Deadly Little Games

  “I told you before: it’s more like a rough life.”

  “Well, I’ve missed you…and your rough life.”

  I bite my lip, unsure how to respond, feeling a ten-pound pause drop on the line between us.

  But then, “I’m really glad you called,” he says. “I was afraid that I’d never hear from you again. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if that was the case. It’s just—”

  “Let’s not rehash the past.”

  “Nope. No rehashing here.”

  “I’m just really glad to hear that things are going well.”

  “Wait, you’re not getting ready to hang up on me, are you?” he asks. “We’ve only been talking for a couple minutes.”

  “Well, I don’t really have much else to say.”

  “Are you kidding? The possibilities are endless. For starters, you could tell me that you’ll call me again. Or, better yet, you could ask me out for coffee or a slice of pizza. Of course, letting me know that I can call you whenever I want is always a good possibility. Or, if you’re feeling really generous, you could tell me that you miss me, too. I mean, I wouldn’t even care if it was a lie.”

  “I should really get going,” I say, holding myself back from letting out a laugh, and thinking how, maybe, in some tiny, totally platonic, just-a-friend-ish sort of way, I really do sort of miss him.

  AUDIO TRANSCRIPT 2

  DOCTOR: So, how are things going? Are you getting along any better with your parents?

  PATIENT: They think that as long as I’m not in prison or living on the street, all is well. I’ve even overheard my mother talking about me to her friends, bragging about how great I’m doing in school and how many friends I have. She’s totally clueless…totally in denial.

  DOCTOR: Is it denial? Or does she really believe those things about you?

  PATIENT: One day I told her that I felt so alone it wouldn’t even matter if I took my own life, because nobody would notice.

  DOCTOR: And how did she respond?

  PATIENT: She said I could try it, but then I wouldn’t know if it was true or not because I’d already be dead.

  DOCTOR: Were you serious about taking your own life, or just trying to get her attention?

  PATIENT: Talking about death doesn’t exactly make someone suicidal.

  DOCTOR: Do you still feel alone?

  PATIENT: All the time. Even when I’m with other people.

  DOCTOR: Do they know that?

  PATIENT: I don’t think so. I can put on a pretty good show.

  DOCTOR: And what’s the benefit of that?

  PATIENT: So they don’t think I’m a freak, I guess. Sometimes I almost fool myself into believing that I’m someone else, that my life doesn’t suck, and that I’m more like them.

  DOCTOR: But if you’re putting on shows all the time, how do you ever expect to get close to anyone, to let them in, and get to know the real you?

  PATIENT: Simple. I don’t.

  DOCTOR: You don’t ever want a true friend?

  PATIENT: Want and can have are two very different things.

  DOCTOR: Well, how about this? You can have what you want by getting rid of that alter ego of yours…by letting people get to know the real you.

  PATIENT: No one would like the real me. If I ever want to be truly close to someone, it’ll have to be by force.

  DOCTOR: What do you mean?

  PATIENT: I’ll have to force them to love me.

  DOCTOR: You can’t force someone to love you.

  PATIENT: That’s your opinion.

  Across

  9. I spy with my little ________ someone beginning with the letter A.

  10. Opposite of having company.

  26. You ________ so naive.

  Down

  2. You are ________ far from my thoughts.

  14. Stronger than observing.

  16. Just ________ and me.

  19. ________ and forever.

  26. I ________ closer than you think.

  AFTER I HANG UP with Adam, I notice my mother lingering in the doorway of my bedroom. She’s got her hair pulled up. Her auburn corkscrew curls are piled high atop her head, adding at least four inches to her otherwise petite frame.

  “Sorry I wasn’t at dinner,” she says. “I had to fill in for Ivy at the studio.”

  “The full-moon yoga class?”

  She nods. “Lots of howling. My throat’s still hoarse. Did you and Dad eat the raw-violi I left in the fridge?”

