Deadly Little Lessons

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Don’t worry about me.” He smirks. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find something to keep myself occupied. But can I drive you?”

  “No, thanks. I want to take a shower first, and I need to plan a strategy. I’ll call Wes for a ride.” I start to get up from the bed.

  “Not so fast,” Ben says, leaning in for one more kiss—a kiss that morphs into a full-on embrace. An embrace in which we end up melting against the bed, unable to resist each other’s touch.

  I FINALLY EMERGE from my room after what feels like days. To my surprise, Wes is at my door.

  “Hey, stranger. I thought I might steal you away for lunch.” He pauses to give me the once-over.

  After Ben left, I took a shower and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. My hair is swooped up in a ponytail.

  “Don’t you look particularly radiant today?” He grins. “Anything scandalous you want to tell me about?” He lowers his John Lennon glasses to inspect me over the rims (the gesture reminds me of Kimmie). “Might Adam have paid you another recent visit?”

  “Yes, he did. But, no, it’s not what you’re thinking.” At least, not exactly. “I’ll fill you in, but first, can you give me a ride?”

  “Hold on.” He starts sniffing the air. “Ben was here, wasn’t he?”

  “You can smell him?”

  “Okay, I might’ve also spotted his motorcycle in the parking lot. Care to dish?”

  “What do you want me to say?” I can feel the embarrassment burning on my face.

  “How, where, and for how long, for starters.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Judging from your resistance to making eye contact and your lightbulbworthy glow, I’d have to guess that it was a pretty good night. Am I right?”

  “Amazing might be a better word. And how about you?” I ask, eager to change the subject as I take note of his spiffy attire. His T-shirt clings to his chest and the sleeves are tight around his biceps (I didn’t even know that he had any). “Anything new with you and your band of photography buddies?”

  “Just one buddy,” he says with a wink. “And you’re seriously going to have to drug me and then drag me from this campus if you think I’m going to willingly head back to Freetown. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can actually be me. Do you have any idea how liberating that feels?”

  “I’m starting to,” I tell him. “And I’m excited for you,” I add, grateful to have been a part of his newfound happiness.

  “So, what’s on the agenda for today—aside from skipping your classes, that is?”

  “How did you know I skipped?”

  “That Ingrid girl in your class—the one with ginormous yellow teeth. Honestly, what is up with them?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t notice them.”

  “Are you kidding? They’re like a flashing neon advertisement for teeth whitening. Anyway, she was looking for you and knows we’re friends.…”

  “Ingrid?” I ask, surprised to hear that she would’ve acknowledged my existence. “What did she want?”

  “A really talented dental team; at least that’s what she should want. Beyond that, she’s a mystery to me, as are her gaucho pants and suspenders.”

  “Okay, now you sound like Kimmie.”

  “Who’s doing phenomenally well, by the way. She loves her internship and they love her back. She’s working on a fashion show and even collaborating on the design of a new pair of sunglasses. I told her it’s all about polarization and blue-tinted lenses. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Sure…and that’s great,” I say, happy that my two best friends are doing so well, and that things are starting to look up for me, too, despite the fact that Sasha is still missing. “So, care to drive me to the Beckerman residence?”

  “Is that all I’m good for? A cheap ride to a missing-person’s-mother-of-a-could-be-slasher-victim’s house? I thought we weren’t going to tap that lead.”

  “We need to tap every lead we’ve got,” I say, linking my arm through his, eager to get inside Sasha’s room.

  Per my request, Wes drops me off in front of the Beckerman house and agrees to pick me up as soon as I call him.

  Mrs. Beckerman is working out in the front yard, pulling weeds from the flower beds that border the porch. She stands up when she sees me.

  “Can we talk?” I ask.

  “Do you know something?” Her eyes widen with hope. “Did you find another clue?”

  “I did.” I nod, noticing the grass stains on the knees of her jeans. “But perhaps Detective Tanner already told you about some of them. I know you’ve been in touch.”

