Ms. Beady unfolds it and reads the message. “Where did you get this?”
“In the bathroom, just now. Someone shut off the lights, locked me inside, and slipped the note under the door.”
“So it might not even be for you.”
“Are you kidding? Look at the lettering. Look at the red marker he used. It’s the same writing as the notes from before.”
“Calm down,” she insists, gesturing to the chair again.
“You’re not going to help me, are you?”
“Of course I’m going to help. I just don’t think there’s any reason to jump to conclusions.”
“You think it’s a coincidence?”
“I think we need to discuss it further,” she says. “Unfortunately, as you know, there are a lot of kids around here who like to play practical jokes, especially on the underdog—someone who might have experienced a difficulty or hardship not too long ago.”
“Someone, meaning me,” I say to be clear.
“It’s only the first day back after the break,” she says, “and already the office has given out four detentions and two in-house suspensions for practical jokes related to last semester. And it’s still morning.”
“But why now? Why all these pranks four months later?”
“Why do you think?” she asks, meeting my eyes.
I press my lips together, knowing it’s because of Ben’s return.
“Look,” she continues, “I want you to know that the school takes these pranks very seriously. We want students to feel safe when they come to school, which is why, over the holiday break, we had surveillance cameras set up at the front, side, and rear entrances of the building. Principal Snell is also going to address the entire student body and issue a no-tolerance policy for pranks or practical jokes of any kind.”
“What took him so long? Debbie Marcus was in a coma for over two months because of some ‘pranks.’ Why didn’t he institute a policy then?”
“Debbie’s coma wasn’t exactly caused by ‘pranks,’ as I’m sure you know. Plus, the students in that situation were suspended for two weeks.”
Two weeks as opposed to two months. “It hardly seems fair.”
“We’re trying our best.” She lets out a sigh. “And, between you and me, a lot of kids—and parents—are really upset about Ben’s return this semester, even though he has every right to be here.”
“Even though he saved my life,” I remind her.
She clears her throat, but refuses to respond.
“So Ben really is back?” I ask.
She nods and continues to study my face, trying to see maybe if his return upsets me too. “And since he’s back, we have to prepare ourselves for a flurry of more pranks, as awful as that sounds.” She gestures toward a plastic bag on her desk. Inside I can see a Hiker Barbie, backpack and all, covered in what looks like raspberry jam.
“So you think this note is a joke too?”
“That’s not what I said.” Her tiny gray eyes are highlighted by way too much purple eye shadow “We can’t assume anything right now. But I have a meeting with the principal set for this afternoon. I’ll be sure to tell him about your experience this morning.”
“Great,” I say, less than grateful.
“Listen”—her face softens—“I know you’re upset. You have every right to be. You’ve been through a lot.”
“What does that have to do with me being trapped in a dark bathroom?”
“Nothing, but maybe we should schedule some further discussion.” She reaches for her desk calendar.
“Forget it,” I say.
“Camelia.” Her lips pucker up in concern. “Try not to worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
But I’m having serious doubts. I snatch the note right out of her hands, accidentally tearing a corner of the paper, and leave her office, even forgetting to ask for a “get out of jail free” card in the form of a late-pass.
Luckily, Mr. Swenson, a.k.a. the Sweat-man, doesn’t give me a hard time. After all, I’m not the only one to come in late to chemistry.
Not thirty seconds after I take my seat, Ben arrives.
He sees me and our eyes lock. And my heart starts stomping around inside my chest. He looks just as amazing as I remember him—tall, rumpled brown hair, and eyes as dark as midnight.
“Well, hello, Mr. Carter,” the Sweat-man says. “You can take your old seat.” He gestures to the chair beside mine.
Ben looks at it and then up at me, but he doesn’t move an inch.
“Is there a problem?” the Sweat-man asks.
My whole face blazes and I feel my palms get clammy.
Ben shakes his head and glances around the room, noticing maybe that there are no other seats available.
“Today would be nice,” the Sweat-man sings.
Finally, Ben takes the seat beside mine, pausing only to nod a brief hello.
“Am I to assume you’ll be continuing your pattern of lateness this term?” the Sweat-man asks him.
Ben nods and opens up his notebook.
“What a joy for the rest of us,” the Sweat-man mocks.
A sprinkling of giggles erupts in the classroom, but Ben pretends not to care, instead jotting down the date. I can see the tip of his pen shake beneath his grip.
Whether the Sweat-man likes it or not, Ben has permission from the principal to arrive to all his classes late. Most people, including Principal Snell, think he suffers from claustrophobia or agoraphobia, or possibly a blending of both.
They don’t know the truth about him—about his touch powers, that he comes to class late because he wants to avoid careening into people in the hallway.
Like what happened that first time he touched me.
I continue to stare at Ben’s hands as he nervously folds and unfolds the edge of his notebook page. While the Sweat-man turns his back to scribble a formula for ionic bonding on the board, I scribble my own formula in the form of “Hi. Welcome back. I think we should talk.”
