“So, we need a plan,” Kimmie says, taking a sip of soda (even though it’s barely ten a.m.). “Should we tell Danica that we were just in the area and thought we’d stop by? Or should we go for brutal honesty and say that we have reason to believe that her days are numbered?”
“I’d go with option number two,” I tell her. “But I don’t think we need to be that brutal.”
“Agreed. Now, what do you say we go get ourselves some answers?” She gives me a high five, and we set out for Danica’s.
WE ARRIVE ABOUT FIVE MINUTES LATER. Kimmie is already halfway up Danica’s walkway before I even step out of the car. I look around, checking to see if the Taurus is parked anywhere, but luckily it doesn’t appear that it is.
“Are you coming?” Kimmie asks, just before ringing the doorbell.
I join her at the door, and Danica answers almost immediately. “Shall I call the police to report you for harassment now?” she asks, glaring at me. “Or wait until Monday, when I’ll be sure to find a dead rodent with your fingerprints all over it stuffed inside my locker?”
“Calling the police is actually a good idea,” Kimmie says. “Word is, your life could very well be at stake.”
“I was referring to Camelia’s apparent need to stalk me,” Danica says.
“FYI: stalkers don’t ring doorbells,” Kimmie tells her. “They follow you around when you least expect it, prank you with harassing phone calls, and then tie you up in the back of trailers.”
“Well, the two of you should know,” she says, folding her arms.
Kimmie peers past Danica into the house. “Can we come in to talk? I promise it’ll just be a couple minutes.”
“And then she’ll be out of my hair for good?” Danica asks.
Kimmie doesn’t answer this, but Danica lets us inside anyway. She leads us to a family room at the back of the house. Like the outside of the house, the interior has definitely deteriorated with age. Similar to a fraternity house, minus the beer-guzzling college students, there isn’t much in terms of decor. A portable fridge in the family room doubles as a coffee table, and there’s even the requisite stack of old pizza boxes collected near a recycling bin.
“Are your parents at home?” I ask, remembering how she mentioned that she barely ever saw them.
Danica shakes her head, but once again she doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she takes a seat on the arm of a chair (because the chair itself is loaded with old newspapers and take-out menus) and demands to know what all of this is about.
“I know I told you this before,” I begin, finding a vacant spot on the couch beside Kimmie, “but I think you might be in trouble.”
Danica lets out an obnoxious yawn.
“Camelia doesn’t make this stuff up,” Kimmie insists.
“No, she just has full-on convulsions in her sculpture classes, shouts out random phrases, and claws at people’s eyes.”
“That only happened one time,” I say, knowing how stupid the excuse sounds. “And it wasn’t exactly like that.”
“Bottom line: we think someone might be out to hurt you,” Kimmie tells her.
“Who?” Danica asks, checking her watch like we’re wasting her time.
“There’s a guy who’s been following you,” I tell her. “In a black Ford Taurus, with tinted windows…”
“Do the letters DM mean anything to you?” Kimmie asks.
To my surprise, Danica actually entertains the question, staring off into space, as if trying to think of any names or abbreviations she may know. But a couple of seconds later, she shakes her head.
“Well, have you noticed if anyone’s been following you?” I ask. “Or have you been getting any weird phone calls lately?”
“No one’s been following me, but I have gotten a few weird calls. Hang-ups, mostly. My dad’s gotten them, too.”
“And do you check the caller ID?” I ask.
She nods. “But it always comes up blocked. We figure it must be telemarketing.” She pulls the elastic from her pigtail so that the hair falls in a bob, framing her face. The golden-brown color complements the natural glow of her skin, and if it weren’t for the constant scowl on her face, I’d say she could be really pretty.
“How long have you been working at the Press & Grind?” Kimmie asks, gesturing toward the paper cup that sits on the portable fridge–turned table. It has the shop’s logo printed on the side (a picture of an old-fashioned coffee press “holding hands” with a grinder).
“Not long. It’s a fairly new gig. I usually work in the back. Now, will that be all?” She fakes a smile.
“You wouldn’t happen to figure-skate, would you?” I ask, totally taking her off guard.
Danica’s eyes narrow into tight, angry slits. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
“Did some girls ever play a trick on you while you were skating?” Kimmie persists.
“Were you sent to a special school because of it?”
“You need to go,” Danica says, getting up from her chair. She storms out of the room, moving toward the front of the house.
“Why?” I ask, following right behind her. “Was it something we said? Something we
asked?”
“Go!” Danica says, standing at the front door now, clearly unwilling to explain.
Kimmie and I make an attempt to apologize as we exit her house. But Danica isn’t having any of it, nor is she acknowledging our concern for her safety.
“We’re on your side,” I say, standing at her doorstep. “You’ve got it all wrong about me.”
“Do I?” she asks. “Because, the way I see things, you’re the only one harassing me—coming by my house uninvited, bothering me at school, prying into my business, and showing up where I work.”
“Danica, you don’t understand—”
“No, I understand perfectly,” she says, cutting me off. “Come here again and I will call the police.”
And with that, she slams the door.
“W HAT THE HELL JUST happened?” Kimmie asks, once we get back inside her mom’s car.