  “I assume she came to question you.”

  “Yes,” I say, wondering what Tanner found out—if any of the clues proved helpful.

  “Well, you can’t blame me for telling her about you. You’d have done the same if it were your daughter missing.”

  “You’re right. I would’ve. I’d do anything I could to find her, including telling one of her friends about my visit to you.”

  “What are you talking about?” She takes a step closer. A smear of dirt lingers on her cheek.

  “A girl called me,” I say, proceeding to fill her in about how Mailbox Girl sent me to find the money clip, and how I then learned about a guy by the name of Tommy, with a W-shaped scar on his wrist. “Apparently, he used to work at the Blue Raven Pub. It’s in the next town over. Do you know the place?”

  “I know of it,” she says. “But my husband and I don’t frequent it, and neither did my daughter.”

  “That you know of,” I remind her. “We can’t make any assumptions. Do you know who the mystery girl was who called me? And how she might’ve gotten my number?”

  “Aside from Detective Tanner, I didn’t tell anyone about your visit,” she says a little too quickly, making me skeptical.

  I look back toward the street, wondering if Mailbox Girl might’ve indeed been the one in the dark green Buick. But, then, how would she have gotten my phone number? “Do you suspect that any of Sasha’s friends were involved in her disappearance?”

  “I suspect everyone.” Her jaw tightens. “I can’t go anywhere anymore without thinking that the guy at the grocery store might have my daughter, that the teller at the bank could have locked her up in his basement, that the old man pumping gas might’ve already…” She covers her mouth, unable to finish the sentence.

  “I’m only trying to help.”

  “I know.” She forces a polite smile and then takes a sip from her bottle of water. “I wish my husband were here to meet you, but he’s been working around the clock, putting in all kinds of overtime to keep himself busy. We all have our vices, I suppose.” She nods toward her manicured garden. “Anyway, as for Sasha’s so-called friends, the dregs she started spending all her time with after she found out the truth…I don’t trust any one of them.”

  “Do you trust me?” I ask. “At least enough to go into Sasha’s bedroom?”

  “The police have already been through it,” she says. “Numerous times.”

  “Yes, but maybe I’ll be able to sense something.”

  Mrs. Beckerman studies my face as if trying to decide. “I think I should check with my husband first.”

  “We don’t really have time.”

  “Do you know something more?”

  “I know that Sasha’s still missing, that the police have yet to find her, and that I can still hear Sasha’s tears.”

  “Follow me,” she says, leading me inside. She locks the door behind us and then takes me up the stairs.

  SASHA’S BEDROOM couldn’t look more perfect, right down to the powder blue dust ruffle on her bed and the vase of fresh roses on her night table (to match the rose pattern of her bed linens).

  “Did she always keep her room this neat?” I ask.

  “Hardly. Most recently, after she found out the truth, she was leaving her room a mess. Just another way to show her anger, I suppose.” Mrs. Beckerman points to a gallon of paint by th
e door. “It’s black,” she explains. “Sasha had said she was going to paint her room, but I suppose she never got around to it.”

  “Can I see the suitcase she packed?”

  “The police took it. They said they needed to study the contents.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” I say. “Is there any chance someone could’ve staged the suitcase—someone aside from Sasha, I mean—to make it look like she ran away?”

  “The police asked the same thing, but her father and I are very strict. We only invite friends in that we approve of, certainly not the disrespectful clan she started to bring around, kids who smoked on my lawn and used my flower beds as ashtrays.”

  I take a seat on Sasha’s bed. “Do you mind?”

  Mrs. Beckerman turns away slightly, as if she does indeed mind, but I’m assuming she’s willing to overlook it. I’m assuming her hope that I can sense something more trumps any irritation she may feel that I’m touching her daughter’s things. And so I lean back on the bed and close my eyes. There’s a sweet candy smell in the air, like I just walked into a chocolate shop. I pull Sasha’s coverlet over me and grab one of her many stuffed frogs, trying to get inside her head. I spend several minutes rolling over from side to side and breathing into her pillow.

