“Hi,” he answers on the first ring.
“Did I wake you?”
“No. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
There’s silence between us for several seconds—just the sound of each other’s breath—but then a few moments later a car alarm screeches in the background, on his end of the line.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Riding around. I just stopped at a gas station.”
“Where?”
More silence.
“You don’t want to tell me?” I ask.
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
Still, he doesn’t answer.
“Forget it,” I say, my heart beating fast. “I was just hoping that maybe we could talk. Not over the phone, though. I need to see you.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“Not really,” I say. “It’s sort of important.”
There’s another long pause on the other end. Meanwhile, I can hear police sirens blaring on his end of the phone. They seem to be getting closer to wherever Ben is.
“What’s going on there?”
“Okay,” he says, ignoring the question. “I’ll swing by your house.”
He hangs up and I reach for my coat, hoping we can go for a ride. Not two minutes later, I hear the rev of his engine from down the street. I open my window wide as he pulls up in front of my house, steps off his bike, and removes his helmet.
He looks even better than earlier today. A black leather jacket clings to his chest, and his hair is rumpled to perfection. He gazes up at me, his silhouette highlighted by the moon.
I wave, barely able to hold myself back—to not go tearing out the window and running into his arms.
“Hey,” he says, when he gets within earshot.
“Hey,” I repeat.
He smiles slightly, as if he wants to talk to me too, as if caught off guard in the moment—like the way things used to be.
“So, shall we go someplace?” I ask.
“We don’t have to,” he says. “You can just say what you have to tell me right here . . . right now.”
My pulse stirs, almost tempted to invite him in, just imagining him inside my room. I peer over my shoulder at my bedroom door, noticing how my schoolbag is caught in the doorway.
“Please,” I whisper, suddenly eager to get away, to not have to worry about my parents busting in and catching us together. “Can you take us somewhere?”
He looks toward his motorcycle. “How about we go for a walk? The streets are a little slippery tonight. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if we wiped out.”
I know it’s a lame excuse, that he doesn’t want to go for a ride because that would mean I’d have to touch him. I crawl out my window, shutting the curtains and drawing the pane closed behind me. Then I hop to the ground, completely aware that Ben doesn’t help me.
We walk down the length of my street, passing by Davis Miller’s house on the right. His bedroom light’s still on. Maybe he can’t sleep either.
It’s quiet and awkward between Ben and me again; there’s just the sound of our boots as they crunch over gravel and patches of snow. I glance at his hands as he crams them inside his pockets, remembering that night at Knead last September, when his clay-soaked fingers slid up the back of my T-shirt, against my skin, turning my insides to putty.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Ben says, breaking the silence. “I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole.”
“You didn’t,” I lie. Except maybe it’s only a half-lie.
“I really care about you.” He stops to face me. His lips are chapped from the cold.
“I’m glad,” I say, feeling my cheeks blaze. “Because I really care about you too.”
Standing beneath the streetlight, he pauses a moment to study me—my hair as the wind whips through it, the tearing of my eyes from the cold, and how I can’t stop nibbling my lips. At least I think that’s what he’s looking at.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” he asks, walking again.
“Touching.” I look over at his face to check for his reaction.
“You know I can’t touch you.”
“I know you don’t want to touch me,” I correct him, “but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“So, what then?”
“I was just kind of wondering”—I take a deep breath—“if the power of psychometry can be transferred from person to person.”
He stops again, his face scrunching up like he’s genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Is that a no?”
“It’s not a virus,” he continues. “Psychics don’t just sneeze and pass their power along to the person standing next to them.”
My face turns hotter, fully aware of how crazy the whole theory sounds. Ben stares at me, waiting for some explanation. Meanwhile, my palms are clammy and my ears begin to sting from the chill.
“What’s going on?” he insists.
“It’s hard to explain,” I venture, “but all this weird stuff has started happening to me.”
“Like what?”
And so I tell him about the key and the bottle sculpture, how I sculpted his arm, and then about his eyes through the door glass.
“That’s it?” He smiles as if relieved. “A bottle? A door key? They’re pretty common objects, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” I say. “Not when one of those objects had a very specific pomegranate label.”
“Maybe you saw the label in a store. Maybe for some reason you subconsciously retained it. It could be the same thing with the key. Maybe part of you knew you’d left it at home.”
“But then how do you explain all that other stuff—the stuff I sculpted about you?”
He swallows hard; I watch the motion in his neck. “I don’t know,” he says, trying to cram his hands deeper into his pockets, even though they’ve reached the bottom seam. “Maybe you just sculpted that stuff because you’re missing the way things used to be.”
“I do miss it.” I wait for him to return the sentiment, but instead he stays silent.
I look away, trying not to show my emotion, even though I can feel it in my eyes, a deep and penetrating sting.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod.
He must sense how upset I am, because we end up moving forward again, taking a turn onto Columbus Street.
