Deadly Little Games

  “At first I thought Ben’s touch power was a bonus,” Kimmie says. “But if he can read your mind on cue—learning about all your seedy fantasies—then maybe it’s more of a drawback.”

  “First of all, I don’t have any seedy fantasies,” I tell them.

  “Maybe that’s your problem,” Wes says.

  “No,” I say, correcting him. “My problem is that I’m thinking about Adam, and I don’t want to be.”

  “You’re not just thinking about him.” Kimmie raises her ruby-studded eyebrow at me. “I thought those lips you sculpted in pottery class looked a little too luscious to be Ben’s.”

  Wes leans forward and readjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “What am I missing?” he asks, eager for the dirt.

  “Three words,” Kimmie says. “More. Random. Body parts.”

  “Except, that’s four words,” I say.

  “Well, whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s still significant. Not to mention creeptastic.”

  She’s obviously comparing my sculpture of Adam’s mouth to the one I did of Ben’s arm a month ago, when I was trying to remember the branchlike scar that runs from his elbow to his wrist. A day or two after that, I sculpted Ben’s eyes, as if they were peering at me through glass.

  Both of those sculptures turned out to be premonitions.

  Ben isn’t the only one who’s able to sense things through touch.

  Over the past several months, instead of making my usual bowls and vases, I’ve been sculpting things from my future. First it was a car—the same one I spotted on the day Matt took me captive. Then there was the pinecone, which looked just like the air freshener that dangled from the rearview mirror of Matt’s car. About a month ago it was a swordfish, similar to the wooden cutout affixed over the door of Finz restaurant, the place near where Debbie Marcus was hit by a car.

  Debbie was a girl at school whose friends made it look like she was being stalked. They sent her creepy notes, making her believe that Ben (once on trial for the murder of his girlfriend on the cliff that day) wanted her to be Victim Number Two.

  Debbie believed it, too. One night, on a walk home from a friend’s house, anxious that Ben might’ve been following her, she wasn’t really paying attention to where she was going and was struck by a car. The accident almost took her life.

  When she came out of her coma two months later, even though Ben wasn’t to blame, she was determined to make him pay—to make someone pay—for her lost time. And so she tried to frame him for stalking me in hopes that he would be forced to leave our school once and for all.

  “Wait,” Wes says. “Are you to imply that our dear Chameleon is once again having premonitions by way of pottery?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me reptilian names,” I say.

  “Would you prefer it if I called you a freak?”

  “Plus,” I say, failing to dignify his question with a response, “it hasn’t only been body parts. What about the car, the swordfish, the pinecone?”

  “Well, I still suspect something shady’s going on,” Kimmie says. “I mean, why Adam’s mouth?—why not Ben’s or your own? And why did it look all pouty, like he wanted a kiss?”

  “There’s more.” I tell them about last night, how, when I couldn’t sleep, I sculpted Adam’s eyes.

  “See?” Kimmie folds her arms. “More body parts.”

  “Whatever,” I sigh, refusing to get into it again.

  “Do you think you’re sculpting this stuff and thinking about him because you miss him?” she asks.

  “Or this could be your subconscious’s way of trying to sabotage your love life,” Wes suggests. “I saw something similar on Love Rehab.”

  Kimmie rolls her eyes—yet again—at the suggestion. She grabs a straw and attempts to blow the wrapper into Wes’s recently overgrown yet still mousse-laden dark hair, but the wrapper fails to penetrate the hair’s crusty outer surface. “Camelia hasn’t even revealed the most disturbing piece in her jigsaw puzzle of a life,” Kimmie says.

  “Right,” I say, knowing full well what she’s talking about. “While I was sculpting Adam’s mouth, I whispered the words ‘You deserve to die.’”

  “At me,” Kimmie points out.

  “More like, near you,” I clarify. “It’s not like I think you deserve to die.”

  “Then who?” Wes asks.