  “Are you getting any vibes?” Mrs. Beckerman asks.

  “My power doesn’t work that way,” I say, realizing how confident I sound. “I’m mostly here to get inspired, so that I can sculpt out a clue later.” I get up and move over to Sasha’s dresser. There’s an empty jewelry dish sitting on top of it. I pick it up, feeling the smooth, glazed surface.

  “Does she normally keep a watch in here?” I ask, picturing one inside my head. “Is it purple with an extra-long strap?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Beckerman says. “Her father gave it to Sasha for her birthday. He had it engraved To Sasha, with love.”

  “She was wearing it that night, wasn’t she?” I ask. “The night that she disappeared?”

  “She hardly ever took it off.” Mrs. Beckerman crosses the room to stand right in front of me. “Did you see her that night? Is that how you know about the watch?”

  “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

  “Would you?” Her lower lip trembles. “If you were in my shoes, would you be able to trust anyone?”

  “I’ll only be another minute.” I open the drawer of Sasha’s night table, wishing that Mrs. Beckerman would leave me alone to concentrate.

  There’s a notepad sitting inside. I pull it out and flip through the pages. It seems to be a mishmash of stuff: lists of things she needed to do and some notes she jotted down for a project she’d been assigned in history class.

  “Sasha was always writing something down,” Mrs. Beckerman says.

  I’m just about to put the notepad away when, flipping to the back page, I notice the name Tommy written across it. There’s doodling all around it: butterflies, floating hearts, boxes, and a checkerboard grid.

  I show the page to Mrs. Beckerman. “Tommy,” I say. “That’s the name we got from the bartender at the Blue Raven. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Beckerman shakes her head and covers her mouth again. “But she liked to doodle when she was on the phone.”

  Meaning that Sasha possibly talked to him? Or maybe someone was talking to her about him? “Did you know the people that she went to the party with?” I ask, wondering if I should go to the abandoned sewing factory where it was held. There were pictures of it online. A sign carrying the plant’s logo—a dressmaker’s mannequin—still hangs outside.

  “Sasha went with a girl named Misery, but Misery was already questioned and cleared by the police.”

  I nod, remembering having read that a lot of kids from that night were questioned. Misery claimed that Sasha was being difficult that night, angry at her for lying about the evening’s festivities, and refusing to spend any time with Misery once she got to the party. Misery said that Sasha started talking to some loner guy sitting at the end of the bar. The next thing she knew, both Sasha and the guy were gone.

  “Do you know Misery?” I ask. “Could you give me her phone number?”

  Mrs. Beckerman reaches into her pocket for her cell phone, looks up Misery’s phone number, then scribbles it across a page of the notebook. “I don’t really know her. It wasn’t until after Sasha’s disappearance that we ever had a conversation.”

  “Can I take this notebook?” I ask, surprised that the police didn’t spot it.

  “Take whatever you want. Just bring my daughter back.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say, about to leave the room, but she stops me.

  “Wait,” she says. Her face is moist with tears. “I need to know why you’re doing this. My husband thinks it’s for money, but—”

  “I feel a certain connection to Sasha,” I explain. “Like I said before, she’s in my head.… I hear her crying voice.”

  “Yes, but why do you feel a connection?”

  “Because I was adopted, too,” I tell her. “At least I think that’s why. And, like Sasha, I found out by accident.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Beckerman says, taking a moment to study my face, perhaps deciding whether or not to believe me.

  “At first I was really heartbroken that my parents had kept the news a secret,” I continue. “But now, having learned more about Sasha’s story, I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened to me—what I would’ve done or how I would’ve reacted—if I’d have found out the news earlier.”

  “I see,” she repeats, tears in her eyes. “You’re glad you’re not Sasha.”