The street where Debbie Marcus was hit.
“Maybe we should call it a night,” I say, feeling a chill snake down my spine.
“Are you sure?”
I nod and turn back, my pace quickening, eager to get home, to get away—when only minutes before I couldn’t wait to be with him.
We walk for several blocks in silence—just the sound of our steps and the panting of breath as Ben hurries to keep up. It doesn’t take long before we’re back in front of my house. I mumble a faint good-bye and head back toward my window. Meanwhile, a storm of tears rages behind my eyes.
“Camelia, wait,” Ben calls.
I reluctantly stop and turn to face him. Our motion across the driveway has triggered the spotlight.
“Don’t be like this,” he says.
“Like what? Don’t feel anything? Be more like you?”
Ben takes a couple steps toward me, as if he wants to give me a hug, but instead he stops. His lips move, as if to form words, but no sound comes out, like maybe he doesn’t know what to say either.
Or maybe what he has to say is too painful for me to hear.
“If I can’t be with you, then I can’t be with you,” I say finally, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “I can’t pretend like what we had didn’t exist.”
Ben looks away. His eyes are as red as mine now. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“I’m sorry too.” A crumbling sensation fills my chest. I turn back around, half hoping he’ll stop me again.
But instead I hear his motorcycle rev, follow
ed by the sound of him pulling away.
13
After Ben leaves, I try to hold it all together so I can make it back inside my house. I head for my bedroom window. But then I come to a sudden halt.
The window is wide open, the curtains billowing in the wind. I could have sworn I shut it on my way out. I’m almost positive I drew the curtains closed.
I approach the window slowly and peek inside my room. From where I’m standing, everything appears to be completely normal, just as I left it. I look back over my shoulder. The street is quiet and dark.
Using all the strength in my arms, I pull myself up and onto the sill, noticing a large red envelope on the floor of my room.
I crawl inside and pick it up, wondering if maybe my parents came in here while I was out. Maybe one of them dropped it and now they know I snuck away. I look toward my door. It’s still closed. My schoolbag is still wedged in the doorway.
I glance back at the open window and move quickly to shut it. It sticks, even when I bear down with all my weight. My fingers shaking, I continue to push downward, until the muscles in my arms ache. Finally the window closes and I’m able to lock it shut. The spotlight in the driveway is still illuminated, as if maybe someone’s out there.
I draw the shade down, close the curtains, and sit on the edge of my bed, trying to ease the clamoring inside my chest. Part of me hopes that it was Ben who left the envelope somehow. Maybe there was stuff he wanted to tell me, stuff that he couldn’t say to my face.
I tear it open, barely able to get my fingers to work right. Two photos sit inside.
The first is a snapshot of a shrine. Bouquets of flowers decorate what appears to be the top of a cliff. There’s also a framed picture of a brown-haired girl, probably a few years younger than me.
My stomach lurches. I take a closer look and see a dirt trail that runs through the forest, straight to the very top—the place where Ben and Julie went hiking that day. The spot where she fell backward.
And died almost instantly.
The second snapshot was taken in the same area; the shrine is visible in the distance. There’s a grouping of rocks splattered over with graffiti. I can only make out a few of the words—the ones that name Ben a killer, a coward, and telling him to rot in hell.
My hands still shaking, I turn the photos over. The graffiti one is blank, but the picture of the shrine has a message for me. The words stare up in angry red letters: LET’S GO FOR A HIKE.
14
This can’t be happening again.
The photos pressed in my hands, I do my best to hold it together—to not cry out at the top of my lungs and wake up my parents.
I grab the edge of my dresser for stability, unable to stop the rush of questions storming through my mind, shaking up my world.
My forehead is sweating. As I reach for a tissue, I notice that the glass on my bedside table’s been knocked over. There’s a pool of water on the rug, trailing beneath my bed, which makes me realize—maybe I’m not alone.
A giant knot forms in my chest. I try to breathe it away, but it only gets tighter. I drop the photos on the bed and grab a letter opener from my desk, the tip positioned to fight.
Slowly I bend to the floor, imagining Matt. His face flashes across my mind: his teal-blue eyes, that wicked grin, and the way he grabbed me that day—when he twisted my arm behind my back and told me he’d been following me, and that we belonged together.
The letter opener clenched in my hand, I reach out for the bed-skirt fabric. In one quick motion, I pull it upward.
At first I see Matt, his menacing glare still alive in my mind. But then I realize I’m alone, that my eyes are playing tricks on me, and that I seriously need to calm down.
I back away and check inside the closet. It’s empty, too. And so I stand in the center of my room and count to ten, trying to decide what to do. Part of me wants to go tell my parents. Another part thinks I should just call Kimmie.
Except, I really don’t feel like hearing Kimmie tell me that this is yet another stupid joke. And I hate the idea of being kept under my parents’ protective scrutiny. For three full months following Matt’s arrest, I could barely even go to the bathroom by myself without my mom knocking on the door to ask me if I was all right, if I needed any help, and what was taking me so long. Things are just starting to get back to normal.
