He looks good—even better than I remembered. His wavy brown hair is a bit shaggier than the last time I saw him, and his shoulders seem broader, too.
I make my way toward him, noticing how small the place is inside, set up sort of bistro-style, with checked tablecloths and cityscape posters on the walls. A giant chalkboard menu hangs behind the counter, and cooks prepare the food in full view of the customers.
“Hungry?” Adam asks, gesturing for me to sit.
At the same moment, one of the cooks rings a bell for what turns out to be Adam’s order—a brimming bowl of curly fries with tartar sauce on the side. “I took the liberty of ordering us some hors d’oeuvres,” he jokes. “But you’re welcome to get whatever else you like.”
“This looks perfect,” I say, peeling off my coat.
Adam sets me up with a plate and napkin, and then starts gabbing away about how he and his study buddies come here at least every other night.
“So, you’ve made a lot of friends at school?” I ask, eager to steer the conversation into more personal territory.
We end up talking about how his semester’s going, how he’s taking an Intro to Drafting class, and how he’s thrilled to have an apartment of his own.
“At first I thought I wouldn’t be able to afford it,” he says. “But I got a really good job at an art-supply store down the road. I get a discount on drafting tools, and they pay me time and a half on the weekends and holidays.”
“That’s great,” I say.
“It’s actually better than great, because I’ve already met a couple of architects in the area. With some good old-fashioned schmoozing, I’m hoping to be able to work my way into one of the firms, maybe as an intern.”
I nod, genuinely happy for him, because I know this is what he really wants, and I’ve seen how truly talented he is. About a month ago, he crafted me a model of Camelia’s House of Clay, the pottery shop I might own one day, even adding in tiny wooden tables, and shelves full of greenware.
“And how’s Ben doing?” he segues. “Are you two still seeing each other?”
“Do you really want to be talking about this?” I ask, for the sake of his feelings.
He pauses midchew. His dark brown eyes scrunch up in confusion. “Why not? Unless I’m touching on a sore spot?”
“No sore spots. Things between Ben and me are good.”
“Then how come you don’t sound so sure?” He grins.
“I am sure,” I say, but I don’t think he hears me. There’s a girl standing at our table now. She’s pretty, with bobbed dark hair and eyes the color of pale blue sea glass.
“Who’s your friend?” she asks Adam, before either of us has a chance to say hello.
“Camelia, this is my friend Piper,” Adam says, by way of introduction.
A couple of girls stand slightly behind her. “And that’s Melissa and Janet,” he continues.
“Make that Jungle Girl Janet,” Piper says, “who just won her fourth competition for her talent on the trapeze.”
“Piper’s sort of my biggest fan.” Janet blushes.
“Well, congratulations,” I tell her.
“Thanks.” She smiles, tugging nervously on her braid. “Do you go to Hayden, too?”
“Actually, I’m still in high school,” I confess.
“My sympathies to you,” Piper says. “I would absolutely die if I had to go back to raising my hand just to get up out of my seat, or answering to a school bell.”
“Not to mention immature boys, the humiliation they call gym class, and tons of pointless homework.” Melissa brings a strand of her strawberry blond hair up to her mouth for a chew.
“Okay, so minus the gym class, college actually isn’t so much unlike high school,” Piper jokes. “So, are we still on for tonight?” she asks Adam, taking a sip of his root beer.
“Or will you be spending the rest of your day hanging out with high school girls?” Melissa mooches a curly fry from our plate. She dips it into the tartar sauce and then shoves it between her freckled lips.
Adam ignores her comment, proceeding to tell me that he and Piper are working on a project together for school.
“Not just any project,” she insists. “We’ve been assigned to be husband and wife in accounting class. We have to work out all our bills on his football coach’s salary. I’m a stay-at-home mom with four kids, three dogs, and a parakeet. Is that supercute, or what?”
“More like super high school,” Melissa says before I can answer. “I think I did a similar assignment in health class.”