  “No one. It’s like someone put those words in my mouth—like the phrase got stuck in my head, and I couldn’t let it go.” I sink back in my seat, reminded of how sometimes, when I’m having one of my psychometric episodes—if I should even be calling it that—I’m able to hear voices.

  About a month ago, I sculpted a horse kicking its legs up. It turned out to look just like the horse on the pendant that Ben gave to Julie shortly before she died. All the time I was sculpting the horse I kept hearing a voice in my head—a voice that told me to be careful.

  The horse sculpture turned out to be a clue that someone was trying to trick me. That someone was Adam. Two years earlier, Adam (Ben’s best friend at the time) had been dating Julie behind Ben’s back. When Julie died, Adam, like everyone else, blamed Ben and wanted revenge.

  And so last fall, when Adam learned that Ben had come to Freetown High seeking a somewhat mainstream life again, he secretly followed. Adam enrolled at the community college nearby and sought out Ben’s love interest—me—as a way to make him jealous.

  “So, what now?” Kimmie asks.

  “Maybe you should give Adam a call,” Wes says. “That is, if you don’t wish him dead—in which case you should probably stay as far away from him as possible.” He snatches my plastic utensils away. “I hear prison’s a pain in the ass.”

  “No pun intended,” Kimmie jokes.

  “Well, naturally, I don’t wish anyone dead,” I say, as if the explanation were even necessary.

  “Does Adam wish you were dead?” Kimmie asks.

  “How would I know?”

  “Maybe someone wishes Adam were dead.” Wes scratches his chin in thought. “Or maybe you’re supposed to save Adam, the way Ben saved you last fall. I mean, you did say you sculpted his eyes while they were closed…meaning, he could have been dead.”

  “Don’t tell me this is going to be another semester of psycho notes, creepy photos, and cheap lingerie,” Kimmie says, referring to some of the mysterious gifts I received when I was being stalked.

  “Are you talking about Camelia’s past with Matt, or your own colorful dating history?” Wes asks her.

  “Jealous that I have a dating history?” She blows him a kiss.

  “Maybe we’re reading too much into things,” I say, interrupting their banter.

  “It’s possible,” Wes chirps. “Your verging-on-obsessive, shrineworthy stalkerazzi sculptures could very well be your subconscious’s way of making it clear that you and Adam have some unresolved issues to attend to. And the twisted death-wish phrase could totally be chalked up to too many scary movies.”

  “Or too many detentions with Mr. Muse.” Kimmie giggles. “My advice: give Adam a call. Be all casual, and ask him how he’s doing.”

  “And if he’s gotten any death threats lately,” Wes adds.

  I shake my head at the thought of contacting him again. It’s not like we ended things on totally terrible terms. It’s just that, despite how sorry he was afterward, despite the apologetic letters he sent asking for my forgiveness, what he did was downright cruel. “How am I supposed to explain to Ben that I’m calling his biggest enemy?…Someone I dated?”

  “Who says he has to know?” Wes shrugs.

  “He’ll touch her and know, Einstein.” Kimmie uses the knot of her beaded necklace to thwack him in the head.

  “Well, if that’s the case, I’m surprised you even lied to him in the first place,” Wes says. “I mean, didn’t you figure he’d know the truth anyway?”

  “What can I say? I’m an idiot.”

  “Idiot or not, what you were sensing must have been pretty intense,”
Kimmie says. “I mean, to feel so guilty about it that you cut class, got a nurse’s note, and willingly crashed Muse’s phys ed block. So, you sculpted Adam’s facial features. It doesn’t exactly make you a two-timing tramp.”

  “And it doesn’t exactly explain why Ben freaked out in gym class,” Wes says. “Which brings us to the most obvious question: are you sure you aren’t holding anything back from us? Might you have sculpted something a bit more scandalous than what you’re actually admitting? A sexy little bowl or a naughty pot with a really curvaceous mouth?”

  “Are there any other interesting body-part sculptures you want to tell us about?” Kimmie asks, playing along.

