But then he touches me anyway.
His hand skims over mine, causing my insides to bubble and stir. He clasps my fingers ever so gently, like he’s still afraid of hurting me.
Don’t let go, I want to scream. My whole body aches for him to hold me.
A few moments later, he releases my hand. He opens his eyes and scoots his seat back.
“Well?”
“Nothing,” he says, trying to control his breath.
“What do you mean ‘nothing’? You didn’t feel anything?”
“I didn’t feel anything dangerous,” he says to correct me.
“Then what did you feel?” I ask, noting his sweaty face.
“You’re supposed to be relieved, by the way,” Ben continues, ignoring the question. “This is good news. It probably means someone’s just trying to mess with you.”
I know he’s right about a sense of relief, but I can’t help feeling disappointed too. I mean, how can he touch me and not feel a thing, when all I have to do is look at him and my entire body quakes?
“Maybe you should try again,” I suggest. “You weren’t exactly touching me hard.”
“I’m sorry if it’s not the answer you want to hear.”
“I just don’t understand,” I say, trying to be strong even though every inch of me feels suddenly broken. “How can you feel nothing . . . after everything?”
“I’m not exactly feeling anything warm and fuzzy about you either,” the Sweat-man says, standing right over me now.
A sprinkling of laughter erupts in the classroom. The Sweat-man continues to poke fun by telling the class about some puppy love he had back in the fifth grade— something about a girl with braids, a candy apple present, and how he’d asked to switch seats too.
Then he rewards me with a big fat detention for abandoning my lab partner. And a big fat zero for our failed pH experiment.
I glance over at Tate, who’s obviously given up completely. The poor boy is using a cabbage leaf as a makeshift beret. I get up and take my seat beside him at the front of the room, without another single look in Ben’s direction.
22
March 5, 1984
Dear Diary,
Yesterday I had a voice stuck inside my head. It was my mother’s, and she was screaming.
At first I thought it was really happening, that she was really yelling out in pain and pleading for help. I stepped out of my bedroom and looked around the house, trying to find her. I even went outside. But she wasn’t around, and her car was gone.
I thought I was going crazy, but then Jilly called from the hospital about an hour later, telling me that our mother had slipped on a patch of ice coming out of the grocery store. She’d fallen hard against the pavement, and needed stitches on her scalp.
I hung up the phone, thinking about thesketch I ripped up in Mrs. Trigger’s class. Then I cried myself to sleep.
Love,
Alexia
23
By the end of the school day, pretty much everyone’s heard about what happened in chemistry—that Ben no longer feels anything for me . . . quite literally.
Most people say it’s a good thing, joking that if Ben and I were to wind up a couple, my body would probably end up ditched in a shallow grave somewhere.
But I overhear a freshman girl tell her friends the news is tragic. “He saved her life,” she reminds them.
Kimmie says the news is neither good nor tragic. “You’ve already heard me lecture you on the merits of moving on, but the fact that Ben abandoned his whole ‘no-touch’ policy and felt you up in chem lab . . . now that’s promising. Not to mention hot.”
I know she’s right about the moving on part, especially since Ben didn’t sense anything dangerous when he touched me. Plus I promised him that I’d leave him alone.
And he didn’t seem to object.
It’s after school, after my double detentions for gym and chemistry, and I’m at Knead, about to begin working on a new piece. I wedge the clay out against my board, enjoying the therapeutic quality of each smack, prod, and punch.
As the clay oozes between my fingers and pastes against my skin, images of all sorts begin to pop into my head. I try my best to push them away, to focus instead on the cold and clammy sensation of the mound and the way it helps me relax. But after only a few short minutes of solitude, I hear someone storm their way up the back stairwell. At first I think it’s Spencer, but then I hear the voice:
“I’m coming up the stairs,” Adam bellows. “I’m approaching the studio area, about to pass by the sink.”
I turn to look, noticing how he’s standing only a few feet behind me now.
“I hope I didn’t startle you this time,” he says.
“Ha-ha.” I hold back my smile.
“I would have called your cell to tell you I was coming up, but you never gave me your number.”
“I’m fine,” I assure him, unable to stifle a giggle.
“So what are you working on?” He looks toward my workboard.
“I don’t know yet. I’m having too much fun thwacking to actually sculpt something meaningful.”
“Should I be scared?”
I hold the clay mound like a baseball, ready to pitch at him, but instead I plop it back onto my board.
“I take it you had another rough day?” he asks.
“I already told you; it’s been more like a rough year.”
“And still you won’t let me treat you to coffee.” He shakes his head as if the idea of it is appalling. “I poured, pulled, and cleaned all the Valentine’s Day stuff, by the way. I think the ladies at the senior center will be pleased.”
“Seriously? We’re done?”
He nods. “The pieces are in both kilns as we speak.”
“Thank you,” I say, practically in awe.
“No sweat.” He smiles. A dimple forms in his cheek. “I was bored. I’ve been spending way too much time here.”
“And why’s that?”
