Deadly Little Lessons

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “So, wait, are you trying to say that you drove all the way out here just to tell me that our relationship isn’t working?”

  “Would you have preferred if I’d said it over the phone? I care for you too much, Camelia.”

  “I care about you, too,” I say. “And you’re right; our relationship isn’t working, but I’m not the only one who sends mixed messages. You say you want me to tell you how I’m feeling, but can you honestly say that’s true? You don’t want to hear about the tough stuff. You just want me to be happy all the time.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “It’s not bad,” I tell him. “But it’s also not realistic—at least, not all the time. Not everyone can simply blink their problems away.”

  “No one’s asking you to blink them away, but it isn’t healthy to dwell on them, either.”

  A breeze comes in through the window, sending shivers all over my skin. Should I be relieved that we’re finally verbalizing what’s obviously been on both our minds? Or heartbroken that our relationship has come to this?

  “There’s something else,” Adam says, giving my hands a squeeze. “This isn’t easy for me to tell you, so I’m just going to say it.” He swallows hard and then takes a breath. “I lied about saving your life.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “At that guy’s apartment,” he explains. “When you went to save Danica’s sister…”

  I nod, wincing at the memory of breaking into that psychopath’s apartment four months ago, seeing Danica’s sister tied up and gagged, and getting beaten up so badly that I blacked out.

  I remember waking up, but still only half conscious, and seeing a blur of two guys fighting. Later, Ben told me that Adam and Jack (the psychopath) had fought and that Adam had saved the day. But I could tell even then—from the way Ben would barely look me in the eye, and from the way it seemed he was passing me off to Adam (the hero), trying to convince me what a great guy Adam was—that he wasn’t telling the truth about the way things had played out.

  “I hadn’t intended on lying,” Adam continues. “But when Ben said it—that I’d saved you—I kind of just went along with it. It didn’t feel right, but I guess I liked the idea of being your hero.”

  I nod again, relieved to know the truth. Ben was the one who saved me that day.

  “So why are you telling me this now?” I ask, suspecting that it might be his way of distancing us.

  “I just thought that you should know.” He lets go of my hands. “It’s been bothering me for a while. And we promised not to keep secrets.”

  “I remember,” I say, fully aware that I haven’t been completely open about everything, either.

  “Do you hate me?”

  I slide the back of my hand against his cheek. The heart-shaped charm on the bracelet he gave me dangles against his chin. “I don’t think I could ever hate you.”

  “So where does that leave us now?”

  “I’m still going to be dealing with stuff,” I tell him. “I mean, I want to move past this, but it’s going to take some time.”

  “How much time?” He smirks.

  “I’m not sure.” I shake my head, almost amused that he would ask, but unsurprised that he doesn’t offer to wait. “This drama doesn’t have an expiration date.”

  “In other words, it’ll just fester inside you?”

  “What can I say? I’m a festering kind of girl.”

  “A festering girl who needs some time on her own,” he says, meeting my gaze.

  I hug him—hard—until my arms ache.

  “Call me for anything,” he says. I know he thinks he means it.

  “Ditto,” I tell him, confident that I do mean it. I’d drop almost anything to be there for him. I give Adam one final kiss before he finally says good-bye.

  AFTER ADAM LEAVES, I curl up on my bed, remembering that day in Jack’s apartment: being only half conscious, feeling someone stroke the side of my face while he told me how much he loved me. I’d always thought it was part of a dream, but now I’m pretty sure that I was awake, and that the someone was definitely Ben.

  I check the clock. It’s after ten. My pottery class is already well under way. It’s certainly tempting to skip it, but instead I grab my bag, reminding myself of why I’m here—or at least why I’m supposed to be here—and then I leave the room.

  By the time I get to the pottery studio, I’m already an hour and a half late. The door is closed. The hallway is quiet. I try the knob, but the room is locked.

  I peek through the vertical window that runs along the door. There’s a row of pottery wheels at the back of the studio. A different student works at each one, while other students await their turns. Professor Barnes looks on, pacing back and forth.

  I knock on the door; Professor Barnes comes toward it and our eyes meet. He pauses for just a moment before resuming his pacing, as though I’m not even there.

  I knock again, harder this time. Finally, he comes back to the door. He opens it a few inches and furrows his brow in annoyance. “Class has already started,” he says.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I just—”

  He holds up his hand to stop me from talking. “Not my concern.”

  “Well, can I still come in?” I ask. “I promise to follow along. You don’t have to re-explain anything.”

  “You want to come to class, you need to get here on time. It doesn’t get much simpler than that, Ms. Hammond.” He closes the door and returns to the row of students.

  In the hallway, I lean my back against the wall and sink down to the ground. I want to hate Barnes, but I know he’s right. My priorities have shifted a bit. I’m not dedicated to my pottery—not the way I used to be.

  My cell phone rings in my bag. I fish it out and check the screen. It’s Ben. “Where are you?” I say when I answer.

  “Still here, on campus. I didn’t feel right leaving like that, and I saw Adam drive away.… I take it things didn’t go so well?”