“We pissed her off, that’s what.” I look out at the street again, but I still don’t see the Taurus anywhere.
“Yes, but how?”
“Do I seriously need to start a list?” I ask. “Number one, we showed up at her house.
Number two, we told her once again that her life might be in danger.”
“And number three, we brought up the topic of skating and switching schools,” Kimmie says.
“Agreed. It did seem like she went a little ballistic when we started probing her about skating.”
“So, there’s definitely some shred of truth in there,” Kimmie says. “Except, Freetown High is hardly considered a ‘special school.’” She makes air quotes around the words.
“Unless all of this is connected to something that happened in her past—meaning that she was a skater but isn’t any longer because of that one big and traumatic event?”
“That’s my vote,” Kimmie says. “But then, what special school did she go to in the past?”
“I don’t know,” I say, remembering my conversation with Aunt Alexia—when she said that whoever was in danger had been driven over the edge after being tormented by a group of girls. “A school for students with emotional problems, maybe?”
“Does one like that even exist around here?”
“Yes, but that’s the puzzling part,” I say. “Because Humphrey School is for grades seven through twelve. Danica’s been in Freetown Public with us since then.”
“Which brings us to the next question: are you sure Danica’s the one in trouble?”
“She has to be,” I say, thinking about all the clues so far. “Plus, why else would she have gotten so upset when we asked her about ice-skating?”
“Maybe because she’s talentless. Isn’t that what the voices keep repeating inside your head?”
“Yes, but then, why would my aunt say that the person in trouble was more talented than the other girls? So talen
ted that they played a trick on her—one that ended in her getting locked up or confined in some way?”
“Unless, of course, maybe Danica was one of the bullying girls…one who helped play the trick on another girl—i.e., Mandy Candy—because that girl was the better skater.”
“Good point,” I say, thinking how that almost makes sense, considering Danica’s prickly side. Is it possible that Danica was one of the bullies in this case? “You do realize how much I envy your corrupt and suspicious mind, don’t you?” I ask, ever awed by Kimmie’s ability to ask all the right questions.
“Honey, there’s a whole lot enviable about me.” She starts the car, but then pauses a moment and turns to me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
“Okay, so, there’s just one more thing that I have to ask.” Her face gets serious. “What did you mean before, when you said that you owed it to Danica to help her?”
I bite my lip, reminded of how well Kimmie knows me, even when I do keep stuff to myself. And so I fill her in on the whole humiliating story of what happened in junior high.
“And now you’re trying to make things up to her?” she asks.
“Yes, but that’s not the only reason I’m helping her. This isn’t just about me. It’s not about how guilty I’m feeling, or how much better I’ll feel once Danica’s safe. I mean, when I really stop to think about it, I couldn’t not help someone if I knew they were truly in trouble.”
“Which is why I’m proud to be your friend.”
“No prouder than I am to be yours. And, by the way, I owe you an apology, too. You aren’t the only one to blame for the weirdness between us. It takes two to make tension, after all.”
“Apology accepted.” She smiles.
We hug—along-overdue-squeeze-until-your-eyes-turn-runny hug. “Don’t ever be afraid to tell me anything,” Kimmie says. “You’ve seen me in period panties, after all.”
“And with your finger lodged up your nose,” I add.
“Right.” She grimaces, breaking the embrace. She pulls away from the curb and takes me home.
To my surprise, Adam’s Bronco is parked in my driveway.
“Scandalous plans that you neglected to tell me about?” she asks.
“Not that I can recall,” I say, spotting Adam standing at the front door. It looks like my parents aren’t home yet; Dad’s car is still missing from the driveway.
Adam waves when he sees us pull up in front of the house.
“I wonder what he wants,” I say.
“Okay, so maybe it’s my turn to start a list,” Kimmie says, “the top of which would include the fact that Adam’s hot for you and can’t stay away. The bottom of which would be that he’s here to spy on you for Ben’s sake.”
“Be serious,” I tell her.
“Slightly gelled hair, dark-washed jeans, and an Abercrombie-inspired sweatshirt…I’d vote for option number one, but I’ll leave that verdict up to you.”
“And where do you think you’re going?” I ask her, signaling to Adam that I’ll only be a minute.
“Date with Dad,” she says. “He’s got some major making up to do after blowing me off for that hoagie the other night.”
“Is Tammy really all that bad?”
“She’s nineteen,” Kimmie reminds me. “I mean, think about it: my future stepmom and I could theoretically hang out in the same clubs, and no one would think anything of it.”
“Is it Tammy you’re really mad at, or your dad?”
“Getting all shrinkified on me, are you?”
“Not shrinkified, just curious.”
“Well, trust me when I say that I have ample reason to hate my father.”
“Hate?”
“Okay, I’m pissed.” She lets out a sigh.
“But still you persist in wanting to spend time with him?”
“Because, my dear Chameleon, there’s a very small but self-torturous part of me that still pines for his approval.”
“Wait, does being pissed have anything to do with the Big D?” I motion to the henna tattoo on her hand. “Any chance it might stand for ‘anti-divorce’?”