At least I thought they were.
I grab the photos and the envelope and make my way downstairs to my pottery studio, remembering something I read about psychometry online—how you can develop your senses through practice and meditation. I concentrate on the photos and the note for a good twenty minutes, before cutting myself a fresh mound of clay.
Keeping my fingers moist, I turn the clay over and over against my board, until I feel ready to sculpt. I close my eyes, trying to keep my mind open like the article online suggested. After several minutes, I’ve pretty much convinced myself that I’m trying too hard. Random images pop into my head: seashells, paintbrushes, bed linens. . . .
Still, I keep trying, listening for any subtle noises, remembering what I read—how some people who experience psychometry are able to hear sounds or voices relevant to whatever they touch.
But I don’t hear anything. And the only image that sticks—the one that presses into my mind’s eye and makes my blood stir—is a swordfish jumping out of the ocean.
Not knowing what else to do, I sculpt the image, fairly convinced it’s a waste of time. Still, once it’s done, I sit back and study the shape, repeating the word swordfish over and over again inside my head, searching for any pertinence at all.
Meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking about my conversation with Ben. He told me that psychometry isn’t contagious. But what I didn’t tell him was that when I sculpted his arm, I was able to hear his voice.
Would that have changed his mind?
I gaze back at the photos, not knowing what to believe, feeling a sickly sensation in the pit of my stomach. I remind myself that Matt was expelled, that the court ordered a restraining order against him. Still, my mind whirs, wondering if only the photos were from him, and the bathroom note was from someone else. But that doesn’t make sense either, especially considering that the bathroom note warned me that it’s not over yet, and then later the same day I get these snapshots.
I run my fingers over the shrine photo, focusing on the picture of Julie. She’s pretty, with long dark hair held back with a ribbon, and wide green eyes that squint when she smiles. She looks happy in the photo, like falling off a cliff couldn’t be farther from her thoughts . . . And yet there she is, her picture among all those weeping roses.
A second later my cell phone rings, startling me. I pull it from my pocket and place it up to my ear. “Hello?”
It’s silent on the other end, like someone’s just listening.
“Hello?” I repeat, louder this time.
Still no one answers. I hang up and check the caller ID. It’s Kimmie’s number, and so I call her right back.
“It’s one a.m.,” she answers. Her voice is a groggy mess.
“You’re the one who called me.”
“Um, no I didn’t.”
“Yes you did.” I check my phone screen again. “My phone says you’re the last one who called.”
“Yeah, but that was at like eleven thirty.”
“Really?” I look back at the screen; it says I have one missed call. So why didn’t I hear it ring? “My phone rang just now, but nobody was on the other end.”
“I freaking hate cell phones. I mean, I love them, but I also hate them, you know? With mine, you can barely hear the person talking on the other end. It’s totally inaudible. And don’t even get me started with my caller ID. Half the time it doesn’t even work.”
“Were you sitting on your phone maybe?” I ask, remembering a time when I accidentally dialed Wes’s number that way.
“Excuse me?”
“Forget it.”
“Gladly.” She laughs. “So wh
at’s up?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same?”
“Oh, right.” More laughing. “I called you first. Are you seriously still up, by the way?”
“You don’t exactly sound like you’re sleeping either.” At least her voice no longer sounds groggy.
“Guilty as charged. I’ve been up working on some design stuff. I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d hem, but then my hem came out crooked. I really need to give your mom’s chamomile pellets a try.”
“It happened again,” I say, all but cutting her off at the hem.
“You got hives on your ass?”
“No, I got another note.”
“Seriously?”
I spend the next ten minutes filling her in about the photos, the open window, and how Ben and I went for a walk.
“And now he wants to take you for a hike?” she asks.
“I didn’t say the photos came from him.”
“But it’s totally possible. I mean, he was right there. He had the perfect opportunity to slip something by you when you weren’t looking.”
“Why would he do that? I mean, the photos make him look like a killer.”
“Maybe he wants you to see him that way.”
“Be serious.”
“I’m trying,” she sighs. “You can’t honestly expect me to get into the twisted mind of a stalker at one in the morning.”
“But you don’t really think of him that way, right?” I glance at the shrine photo again, admiring Julie’s face, her sweet smile and bubbly cheeks. Her hand rests under her chin, making her look totally approachable, like someone I might have been friends with.
“You know what’s really weird?” she says, ignoring the question. “The fact that you got photos again. It’s like someone’s copying Matt.”
“I know,” I say, thinking back to last September, when I was receiving candid photos of myself on a regular basis—snapshots of me on the street, in front of the school, shopping in town. . . .
All to prove that I was being watched.
“Of course, if it’s just a copycat, then it probably is a joke,” Kimmie says.