  “No,” I say, grateful for their humor—and for the fact that, despite this funked-up situation, they can actually get me to laugh.

  “Is there any way to block what Ben is able to sense?” Wes asks. “Might a hint of garlic around your neck or chanting incantations under a waxing moon prove effective in warding off his abilities?”

  “I doubt it.” I smirk.

  Kimmie reaches across the table to touch my arm in consolation. “Well, then, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but as far as Ben’s concerned, it looks like honesty is your only option.”

  “A shame.” Wes sighs, shaking his head in sympathy. “If only there could be some other way.”

  I GLANCE BACK AT BEN a couple of times in chemistry, waiting for him to look at me. Finally, he meets my eye, but it’s only for a second.

  Our teacher, Mr. Swenson, aka the Sweat-man, for obvious reasons, has got us pretty preoccupied today making snowflakes, using borax and pipe cleaners.

  “These will have to sit overnight,” the Sweat- man explains, “and then we can hang them in the windows.”

  “Doesn’t he have enough flakes of his own?” Tate, my lab partner, nods toward the bits of dandruff sprinkled about the Sweat-man’s shoulders and back.

  But I’m too tense to laugh. As soon as Ben gets up to set his snowflake jar on one of the shelves in the back of the room, I follow suit, purposely crossing his path.

  “We need to talk,” I tell him.

  He nods like he knows it’s true.

  I take a step closer, able to feel the sheer electricity between us. “How’s your back, by the way?”

  “Apparently a lot harder than the gym floor.” He smiles slightly.

  “So, everything’s okay?” I ask, completely aware that the question is fully loaded.

  “I don’t know.” His dark eyes soften. “Is it?”

  I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, knowing his question is loaded, too. But instead of unloading either of our questions, we make a plan to go to the Press & Grind after school.

  Ben picks me up on his motorcycle, and I get on right behind him, holding him close, hugging his waist and wishing the ride could go on forever. But we’re at the café in four minutes flat.

  Ben orders a mocha latte for me and a large black coffee for himself, and then we sit in two cushy chairs toward the back—ironically, the same place where Adam and I sat on one of our dates.

  Ben stirs his coffee, even though there’s nothing in it, as if, maybe, he’s every bit as nervous as me. “So, you have something you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “I’m sure you already know. You were able to sense it, weren’t you?”

  “Just tell me,” he insists, still focused on his stirring.

  There’s a good three minutes of silence before I can finally conjure up the nerve to tell him. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Adam,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “What about him?” He looks unfazed.

  “You don’t want to hear it. Just trust me when I say that it’s you I want to be with.”

  “I do want to hear it.” He looks up finally, making telling him the truth even harder for me.

  I loosen my coat, but my face still feels hot. “I guess I’ve mostly been thinking about the way he looked,” I venture.

  “And about kissing him?” he asks, having obviously sensed the detail.

  I look away, trying to avoid the question, remembering a kiss that Adam and I did once share. It was tiny and quick and happened sort of unexpectedly over a pizza and a pitcher of root beer.

  “Camelia?” Ben says.

  “I think he might be in trouble,” I say, feeling a tunneling sensation inside my heart. I proceed to tell him about my sculptures and about how the words you deserve to die kept repeating in my mind.

  “I guess we’ve never really talked too much about your power,” he says.

  “It’s different from yours. It’s like my mind locks on an idea, and I just start sculpting it. There’s not even much creativity involved. It’s as if I have no other choice but to get it out—the image fixed inside my head—whether I like it or not.”

  “And do you always hear voices when that happens?”

  “Not always, but definitely sometimes, and I’m not the only one this happens to.” I tell him about a blog I found a few weeks back. It was called Psychometrically Suzy, and the woman who wrote it talked about how one day, when she touched her father’s old hat, she was able to hear his voice, even though he had long since passed away. “There are also people who are able to smell scents or experience certain tastes—all relevant to whatever they’re touching,” I continue.