  “They actually went exactly as they were supposed to,” I say, confident that it’s the truth, “but that doesn’t make it any less hard.”

  “Can I come back up to your room?”

  My heart pounds. I want to feel happy about talking to him, but I also can’t stop this angst. It knots up in the center of my gut. “Meet me in the lobby,” I tell him.

  About ten minutes later, I walk through the lobby doors. Ben is already waiting for me. He’s standing at the front desk.

  “Hey,” I say, feeling my insides heat up all over again, despite the hundred-odd reasons I should feel dismal. I sign him in—my fingers shaking—and then lead him upstairs.

  Once inside my room, he takes my hand, forcing me to face him. His solemn expression tells me that he can sense the jumble of emotions inside me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I wilt into his arms, eager for him to hold me and to feel this anxiety.

  Ben leads me to my bed. “Everything will be fine,” he whispers.

  Tears of gratitude and sorrow run down my cheeks. I’ve never felt so loved and lost in all my life.

  WHEN I WAKE UP, Ben is still here, lying beside me watching me sleep.

  “How long have you been awake?” I ask him.

  It’s nighttime now, and the moonlight shines in through the window, casting a soft glow over his face, highlighting the paleness of his lips.

  He moves a strand of hair from in front of my eyes. I want to reach out and touch him, too.

  “I’ve been up for a little over an hour,” he says.

  “An hour,” I repeat, nervous that I might have spoken in my sleep, or drooled on my pillow, or snored extra loud.

  “How are you feeling about everything?” he asks.

  “About Adam?” I say, untwisting the bedsheet from around my leg.

  “For starters.”

  “Good and bad, I guess. I mean, Adam’s a great guy, but I don’t think that we belong together.”

  “And how do you feel about me?” he co
ntinues. “Being here, I mean?”

  The question catches me by surprise and sends tingles straight down my spine. “I’m happy you’re here,” I tell him. “I wish you always would be—that you wouldn’t always run off.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.” His face is completely serious.

  “Adam told me the truth,” I say. “About Jack…about how you’re the one who saved my life.”

  He nods and studies my face, perhaps trying to gauge if I’m upset that he lied. “Well, you saved my life, too,” he says, finally. “I’ve done a lot of soul-searching these past few months, and you saved me in more ways than you’ll ever know.”

  “How?”

  He takes a deep breath; I watch the motion of his chest. “You helped me believe that I could actually have a somewhat normal life again.”

  “Because I trusted you.”

  “I hope you still can trust me, even though I haven’t always given you reason to. I know I haven’t been the most open, but it’s only because I wanted to protect you.”

  I reach out to touch his face. The stubble is prickly against my fingers. I want to feel it against my cheek.

  “I thought that Adam was better for you,” he explains. “Safer, kinder, a lot less complex.”

  “Adam is all of that,” I say, venturing to run my thumb over his lip. “But he’s not the one I want.”

  Ben’s lips part and his eyes widen, as if he can’t quite believe my words. And so I kiss the truth right into him. His breath is hot and sweet against my mouth. At last I feel the scruff of his face against my cheek.

  I feel the heat of his body as it pushes against mine.

  I feel. Every. Single. Inch. Of my body. As he kisses me longer, deeper, and more intensely than ever before.

  Lying beneath him, I slide my hands up the back of his shirt. His skin is warm to the touch.

  “Camelia,” he whispers, pulling away, and pausing to steady his breath. His whole body’s sweating.

  “You won’t hurt me,” I tell him.

  “Well, I’d die if I ever did.”

  I lie beside him, resisting the urge to touch him again.

  After several moments, he sits up, seemingly composed, as if having mentally splashed water onto his face. “You need to give yourself time,” he says. “You just broke up with Adam.”

  “Is this really about Adam?”

  “It really should be.”

  I know he’s right, but I also know how I feel, how long I’ve waited, how he’s the one I’ve been dreaming about.

  “I don’t want you to do something—in the heat of a rebound moment—that you might regret,” he continues.

  “Except you’re hardly rebound material.”

  He shakes his head, refusing to argue, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. But I refuse to argue, too. I take his hand.

  “Camelia…” He looks back at me.

  “I know what I want,” I tell him.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Really sure.” I move closer to kiss him again.

  “Camelia,” he repeats. I can tell he’s conflicted by the look in his eyes and by the tense grip he has on the bed.

  I slide my palm over his thigh, where he has the chameleon tattoo; I’m reminded of how he got it before we even met—how everything about us seems to point to the fact that we belong together. “You could never hurt me,” I tell him again.

  “I love you,” he whispers into my ear. The first time he’s ever said it.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper back.

  I pull his T-shirt over his head and toss it to the floor. He closes the window shade and then allows me to run my palms over his bare chest, to kiss his skin all over, and to pull him beneath the covers.

  BEN GREETS ME the following morning with a cup of coffee and an array of pastries to choose from. Still lying in bed, I feel deliciously warm under the blankets.

  “Thanks,” I say, sitting up, feeling more awake than I have in a long time.

