Deadly Little Lessons

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “I should go,” he says, after what feels like hours. “You’ll probably want to get to class.”

  I nod, even though my theory class started an hour ago and I really don’t feel like showing up late, especially since it meets for only ninety minutes.

  I walk him to the door and we exchange a peck on the lips. I lean in for a hug, but I barely get a pat on the back. I want to tell him again how sorry I am, but I can’t quite find the words. They all suddenly seem so inadequate.

  “Thanks again for coming all this way,” I tell him. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay a bit, get some brunch, talk some more?”

  “I’ll call you later,” he says, stepping out into the hallway. Understandably, he wants to leave.

  And, as disappointed as I feel, part of me is relieved to see him go.

  AFTER ADAM LEAVES, I feel sick to my stomach, as if I’ve made a big mistake and I’m the most ungrateful person on the entire planet (not to mention the most stupid). I consider calling and asking him to come back, but instead I sink down to the floor, unsure of what I could possibly do or say that would make it all better. I can’t pretend that I’m over the issues with my family and that everything is fine.

  The phone vibrates against my desk, but I don’t get up. I always thought that things between Adam and me would forever be black and white—the opposite of my experience with Ben. But in fact, I have no idea what just happened, or what it means, or what I’m going to do.

  Meanwhile, the phone continues to vibrate. I force myself up to answer it.

  “Where are you?” a male voice asks.

  I check the caller ID. “Spencer?”

  “You missed your classes, didn’t you? And on the first day?” He tsk-tsks.

  “Wait, how do you know that I missed them?” I peek out the window.

  “Let’s just say that I have my connections,” he says, in a tone that’s sharp and accusing. “And my connections tell me that you didn’t show up.”

  “Were you checking up on me?” Spencer, as I’m learning more and more, is pretty well connected within the sculpture community. “Do you know one of the instructors here? Am I in big trouble?”

  “Artists don’t get mad, they get even.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Fix it,” he snaps.

  “How? I overslept.”

  “Don’t you realize what an opportunity it is you’re blowing? Fix it.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “Then don’t come back to work.”

  My mouth falls open; I’m completely taken aback. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You’re right.” He sighs. His tone softens slightly, “I’m not. I need you for my boob mugs.”

  “Is that all I’m good for?” I attempt to joke. “Glazing and firing tacky pottery crap?”

  “Don’t blow this, Camelia. Promise me.”

  “I won’t,” I assure him.

  “Good,” he says, hanging up before I can say good-bye.

  I splash some water on my face, leave a message for my parents that Wes is here and that I’m adapting as well as I can, and then head out to find the 3-D studio building where I was supposed to have my morning class.

  When I get there and walk in, I discover it to be even more amazing than the photos online depicted it: high ceilings, pottery wheels galore, extruders and slab rollers, shelving packed with tons of tools, and not one but three kiln rooms. There are several students working inside the studio, a couple of whom I recognize from the orientation festivities.

  “Hey,” I say to one of them, hoping she can fill me in on what I missed. “I think I met you yesterday?”

  “Right,” she says, stepping away from her sculpture—a wide-rimmed bowl that looks like someone punched it at the base (but in a good way). The sides fold slightly inward, reminding me of ribbon candy. “I’m Ingrid.” She extends her hand for a shake, but then realizes it’s covered in clay, and ends up wiping it on the front of her apron instead.

  “Camelia,” I say, proceeding to explain that I overslept and missed the morning studio.

  “And you don’t have an alarm clock?” She gives me a pointed look. “Because you do realize you missed Chaste effing DeLande, don’t you?”

  “Who?” I ask. Maybe I didn’t hear her right.

  Ingrid looks at me as if I’m speaking another language, her amber eyes magnified behind a pair of square black glasses. “He’s the master sculptor…the visiting artist,” she explains. “The Black Diamond Lady, Crystals in Winter Snow…”

  “Oh, right,” I say, suddenly remembering having seen his name on the Sumner Intensive Web site. “And are those the names of his pieces?”

  She pauses in disbelief. “His work sells for six figures in some of the most exclusive art galleries in the country…to people like the Obamas. He gets commissioned to do installations all over the world.”

  “Wow,” I say, realizing how ignorant I must sound.

  “His promise to make spontaneous visits to campus this summer quadrupled the number of sculpture applicants, you know. Anyway, bummer for you that you missed him.”

  “Yeah,” I say, more eager than ever to redeem myself. “So, is that something from class you’re working on?” I gaze at her piece again, trying to imagine what the assignment might’ve been…obviously, something on the wheel.

  “This isn’t high school, Caroline. You don’t need to be told what to do.”

  “Camelia,” I say, correcting her.

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes.

  I turn my back, trying not to let her snooty attitude get the best of me.

  Falling in line with the other students in the studio, who, like Ingrid, seem to have made themselves at home working on their various projects, I pick a spot in a corner of the room, slice myself a thick hunk of clay from the plethora of bagfuls, and wedge it out against my board.

  Ingrid shoots me a dirty look with each thwack, bang, and slam of my clay, as if I’m disturbing her concentration. Bonus.