“Well, whatever,” Piper says, swatting the negative words away. There are frowny faces painted on her candy pink fingernails. “I need an A, and Professor Williams hates me, which means I have to be twice as economical with all my debits and three times as stingy with all my credits. So, I’ll see you at eight?” she asks Adam.
“Sounds good,” he says.
While Piper and her friends head for the exit, Adam leans in close and apologizes for Melissa. “She can be a bit prickly at times.”
“Well, Piper seems nice.”
“A little too nice, actually. She’s one of those girls who gets walked on a lot.”
“But not by you. I mean, you two are just friends, right?”
“Right.” He grins, perhaps misreading my interest. “Friends. Just like you and me.”
I clear my throat, suddenly realizing how little I’ve accomplished during this conversation. “So, everything with you is great?” I say in a final attempt to get some scoop. “No problems? No demons in your closet? Nothing weird going on?”
“Other than this conversation? What’s up with you?” he asks, double-dipping a fry. “You were like this on the phone the other day, too.”
“Just making conversation.”
“Psycho conversation, maybe.”
“Speaking of psychos,” I half joke, “any in your life that I should know about?”
“Just one,” he says, giving me a pointed look.
“Very funny,” I say, wondering if maybe I am being psycho—if maybe this whole scene was just a really bad idea.
We sit in awkward silence for several seconds, picking at the shrinking mound of curly fries, and sipping our drinks down to the ice. But then Adam slips his parka on, complaining of a chill.
And that’s when I see it.
The small insignia on his jacket, right by the collar. It’s a diamond-shaped logo with a snail inside.
Exactly like what Aunt Alexia and I painted.
“I mean, seriously,” Adam says, “is it really so hard to believe that for the first time in a long time I’m really happy with the way my life is going?” He continues to jabber on, but I’m not really paying attention.
My pulse races and my mouth goes dry.
“Camelia?” he asks.
I force myself to look into his face.
“So, is it?” he asks.
“Is what?” I gaze at the scar on his bottom lip, reminded of my sculpture in pottery class.
“Is it so hard to believe that I’m happy?” he asks. “That everything is going great with me, for once?”
“No,” I lie, at a complete loss for something better to say. “It isn’t so hard to believe at all.”
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT 5
DOCTOR: I’d like to focus our session today on riddles.
PATIENT: You mean, jokes?
DOCTOR: More like puzzles, questions, things that don’t readily have an answer.
PATIENT: Why would you want to talk about that?
DOCTOR: Because I think you like riddles. I get the sense that you enjoy it when I don’t know all the answers.
PATIENT: If you can’t figure things out, then maybe you shouldn’t be a therapist.
DOCTOR: Seems like I’ve struck a chord.
PATIENT: (Patient doesn’t respond.)
DOCTOR: You talked last time about wanting to hurt someone. You said this person was a male, and that deep down, he might in fact want to be hurt.
PATIENT: You read too much into things.
DOCTOR: It’s what you said. I can play it back for you if you’d like.
PATIENT: No, thanks.
DOCTOR: Are you still thinking about hurting this person?
PATIENT: Like I said, you read too much into things.
DOCTOR: Do I? Or is this all part of one big game?
PATIENT: Let’s just say that someone is making a big mistake and I’m doing my best to protect that person.
DOCTOR: By hurting someone else?
PATIENT: I didn’t say that.
DOCTOR: Then why don’t you explain it?
PATIENT: (Patient laughs.)
DOCTOR: What’s so funny?
PATIENT: Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do like puzzles. Maybe I like them a whole lot.
DOCTOR: And why is that funny?
PATIENT: Because with every game, there can only be one winner.
DOCTOR: Sometimes there’s a tie.
PATIENT: That’s what sudden death is for.
DOCTOR: Whose sudden death?
PATIENT: It’s an expression.
DOCTOR: Is it?
PATIENT: (No response.)
DOCTOR: Would you ever consider forfeiting a game?