  Ben grabs a sketch pad off my desk and uses it as a tray. “How are you doing this morning?” His tiny grin makes my face heat up.

  “Okay.” I grin back. “And you?”

  “Pretty fantastic,” he says, joining me on the bed.

  Still tingling all over, I replay in my mind how he told me he loved me, noticing that my tank top smells like him.

  “Can I get you anything else?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “This is perfect,” I say, grabbing a cinnamon scone.

  “So, we should probably talk about the missing girl.”

  “Way to blow a perfectly romantic breakfast.”

  Ben leans across the tray of treats to kiss me. “Now can we talk about the missing girl?”

  “Her name is Sasha Beckerman. Are you familiar with the case?”

  “Vaguely, but I don’t get too much news, being out on the road.”

  “Which brings me back to the question: what are you even doing here? I mean, I’m glad you came, but—”

  “You’re here,” he says, interrupting me. “And when you called—when you left me that message—it sounded like you needed a friend.”

  “Okay, but you could’ve simply called me back. Did Adam tell you where I was?”

  “You mentioned in your message that you were at a college in Peachtree. For the record, there’s only one.”

  “When was the last time that you and Adam spoke?”

  “Last week, but he never said anything about your going away. And sadly, neither did you.”

  “You know why I didn’t.”

  “And you know why I couldn’t stay away.” His eyes lock on mine, making my heart swell, making every nerve in my body stand on end.

  I’m half tempted to throw the tray to the side and crawl right into his lap. But instead, I lean over to kiss him again. He tastes like lemon pastry.

  “Were you far away?” I ask.

  “Not far at all,” he says, leading me to assume that he was indeed on his way back to Freetown. “We have so much to talk about.”

  “I know,” I admit. And so I proceed to fill him in on all my Sasha research and what I’ve been sculpting.

  “Do you have any idea where she is or who she’s with?”

  “No, but I can hear her crying.” I close my eyes and concentrate on her voice. “It’s always in my ear, reminding me that she’s still missing.”

  “And that she’s still alive.”

  I nod, relieved that he wants to help.

  “Well, for starters I think you should go back to the Beckerman house,” he says. “See if you can get inside Sasha’s room. Being in her space, among all her things, might help you sense more.”

  “You’re right,” I say, thinking about how simply researching Sasha’s case enabled me to sculpt clues about her. I take a sip of coffee, on the verge of telling him about the money clip, but as soon as the idea pops into my mind, Ben gets up, moves the tray to my desk, and pitches his empty coffee cup.

  “What’s the rush?” I ask.

  “No rush. But it might make sense to go to the Beckermans’ place sooner rather than later.”

  “Did you sense something that I should know about?”

  “I sensed a few things,” he says, sitting back down. His forearm grazes my hip. “Mostly, the connection between you and Sasha. It’s really strong.”

  “Definitely,” I agree.

  “I also sensed the responsibility you feel for Sasha’s safety, and how disappointed you are that your parents kept your adoption a secret.” He edges a little closer, his hip pressed against my thigh now. “But perhaps deep down you always knew there was something special between you and your aunt.”

  I nod, feeling a chill dance down my spine, amazed—once again—by how well he seems to know me. “Will you come with me to the Beckermans’?”

  “I would, but I think it’s better if you go alone, not even with Wes. I mean, think about it: you’re asking to go into her daughter’s room—a daughter th
at’s been missing. That’s sacred space. More than one person would be a party.”

  “Good point. And then what?”

  “And then sculpt,” he says, as if the answer were completely obvious.

  “Except, I haven’t exactly been welcome in the studio here.” I look at the clock. The class started almost an hour ago. I’m already too late. “It’s sort of a long story, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find a picture of me outside the studio with a giant slash mark over my face.”

  “I know what you want, Camelia.… To be this amazing sculptor who has her own shop and whose works get commissioned all over the country. But you’re already incredibly talented.”

  I swallow hard; my mouth feels parched even after the coffee. I think about how Spencer, who subbed once for Ms. Mazur, singled me out in class. He said he’d never worked with anyone as young and talented as me.

  “That talent won’t ever change,” he continues.

  “But it already has changed. I’m no longer able to simply sit down and make a bowl. Now all of this other stuff gets in the way.”

  “Would you change it?” he asks. “When you really stop to consider the question…”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, thinking how I’ve already been able to help people with this power. What if I didn’t have it?

  Ben skims my hand and wrist with his fingertips. The hair on his forearm tickles my skin, sending heat straight to my thighs. “Sometimes we get this picture in our heads of the way things are supposed to be,” he says. “But what if things don’t turn out that way? What if they actually turn out better?”

  Am I indeed better off with this power?

  “It’s a part of who you are,” he reminds me, still touching my skin. “So what if you can’t sculpt a bowl today? But what if you save a girl’s life?”

  I sit up and rest my head against his shoulder, remembering how Dr. Tylyn told me that I needed to embrace my power. How else am I going to live with it? How else am I going to accept myself? I may not always be able to control what I sculpt. But maybe I’m not supposed to.

  “And what will you do while I’m at the Beckermans’?”