“I’m impressed,” Kimmie says with a smirk. “It seems that my corrupt and suspicious mind is rubbing off on you.”
“But that doesn’t exactly answer my question.”
“And I don’t exactly want to get into it right now, especially since there’s a hunky male literally knocking at your door. Call me later?”
“Definitely,” I say, giving her another hug and thanking her once again for being the amazing friend that she is.
ONCE KIMMIE PULLS AWAY, Adam greets me with a bag from the Press & Grind.
“Triple fudge brownie?” he asks. “I’ve had a craving since last night, and luckily they allowed me back in,” he jokes. “I half expected to find our pictures nailed up on the door with giant X’s marked over our faces.”
“Very funny.” I fake a laugh.
“So, anyway, I figured that since I was in your area…”
“Is that the only reason for your visit?” I ask, giving him a suspicious grin.
“Am I that obvious?”
“In a good way,” I say, taking a seat on the front step.
Adam joins me. “Okay, so maybe I was feeling a little confused after last night…after you kicked my butt to the curb.” He rubs the alleged bruise on his butt.
“It was only because I thought I needed some alone time. For the record, I thought wrong.”
“You could’ve called me.” He bumps his shoulder against mine.
“I wish I had,” I say, feeling partly responsible for the insecurity he feels. “But I guess that after all that butt-to-the-curb-kicking, I didn’t feel I had any right to call.”
“You can always call me. No matter what.”
“Well, thanks,” I say, feeling a smile cross my lips.
Adam smiles, too, taking an extra moment to push a strand of my hair back from my face.
“And not only have I come bearing treats, but I’ve also come fully loaded with highly valuable info.”
“What kind of valuable info?”
“I’ve been asking around about Danica,” he explains. “More incentive to get you to talk to me.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Good,” he says, “because I really want to help you, for no other reason than because I care about you and want you to be safe.”
“Well, thanks,” I say, feeling my face heat up, and thinking how while Ben’s away, having other people look out for me for him, Adam’s here, trying to help me out on his own. “Do you want to come in?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
I smile and get up to unlock the door. In the kitchen, I fetch us a couple of plates for our brownies, and then we sit down at the kitchen island. “So, what did you find out?” I ask, recalling that the only thing I told him about Danica was that she was someone I went to school with and someone I thought might be in trouble.
“You mentioned that she might be a skater, or might be connected to a skater,” he begins.
“And so I asked a friend who’s well connected in the whole sporting circuit in this area—”
“Do you mean Janet?”
“Right,” he says, lighting up, having apparently forgotten that I met his gymnast friend a couple of months ago at his apartment. “Janet’s dad, who’s also her coach, works at the Flint Arena in town, as does Janet, from time to time. I guess that’s where most of the local skating competitions take place.”
“And?” I ask, anticipating the news.
“And both Janet and her dad know a bunch of the skating coaches. So, I asked Janet if she’d mind calling a few of them to see if they’d worked with someone by the name of Danica.”
“Had they?”
Adam shakes his head, seemingly even more disappointed than I am. “And one of the coaches has been working there, teaching all levels of skating, for over twenty years.”
“Well, thanks for
trying,” I say, taking a defeated bite of brownie. “Thank Janet for me, too.”
“Sure thing,” he says, “but don’t think I quit there. I started asking around campus—people who are from Freetown—if anyone might know a Danica. I mean, you have to admit, it’s not exactly a name you’d forget.”
“Seriously?” I ask, flattered by his efforts.
“Deadly.” He gives me a mock-menacing grin, suddenly reminding me of Wes.
“Anyway, there was this one girl—Marcie something—who said she knew a girl named Danica from her church. I guess Danica’s family was super into it: they’d attend the weekly services, help out on Bake Sale day, clean up after the Christmas bazaar, et cetera, et cetera. Then, one day, the mom left, and the family sort of fell apart.”
“Fell apart?” I ask, thinking how Danica had mentioned barely ever seeing her parents.
“Marcie said there were at least two kids in the family, including Danica, but she couldn’t remember how old the other one was, or if it was a girl or boy. Marcie also thought the dad worked in construction, because he helped rebuild the church’s holy center.”
“Wow,” I say, utterly impressed.
“Now, tell me, was all of that worth me busting in on you?”
“Are you kidding? These brownies alone were worth it,” I say, taking another bite.
“Using me for my chocolate, are you?”
“I’m really glad you busted in,” I say, feeling bad for pushing him away before, when it’s so obvious that he belongs right by my side.
“Well, I’m probably going to regret telling you this,” he begins, “but Ben called me to check in last night…to see how you were doing.”
“And what’s so regrettable about telling me that?”
“What do you think?” His dark brown eyes grow wide.
I reach out to touch his hand, hoping to reassure him—but of what I’m not quite sure.
A moment later, I hear the front door swing open.
“Camelia?” Mom calls.
I tell her I’m in the kitchen, and in the time it takes for Adam and me to gobble up the remainder of our butter-and-eggs-laden brownies, Mom and Dad come in and assume their positions at opposing ends of the kitchen island.
Deadly Little Voices Page 17