“I could ask you the same thing. Isn’t this your day off too?”
I shrug and gaze back at my workboard. “Sculpting helps me unwind, I guess. It’s sort of my escape.”
“Well, I’m escaping too. I have an obnoxious roommate with an even more obnoxious girlfriend. They spend all their time in our apartment, monopolizing the TV, eating all my food, and arguing over who loves the other more. It’s really pretty sickening. Plus, Spencer doesn’t seem to mind if I hang out here.”
“Not if you’re getting all the work done.”
“Well, I thought I’d be nice and spare you from having to clean boob mugs and penis straws.”
“Thanks,” I repeat, feeling a smile spread across my face.
“So, is that still a no on the coffee?”
I look away, almost able to hear Kimmie’s voice telling me to go, that this doesn’t mean I have to marry the guy, and that this is obviously what Ben wants too.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll even treat you to a scone.” “Well, when you put it that way, why not?”
24
I suggest to Adam that we go to the Press & Grind, just a few doors down from Knead. Since neither of us is actually scheduled to work, we lock up the studio and make our way down there.
The place is fairly deserted, just a few stragglers working on their laptops and a group of ladies knitting. We order cappuccinos with extra foam, maple-walnut scones, and then claim the cushy velvet chairs in the corner.
“Wow, this is pretty good,” Adam says, taking a sip. “But I bet it’d even be better out of a boob mug.”
“Very funny.”
“More like mind-boggling. I mean, who even buys that stuff?”
“Leave it to Spencer to find the clientele. I think we must be one of the last remaining pottery shops to still pour our own slip molds.”
“Well, I’ve been pouring those molds for days.” He flashes me his clay-laden fingernails.
“Do you still like working at Knead?”
�
�It’s cool,” he says, wiping his froth mustache with a napkin. “I like how Spencer’s so laid-back.”
“How did you even know he was hiring?”
“I don’t think Spencer even knew it himself. It was a timing thing, really. I was just going around town one day, filling out applications, when I saw Spencer lugging a bunch of boxes out of his truck. I offered to help, and he asked me if I wanted a job.”
“That sounds like Spencer,” I say.
“Cool, right?”
“Pretty cool. And pretty spontaneous.”
“Well, it works for me,” he says, taking a bite of scone. “Because I wasn’t really into the alternative.”
“Which was?”
“Waiting tables at the Jungle Café, the only place I could find that was hiring. You know they make you dress in safari gear, and pretend like you’re looking for elephants? It’s not exactly good for the self-esteem.”
I let out a laugh, nearly choking on a piece of scone. Adam laughs too. And finally I feel like I’m loosening up.
We end up talking about his school plans. He wants to transfer to the Boston School of Architecture in a couple years, and I tell him how I’d like to study in a big city too. “I’m so done with this small-town way of life,” I tell him.
“What’s so bad about a small town?”
“Where do I even begin?”
“Right.” He scratches his chin in thought. “I think you may have mentioned something about people making up stories because they’re bored. I guess I wasn’t listening completely. Too distracted that you might tear my head off, I think.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem,” he says, meeting my gaze. “You’re making up for it now.”
I feel my face get hot, and wonder how to respond. Luckily, I don’t have to.
Adam takes another sip and tells me that he’s from a small town too. “There were only fifty-two kids in my high-school graduating class. This place is a metropolis as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, I hope you have a good map.”
“What for when I’ve got the best tour guide around? If you’re willing, that is.”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you say?” He leans forward in his seat. “Do you want to go out sometime?”
“Out?”
“Yeah.” His brown eyes soften. “You know, like, on a date. I order a mean pepperoni pizza.”
“Really?” I say to fill the silence.
“You don’t have to answer me now,” Adam says. “You can think about it. I’ll wait.” He sits back in his seat and takes a couple giant bites of scone, polishing it off completely. Then he gulps down the remainder of his cappuccino, commenting on the durability of the foam: “Nice and frothy, just the way I like it.” Finally he wipes his mouth, peeks at his watch, and looks back in my direction. “Okay, so time’s up. What’s the verdict?”
I let out yet another laugh, surprised at how much fun I’m having, and how easily the word yes seems to roll right off my tongue.
25
It’s dinnertime and I’m not exactly hungry, even when my dad bribes me with a chili cheese burrito at Taco Bell. “We’ll tell your mom we’re heading out to do an errand at the mall, but instead we’ll make a run for the border. What do you say? We can hit the drive-through and eat in the parking lot.” He flashes me his pocketful of chewing gum and breath mints. “Essentials,” he says with a wink, “to cover our spicy breath afterward.”
“A tempting offer,” I say, especially considering that Mom’s serving up raw-violi for dinner tonight. It’s just that there’s so much conflicting emotion rolling around inside my head right now that food isn’t exactly appealing.
I give Dad a rain check on his offer, and dive into my homework. I’m determined to redeem myself after today’s botched chemistry experiment. I’m thinking that maybe if I can fix that, then I can work on the other straggling pieces of my life.