  “Sort of. I mean, we considered eating it. It made its way onto the table. But we ended up having the rest of the rawkin’ raw-sagna instead.” (Rawkin’ raw-sagna: a sorry excuse for real lasagna made with uncooked squash slices, tomatoes, and cashew paste, and served on—what else?—Elvis dinner plates.) I don’t have the heart to tell her that Dad chucked both dinners and ordered us a pizza.

  My mother grimaces, clearly on to my BS. She’s what you’d call a health fanatic times one hundred, from the raw-ful cuisine she makes us eat to her handmade sanitary napkins (no joke: the woman actually uses kitchen sponges), and so, pepperoni-and-cheese-laden pizza ranks right up there with what fur coats are to PETA.

  “Who were you talking to?” she asks.

  “Adam.”

  “This late?”

  “I just called to see how he’s doing.”

  “I see.” Her mouth twitches in irritation. “I thought you two weren’t talking anymore.”

  “It was no big deal.”

  “This isn’t going to be another semester of keeping secrets, Camelia, is it?”

  I shake my head, thinking about the raw-sagna lie. “No secrets,” I say, crossing my fingers behind my back, grateful that, at the very least, I don’t have to lie about Ben anymore.

  Initially, my mother wasn’t so hot on the idea of me dating someone who was once on trial for the murder of his girlfriend. But, considering that he was acquitted, not to mention the fact that he saved my life not once, but three times, neither of my parents can deny that he truly has my best interests at heart.

  “From now on, I’m telling you everything,” I continue. Or at least as much as I think she can handle.

  Mom nods, seemingly relieved, and then says she’s planning a trip to Detroit to see her half sister. “It’ll only be for a couple days. Your father will be home.”

  My aunt Alexia, labeled by her doctors as “a disturbed woman with suicidal tendencies, bouts of paranoia, and who claims to hear voices,” has been in and out of mental institutions for as long as I’ve known her.

  “Is she still at the hospital?” I ask.

  “It’s where she belongs.” Mom closes her eyes and pauses for a breath, which is oddly apropos given the words embroidered on her T-shirt: TAKE YOUR TIME. . . AND TAKE MINDFUL KUNDALINI BREATHS.

  “It’ll be good to see her,” Mom says. “Her doctors say she’s making real strides and continuing with her art. Even if she’s not completely expressive with her words, the doctors can look at her paintings and try to monitor her progress.”

  “When will you be going?”

  “Next week. Friday.”

  I scooch back on my bed, wondering what it’d be like to talk with Aunt Alexia—to talk with someone who might understand what I’m actually going through. I glance at the journal on my night table, hoping my mom doesn’t notice it. It’s my aunt’s, from when she was my age. I found it in the attic while putting away holiday decorations and have been reading it ever since. The journal documents my aunt’s struggles with her illness. Though I’d be willing to bet it’s more of a struggle with psychometry.

  “Anyway, I’ll let you know when I make the arrangements,” Mom continues.

  “Sounds good.”

  As soon as Mom says good night and leaves my room, I call Kimmie to give her the scoop about Adam.

  “See, I told you,” she says. “Don’t you feel better now? You know he’s okay.”

  “I guess.”

  “And so, maybe now that you two have talked, he’ll stop
occupying your thoughts, and you’ll stop sculpting and chanting creepy things.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “And hopefully my dad will come to his senses and move back home.”

  “It’s just a separation,” I remind her. “Temporary.”

  “Tell him that. You should see his apartment in the city: lava lamps, beaded drapes, purple lights…and don’t even get me started on his new karaoke machine. He made me listen to him sing ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ by the Beatles more times than I’d like to remember. I’m still feeling a bit traumatized.”

  “Speaking of trauma, how’s your mom?”

  “A zombie, for the most part. But her good friends Jack and Daniel have been helping out.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Not quite, but it’s getting there. They partied last night at dinner.”

  “Define ‘partied.’”

  “She downed a glass before the Easy Mac was even on her plate.”

