Deadly Little Games

  “Don’t worry, she didn’t go empty-handed. She took a whole bowl of cinnamon pretzels with her. So, I’ll come and get you?”

  I reluctantly agree and grab my coat, slip on my shoes, and climb out the window. Adam meets me at the corner of my street, and we drive around for at least a half hour dis- cussing the details of the messages and crossword puzzles.

  “How have things been with Tray?” I ask.

  Adam shrugs and turns up the heat to stifle the chill. “He reminded me that his apartment was broken into earlier this year. The door locks in our apartment building are sort of a joke. And so is all the drama. But at least he and I are talking again.”

  “How about your old roommate? Does he still have a key?”

  “No. He gave me his set when he moved out.”

  “So, you didn’t change the lock?”

  “What for?”

  “Do you think he has a copy somewhere? Did you guys end things on good terms?”

  “If you call his adding green food coloring to my shampoo, jock itch cream to my aftershave, and ground Ex-Lax to my coffee grinds ‘good terms’…then, yes.”

  I shake my head, noticing the bacon-scented air freshener that dangles from his rearview mirror. “More drama, I take it.”

  “But not enough drama to wish me dead. It was lame-o girlfriend stuff,” he explains. “Like with Tray. Basically, I couldn’t stand that his girlfriend practically lived at our place but didn’t pay any rent.”

  “I just don’t get it with Tray,” I tell him. “I mean, you didn’t even know he was interested in Melissa when you asked her out.”

  “I’d like to say I didn’t, but who knows? Maybe part of me did. Maybe part of me likes the idea of hooking up with people who are already spoken for.”

  “Like what happened with Julie?” I ask, taking the bait.

  “And with you,” he says. “I mean, maybe if you and Ben weren’t together, you wouldn’t be half as appealing to me.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised by his honesty.

  “Not really,” he says; his face is completely serious.

  He pulls into the parking lot of an all-night diner, puts the car in park, and then turns to me, studying my face, waiting for a reaction.

  But I have no idea what to say.

  Heat blasts in through the dashboard vents, warming my cheeks.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks, nodding toward the entrance.

  I shake my head, thinking how it wasn’t so long ago that Ben and I came here on a night like this—on a night when I’d snuck out my bedroom window just to be with him.

  “So, I guess we really don’t have any other choice but to wait and see what happens,” he says.

  “Unless you want to go to the police.”

  “I told you why I don’t.”

  “Because you think Ben’s the one doing this?”

  “That’s one reason.” He swallows hard. “And I’m not exactly sure it’s true, but I’m not willing to take that chance, either.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Maybe I was too quick to blame him for Julie’s death. Maybe I’m partially to blame as well.”

  “That’s quite a turnaround from trying to take revenge.”

  “What can I say? I’ve talked to some people about it.”

  “What people?”

  “It doesn’t really matter.” His eyes remain locked on mine. “What matters is that I shouldn’t have been seeing his girlfriend in the first place. Maybe if I’d been honest with him he wouldn’t have freaked out on the trail that day when she told him the truth.”

  “But hindsight is twenty-twenty, right?”

  “I just don’t want to cause him more grief—even if he is the one doing all this.”

  “And if he isn’t—which I know is the truth?”

  Adam shakes his head and sits back in his seat. “What are the odds that this’ll all blow over?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person.”

  “Yeah.” He laughs. “I guess I am.”

  “You want a little advice?”

  “Besides going to the police?”

  “Talk to Ben. Tell him what you told me…about Julie.”

  Adam turns to me again. The light from the diner sign shines across his face, illuminating his deep brown eyes. “You really think so?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I think he’d really want to hear it. I think he really deserves to hear it.”

  “I know. It’s just—it’s sort of a lot to admit.”

  I gaze at his mouth, reminded of its shape—the way his top lip is slightly fuller than the bottom, the way his mouth turns upward at the corners even though he’s no longer smiling—and the scar that runs along his bottom lip.

  “Camelia?” he asks, noticing maybe that I can’t stop staring. “We should probably get going, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” I say, but I don’t move an inch.

  Music plays from his stereo; it’s a singer with a soulful, sultry voice who aches for second chances. And makes me ache, too. Ironically, it’s the same song that played in Adam’s car that night three weeks ago—in front of my house at the end of our date, when I knew he wanted to kiss me.

  “Camelia?” he repeats; I can feel his breath on my cheek. He touches the side of my face, perhaps silently asking for my permission.

  I tell myself that this is wrong, and that I should back away.

  But I don’t.

  A few moments later, I feel his lips press against mine. He tastes like peppermint candy, which prompts me to kiss him longer, deeper.

  Until the kiss breaks.

  And I finally come to my senses.

  ON THE DRIVE HOME, Adam glances at me several times, clearly wanting to talk about what’s happened.

  But I can barely look up from the door latch.

  Exactly six pain-filled minutes later, he pulls over at the corner of my street and puts the car in park. “Do you hate me?” he asks.

  “More like I hate myself.”

  “Yeah.” He sighs. “Kissing me tends to have that effect on women.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says, still trying to make light of the situation. “It’s my fault. It won’t happen again.”

