They hadn’t been mailed either.
I swallow hard and reach for the phone. At the same moment, the newspaper photo catches my eye again, and I look a little closer.
Above the door of the Finz restaurant sign is a wooden cutout of a swordfish. The swordfish is jumping upward, as though out of the water.
Exactly like my sculpture.
I drop the clipping. There’s an acidic taste inside my mouth. A second later the phone rings.
“Hello?” I answer.
It’s silent at first, but then I hear a high-pitched giggling sound, as if from far away.
“Hello?” I repeat, louder this time, tempted to hang up.
After a few moments, the giggling finally stops. “You’ll be next,” a voice whispers. It’s an angry hisslike tone that nearly makes me drop the receiver.
“Who is this?” I insist. I look toward my window. The curtains are parted, the blind is rolled to the top.
I spring from my bed to tug the blind down.
“You’ll end up like her,” the voice continues; it’s followed by a weird crackling sound.
“Who is this?” I repeat.
But the line is dead.
20
At school the next day, I tell Kimmie and Wes all about what happened. We’re sitting on the sidelines in gym, all of us having conveniently forgotten our sweatpants and sneakers, and fully prepared to accept our sentence of cleanup duty after school. Some matters just can’t wait until lunchtime.
“You seriously couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female?” Wes asks.
“Not that it matters,” Kimmie sighs. “I mean, with voice-altering software, tone-changing phone devices, and pitch-sensitive voice transformers with reverberation capabilities, I swear, it’s like a stalker’s paradise.”
“Okay, now you’re starting to scare me,” Wes says.
“No, scary is the way people can alter their voices on cue. Like your imitation of that creepy guy who lives at your house.”
“You mean my dad?” He laughs.
“Seriously, it gives me chills just thinking about it,” she says.
“But I’m most proud of my Marge Simpson impersonation,” he says, making his voice super raspy.
“Still, it’s all so vague,” she continues. “I mean, ‘You’ll be next’? ‘You’ll end up like her’? Couldn’t the caller be a bit more specific?”
“They’re obviously talking about Ben’s ex-girlfriend,” I say.
“And why is that obvious?” Wes asks. “They could be talking about Debbie.”
“Which, when you think about it, would be a whole lot better,” Kimmie says. “I mean, she only ended up in a coma.”
As if that’s supposed to make me feel better.
Wes gestures to Debbie standing at the sidelines, pretending to play basketball for the blue team, but really doing her best to avoid actually having to participate. “You just never know,” he says. “One day a sneeze away from death—”
“The next, just killing the game,” Kimmie says of Debbie’s less-than-stellar sporting skills.
“I figure the same person who called me is the one who left that newspaper article,” I say.
“The same one who left you the snapshots of the shrine and the Ben graffiti,” Wes adds.
“Someone’s definitely messing with you,” Kimmie says, the newspaper clipping pressed between her fingers.
“Yeah, but why?” I say, noticing the hole in Kimmie’s black lace socks. Mr. Muse ordered us to remove our “wood-dulling” shoes before we stepped out onto the recently painted gym floor. The smell of polyurethane is still thick in the air.
“Maybe the same reason Debbie’s friends made it look like she was being stalked,” Kimmie says. “People have nothing better to do in this lame-ass town.”
I nod, thinking how I said something similar to Adam at the studio yesterday. “Except if this is a joke, it’s so far from funny.”
“I agree.” Wes nods. “I mean, comas, dead-girl shrines, and death threats? It can all be such a downer.”
“So what are you going to do?” Kimmie asks me.
I shake my head since I honestly don’t know.
“I think you should tell your parents,” she says. “Or go to the police.”
“Even though Matt’s in Louisiana?”
“Wait, is that a rhetorical question?” she asks.
I nibble my lip, wishing I could just talk to Ben about everything, that he would touch my hand, and tell me whether or not I need to be worried. “Maybe you guys are right.” I gaze out at Debbie on the court. She stands at the free-throw line, dribbling the ball. The smacking sound of rubber against wood makes my head ache. She finally shoots, but misses.
“Poor girl.” Kimmie shakes her head.
“I think she still blames Ben,” I say. “You should have seen the way she looked at him in the hallway the other day.”
“Didn’t someone catch her up to the facts after the coma?” Kimmie asks. “That her dumb-ass friends wanted her to think she was doomed. That they’re the ones responsible for her so-called stalking.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” I say. “Maybe some people will believe whatever they want, regardless of facts.”
“Well, all I know is that when all that drama went down last fall, she did go to the police,” Wes says. “And look at what happened to her.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“So maybe you should wait,” he continues. “I mean, what are you going to tell the police anyway? That first you were hearing voices in your basement? And now someone’s pranking your house? They’ll give you a straitjacket and then tell you to call them when something big happens.”
“Except if I were you,” Kimmie says, “I wouldn’t wait around for something as big as getting abducted again.”
“Agreed,” Wes says. “Better to do something pre-kidnapping. Maybe right around the time when the stalker in question leaves a dead rodent in your mailbox.”
“Not funny,” I tell them.