I slide the note across the table toward him. He reads it but remains unresponsive, leaving the note right there on the table in open view. I sink back in my seat, knowing it’s because he doesn’t want to touch it. And the mere thought of that—of him not wanting to ever touch me again, never mind a measly scrap of paper that might carry my vibe—is like a giant sock to my gut.
I snatch the note back and stuff it into my pocket, fighting the urge to dissolve into a puddle of hot, boiling tears. Either that or chuck the note in his face.
When the bell rings, Ben finally turns to me. His mouth is a straight, tense line. “We do need to talk,” he says.
I nod, eager to ask him about the incident in the bathroom.
“Do you have time now?” he asks. “I’m free this block.”
“I thought you had a free last block,” I say, picturing him—his eyes—peering through the door glass of the art studio.
“No,” he says, glancing at my mouth.
I bite my lip, completely aware that I have English next block, that I’ve yet to skip even one solitary class during my entire academic career, and that according to Principal Snell, skipping class is equal to defacing school property, resulting in at least one week of mandatory suspension.
But I decide to go with Ben anyway.
7
Instead of heading to the cafeteria or the library, Ben leads us down the hallway behind the old computer lab. The corridors have pretty much cleared out, but I spot Debbie Marcus hustling toward the art room door at the very end, probably worried about making it in before the bell rings. She sees me, and then she notices that I’m with Ben, and a scowl forms across her face.
Last semester, Debbie was stalked as well. Everybody blamed Ben, but it turned out that her friends were the ones responsible. Like many of the clowns at this school, her friends thought it would be funny to take advantage of Ben’s mysterious past. They spread a rumor that he was following her, hiding in the bushes in front of her house, and staring at her
in class. They fabricated threatening notes, promising Debbie she’d be his next victim.
Eventually Debbie’s mind started playing tricks on her. On a walk home from a friend’s house one night, she imagined Ben was following her. She kept looking over her shoulder, stumbling out into the street, not really paying attention to where she was walking.
A car ended up hitting her as a result, and Debbie went into a coma that lasted ten full weeks. This is the first time I’ve seen her since the accident.
She looks different somehow—harder, thinner, a little less vulnerable maybe. Her auburn curls are held back in a barrette, and her eyes look tired; dark circles ring their steel-blue color.
After her accident, everybody assumed Ben was responsible, that he’d hit her with his motorcycle. But a witness came forward saying it was, in fact, a car that struck her, not a motorcycle. Unfortunately they never caught the driver.
I wave, but Debbie isn’t looking at me. She’s glaring at Ben. Finally the bell rings and she slips inside the classroom.
“What was all that about?” I ask Ben as he leads us away.
“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging it off. He steps into a storage room and opens the door wide. “I thought this might be a good place to talk. It’s private, so there’s less chance of you getting caught for skipping.”
I hesitate a moment, noticing how dark the room is, but then I spot Principal Snell down the hallway, and quickly duck inside.
Ben closes the door behind us and tugs a chain, turning on an overhead light. The room is small, packed with shelves full of old computer printers, various cables, and reams of paper.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
I give a reluctant nod. “How do you even know about this place?”
“When people hate you as much as they hate me, you find any hole to hide in that you can.”
“They don’t all hate you.”
“Oh no?”
I shake my head and meet his gaze. “I missed you,” I say, surprising myself.
Ben’s lips part, then quiver slightly, as if maybe he wants to tell me the same. Or maybe my honesty makes him nervous.
“So,” I say when it’s just awkward silence between us. I bite the inside of my cheek, almost wishing I could take the words back.
“Relax,” he says, noticing maybe how my face is burning hot.
“I guess this is a lot harder for me than I thought. I mean, just being here . . . with you . . . trying to talk about important stuff when I really can’t—”
“Concentrate?” he finishes for me. His eyes are wide and searching.
“Yeah,” I say, wanting more than anything to press my face against his chest, to feel his heart pulse beneath my skin.
Ben must sense it, because he takes a couple steps back, against the opposite wall now—as far away from me as he can get.
“What’s wrong?”
He looks away, as if facing me is way too hard for him. “We can’t do this.”
“We’re not doing anything. We’re just talking.”
“You don’t honestly believe that.”
I start to tell him I do, but then stop just short of the lie.
“So, you wanted to talk?” he asks, getting right down to business.
I fish around my brain for something remotely intelligent to say. “Were you in Boston?” I ask, remembering how just before he’d left he’d mentioned possibly visiting a cousin there.
“That isn’t really important. What matters now is that I’m here.”
“And why are you here?” I say, disappointed by how closed off he’s being.
“I don’t know.” He looks away. “Maybe I’m sick of homeschooling.”
“And that’s it?” An impromptu hiccup escapes from my throat. I try to cover it up with a lame little cough.
“You want a better answer?”
“I just thought there might be more to it.”