  “A glass doesn’t exactly make a party.”

  “Unless that glass is more like a giant SpongeBob tumbler with a really long straw. She just keeps saying that my dad was the love of her life, that the two of them danced under the sea together at their high school prom, and that she can’t imagine a life without him in it, blah, blah, blah. I really hate him for hurting her this way.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, for lack of better words.

  “I know. It sucks. But life goes on, right?”

  “Well, you know you can call or come over whenever you want.”

  “And I will,” she says, perking up slightly. “You’re my only friend with TiVo.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” I say, grateful that, though I can’t bring her dad home, I can, hopefully, help cheer her up.

  A FULL WEEK GOES BY without another thought about Adam. Until today.

  It’s after school, and I’m at Knead, the pottery shop where I work, showing Svetlana, my boss Spencer’s new hire, how to make a pinch pot. The goal is for her to be able to help out in some of the children’s classes, because she hasn’t exactly been successful with any of the other responsibilities at the studio, as evidenced by all the broken greenware pieces, the constant shortages of the cash register, and the messy back room.

  But her looks make up for or it, or so Spencer would insist, which I suspect is why he hired her in the first place. Standing at least six feet tall, Svetlana has long and flowing golden-brown hair, violet eyes, and boobs the size of boccie balls.

  “Good?” she asks, holding out her sad little glob of clay, the shape of which reminds me of a toasted marshmallow.

  There’s a proud smile across her naturally pouting lips.

  “Great,” I lie, unable to burst her proverbial bubble.

  “I make another one?” she asks, her Russian accent just as cute as she is.

  “If you want,” I say, feeling my own pinch pot begin to fold within my grip. I squeeze it into a ball and then wedge it out on my work board to get all the air pockets out. “Practice makes perfect, right?”

  Svetlana nods and resumes her pinch-potting.

  Meanwhile, I close my eyes, trying to will my Adam thoughts away. But they just keep on coming.

  I roll out my clay ball, able to picture his shy little smile, the crinkles around his eyes, and the way he always used to hook his thumbs into his belt loops. I think back to the first time I met him, when he accidentally surprised me here at Knead. Weeks later, he told me how much he cared about me. And then he asked me to show him the wheel.

  I remember how awkward it felt when he sat behind me on the stool, when he pressed himself against me, and then kissed the nape of my neck. I close my eyes, almost able to feel his fingers glide up and down the length of my arms.

  “What are you making?” Svetlana asks, snatching me out of my daydream.

  I open my eyes and manage a shrug; my face feels completely flushed. “I’m not really sure yet. Sometimes it’s best to just go with your impulses—to see where inspiration takes you. It’s good to remind students that, so they don’t always feel pressured to produce something concrete.”

  Svetlana nods, but I’m not sure she gets it. Instead, she copies the shape I’ve got going. “Like snake, yes?”

  “Yes,” I say, rolling my snake up into a snail and giving it two long antennae that stretch wide, as if the snail were sensing something, too.

  “So cute!” she raves, doing the same. “Good for kids.”

  I nod, happy she’s happy, knowing that I probably haven’t sculpted a snail since I was a kid myself. But for some reason, this is what my mound of clay wants to be. So, who am I to argue?

  After work, Ben is waiting for me on his motorcycle, parked just outside the studio. Wearing dark sunglasses and a knowing grin, he looks just like a movie star.

  And he kisses like one, too.

  He revs his engine, and we drive off down the street, around the corner, and past Salt Marsh Beach. The sea air paints my skin and makes me feel more alive than ever.

  Still, I wonder what Ben is feeling. He scoots forward a couple of times on his seat, as if the intensity between us is too much to bear. Maybe he’s having a hard time concentrating on the road.

  Or maybe he senses something else.

  Once we get to my house, we find my parents in the living room. Mom’s torturing Dad with a limb-tangling session of couples yoga, though it appears he almost enjoys it. He’s lying on his back with his legs extended upward, and Mom’s doing a back bend of sorts, while balancing on the balls of his feet.

