Deadly Little Secret

  And waiting to see him again.

  It’s not that I’m some masochistic loony in love with the idea of hooking up with a former felon. It’s just that I need to thank him—to look him in the eye, tell him that I appreciate the fact that he saved my life, and then walk away.

  Instant closure.

  “This is so very bold of you,” Kimmie says, using her pencil as a hair pick. “I mean, let’s face it, it might not even be the same guy.”

  “It is,” I say, watching the second hand on the giant hallway clock. Only two minutes to go.

  “So, you’re convinced that a boy who supposedly murdered his girlfriend is the same one who saved your life?”

  “You can’t honestly tell me you believe all those rumors, can you? Besides, we don’t know all the facts.”

  “Facts, schmacts.” She rolls her eyes. “So he saved your life and touched your tummy. Lots of people have touched my random body parts, and you don’t see me making such a big deal out of it.”

  “Last I checked saving someone’s life was a big deal. Plus, it wasn’t just that he touched me; it was the way he touched me.”

  “Oh, right.” Kimmie yawns. “It gave you goose bumps and made your heart go pitter-pat. How could I forget?”

  Instead of trying to make her understand what she clearly doesn’t, I look back at the clock, watching the second hand get closer to twelve, wondering if I’ll have the nerve to actually talk to him.

  I close my eyes, anticipating the bell, and two seconds later it goes off—so loud I feel the vibration inside my gut.

  The hallway fills with kids, people pushing by us, probably annoyed that we’re just standing there, holding up traffic.

  But then I see him.

  He hangs back for a bit, just loitering there, in the doorway of Senora Lynch’s Spanish room, watching the herd go by.

  “What’s he doing?” Kimmie asks.

  I shake my head and continue to watch, hoping to make eye contact, but he doesn’t even look in my direction. Not once.

  It’s several minutes before the traffic in the hallway thins out even a little. And that’s when he finally makes his way to his locker.

  It’s so obvious people notice him. As soon as they spot him, they gawk and exchange looks of sheer buzzery, like this is the biggest thing ever to rock our small-town world.

  “Here’s your chance.” Kimmie nudges me. “It’s either now or never.”

  “It’s now,” I say, my voice shaky.

  I make my way toward him and my face flashes hot. Ben rips a piece of paper from his locker door, tosses it to the ground, and then works his padlock combination, totally ignoring the fact that I’m now standing right beside him.

  “Ben?” I ask, feeling my pulse race. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  Still, he ignores me.

  “Ben?” I repeat, a little louder this time.

  Finally he peeks out from behind his locker door. “Can I help you?”

  “Do you remember me?”

  He shakes his head and looks away—back into his locker to search for something.

  “Three months ago,” I continue, trying to jog his memory. “In the parking lot, behind the school . . . a car was coming toward me, and you pushed me out of the way.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbles.

  “You saved my life,” I whisper, catching a glimpse of the paper he tossed to the floor—a torn notebook scrap with the word murderer scribbled across it. “The car would’ve hit me otherwise.”

  “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.” He slams his locker door shut.

  “It was you,” I blurt out, as if he couldn’t possibly have forgotten something so significant.

  “Not me,” he insists. “You obviously have me confused with somebody else.”

  I shake my head and focus on his face—on his almond-shaped eyes and the sharpness of his jaw. He runs his fingers through his hair—out of frustration, maybe—and that’s when I see it.

  The scar on his forearm.

  My eyes widen, and my heart beats with new intensity.

  Ben sees that I’ve spotted the scar and lowers his arm, buries his hand in his pocket. “I gotta go,” he says, glancing over his shoulder.

  Throngs of people have collected around us: Davis Miller and his boy-band cohorts, a group of girls on the softball team, a couple of boys on their way to detention, and a bunch of drama rats en route to the theater.

  “I just wanted to say thank you,” I say, deciding to forget them.

  “It wasn’t me,” he says and then turns away.

  Leaving me once again.