PATIENT: I’m not a quitter.
DOCTOR: It wouldn’t be considered quitting if you’d learned something, if you no longer needed to play and wanted to move on.
PATIENT: But I do need to play. I need to win.
Across
25. Opposite of live.
Down
5. To be entitled to.
7. When you make a mistake, you need ________ pay the consequences.
24. Opposite of me.
AFTER OUR MEETING at the sandwich shop, Adam offers me a ride home, and I know I should probably take it. I know it will probably give me more of an opportunity to pry deeper into his life.
But I really need to get away.
And so I take off down the street, in the opposite direction of where he’s headed, and duck into a bookshop. I pull out my cell phone and dial Kimmie’s number.
“Where are you?” she asks. “Wes and I’ll come pick you up.”
I give her the address, and they’re here in less than the time it takes me to read through the first chapter of Spy Girl.
“Well?” Kimmie asks, joining me in the backseat.
I give her the lowdown, and she lays right into me: “I cannot believe you let Adam off so easily.”
“I know.” I sigh. “I feel like such a failure.”
“Or maybe you’re just paranoid,” Wes says. “I mean, have you considered that maybe you’re wrong about him?”
“I’m not willing to take that chance. Too much has happened. There are way too many red flags to call what’s been going on a coincidence.”
“My vote? You suck at subtlety,” Kimmie says, obviously referring to my prying skills. “But, lucky for you, I don’t suck.”
“At subtlety, that is.” Wes smirks.
Kimmie middle-finger-scratches her nose at him. “Where does Adam live? We’ll go by his place, and I’ll help you get some answers.”
“I don’t know.” I shrug.
“Seriously?” She evil-eyes me. “You dated the guy.”
“It wasn’t exactly dating.”
“Which is still no excuse. Call the boy. Get his address. And I’ll do all the talking.”
I take out my cell phone and rest it on my lap. “And what do you suggest I give as an excuse for needing to drop by his place?”
“Booty call?” Wes suggests.
“Blame it on me,” Kimmie says, fishing out an eyeliner pencil from her Tupperware-container purse. “Tell him that we were in the area, picking you up, that we got talking about schools, and I mentioned being interested in his. It wouldn’t be completely unheard-of if I wanted to check out my housing options.”
“He’ll see right through it,” I tell her.
“Not that it matters,” she says. “I mean, the boy is totally hot for you, right?”
“I’d put him more in the warm category.”
“So he’ll want to see you regardless of your lame-o excuse.”
“Yes, but he’ll think I’m interested.”
“Look, do you want to figure this all out or not?” she asks, applying a thick ring of purple around one eye.
“I do,” I tell her. And so, I flip my phone open and dial his number.
AS KIMMIE PREDICTED, Adam doesn’t question the excuse. I’m not even sure he hears it. Because, no sooner do I mutter the words “Do you think we could stop by?” than he’s giving me directions, landmarks, and alternate routes.
We pull up in front of his apartment building. It’s tall, brick, and dingy-looking, sandwiched between a feline hospital and a place called Busty’s Bar. We enter a dank lobby, and are confronted by a set of elevators. A giant OUT OF ORDER sign is tacked across the doors.
“Lovely,” Wes says, nodding toward a puddle on the floor. Buckets have been set up in a lame attempt to catch the dripping water that must trickle down from the broken-tiled ceiling during rainstorms.
“It smells like moldy Cheez Whiz,” Kimmie says, scrunching up her nose.
I look around for a security buzzer, figuring that Adam will have to buzz us up, but it seems there’s no security whatsoever.
“Are you sure you got the address right?” Kimmie asks. “I wouldn’t even let my dad’s new girlfriend stay here. Did I happen to mention he’s dating a child?”
“Now, now,” Wes says, giving her shoulder a good patting. “Nineteen years old is hardly a child. She’s old enough to sign a contract, buy porn and cigarettes, and cross state lines with your dad if she wants to.”
