“Not when you’re fantasizing about your ex while dating a mind reader.”
“He’s not exactly a mind reader,” I say, correcting her. “And I’m not exactly fantasizing.”
“Okay, then, having kinky thoughts.” She rolls her eyes, as if annoyed that I’m nitpicking over words. “Try to think of Ben’s gift as a small sacrifice. I mean, let’s face it, the boy does look pretty smokin’ on that motorcycle of his.”
“That’s totally beside the point,” I say, still unable to disagree.
“You need to see things from his perspective,” she continues, “because this must be really hard for him. There are just some things you don’t want to know about your main squeezie. Like, I once dated this guy who said that he sometimes liked to floss his teeth and examine the findings under a microscope. Now, tell me, did I seriously need to know that?”
“Did I seriously need to know it?” I ask, all but gagging at the image. “But I don’t think Ben’s power is all that random. I mean, some of what he senses can be sort of unpredictable.”
“No pun intended,” she jokes.
“But for the most part, it’s the intense stuff—the stuff at the forefront of people’s minds.”
“The stuff we like to hide,” Kimmie says.
I nod, grateful for her friendship, and for the fact that I never feel like I have to hide anything with her. She and I have been through it all: from Barbie-and-Ken breakups and hard-wire braces to the time when Billy Horton, my longtime crush and first-time kiss, told the entire freshman class that said kiss tasted like sweaty socks.
“Do you think it’s possible to be attracted to someone and not even know it?” I venture.
“Meaning you’re Adam-curious?”
“No.” I shake my head at how ridiculous the idea sounds outside my head.
“Might there be any residual sparks left between the two of you?” She shoots me an evil grin.
“That’s just it; there never were sparks. Adam’s a nice guy, but I never really felt that way about him.”
“So, then, why do you keep thinking about him now?”
“The million dollar question,” I say, grabbing a furry pillow off her bed and hugging it to my middle. “I just don’t want to jeopardize things with Ben.”
“Give yourself a break, Chameleon.” She passes me a half-eaten bag of candy corn, kept conveniently on her night table. “You can’t help your thoughts. I mean, seriously, if anyone could read my thoughts, I’d probably be locked up.”
I pop a couple of candy corns into my mouth, somehow already feeling a smidge better.
“The way I see it,” she continues, “it basically comes down to a matter of trust. He has to trust you, but you can’t go giving him reasons not to.”
“Do you realize that’s probably the wisest thing you’ve ever said to me?”
“Even wiser than my teeth-flossing analogy?” She smiles, her newly acquired lip ring clinking against her front tooth. “Bottom line: I bet this whole thing with Ben will blow over, especially since you didn’t think about Adam for a full week. I mean, a few random thoughts while you’re at work—”
“Plus, I didn’t sculpt anything about him.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Not to mention that you didn’t hear voices this time, or chant anything psycho.”
“But then, if my Adam thoughts were so completely random and meaningless, why did Ben pick up on them right away?”
“Because you’re feeling guilty. Ben’s sensing that guilt, which is the precise reason you need to be honest with him. The more truthful you are, the less shady you’ll feel.”
“Wow,” I say, slightly reassured. “You’re like an expert on all this stuff.”
“I’m an expert on a lot of things,” she says with a snip of spandex.
“So, then, what if this stuff with Ben doesn’t blow over?”
“Find another squeezie?”
“I’m serious,” I say. “I don’t want to lose him.”
“Then maybe you should go away for a little bit. After all, absence makes the heart grow horny, right?”
“That’s not exactly how the saying goes.”
“But it should, because you know it’s true. If you go away for a couple of days, Ben won’t know what to do with himself.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, tossing more candy corn into my mouth (therapy in a bag).
“Damn straight, I am. Now, the bigger question: can I fit into your suitcase? Because I really don’t feel like staying here by myself.”
“But you’re not by yourself. You have Nate, remember?”
“Annoying little brothers don’t count.”
“But that annoying little brother really needs you right now.”