  6

  I want to talk to her. I had the perfect opportunity, but I messed things up. She’s just so perfect—so sweet, so shy, so amazingly hot—that I get all nervous.

  It’s easier to watch her in private, like at the library. I hid behind the stacks, imagining what it’d be like to take her someplace nice. I pictured her sitting in a fancy restaurant, waiting for me to arrive, instead of sitting in the library, cooped up in school.

  I noticed she’d chosen the table that looks out onto the courtyard. She kept gazing out at it, like she wanted to be outside.

  What I’d give to be with her—to walk with her over fallen leaves, to hear the crunch beneath our feet, and then to kiss her, the cool autumn breeze whipping around us.

  In time I know it’ll happen. I’ll make it happen. Or else I’ll die trying.

  7

  “Okay, so what did he say?” Kimmie asks. “I want every word.”

  We’re sitting in one of the booths at Brain Freeze, the ice-cream shop down the street from our school.

  “Oh, my God, wait,” she says, just as soon as I open my mouth to speak. “Did you see John Kenneally?”

  I peer around at the other booths.

  “Not here,” she squawks, dragging the word out for three full syllables. “In the hallway, while you were talking to that Ben guy. He was totally scoping the scene. It looked like he wanted to talk to you. He was so close to tapping you on the shoulder, but you turned the other way.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  Kimmie sighs. “Leave it to you to miss a hottie like him. If you don’t go for him, I totally will.”

  O

  “He’s all yours,” I say, taking a bite of my mochalicious mud.

  “So what did he say?” she asks.

  “John?”

  “No—that Ben guy.”

  “Not much. Just that it wasn’t him—that I have him confused with someone else.”

  “See, I told you,” she sings.

  “But he’s lying,” I continue. “I know it was him.”

  “Why would he lie about something like that?” Kimmie takes a sip of her peanut butter frappe.

  I shrug. “Maybe he’s one of those superprivate people; maybe that’s why he took off after he saved me in the first place.”

  “Doubtful,” she says. “I mean, think about it: if you were accused of murder, wouldn’t you welcome an opportunity where people could see you saving someone?”

  “Sounds pretty serious,” Wes says, sneaking up from behind me. Spoon and straw in hand, he pulls up a chair and takes the liberty of mooching off our desserts. “Word’s out that you were harassing Killer Boy after school today.”

  “Where did you hear that?” I ask, knocking his spoon away.

  “People.” He smirks.

  “What people?”

  Wes’s smirk grows into a full-blown smile, exposing the tiny chip in his front tooth. “Everybody’s talkin’ about it.”

  “You’re such a lame-o,” Kimmie says. “We’ve only been out of school for an hour.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He readjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “I have ears . . . and eyes.”

  “Stalking the girls’ softball team again?” Kimmie tsk-tsks. “You know how tacky that is, don’t you?”

  Wes shrugs, obviously caught.

  “My vote is that you forget abo
ut Touch Boy,” Kimmie says, pointing at me with her straw.

  “Unless of course you want to wind up being the next victim of the week,” Wes adds. “Better start wearing clean underwear. You never know when you might end up lying half naked somewhere.”

  “Good advice.” Kimmie nods.

  “I’m nobody’s victim,” I say.

  “You can victimize me.” He gives his spoon a good lick.

  “Whatever,” I say, choosing to ignore him. “Forgetting Ben is a whole lot easier said than done. I saw the scar.”

  “Wait, what scar?” Kimmie asks.

  I tell them about the scar I saw on Ben’s forearm earlier—how I recognized it from the day he saved me.

  “Do I smell a scandal coming on?” Wes asks, making his voice all gruff and deep.

  Kimmie sniffs in Wes’s direction. “That stench isn’t scandalous . . . it’s downright venomous.”

  Wes takes an extra-large sip of her frappe in retaliation.