  “I let it happen.”

  “Yes, but only because you couldn’t help yourself. I must admit, I’m far too irresistible for my own good.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” I can’t help but smile.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says again. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

  I manage to look up at him finally, noticing that his eyes are tired and red. “Did you mean it?”

  Instead of answering, Adam pushes a lock of hair from in front of my face, making my heart stir. “No one besides us has to know about tonight, okay?”

  I nod, almost wishing that he weren’t so understanding about things. “I think I’m just feeling really vulnerable tonight,” I say, as though an explanation would make it all better—provide a rational excuse for what felt so instinctive. “I had an argument with Ben, and you were being so open and honest with me about everything. I felt really close to you.”

  “Well, I’m flattered,” he says, moving back behind the wheel. “And I’m sorry that it happened at all.”

  I feel my chin quiver at his words, wondering if he really believes them. We say our good nights, and I head up the street to my house. I crawl inside my window, tempted to give Kimmie a call to tell her the whole story, but for now I just want to be by myself. So that no one can tell me that what I did was wrong. Because in Adam’s car, with the heat blasting over us, it just felt horribly and inexcusably right.

  I ARRANGE TO MEET Kimmie and Wes before homeroom the following day. The cafeteria serves breakfast for early risers in the form of stale toast, oatmeal sludge, and watered-down orange juice.

  “This had better be worth it,” Wes says. “By my calculations, I’d say you’re denying us at least thirty
minutes of sleep.”

  “Not to mention precious primping time.” Kimmie motions to her outfit: a black leather poodle skirt paired with a glittery pink T that reads DEMON IN TRAINING. “Like it? I also have a coordinating pitchfork, but in all this rush I forgot it at home.”

  “Along with your sense of style,” Wes jokes, resting his cheek against her shoulder.

  “So, are we to assume that this impromptu meeting has something to do with Ben?” she asks.

  I nod and tell them about the kiss.

  “Okay, so this was definitely worth the dark circles under my eyes,” Kimmie says. “Details, please. How was it?”

  “No details. It just sort of happened. The kiss itself was…fine.”

  Kimmie glares at me, her mouth hanging open like I’m full-on crazy. “‘Fine’? You had his tongue in your mouth. I demand a description.”

  “Was it sloppy, too dry, or with just the right amount of spittle?” Wes asks.

  “Did your teeth avoid clanking? Did your tongues swirl in sync? Did he have fresh-smelling breath?” Kimmie adds.

  “It was good,” I say, eager to move on. My face heats up as I replay the moment of the kiss in my mind.

  Kimmie sighs at my lack of details. “Well, I must say, I’m not so surprised it happened, especially considering all the Ben drama. Last I talked to you, you didn’t even know if you two were still together.”

  “Right, it’s called rebound,” Wes says, like I need the explanation. “And it can be damned tasty in the right situation.” He takes an enthusiastic bite of toast.

  “Do you think kissing Adam had anything to do with the sculpture you did of his pouty mouth?” She puckers, too. “Like, maybe the sculpture was a premonition….”

  “And what other body parts will you be sculpting and acting upon in the near future?” Wes asks. “I’ve got a really interesting—”

  “Thank you very much.” I cut him off.

  “You’re not going to tell Ben about this, are you?” he asks. “Because it’s not like he’s been telling you anything.”

  “Except he’ll probably be able to sense it anyway,” Kimmie reminds him.

  “Telling him is the right thing to do,” I say. “It’s just going to kill him. I mean, in his eyes, this will be the second time Adam’s taken someone away from him. It’s no wonder he has trust issues.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Wes says. “You’re primal in nature and thus bound to fall prey to your own beastly instincts, which is exactly what I told Tiffany Bunkin on our date last night. That girl can’t keep her hands off me.”

  “A good thing?” I ask him.

  Wes shrugs and drinks Kimmie’s juice down to the pulp. “I mean, she’s cute and all—in a wildflower sort of way—but I’m not so sure she does it for me.”

  “Because you’re far more interested in weeds?” Kimmie asks.

  “I’m giving her another chance,” he says, ignoring the question. “We’re going out tomorrow night.”

  “Just like my parents,” Kimmie says. “I’ve got it all set up. Nate has a sleepover at his friend’s house, and I’ve made a reservation for three at Cuvée. I’m telling my parents I need to meet them there, because I’m helping you with math homework”—she winks at me—“I’ll give them a few minutes to themselves and then call the host and have him tell them I’m not feeling well and can’t make it out.”

  “Very original.” Wes rolls his eyes. “Did I not see that same scene in the movie Parent Trap when I was seven?”

  “It happened in the last season of Totally Teen Princess, if you must know,” Kimmie says. “And it totally worked. Frannie’s parents got back together.”

  “And so you know the plan is foolproof,” Wes jokes.

  “Be sure to tell us how it goes,” I say, praying she doesn’t get her hopes up, though fairly certain they’re already pretty high.

  IN CHEMISTRY, I DON’T tell Ben about what happened with Adam. Nor do I tell him after school, when I spot him in the parking lot. But by Saturday morning, when he calls and tells me that he wants to talk, I’m determined to come clean.