“Because my mom is pretty useless. Did I tell you? The woman even went looking for a job today; that’s why she’s not home. I mean, honestly, do they offer jobs to people whose past sixteen years of experience include making pancakes, folding laundry, and taxiing kids around all day?”
“Yes; they call them nannies.”
“She belongs at home,” Kimmie insists. “Not looking around for minimum-wage jobs.”
“Since when do you believe in a 1950s lifestyle?”
“Since my mother started making a complete and utter fool of herself.”
I bite my tongue, reminding myself that Kimmie’s world has been knocked on its side, that she obviously isn’t used to the idea of her mom’s not being at her beck and call, and that she probably doesn’t have the best perspective right now. “Maybe finding work will help your mom,” I venture. “It could help get her mind off your dad.”
Kimmie yanks the hem of her fabric, producing a gaping tear. A second later, there’s a knock on her bedroom door. “What do you want?” she calls out.
The door creaks open. It’s her eight-year-old brother, Nate, Legoland T-shirt and all. “Mom still isn’t home yet,” he says to Kimmie, “and I’m hungry. Can you make me a grilled-cheese?”
“See?” Kimmie says with another rip. “Already I’m picking up her slack.”
Later, at home, I head into the kitchen, where my dad is picking up his own slack. He’s doing some work at the kitchen island, having taken a few days off from his tax-attorney duties to spend some extra time with Mom before her trip. He’d wanted to accompany her, but both of them knew it’d be smarter for him to stay home.
In other words, neither of them trusts me.
And who can really blame them?
The last time they both went away together, a stalker broke into our house, our basement turned into a scene out of Fright Night, and I nearly gave my boyfriend a concussion.
“Hey, there,” Dad says, pausing from his papers to look up at me. He takes off his wiry glasses and rubs his overworked eyes.
Mom is in the kitchen, too, whipping up a batch of no-bake fudge.
“Hey,” I say, taking a seat on an island stool. “Did anyone call for me?”
“Your dad and I had a great day; thanks for asking.” Mom smirks.
“How was your day? Did anyone call for me?” I smile.
She dumps a gob of coconut oil into her raw-ful mixture. “Anyone meaning Ben?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“It’s just that I was sixteen once, too.”
“Right,” I say, shuddering even to think of her pre-forty—pre-me, pre-Dad, when it was just her hippie self, burning incense, going braless, and dating poets.
“Sorry, honey, but it’s been pretty quiet around here,” she says. “How was Kimmie’s?”
“Utterly depressing, but still thoroughly mind- clearing.”
Mom stops pureeing to look up at me. “Care to elaborate?”
“Care to let me go to Detroit with you?”
Dad’s staring at me as well. “That was rather blunt.”
“You guys said you wanted brutal honesty.”
“I think we’re just a little surprised,” Mom says. “I mean, where did all of this com
e from?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I just thought it might be a good time for me to visit with Aunt Alexia. To get some perspective. To get away for a couple days.”
“That’s all it will be, you know,” Mom says. “A couple of days. I need to get back here for work.”
“I know that,” I say, surprised that she’s even entertaining the idea.
“And you know that your mother will be busy for most of the trip,” Dad adds. “She and her sister have a lot to talk about.”
I nod, watching as Mom continues to mix her cocoa-nib concoction. Her forehead furrows with what I imagine to be deep and thoughtful concentration.
Meanwhile, Dad’s eyes remain fixed on mine, perhaps trying to figure me out. “Well, we’d have to try and get you a last-minute ticket,” he says.
“But why not?” Mom continues. She moves to give Dad a hug from behind. “It’ll be nice to have the company.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Why not?” she repeats, sliding the bowl of fudge batter toward me.
I eat the gritty goodness by the spoonful, almost surprised at how easy it was to persuade them. And how yummy raw honesty can be.
AFTER SCHOOL THE following day, Kimmie and Wes come over to help me pack. We’re sitting in my bedroom, pulling apart my entire wardrobe in search of what Kimmie deems “travel-ready.”