  Ben and I exchange pleasantries with them, forgoing my mom’s less-than-tempting offer of compost parfaits, and then we head off to my room. Ben slips off his jacket and sits down on my bed. It’s all I can do to hold myself back from joining him, but part of me is afraid of what he might sense.

  I’m just about to ask him about the bike ride here—if, through two pairs of jeans, or the layer of his jacket, he was able to pick up on my Adam thoughts at the studio. But before I can, his hand falls on my aunt’s journal, sticking out from beneath my pillow.

  “What’s this?” He runs his fingers over the faded red cover.

  “It’s my aunt Alexia’s,” I say, “from when she was our age.”

  He grasps the book harder, as if able to predict some of what’s inside.

  “My aunt and I have a lot in common, I think…with art and psychometry, I mean.” I proceed to fill him in on some of the things that are detailed in the journal.

  “Where is she now?” he asks.

  “At a mental facility in Detroit. My mom’s going to visit her this Friday. It’ll only be for the weekend, but I was thinking about asking her if I could go, too. Maybe I could get a last-minute flight.”

  “I don’t know. Two days without seeing you?” He takes my hands and pulls me close. His kiss tastes like salt and honey.

  I slide onto his lap and run my palms across his chest, but after only a couple of seconds he draws away. His breath is heavy and quick.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, standing up from the bed.

  Ben rebounds after a moment, but his whole demeanor’s changed. “You were thinking about Adam again today, weren’t you?”

  I give a reluctant nod, wondering if I should tell him about the phone call. “But I didn’t sculpt anything about him this time, so I’m thinking it was just a fluke.”

  “You’re sure it isn’t because you miss him?”

  “Is that what you sense?”

  Ben hesitates, staring into my eyes as if trying to read something there. “I trust you,” he says finally.

  “Good, because you’re the one that I miss.”

  “But I’m right here.”

  I move onto his lap again, my legs crossed behind his back. I close my eyes and picture us on his motorcycle, riding down the sunny beach strip, the seat pressing against the backs of my thighs and urging me closer to him.

  We kiss for several minutes, until I feel him pull away once more. “I think I
should probably go,” he says.

  “Why?” I ask, giving him some space. I move off his lap and get up from the bed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I should be asking you the same.”

  I shake my head, feeling a lump form in my throat.

  Ben looks away, clearly disappointed, as if he knows I’m keeping secrets. “On second thought, why don’t you go to Michigan with your mom? Some time away might be good for you. It might be good for both of us.”

  “Wait, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I have to go.” He stands and pulls on his jacket.

  “Ben—no. Let’s talk about this.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” he says, visibly shaken.

  I’m shaken, too, not quite sure what just happened. Or how I can undo it.

  AFTER THE INCIDENT with Ben, I head over to Kimmie’s to cry on her shoulder. We’re sitting in her bedroom, amid rolls of pink taffeta and leopard-print spandex, as she works on one of her latest designs. It’s Kimmie’s goal in life to have her own clothing line one day. She’s even taken some weekend workshops at the Fashion Institute in an effort to develop her inner fashionista.

  “I call this dress Ballerina Meets Bad Girl,” she says, tearing the hem of a skirt to give it a tattered edge. “Your honest opinion: do you think a whip is too much as an accessory? Because a whip would look totally cute if it had a pink handle.”

  “Maybe just a smidge,” I say, flopping back on her bed, accidentally landing on a bag of feathers.

  “You’re really upset, aren’t you?” She sets down her pinking shears.

  “How can I not be?”

  “Right,” she says, handing me a tissue. “But I vaguely recall mentioning something about how honesty is your only real choice where Ben’s concerned.”

  “Maybe now’s not the best time to be saying, ‘I told you so.’ Plus, it’s not like I intentionally lied to him. I mean, yes, Ben’s my boyfriend, but I’m still my own person. Aren’t I allowed to keep anything to myself?”