“More, like what?”
“Like maybe you thought I was in danger again.”
“How would I know that?” he asks. “I haven’t touched you in months.”
“Maybe you heard something or sensed it somehow. . . .” I pull the bathroom note from my pocket and try to hand it to him, but Ben refuses to touch it. He starts to take another step back, but between the wall and me, he’s totally pinned. “Here,” I say, opening the note up for him. I hold it out just inches from his face.
“‘It’s not over yet,’” he reads.
“I got it today, right after I spotted you spying on me in the art studio.”
“Spying on you?”
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Where did you get that?” he asks, gesturing to the note.
“That isn’t an answer.” I take a step closer, and he folds his arms across his chest. “Why were you outside my house the other night?” I ask.
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw you across the street, looking up at my bedroom window.”
He shakes his head and looks away again. “Not me.”
“And why should I believe you?” I ask, thinking back to last September, when he lied to me about his identity— when he didn’t want me to know that it was him in the parking lot that day, when he pushed me out of the way of that oncoming car.
“Believe what you want,” he says, “but it wasn’t me in front of your house.”
“But it was you outside the art studio today,” I say, to be sure. “I saw you watching me in the door glass.”
“And so what does that prove? I was looking for you.”
“Yes, but why?”
Still shaking his head, he chews his bottom lip. His forehead is sweating and his jaw is visibly clenched.
“Just say it,” I demand. “I want to hear the truth.”
“Okay, fine,” he says, letting out a breath. “Even though I’m back, I still think we should keep our distance from one another. I think it’ll make things easier.”
“Easier for who?”
“For both of us.”
“You can’t honestly mean that,” I say, suddenly feeling like the walls are closing in, like the ceiling is bearing down onto the crown of my head.
“It’s for the both of us,” he repeats.
I shake my head, refusing to believe it—to believe him—especially since he can’t look me in the eye.
“But I still care about you,” he continues, glancing back at the note. “I mean, we don’t have to stop talking completely. We can still be lab partners.”
“How generous of you.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” I snap. “Aren’t you even a little bit concerned?”
“Did you ever think that maybe the note is a joke?”
“But look at the writing—it’s the same as in Matt’s notes. Nobody else saw those notes but us.”
“That’s what you think, but who knows? Maybe Matt showed them to someone else.”
“Why would he do that? He’d risk someone telling on him.”
“I just don’t think you should make assumptions.”
“You sound like Ms. Beady.”
“Well, maybe she’s right.”
“Then who was outside my house?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe a neighbor, maybe a salesperson—”
“At three in the morning?”
“I don’t know,” he insists.
“Something isn’t right,” I say, thinking about what happened in my pottery studio that night. I glance toward his arm. The treelike scar is in full view—with three branches, not four.
Just the way I sculpted it.
“If it’s Matt you’re worried about,” he continues, “he’s been ordered to keep his distance. I doubt he’d be stupid enough to come after you again.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out.” I take another step toward him—so c
lose that our faces are only inches apart. “Touch me,” I say.
Ben’s mouth tenses. He tries to move away, to act like it doesn’t bother him, but I’ve got him completely cornered.
“Please.” I reach out to take his hand, stopping just shy of his fingers.
“Don’t,” he whispers. His voice is soft and broken. “Please . . . this isn’t easy for me.”
“I thought you said it would make things easier.”
Ben lets out another breath, as if trying to stay in control.
“Touch me,” I repeat, staring at his lips and at the sharpness of his jaw. “And tell me if I’m in danger.”
Ben finally looks at me. His eyes draw a zigzag line down my face, stopping at my mouth. He unfolds his arms and extends his palm to my shoulder. But he doesn’t touch it. His fingers tremble. His breath is warm and erratic against my neck.
“I can’t,” he says, wiping a droplet of sweat from his cheek.
“You won’t hurt me,” I tell him.
“Go,” he says, staring straight into my eyes, making it clear that he truly doesn’t want me here. That he no longer wants any part of me.
8
January 23, 1984
Dear Diary,
My birthday sucked. My mother took Jilly to the movies. They saw Sixteen Candles and my mother kept raving about how great it was.
It’s fine that they didn’t ask me to go. I didn’t want to see that movie anyway.
I know my mother hates me. I know she wishes I wasn’t here. And I know she thinks that if I’d never come to be, my father wouldn’t have left.
At least that’s what she tells me. I never had the chance to ask him if it’s true. Because once he left, he never looked back. And my mother’s been punishing me ever since.
Love,
Alexia
9
After school, I head straight to Knead, even though I’m not scheduled to work. I just really want to get away.
The thing is, as soon as I unlock the door—as soon as the smell of clay and glazes hits me—I realize that maybe I’ve come to the wrong place. On one hand it’s almost instinctive to come here—to retreat into my safe haven of clay, slip, and carving tools. And yet, the idea of sculpting anything new absolutely terrifies me right now.
Deadly Little Lies Page 3