Wes sniffs the underarm of one of my cashmere sweaters and then snuggles the fabric against his cheek. “What’s the weather in Detroit these days?”
“Who cares about weather?” Kimmie makes a face at an old pair of gaucho pants lingering at the back of my closet. “Make sure you don’t say anything wacko. No chanting, no death threats, and definitely no references to hearing voices of any kind.”
“Or else you might wind up a fellow patient at Happy Acres, rather than just a visitor,” Wes says.
“Not funny,” I tell him. “And, for your information, the facility is called Ledgewood House.”
“Has Ben called to say good-bye?” he asks.
“Ix-nay on the en-talk-bay,” Kimmie says. “Definitely a sore subject.”
“It’s fine.” I sigh. “Ben and I are having issues. It happens. Life goes on. Isn’t that your motto?”
“It is,” she says, stuffing the zebra-print shrug she bought me last Christmas into my bag. “And, like me, you’re full of crap.”
“Well, hopefully a couple of days away will make me less full of crap and more full of answers.”
When I saw Ben in school earlier, I filled him in on the fact that my parents had agreed to let me go to Detroit. I told him I’d miss him, and I thought he would’ve said the same.
But he didn’t.
He merely wished me good luck and said he’d see me when I got back.
“You could call him,” Wes suggests. “Why be a spectator in the game of love? Take charge. Don’t wait around and let the boy call all the shots.”
“As cheesy as all of that sounds,” Kimmie adds.
“Cheese or not, I know what I’m talking about.” He sulks. “I’ve lived it. I’ve learned it.”
Kimmie lets out a laugh. “With who, Romeo? That Wendy girl you paid to date you?”
It’s true. Wes, desperate to get his dad off his not- so-studly back, once paid a random college girl to pose as his girlfriend. It worked out well for a while, but then the less-than-happy couple “broke up” over irreconcilable differences of the financial kind.
“Oh, and because I don’t have a dating history as big as your mouth, it doesn’t quite measure up?” he asks.
“I hate to break this to you, but that isn’t the only thing of yours that doesn’t measure up.” She waggles her pinkie at him.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He grins.
“I think I’m all set,” I interrupt, zipping up my bag.
“Don’t forget this.” Still cuddling my sweater, Wes purrs a couple of times before tossing it my way.
“Yeah, I can’t imagine why your dad thinks of you as feminine,” Kimmie mocks.
“Not feminine. Just appreciative of fine fabrics. There’s a difference.”
“So right,” she says, calling for a silent truce.
They give me a hug before heading out. Afterward, I lie in bed, tempted to take Wes’s advice and give Ben a call. I reach for the phone and dial his number, but then click it off just shy of the last digit. Because maybe talking to him isn’t the best answer right now. But maybe taking a little break is.
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT 3
DOCTOR: So, I wanted to ask you about something that came up during our last session. What did you mean when you said that you can force someone to love you?
PATIENT: I meant just what I said: if you want someone badly enough, you can make them yours.
DOCTOR: Even if they don’t want to be with you?
PATIENT: Sure.
DOCTOR: Have you ever tried?
PATIENT: Not yet.
DOCTOR: Do you plan to try?
PATIENT: I don’t know. (Patient laughs.)
DOCTOR: Why is that funny
PATIENT: This whole conversation’s funny.
DOCTOR: Forcing someone to do something they don’t want to is hardly amusing…at least, not to me.
PATIENT: Sometimes people don’t know what they want. Sometimes they need to suffer a little to understand what’s really good for them.
DOCTOR: Did that work in your case?
PATIENT: What do you mean?
DOCTOR: Did the suffering your father made you endure help you to see what you truly wanted?
PATIENT: It helped me to see what I don’t want.
DOCTOR: So, what makes you think that forcing someone to do something against his or her will won’t have the same effect that it did on you?
PATIENT: (Patient doesn’t respond.)
DOCTOR: Do you want to talk about your suffering?
PATIENT: There’s not too much to talk about. My father used to beat me. My mother looked the other way.