“Who’s laughing?” Kimmie’s eyes grow wide. The jet-black shadow shading her lids accentuates her pale blue eyes. “I’m really starting to worry about you.”
Wes snatches the newspaper clipping from Kimmie and drops it into my lap. “Why not give some of this stuff to Ben and have him touch it?”
“Good idea,” Kimmie says.
“But he’ll probably refuse,” I sigh. “Just like he refused to touch the note I got in the bathroom.”
“Because it was sticky?” Wes makes a face.
“Because the note held my energy,” I explain, resisting the urge to bean him on the head with one of the runaway basketballs.
“And he’d rather you be in danger than get himself involved?” Kimmie asks.
“Wow, that’s harsh,” Wes says.
“But it’s also obviously true,” I say. “Except he doesn’t believe I’m in danger. He thinks the note from the bathroom was a joke.”
“Have you talked to him about the whole touch-powers-being-transferred possibility?” Kimmie asks.
I nod. “And the answer was negative.”
Kimmie shakes her head, clearly disappointed. “So then, how do you explain the swordfish sculpture?”
“Have you been to Finz recently?” Wes asks. “Maybe you saw the swordfish logo and just forgot about it.”
I nod again, thinking how it was just a couple nights ago, when I went on that walk with Ben, that we ended up on Columbus Street. Is it possible that the image subconsciously stuck with me somehow?
“Well, seafood aside, you need to do something. And sooner rather than later.” Kimmie flares out the skirt of her baby-doll dress and smooths out her leggings, commenting to Wes that his tight black jeans look rather leggingish as well. “You know I’m all for vintage,” she tells him, “but that greaser 1950s look is all wrong for you.”
“Thanks, but I’ve had enough fashion advice from my dad for one day.”
“He’s not i
nto the James Dean look for you either?”
“He’s not into my look period. He thinks my hair’s too long, my chest’s too small, and he’s started calling me Wuss instead of Wes, insisting that he needs to buy me a dress to go with my tights.”
“Your dad has man-boobs, cankles, and mama-hips,” Kimmie snaps. “Who’s he to talk about style?”
“Are you still seeing Wendy?” I ask, noticing how Wes’s hair does seem a bit longer than usual. Still, he’s got it fully encrusted with mousse, per usual, like maybe he’s trying to go for that greaser effect after all.
“Wendy dumped me.” He sulks. “Two weeks ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“How does someone you pay to pose as your girlfriend dump you?” Kimmie asks.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he repeats.
“Well, whatever; your dad’s a freak,” Kimmie says. “Shall we move on?”
But before we can move too far, Mr. Muse tells us to stop talking completely. “This isn’t the cafeteria, ladies,” he snaps. “Whiner, you should know better,” he says, turning to Wes.
Freshman year, Wes was branded with the name Whiner (short for Wesley, the Oscar Meyer Whiner). It all started when he showed up to the Halloween dance dressed as a six-foot-long wiener. A couple of the lacrosse players swiped his bun, and Wes “whined” to the chaperones, scoring the players a big fat detention, and Wes a very undesirable nickname.
“Socialize on your own time,” Mr. Muse continues. “Not mine.” He follows up by handing us each a health book: What’s Going on Down There? For Girls and Those Who Love Them. There’s a picture of a prepubescent girl on the front cover, wearing a pink-and-white polka-dot bikini. “I want to see the first three chapters outlined in your notebooks by the end of the block,” Muse barks.
“I seriously hate this school,” Wes says, once Muse is out of earshot. Instead of taking notes, Wes draws a whip in the hand of the girl on the front cover, and a dog collar around her neck.
21
I spend the next day and a half trying to talk to Ben, but he doesn’t go to the cafeteria at lunchtime. I don’t see him between classes or after school. And he isn’t answering my phone calls.
And so all during lab I try to get his attention by looking in his direction, clanking two graduated cylinders together so they make an annoying ping sound, and letting the spine of my book smack down hard against the table. But he doesn’t as much as glance up in my direction.
Not once.
While Tate, my new lab partner, orders me to begin chopping up a head of red cabbage (we’re doing an experiment that measures the pH levels of a rabbit’s favorite food), I watch Ben laugh over something Rena said, and try not to cut my finger.
It seems Ben and Rena already have their cabbage chopped. While Ben, clearly avoiding Rena’s touch, reads the directions aloud, she places the perfectly diced cabbage pieces into a beaker and pours hot water over the top.
“The pieces are too big,” Tate squawks, referring to my cabbage shreds.
At the same moment, Rena lets out a loud and grating laugh. Ben’s eyes crinkle up and his lips spread wide into a smile worthy of a magazine cover. Meanwhile, a fist-size lump forms inside my throat and I seriously want to be sick.
A second later, Tate nabs the knife right out of my hands, completely agitated by my lack of focus. “It was so much better with Rena,” he snaps.
But obviously Rena didn’t agree.
She and I were lab partners last year in bio. She’s one of those students who has to get an A in everything she does, including gym, or else the world, as she knows it, will come crumbling down around her. Her pursuit of perfection is undoubtedly the reason she ditched Tate in the first place. The boy isn’t exactly known for his good grades.