  I open the front door to let him in. “Hey,” I say, noticing right away how amazing he looks. There’s a trace of stubble on his face, like he’s just gotten out of bed, and his hair is rumpled from his helmet.

  “I got us some bagels.” He holds up the bag.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking his coat and leading him into the kitchen. I set a couple of plates down on the island. “I hope herbal tea is okay. My mother has this weird thing about caffeine.”

  “Sure.” He smiles. “Tea would be great.”

  I heat up the kettle, pour us a couple of mugs, and then sit on a stool opposite him. I force down a bite of bagel, even though I have no appetite. In my mind I try to formulate the gentlest way to tell him.

  “I’m really sorry about everything that’s been happening between us,” Ben says before I can start. “I haven’t really been fair.”

  I bite my lip to stop the trembling, feeling horrible that he’s the one apologizing. “It just seems like you keep pushing me away. We get so close, but then you won’t let me in.”

  “I want to let you in now. I want to tell you everything.” Ben stares at me, seemingly eager for a response.

  “What’s with the big turnaround?” I ask, looking down at my plate.

  “You have to understand what it’s been like for me. I’ve spent so much time on my own these past few years. I thought that maybe I could do it again, that maybe all this stuff I’ve been feeling—this anxiety, I mean—hasn’t been worth it. But it is worth it.” He leans in closer, forcing me to look at him again. “Because I honestly can’t live without you in my life.”

  My heart swells and then breaks again. I want so much to return the sentiment, but I can barely even speak.

  “As much as I hate to admit it,” he continues, “I kind of like that you want to help Adam, that you’re so willing to do the right thing despite the consequences. And you’re right, I do know about living with guilt. I don’t want you to have to live with it, too.”

  “I may have no other choice.”

  “We’ll figure this out. Just look at what happened the last time we combined forces.”

  “I know,” I say, thinking about the sculpture we did together, and feeling my whole body start to shake.

  “Camelia?” he says, clearly noticing how jittery I feel. He reaches out to touch my hand, but I pull away before he can.

  “What’s the secretive thing you’ve been sensing?” I ask. “The thing that supposedly might jeopardize our relationship…”

  “I’m sorry about that, too. It was stupid not to tell you.”

  “So, tell me now,” I say, though suddenly reluctant to know the truth.

  “I sensed it first in gym,” he begins, “when you showed up and surprised me…when I got knocked down…”

  “After sculpture class.”

  He nods. “And then I sensed it off and on whenever I’d touch you. The thing is, I know it couldn’t happen. I know you’d never do anything to hurt me. I trust you. Completely.”

  A storm of tears rages behind my eyes, because I know now what he sensed. I press my eyes shut and keep my hands in my lap under the table, where he can’t possibly touch them.

  And know how ashamed I feel.

  “I sensed that you and Adam kissed.” His face flashes red. “I know it’s completely stupid. I know it would never happen, that you’d never do anything like that. I trust you,” he says again. “So, don’t hate me, okay?”

  “I could never hate you,” I mutter, faking a sip of tea to cover my expression.

  I know I should tell him the truth. I want to tell him the truth. But my voice is broken. My head’s all woozy. And my insides feel like they’re bleeding.

  My parents come in a couple of seconds later. Dad prattles on about how Mom forced him to take a yoga class this morning. Mom lectures us on the evils of the hormone-infested cream ch
eese on our gluten-containing bagels.

  Meanwhile, Ben excuses himself, saying that he promised his aunt he’d help her unload some bags of topsoil at her flower shop. “I’ll call you later?” he says, getting up from the stool.

  I manage a nod and watch him leave, but I don’t walk him to the door. Or even give him a hug good-bye.

  BY LATE AFTERNOON, I’m still reeling. I don’t even have the nerve to call Kimmie. It’s not that I think she’d lecture me. It’s just that I’m not particularly proud of myself right now, and I’m not quite ready to share that.

  At about six o’clock, my phone rings. I flip it open, assuming it’s Ben, readying myself to tell him that we have much more to talk about.

  But it’s Adam. “Hey,” he says, “are you busy?”

  “Why?” I ask, detecting a hint of alarm in his voice.

  “We need to talk. I’m actually only a block away from your house. Could I borrow you for a little bit?”

  “Sure,” I say, wondering why Ben hasn’t called like he said he would, and hoping this doesn’t take too long.

  We hang up, and I tell my parents that I shouldn’t be more than an hour. A couple of minutes later, Adam picks me up, and we take off right away.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, noticing how unusually quiet he’s being, and how he seems to have a definite mission in mind.

  “I need to show you something,” he says, stepping on the accelerator and shifting into high gear.

  We race down a bunch of streets, but eventually it appears we’re headed for his apartment. Adam pulls into a parking space in the back lot and switches off his ignition.

  “What’s going on?” I demand.

  “I locked my door,” he whispers. “I’m almost sure I did.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I tried to call other people,” he says, staring down at his steering wheel. “But Tray and Janet took a bus ride to one of her competitions, and I have no idea where Melissa and Piper are.”

  “Adam,” I say, touching his forearm, trying to snag his attention, “you’re not making any sense.”