  “I’m glad I’m able to help Sasha,” I say.

  “Well, parents are human, too, you know,” she says between clenched teeth. “They have the same fears, the same insecurities.… There isn’t a day that goes by that her father and I don’t regret our decision not to raise her with the truth. Imagine having to live with the guilt that what you did—keeping a secret—is the reason your daughter disappeared.”

  “You didn’t do this to her.”

  “No, but I drove her to it. Her father and I paved the way.”

  “You need to stop blaming yourself.”

  “Is that what you want your parents to do?” she asks, staring straight into my eyes.

  I take a deep breath, considering the question, and thinking how, like Sasha, I wanted to run away. And in some respect, that’s exactly what I’ve done.

  “We were afraid to tell Sasha who her real parents were,” she continues, “because her real parents didn’t want any contact.”

  “You really don’t need to expla—”

  “Do you know who your real parents are?” she asks, cutting me off.

  I nod.

  “And can you understand why your parents kept the truth a secret?”

  “I can now,” I tell her, having finally come full circle. My parents didn’t want to tell me that my real mother was suicidal, that she’d been in and out of mental institutions for most of her life, and that she’d never acknowledged my birth. How would I ever have been able to handle that truth at four, eight, or twelve years old, when I’m barely able to handle it now?

  “We all have our reasons, don’t we?” Mrs. Beckerman says. “All the ways we justify our lies.” She moves over to Sasha’s bed, crawls beneath the covers, and snuggles up against a frog-shaped pillow. She starts mumbling to herself about how short life is and that nothing else matters. Her voice sounds deflated, as if someone had cut a hole in her heart and drained out all the hope.

  “Mrs. Beckerman?” I say, feeling awkward for standing there.

  She doesn’t answer, just continues to mumble. And so, notepad in hand, I decide to let myself out.

  I look down at my fingernails, where only a few chips of polish remain: navy blue, to match the dark mood I was in the night I was taken. My parents had told me to stay in. I responded by telling them they had no right to dictate my life. I slammed my bedroom door, snuck out the window, climbed
down the trellis, and never looked back.

  And now my nails are almost unrecognizable, cut up from picking at the walls, and soiled from clawing at the dirt.

  One of the first times I tried to dig my way out of here, I came across a rock. I’ve been using it to write, etching my lessons into the concrete walls—all the things I’ve learned from being here. It gives me a sense of purpose, makes me feel like I have some control. And maybe someday my lessons will prove helpful to someone. But, then again, if someone else winds up in here, then she’s probably already screwed.

  I CALL WES TO PICK ME UP and we spend a half hour pulled over in front of the town post office discussing my visit with Mrs. Beckerman.

  With the notepad flipped open to the page with Tommy’s name on it, Wes holds it at different angles, trying to see if there’s anything hidden in Sasha’s doodles. “I’ll bet she knew him,” he says. “He was probably her secret boyfriend. They probably ran off together.”

  “But then why, on the night that she disappeared, did it seem like she didn’t know the guy at all?”

  “You’re assuming that the guy she disappeared with was Tommy.”

  “You’re right.” I sigh. “It could’ve been anyone.”

  “On second thought, maybe she didn’t know Tommy,” Wes says. “Maybe she simply knew of him. You said that she doodled when she was on the phone, right? Maybe whoever she was talking to was merely telling her about him.”

  “Like, trying to fix her up.”

  “Or trying to warn her.”

  “Bottom line, we need to call this number,” I say, pulling it from my pocket. “What are the odds that this is our mysterious Mailbox Girl?”

  “I’ll bet you my enviable collection of Pez dispensers that it is.”

  “And does that collection include Buffy the Vampire Pez? Because that would be way cool.”

  “No, but only because it doesn’t exist. Now, call her,” he insists.

  I press *67 to block the call, and then I dial the number and set my phone to speaker mode. It rings twice before a recording says the line’s been disconnected.