While Tate scurries to keep up with the rest of the class, cramming a fistful of barely chopped cabbage leaves into our beaker and dousing water on top of it, I try to redeem myself by taking the lab book and reading him the directions aloud.
“Sharp objects, please,” the Sweat-man announces. He moves around the room collecting the numbered knives into a large steel box, muttering something about how the administration insists he keep them under lock and key and for experimental purposes only, even though he has fantasies of alternative uses. “Kidding, of course.” He chuckles. “Well, not really.”
I give the Sweat-man our knife and then proceed to tell Tate to filter the cabbage material from the beaker, letting the water remain. “The solution should be a red-purple color,” I say, peeking out from behind the book to see. But our color is more like muted pink at best.
“What happened?” Tate asks. He gives his straggly ponytail a frustrated tug.
“I don’t think we left the water in long enough,” I say, rereading the directions. “Was the water steaming when you poured it in?”
Naturally Tate blames me, telling me that I should have said something in advance, that I wasn’t paying attention, and that he’s already failing chemistry big-time.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking back at Ben and Rena. Their solution is a pretty shade of red that reminds me of valentine roses. They’ve already got the liquid separated into several glass jars, and they’re adding various household products to each—lemon juice, baking soda, vinegar, and antacids—to measure the pH levels.
Rena goes to hand one of the jars to Ben, but he avoids it by jotting something down in his notebook.
“What should we do now?” Tate asks, interrupting my gawking. He pops one of our antacids into his mouth.
I glance at the Sweat-man, wondering if he’ll let us start again, but before I can ask, the classroom wall phone rings.
“Mad science,” he says, answering the phone. A few seconds’ worth of muffled conversation later and the Sweat-man finally hangs up. “Nature calls,” he announces. “And so does my wife. This could take a bit, but keep working.” He opens the door that adjoins the Spanish classroom next to us, tells Mrs. Lynch that he needs to step out for a few minutes, and then leaves us.
Alone.
I gaze back at Ben. He and Rena look pretty finished with the experiment, each recording their findings in their lab books. They seem to have just about every color of the rainbow going—from red to greenish yellow.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper to Tate.
“Wait—what? Where are you going?” he barks.
I ignore him and make my way over to Ben and Rena’s table.
Rena’s mouth twitches, as if my mere presence irritates her. “Can we help you with something?” she asks.
“Ben?” I say, forcing him to look up at me finally.
“We’re a little busy,” Rena continues.
“It’ll just be a second,” I say, keeping focused on him. “Then I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”
Ben studies me for about half a second before turning to Rena: “Would you mind giving us a minute?”
Rena rolls her eyes, indeed appearing to mind, but she gets up anyway, telling me I’m lucky she has to go to the little girls’ room.
While she heads off to ask Mrs. Lynch for permission and a hall pass, I slide into the seat beside Ben, noticing how he smells like vanilla. And how he looks like a movie star. His crewneck sweater hugs his chest. His dark gray eyes are wide and intense. And there’s a trace of sweat on his brow.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
I nod and pull the photos from my pocket. Using his and Rena’s books as a makeshift barricade so no one else can see, I place the photos down in front of him on the table.
The picture of Julie’s shrine.
And the photo of the graffiti.
I see Ben’s face fall, and suddenly wish I’d never shown him these pictures.
“I’m sorry,” I say, realizing this must be horrible for him.
“What’s that?” he asks, noticing the newspaper clipping still wadded up in my hand.
I reluctantly set it down beside the photos. “Someone left these t
hings for me,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “Somebody called me, too. They said that I’m next.”
“Next what?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I flip the shrine photo over so he can see the message scribbled across the back.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think this stuff was from me.”
“Why you?” I ask, remembering how Kimmie suggested the same.
“‘Let’s go for a hike’?” he reads aloud. “It’s almost like a threat. Like someone wants you to think it’s me.”
“But you have no reason to threaten me.”
Ben nods slightly and searches my face. His eyes linger a moment on my lips, but he doesn’t exactly dispute the idea. “So, do you have any idea who all this might be from?” he asks.
“I was hoping you could help me.”
“Can’t this wait until later?”
“If I’ll have until later.”
Ben lets out a tense sigh and looks around the room. No one’s watching. And so he takes the shrine photo and places it on his lap, under the table.
He closes his eyes. His shoulders tremble slightly, as if his hands are shaking too. A few seconds later he gives the photo back. “Nothing,” he whispers.
“Nothing?”
He shakes his head and quickly glides his fingers over the graffiti photo and the newspaper clipping. “Just cotton,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I just feel you, your clothes, your pants. You must have had this stuff in your pocket for a while. All the original vibe is gone.”
“So then, touch me,” I say, remembering what he told me last fall—how his power is most effective when there’s skin-to-skin contact.
I move my hand just inches from his.
“Not now,” he says.
“Then when?”
Ben looks back down at the shrine photo. “This isn’t a good time,” he whispers.
Deadly Little Lies Page 7