I grab some red cabbage and start to chop it up. Meanwhile Mom, completely ecstatic about the assignment, loads the kitchen island with items from the fridge, telling me she’s been meaning to check the acidity of some of her favorite treats. Together we check the pH levels of things like apple juice, coconut milk, brown-rice syrup, and green tea. Then I record my findings, actually excited to show the Sweat-man my results, despite the fact that I’ve already received a big fat goose egg of a grade.
It just feels really good to fix something.
Later, in bed, I toss and turn, unable to shut my mind off. It’s a little after eleven and I can’t stop thinking about my day. I had a really fun time with Adam, and yet just being with him—laughing at his jokes and even considering a date—makes me feel like I’m cheating on Ben. I know it makes no sense, and the fact that it doesn’t is what’s keeping me awake.
I snuggle my stuffed polar bear closer, tempted to give Kimmie a call. I reach for my cell phone and it rings in my hand.
“Hello?” I say, assuming it’s her.
“Hey,” a male voice says. “It’s me.”
“Adam?” I ask, not recognizing the number on the caller ID screen.
“Try again.”
“Ben?”
“I’m sorry to call so late.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“I’m on my aunt’s cell. My phone isn’t working right.”
“Oh,” I say, wondering if that’s part of the reason why I was having so much trouble reaching him before.
“Were you sleeping?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Yeah, me neither. I guess I kind of just wanted to talk to you about today.”
“Okay,” I say, completely taken aback.
“It’s nothing bad,” he continues. “I mean, like I said, I didn’t sense anything alarming.”
“Then what?”
“Do you think that maybe we can talk in person?”
“Right now?”
“Please,” he insists. His voice crackles over the word. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep otherwise.”
A better part of me wants to tell him no, but instead I mumble a yes, hoping it’ll help bring closure to what still feels like a wide-open sore.
We make plans to meet up at the end of my street. There’s an all-night diner on the main road. I climb out of bed and pull on my coat, checking the hallway to see if my parents are asleep. They are. Their door is closed and the light’s turned off. And so I slip on my boots and climb out the window.
The air is absolutely frigid tonight. Tears run down the sides of my face. I burrow my hands deep in my pockets and move quickly down the road, already able to hear Ben’s motorcycle from just a couple streets away.
He pulls up beside me and parks his bike in front of the diner. “Thanks for coming out,” he says, opening the door wide.
We order at the counter—hot chocolates and blueberry muffins—and then take our tray to a table in the corner.
“So, what’s going on?” I ask, noticing how sullen Ben looks.
He leans in close, as if what he has to say is really important, but instead he just stares at me. His dark gray eyes are runny from the cold. “I just kind of wanted to see you,” he says.
“Oh.” I feel my face crinkle in confusion. “I thought it was something urgent.”
“Who’s Adam?”
“Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“I’m just curious.” He shrugs. “You said his name when I called you.”
I’m tempted to tell him that he no longer has any right to ask about other guys, but instead I just say: “He’s someone I work with.”
“And you’re seeing him?”
“I thought you said you wanted space.”
“I do.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
A second later, a waitress comes to check on us. “Is everything okay?” she asks, noticing that neither of us has touched our food.
I nod slightly, and she turns away.
Meanwhile, Ben continues to study my face. “We’re here because you said something today that bothered me.”
“What?” I ask, wishing he’d just spit it out.
He bites his lip and gazes at my mouth, afraid to tell me, maybe. But then he finally says it: “When you said that if I’d help you, you’d leave me alone.”
“You don’t want that?”
“You don’t have to leave me alone completely. It’s not like we can’t talk sometimes.”
“Isn’t it? I mean, we’ve already been through this. I can’t be with you if I’m not allowed to touch you. If I’m not allowed to feel what I’m feeling.”
“And what are you feeling?”
I shake my head, refusing to open up again. “I can’t do this. I can’t be all vulnerable, only to have you change your mind five minutes later. You said you wanted space and so I’m giving it to you. I’m trying to move on.”
“It seems like you’ve already moved on.”
I shake my head, fighting the urge to tell him that there’s nothing going on between Adam and me. Because he honestly has no right to know. “Maybe we should leave,” I say, sliding my chair back.
“Not yet.”
“Do you have something else to tell me?”
He opens his mouth as if to speak, but instead he touches me. He slides his hand across the table and rests it on my forearm.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, but I’m not sure the words are audible.
Ben clenches harder until my arm stings, and I almost have to tug away.
“What are you feeling for?” I ask, fully aware that he’s trying to read me. At first I assume it’s because of everything that’s been going on—the photos, the notes, the phone call.
But then it hits me: he already said I was safe. He said he didn’t sense anything dangerous when he touched me before. And so far, all it seems he’s wanted to know about is Adam.
I pull away and stand from the table. “I have to go.”
“Please, Camelia, no.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. Tears well up in my eyes. “I can’t do this. You can’t have it both ways.” I turn away, leaving him alone.
Deadly Little Lies Page 8