“Unfortunately, I think you just summed up their Saturday night,” she says.
“We definitely need to talk about this later,” I insist, giving her a hug.
We climb two flights up the emergency stairs to Adam’s apartment. The door is already open.
“Hey!” Adam says, peeking into the hallway, clearly having been anticipating our arrival.
“We’re here to scope out your place,” Kimmie says, pushing past him into the apartment. We enter the kitchen. It’s separated from the living room by just a couple of support beams, making the two rooms feel like one.
The girls from the sandwich shop are there, as well as Tray, Adam’s friend from school.
“Hey,” Tray says, nodding in my direction. His hair is long, dark, and straight, pulled back in a low ponytail, exactly like Jungle Girl Janet’s. The two of them are sitting together, watching a gymnastics competition on Adam’s big TV screen.
Meanwhile, Melissa and Piper completely ignore us—they’re too busy hovering over what appears to be an old yearbook at the kitchen island. Piper lets out a peal of laughter, and Melissa giggles along with her.
“Seriously,” Piper says to Adam, “what were you thinking by wearing Hawaiian shorts and work boots to the prom?”
“Who cares?” Melissa says. “He still looks hot. I mean, check out those sexy legs.”
“More like pigeon legs,” Tray calls out.
The girls ignore the remark and continue to paw at his picture. And, honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Adam had his very own fan club.
“Adam tells us you guys are thinking about coming to Hayden,” Melissa says, finally acknowledging our arrival. “Is that true?”
“It’s true for me,” Kimmie says.
Melissa eyes Kimmie’s lace-and-latex skirt. “Well, just so you know, it’s a whole lot harder to get in here than one might think. They don’t just accept anyone.”
“I think I can handle it,” Kimmie says, completely on to her bitchery. “I’ve been able to sign my name and write a check since the third grade.”
“Do you all live in the building?” I ask, in an effort to change the subject.
“Everyone but me.” Piper frowns. She moves into the living room and plunks herself down on Tray’s lap.
“I still live at home with my overprotective parents, but I’d give anything to have my own place.”
“Well, I must admit, I’m less than impressed,” Kimmie says, staring at a crack in the wall. “I mean, no parking garage, no doorman out front…”
“No security cameras,” Wes adds, pointing back toward the hallway.
“Well, you know, this isn’t actual student housing,” Adam says.
“Right.” Melissa snickers. “I doubt the school would be able to afford liability insurance for a hole like this.”
“And how’s the neighborhood?” Kimmie persists. “Would I feel secure walking around the streets at night?”
“Funny,” Melissa says folding her arms across her chest, “but Adam didn’t mention that you were a streetwalker. Is that how you’ll be paying for school?”
“Why, are you looking for extra work?” Kimmie asks.
“Don’t mind Melissa,” Piper says. “She just failed a history test and got bitched out by her mom.”
“Plus, we should probably go,” Janet says.
“Finally.” Tray practically pushes Piper off him. He gets up and makes a beeline for the door.
Piper reminds Adam once again about their study session later, and then, within sixty seconds, all of them are gone.
“Well, that was about as pleasant as having my ass waxed,” Wes says.
“Sorry about Melissa,” Adam says. “We went on a date last week, and things have been awkward ever since.”
“Awkward meaning you two-timed her and got caught?” Wes asks. “Or meaning she gave off a sisterly vibe, and, as a result, you’re still trying to shake it and/or her.”
“I’d go with the latter,” Kimmie says, ever the clinician. “Because she’s obviously still too into you for the pure, unfet- tered hatred that could result from option number one.”
“Not bad,” Adam says, seemingly impressed. “But not quite accurate, either. Just after our date, I found out that Tray had a thing for her, too. And so I started giving Melissa the cold shoulder. Not the most mature way to break things off, but what can I say?”
“You’re a guy,” Kimmie sighs. “Say no more.”
“So, I take it Melissa doesn’t have a thing for Tray?” I ask.
Deadly Little Games Page 7