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “It is,” I say, wishing things could be simpler. I reach out to take his hand, but he pulls away. “What’s wrong?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Now it’s your turn to be honest.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it filter out slowly. “I sensed that you and Adam were together again.”

  “But we’re not.”

  “But maybe you will be.”

  “Never,” I whisper, reaching out to touch his hand again.

  This time he lets me. His fingers close around my palm.

  “This sculpture thing with Adam,” I continue, “it’s only happened a couple times. And maybe we’re over-analyzing things. I was thinking that my sculptures could even be the result of a delayed response—premonitions that came too late…. I mean, it was only a few weeks ago that Adam and I were together.”

  “And what about the voice you heard, the you deserve to die message? If that’s the result of psychometry—of something in your future—you can’t just let it go.”

  “Yes, but it could be the same sort of thing. Maybe I was picking up on something from the past, something Debbie Marcus was thinking. This ‘touch’ stuff is new for me. I’m still trying to figure it all out.”

  “I couldn’t bear to lose you.” His dark gray eyes look wounded.

  “You’ll never lose me,” I say, joining him in his chair. I rest my head against his chest and feel his heart beat. “We’re meant to be together, remember?” I move to kiss him, but his lips are cold, still, brooding. And he doesn’t try to kiss me back.

  “I mean, what are the odds that we’d even meet?” I continue. “That two people with psychometric powers would ever find each other?”

  Ben doesn’t say anything. And we don’t talk about Adam again for the rest of our time together. We actually don’t say much at all. There’s a tense silence between us.

  A silence that we can’t seem to fill even with small talk about school or our families.

  A silence that gnaws away at the moment and prompts us to leave shortly afterward.

  I SIT UP IN BED and switch on my night-table lamp. The street outside my window is barren and dark. I wish that Ben were here—that he would come and sit beside me on my bed, and that we could talk things through a bit more. Because I feel like we left so much unsaid.

  I want to believe the excuses I told him earlier—all the logical reasons I’ve been so fixated on Adam. But I can’t help thinking that maybe Wes and Kimmie were right. Maybe I should give Adam a call, if for no other reason than to safeguard myself from guilt. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something ba
d happened to him because I did nothing to try and stop it.

  I glance at the clock. It’s a little after eleven; Adam’s probably still up. I reach for my cell phone and search for his number. With my finger positioned over the dial button, I stare back at myself in the dresser mirror.

  I look the same as always: same loopy blond hair, same wide green eyes, same angular cheeks. But there’s something about me that feels different now. Changed. And I’m not so sure I can ever change it back.

  I close my eyes, still able to see the word bitch scribbled across the mirror, across my image, from when Matt broke into my room. I can hardly remember a time when things weren’t so complicated, when a part of me wasn’t afraid to fall asleep. Or when I felt completely certain about whom I could trust.

  Finally, I push the dial button, eager to get this over with. The phone rings right away. At first I think his voice mail will pick up. But then I hear him answer. “Camelia?” he says. “Is it really you?”

  “How are you?” I ask, trying to sound at ease. “I just wanted to call and check in…to see how everything’s going.”

  “It’s going better now,” he says.

  “So, nothing bad? No unhealthy relationships? No drama at school?”

  “No. Definitely not. And hardly ever. Why?” He lowers his voice. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Some ex-girlfriend of mine is telling everyone in town what a sexy playa I am?”

  “Seriously?”

  “I guess not,” he says, seemingly disappointed. “But I’m not letting you off so easily. Did you hear something that I should know about?”

  “No,” I say, suddenly feeling more self-conscious than I ever thought possible.

  “So, then, is this just an excuse you’ve devised to call me? Because, trust me when I say that you need no excuses. I love hearing from you.”

  “Hardly an excuse,” I say, unable to stop the smile on my face. “I just wanted to check that all was good.”

  “Better than good. Ever since my temporary, though still painfully embarrassing bout of vengeance and stupidity, I’m a reformed man. And how about you? Is it safe to assume that life without me means you’re no longer having a rough year?”