DOCTOR: And now?
PATIENT: Now I don’t really see my father anymore. And my mother basically ignores me.
DOCTOR: So, where does that leave you?
PATIENT: Pretty messed up, I guess. (Patient laughs.)
DOCTOR: You’re laughing again.
PATIENT: Sorry, I just think this whole scenario is pretty funny.
DOCTOR: How so?
PATIENT: I mean, if anyone actually knew what I’ve got going on inside my brain…
DOCTOR: Care to enlighten me?
PATIENT: Not really. You’ll just have to wait and see, like everybody else.
Across
18. I am alone. There’s only ________.
20. Sometimes I truly hate ________.
23. When he ________, I cut out his tongue.
Down
3. A couple minus ________ = no one.
ONCE WE LAND IN Detroit, instead of checking in at our bed-and-breakfast first, we get a rental car and drive straight to the facility where Aunt Alexia is staying. It’s after nine, so I’m thinking visiting hours are over for the day, but Mom insists that because we’re family we have every right to see her right away.
The facility is nothing like what I imagined—ironically, it’s more like a funeral home, a place to bring the dead, than a place to keep the suicidal from dying. We pull up in front of a long brick walkway that leads to a giant white house. Spotlights and a lamppost illuminate the area, but there’s no sign out front, and all the window shades are drawn. Mom puts the car in park, and we head to the main entrance.
An older woman greets us, introducing herself as Ms.
Connolly, the head nurse. She invites us inside, and the funeral-home vibe persists—mahogany woodwork, shelves full of old and dusty books, and antique-looking furniture.
“It’s uncanny,” Ms. Connolly says, giving me the once-over. “You look just like your aunt. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you could almost be sisters.”
“Can we see Alexia?” Mom asks, wanting to avoid the small talk. Her hands are shaking, and she can’t stop fussing with her scarf. And suddenly I’m nervous, too.
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Connolly says. “But Alexia had a tough day today and she was put to bed after dinner.”
“What does that mean?” Mom asks.
“She was given a little something to help her sleep,” Ms. Connolly explains.
“But I don’t understand. She knew we were coming.”
The woman nods. Her beady black eyes narrow, and she sucks in her lips, making the truth pretty apparent—that it’s because of our visit that Aunt Alexia’s day was rough.
“I see,” Mom says, clenching her teeth.
Ms. Connolly musters an encouraging smile. “I’m sure she’ll be more prepared to see you tomorrow morning.”
Mom spends another good fifteen minutes or so continuing to try to get us in, but Ms. Connolly doesn’t cave. She doesn’t even flinch.
Meanwhile, a female voice screeches from down the hallway: “I want my pillow! Just give me my goddamned pillow!” At the same moment, something smacks against the hallway door with a loud, hard crash that makes me jump.
Definitely our cue to leave.
Mom drives us to our B and B for the night. I try to get her to talk about stuff—about how frustrating the situation is and how stressed Aunt Alexia must be. But Mom doesn’t want to hear any of it. Instead she takes what would have to be the longest shower in the history of water, and then heads straight to bed with barely a good night, never mind her nightly sun salutations.
Before I go to bed myself, I check my phone for messages. I have one missed call from Ben. It seems he phoned just before I boarded the plane, but he didn’t leave a message.
Part of me wonders if it was to wish me well once again. Another part secretly hopes that it was to ask me not to go. I’m tempted to call him back to find out the answer. But I follow my mother’s lead instead, and drift off to sleep.
After breakfast the following morning, Mom and I head straight to the hospital to see Aunt Alexia. This time we’re allowed to stay. There’s actually a meeting set up for Mom, Aunt Alexia, and her doctor. Mom asks me if I want to wait in the lobby, but the thought of sitting amid all that funeral-home decor, coupled with the threat of hearing someone screech about her missing pillow, is far more unsettling than the idea of spending the morning by myself in an unfamiliar city. And so I take Ms. Connolly’s advice and head to the strip mall down the road.
Deadly Little Games Page 4