  I glance around to see if I might be bothering any of the other students. But luckily, they seem too engrossed to care. Perhaps they missed the morning class, too, and are scrambling to catch up. Or, more likely, they’re really into sculpture, as I’m supposed to be. As I’ve actually always been. But it’s so much harder now that pottery—something I truly love—is tied to my touch power, which is something that’s easy to hate.

  I close my eyes, able to hear Sasha’s whimper. It hasn’t left me yet. Who knows if it ever will?

  My clay all wedged out, I spend several minutes running my fingers over the mound and smoothing every crack. Images of all sorts start flying across my brain, but one particular image stands out brighter than the others. And so I start to sculpt it.

  I concentrate as my fingers get to work, but with each stroke and pinch of clay, Sasha’s crying gets louder and more insistent. I breathe through it, hoping her cries will dissipate, especially since I’m not alone.

  But then I hear something else. A musical tune: a high-pitched chiming that I don’t recognize.

  I open my eyes and survey the other students to see if they’ve noticed how tormented I must look. One boy, sitting across from me, stares in my direction. His mouth is moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.

  “What?” I ask, but I don’t hear my own voice. The crying is shrill inside my head, creating a gnawing ache.

  I stand up and take a step back. My forehead is sweating. My heart palpitates. I poke my clay-covered fingers deep inside my ears. Meanwhile, the music continues, too. It plays just behind the crying—a childlike tune with a repeating melody. I listen hard, trying to determine whether there’s a message in the song.

  But then I notice Ingrid. She’s staring at me as if I’m a full-on freak. Her gaze travels upward, as though looking at someone behind me. I turn to find an older man—maybe in his sixties—standing there, shaking his head at the sight of my work. His lips are moving, but the only voice I hear is Sa
sha’s. She’s saying actual words again, wailing for me to hear her, for me to help her, for me to bring her out of the darkness.

  “How?” I ask, without even thinking, still covering my ears, no longer able to hear the music.

  The man continues to try to talk to me. The creases in his forehead deepen, and the corners of his mouth have turned downward.

  My stomach lurches; bile burns at the back of my throat. I take a deep breath and tell the voice to quiet down, not sure if I’ve actually said the words out loud. Finally, I take my fingers out of my ears.

  The man, most likely my instructor, points to the door, but I’m suddenly starting to feel better. Sasha’s voice has weakened, and I’m able to hear other noises: the humming of overhead fans, someone mowing the lawn outside, and water dripping in the sink.

  I look down at my sculpture, almost surprised by what I see: a clay frog, sitting inside a box. A rectangular slab, which I assume is the lid, lies beside it.

  “Are you in need of medical attention?” the man asks.

  “Professor Barnes?” I say, remembering the name on my schedule. “I mean, are you…” The remaining words in my mouth freeze, as does my entire body.

  “Are you in need of medical attention?” he repeats, though his face shows irritation rather than concern.

  “No. I just…I get a little carried away with my work sometimes.”

  “Carried away?” he says, clearly skeptical. “First you don’t show up to class, and then you swagger in here at your leisure, and get carried away with the college’s supplies.…”

  I look back down at my sculpture, feeling my face flash hot. The boy across from me has paused at his work. Ingrid’s vase looks even better than mere moments ago, the lips opening up like tulip petals. Another girl, sitting a few stations down, uses a hammer and chisel on a hunk of oak, sculpting what appears to be a seashell from the wood. Meanwhile, my pieces look like something from one of Spencer’s small-fry classes.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “With all due respect,” he says, softening slightly, “this is a serious place with serious students. If you want theatrics, then I suggest you check out the drama department.”

  Ingrid laughs.

  “I am serious,” I say, knowing how ridiculous I must sound. But instead of fighting back harder, I merely walk out of the room, knowing that he’s right. I am a distraction, and for that reason I don’t belong here.

  After he took my flashlight, I ended up crying myself to sleep. Once I’m awake—Hours later? Minutes later? Is it the following day?—my eyes are caked with goo. They sting each time I blink. I wash them out in the basin, noticing that the water is only about an inch deep. I need more. My throat’s parched. My lips feel swollen and sore.

  I scramble for my cup, but I can’t seem to find it now, and so I lean right in over the basin and lap up the dirty water. Pebbles slide down my throat, cutting into tissue. I wonder what would happen if I coughed…if I’d spit up blood. Is it possible to choke on your own blood in a heavy sleep? I almost wish that would happen.

  I stop myself from crying again, but even when tears aren’t pouring out, I feel like there’s a continuous whimper inside me—one that I can’t console, even with the stories that I tell myself in an effort to stay sane.

  Story #1: This is all a practical joke, played by Jaden and Misery, who have a sick sense of humor. At any moment, one of them will poke her face through the hole and tell me it’s time to go.

  Story #2: My parents are teaching me to appreciate what I have and be more empathetic toward those less fortunate. They’re in the process of redoing our house right now, and they want to surprise me with a brand-new bedroom: my prize for enduring all of this, and learning a valuable lesson.

  Story #3: I’m being videotaped. Some executive from MTV saw one of my many YouTube videos and thought that I was really talented. He or she is preparing a pilot for a new TV show—one that I’ll be the star of, that has the theme of survival.