  “Forget him, Camelia,” Kimmie says. “I mean, yes, he saved your life; it was very chivalrous of him. And, yes, he’s totally buff, which further complicates things, but closure is way overrated, in my opinion, anyway.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” I sigh, sinking back into my seat.

  “No ‘maybe’ about it. Preoccupy yourself with someone yummier,” she insists.

  “Like who? Matt or John Kenneally?”

  “Well, since you bring them up . . .”

  I roll my eyes in response.

  “Oh, but that’s right,” she continues. “Matt was no good, as I recall. He called you all the time, gave you sweet little gifts—”

  “Made you homemade chicken soup when you were sick,” Wes adds.

  “It wasn’t edible.” I say, remembering the mystery gray chunks.

  “Whatever,” Kimmie argues. “Give me a boy who can open up a can of Chef Boyardee, and I’m his.”

  “I’ve got a Twistaroni with your name all over it,” Wes jokes.

  “Matt was nice,” I say to be clear. “But there comes a point when nice is too nice—too clingy, even before we started dating.”

  “Right,” he says. “What you need is a malicious killer.”

  On that note, I excuse myself from the table and leave, since I promised my mother I’d help her with dinner tonight anyway.

  Ever since I took a part-time job at Knead, the pottery shop downtown, my mom’s been all fanatical about the two of us having enough mother-daughter bonding time. And so it’s become our ritual—at least once a week, on a day I’m not working, we join forces to prepare dinner.

  “We’re making summer squash pasta with soy butter and basil sauce, date-nut logs, and fresh kale-rot juice,” my mother announces, just as soon as I come through the door.

  “Kale-rot?”

  She nods and pulls one of my pottery bowls down from the cabinet—the widemouthed blue one with the yellow pinwheel swirls. “It’s made with carrots and kale.”

  “Sounds delectable,” I lie.

  My mom’s sort of a health freak, from her henna red hair to her organic cotton sneakers. As a result, my dad and I end up at the drive-through of Taco Bell at least twice a week.

  “Come on,” she says, waving me to the island. “I want to hear all about your first day of school. Any cute boys? Inspiring teachers? How was your lunch?”

  “Negative; not a one; and nauseating,” I say, picking at my pearl-colored nail polish.

  “Now, there’s a healthy attitude.”

  “I’m exaggerating.” I slide onto a stool. “Well, sort of.”

  My mother, still in her yoga gear from work, takes a deep and cleansing breath, followed by a sip of her homemade dandelion tea. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Maybe another time,” I say, thinking about Ben.

  “Well, then, do you want to come to my full-moon meeting tonight? You might find it cleansing.” She sweeps a cluster of corkscrew curls from in front of her dark green eyes.

  “No thanks,” I say, since a night of barking at the moon and impromptu belly dancing is hardly what I’d call cleansing.

  Mom nods and looks away, down at her container of dates. She dumps the entire package into the food processor and then goes to click on the power.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I ask.

  It takes her a moment, but then she notices. She forgot to pit the dates first—a culinary offense I committed way back when we were trying to make raw fudge.

  Mom scoops the dates out, her eyes all teary, like the possibility of having a dull food-processing blade is the worst thing in the world.

  “Mom?”

  “Aunt Alexia called today,” she says, in an effort to explain her tears.

  “Oh,” I say, steeling myself for the blow.

  She wipes her eyes, trying to regain composure. “It wasn’t anything bad. She just sounded kind of off, that’s all.”

  “Aunt Alexia is kind of off.”

  “She’s working now,” she continues, “trying to stay busy, to get her life back on track. She goes to a therapy group twice a week and painting classes every Saturday afternoon.”

  “Then what?”

  Mom shakes her head. The corners of her mouth quiver downward. And for just a second she looks like she’s going to lose it all over again. “She’s fine,” she says, finally. “I’m sure of it.”

  She follows up with a deep yoga breath and then starts pitting the dates.

  “Mom?” I ask, sensing her angst.

