louder this time. I pull him in closer, so that his heart pounds against my chest.
“Stop,” he whispers, but he wraps his arms around my waist.
I run my fingers down his back and breathe into his neck.
“This isn’t easy for me.” His fingers tremble against my skin, right below the hem of my sweater, as if he’s trying his best to control himself.
“Please,” I insist, kissing his cheek. He tastes like sugar and salt.
He draws me closer. His fingers knead my skin— almost a little too hard. There’s heat coming from his touch.
He pulls away, all out of breath. His eyes are red and watery. “I’m sorry.” He motions to my waist, where his fingers have left a mark.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, pulling my sweater down.
He gets up and lingers a moment, just looking at me, as if maybe a part of him doesn’t want to leave.
But then he tells me good-bye anyway.
Acknowledgments
I’m so grateful to have such talented and supportive people in my corner. A huge thank-you to my amazing agent, Kathryn Green, for her literary and professional advice, and to my editor, Jennifer Besser, for her thoughtful comments, invaluable suggestions, and endless supply of enthusiasm.
Thanks to my biggest fans: Ed, Ryan, Shawn, and Mom. You’ve been there for me page by page, offering support, time to write, and a sense of humor whenever I need it. I’m so lucky.
A special thanks to Don Welch, Computer Expert Extraordinaire, who helped retrieve Deadly Little Secret when my computer had plans of its own. I bow to your technical greatness.
I’m lucky to have the support and encouragement of friends, family members, and fellow young adult authors with whom I can talk shop. You know who you are; thank you so much for being there.
And lastly, colossal, humongous, and gargantuan thanks go to my readers. I know I say this all the time, but I’m so truly grateful for every letter, every e-mail, each book trailer, art project, book-inspired school assignment, fan blog, and other correspondence you send my way and/or create for my books. You guys are truly the very best!
LAURIE FARIA STOLARZ is the author of several popular young adult novels, including Project 17 and Bleed, as well as Blue Is for Nightmares, White Is for Magic, Silver Is for Secrets, and Red Is for Remembrance. Born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts, Stolarz attended Merrimack College and received an MFA in creative writing from Emerson College in Boston.
For more information, please visit her Web site at www.lauriestolarz.com.
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