  I wonder if I’m going crazy. I think I read somewhere—or was it something I learned in psychology class?—that people often make up their own reality as a means of coping with what their brains can’t possibly handle. The idea comforts me, because while no one else out there seems to be trying to protect or save me, at least maybe my brain is.

  I fumble for the tape recorder, knowing that I need to give him what he wants if I am to move on to the next step, even if the next step is death. Death would be better than this purgatory.

  I spend several minutes rehearsing what I might say, trying to be as vulnerable as Rizzo was in Grease when she sang “There Are Worse Things I Could Do.” And then I run my fingers over the controls, pushing the fourth button for RECORD.

  “You say you want to know what makes me tick, so here it is: my heart. My heart ticks at triple its normal speed because of what I imagine: rats scurrying through the hole, nibbling at my ears as I sleep. Dying from this cut on my wrist. Never seeing my parents again, never getting to tell them how sorry I am.

  “That’s what this is all about. When I found out they’d lied to me, I decided to punish them for it. I started abandoning everything they loved about me, everything they’d made me into, everything I ever loved.

  “Sounds like the perfect punishment, right? Give up what makes me happy as a way to get them back? Could anyone be more stupid?

  “I threatened to run away. I even wrote a letter and packed a bag. My parents offered boarding school as a way to give me some space. But I guess you found me first.

  “My biggest fear? They’ve assumed I found my own way of getting some space and aren’t even looking for me now.”

  I push the third button on the recorder to stop it, surprisingly uplifted to have gotten all of that out. Sort of ironic, since my thoughts are going to him. The truth is, I had no real intention of running away. I think I just wanted to punish my parents and impress Misery at the same time. Sadly, I think I accomplished both.

  I drag the recorder across my cell, feeling for the hole in the wall, confident that this type of honesty is exactly what he had in mind. Hopefully it’ll earn me back my flashlight, as well as a fresh bandage and some water. And hopefully I’ll soon be able to get out of here. Or maybe that’s just another story I tell myself.

  AFTER THE WHOLE mortifying debacle in the pottery studio, I head back to the dorm and go upstairs to Wes’s room. Unfortunately, he isn’t there, but fortunately the room’s unlocked. I go inside and sit on his bed, not wanting to be alone; and somehow, being among all of his things, reminds me that I’m not. I grab his sock monkey just as my phone rings.

  “Hello,” I answer, still feeling shaken up inside.

  “Hey, there.” It’s Mom. “I’m sorry I missed your call earlier. So, you’re adapting okay.… How’s your room?”

  “Yes and fine.”

  “And Wes is there with you?”

  “He is. It was a nice surprise,” I tell her.

  “Well, it’s good to know that you have a friend there.” She continues to chatter on about how having a solid support system can make all the difference.

  “So, I’m kind of just getting used to this place,” I say, once she finally pauses for a breath. “But I’ll give you and Dad a call in a few days; sound okay?”

  “Is there anything we can do for you in the meantime? Do you have everything you need?”

  “You and Dad allowed me to come here,” I say, hugging the monkey to my stomach. “For now, some time away is all I can ask.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure Dad will be able to wait a few days until he speaks with you, but I’ll tell him to be mindful of your need for space.”

  “Thanks,” I say, glad that she totally gets it.

  We say our good-byes, and then I call Wes to see where he is.

  “I just got out of my theory class,” he says. “I’m assuming yours is over as well.…”

  “Probably.”

  “What
’s that supposed to mean? Camelia?” There’s a fatherly tone in his voice.

  “Where are you?” I ask him.

  “In the café, sipping an iced mocha latte with some friends. And you?”

  “In your room, hugging Mr. Sock Monkey.”

  “Gentle, he doesn’t like it rough. Would you and Monkey like to come join us? My treat. I’ll even throw in some extra foam.”

  “I actually think I should pay a visit to Mrs. Beckerman.” Seeing that I’ve screwed up the majority of my day, I might as well be productive in at least one area.

  “Wait, is Adam there with you?”

  “No, and we can talk about him later. I need to borrow your car again.”

  “Why, what’s the plan?”

  “I haven’t really thought that far.”

  “Which is part of your problem. You’re too damned impulsive, Camelia. And acting on impulse is pretty much when every serial killer gets caught.”

  “Except I’m hardly a serial killer.”

  “Right, because if you were, I wouldn’t be hanging with you.”

  “Glad you have your standards.”

  “You need a plan,” he persists. “You didn’t have one last night, and look at where it got you: stealing my car and breaking down in tears. And was it really worth it? Aside from getting me into your bed, that is.…” He snickers.

  “I have a plan,” I bluff. “I’m just going to knock on the Beckermans’ door and tell them who I am, and that I believe Sasha’s still alive.”

  “And when they probe further?”

  “I have no problem telling anyone about my touch power.”

  “Even if they don’t believe in that stuff and think you’re crazy?”

  “At least I’ll know that I tried.” I let out a giant breath, thinking about Neal Moche’s blog—about how he also half believes that what he’s doing is crazy. “So, can I borrow your car?”

  “I’d prefer it if you waited for me.”