  But she clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, instead ordering me to peel the squash, soak the basil, grind the nuts. It isn’t long before we’ve whipped up a dish worthy of Sir Paul-vegan-McCartney himself. I take a stack of plates and start to set the table. And that’s when I notice a large manila envelope addressed to me, sitting atop my mother’s Buddha beads. I pick it up, noticing right away that it wasn’t even mailed. It has no postage, no postmark, and nil for a return address. Still, I rip it open and pull out the contents.

  It’s a photo of me, standing outside of school this morning; I can tell by my outfit. Someone’s printed it on a glossy eight-by-ten sheet of paper and drawn a bubbly red heart around my body.

  I flip the picture over in search of a name or message, but it’s blank. “Did somebody drop this off for me today?”

  My mother shakes her head. “It was in the mailbox, with everything else.”

  “And when did you pick up the mail?” I ask, wondering when someone would have had the time—between the end of school and now—to develop a picture and drop it off at my house.

  She pauses from kale-rot-juicing to look up at me. “Around five, just before you got home. Why, what is it?”

  I flash the photo at her. “Probably just a joke.”

  “Looks more like a secret admirer.”

  I run my fingers over it, thinking about this morning in front of the school, and trying to remember who I saw hanging around.

  “Camelia, are you okay?” My mother pushes. “Did something happen at school?”

  I shrug, tempted to tell her about Ben—about all the alleged rumors I heard about him—but it seems she’s too preoccupied now, her eyes fixed on a big, empty bowl.

  “Just the usual first-day-back stuff.” I return the photo to its envelope and head to my room to give Kimmie a call.

  There may be no return address, but a stunt like this definitely has her name written all over it.

  8

  “I have no idea what you’re even talking about,” Kimmie tells me.

  Unable to reach her the night before, I end up hunting her down before homeroom. We’re standing in an alcove of lockers, and I’m providing cover while she stuffs the front of her dress with enough tissue paper to wrap Christmas presents in for the next two years.

  “I didn’t leave anything in your mailbox,” she continues, “least of all a picture of you with a heart around it. I mean, come on, how cheesy-nineteen-seventies-stalker-movie is that?”


  “Are you sure? I won’t be mad.”

  “Seriously, Camelia.” She rolls her eyes and checks her bust in her locker mirror. “If I were weirdo enough to go running around taking pictures of people behind their backs, do you honestly think I’d start with you? No offense, of course.”

  “None taken.”

  “I mean, let’s face it,” she continues. “I can take pictures of you anytime. The boys’ swim team, on the other hand . . . now that’s a different story.” She slams her locker door shut, her palms positioned over her stuffed chest, trying to get herself somewhat proportionate.

  “Need another tissue?” I ask, noticing how Righty appears just a wee bit plumper than its partner.

  Kimmie plucks out a tissue for good measure. “There, now, how do I look? The dress is new—for me, anyway. The saleslady told me it’s vintage 1950. I’m thinking about designing a jumpsuit version of it.”

  It’s a jet black, cap-sleeved, knee-length number, with a giant silver bow that sits at the waist.

  “Very cute.”

  “It’s beyond cute,” she says, correcting me. “It makes me feel like a walking present.”

  I’m tempted to ask her if that explains all the tissue paper, but I bite my tongue instead.

  “Now, who shall be my birthday boy?” She scopes the hallway for prospective victims, her eyes zeroing in on John Kenneally standing across the hall in a throng of his soccer teammates. John bends down to tie his shoelace, sending Kimmie into an absolute tizzy.

  “So beautiful.” She places her hand over her well-insulated chest, completely taken aback. “I mean, honestly, how does one get an ass like that? So firm . . . so symmetrical.”

  “Unlike your gift-wrapped boobs.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I hate to break this to you, but I have way more pressing issues to contend with than John Kenneally’s butt cheeks.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

  “Maybe Wes left it,” I press on, refusing to drop the whole photo issue.

  “Left what?” she mutters, still eyeing John.

  “Forget it,” I sigh.