…
Dear Jack:
I remember the stabbing sensation that pressed into my gut because you still hadn’t shown up, and it was already twelve past nine. I watched the clock, unable to stop thinking about the perfect timing of things: not only had you known that I had to work that night, but you’d picked nine o’clock for a meeting time. My shift ended at 8:30, and it normally took me thirty minutes to cash out and clean up.
You obviously had known that somehow—obviously had taken note of my work schedule, when my shifts started, and when I got out. I have to admit: the thought of someone like you taking so much interest in someone like me was beyond exciting.
Still, I remember holding my breath as the seconds ticked away, doing my best to focus on how much happier I’d been since you started coming around. As cliché as it may sound, you gave me a purpose for getting out of bed in the morning, when only weeks before it’d seemed pointless.
When Carl noticed I was still lingering, he asked if I needed a ride home, saying he was giving Dee a ride anyway. But I shook my head, unwilling to give up on you just yet. And so I went to touch the piece of sea glass around my neck in an effort to reassure myself.
But all I felt was panic, because I didn’t feel the stone right away. Was it still there? Had it caught on something? Why did it seem that the cord of the necklace was so much longer than I remembered?
That’s how wrapped around your finger I already was.
Finally, I found the stone, dangling right over my heart. At the same moment, I found you. You were sitting on the bench in front of Muster’s Bakery, just as you’d said you would be.
…
AFTER KIMMIE LEAVES, I spot Ben. He’s standing by a group of pine trees—what the Tree Huggers Society planted this past fall in an attempt to create a sanctuary of sorts (even though it’s located just to the right of the parking lot, where it’s privy to stuff like car fumes, screeching tires, and cigarette smoke).
Ben waves when he sees that I’ve noticed him, and I make my way over, feeling like I’ve just been punched.
“Hey,” he says, smiling at first. But his smile fades when he sees me up close—when he notices how troubled I must look.
He leads me into the circle of trees and gestures for me to sit on one of the five granite-slab benches that together make a pentagon. “Sip?” he asks, offering me some of his iced black coffee.
“No, thanks,” I say, wondering when he got it. The cup is nearly full, from the Press & Grind.
“I had a free last block,” he says, as though reading my mind.
“And you came back here because…?”
“Because I really wanted to talk to you.” He sits down beside me, and his thigh accidentally bumps against my knee. He notices and scoots away on the bench. “Care to tell me about what’s going on?”
“Not really,” I say, staring at the ground, trying to appear aloof.
“Do you honestly expect me to believe that?”
I shrug and peer over my shoulder, through the trees, wondering where Kimmie has gone off to, and if I should stop by her house on the way home.
Ben ventures to touch my forearm, forcing me back into the moment. “Just because we’re not seeing each other doesn’t mean we’re not friends, right? We can still talk about stuff.”
“It’s too hard,” I tell him, feeling more friendless than ever before. I mean, being his friend, opening up, having him be one of the only people who can somewhat understand what I’m going through, and then seeing him with Alejandra…“I should go.”
“You’ve been having more visions, haven’t you?”
I pull my arm away from his touch, wondering if that’s how he knows, or if he sensed it near my locker the other day.
“Talk to me, Camelia. You’re not alone.”
I press my eyes shut, remembering what Kimmie said—how this probably isn’t the best time to stop all communication with Ben. “I’ve also been hearing voices,” I say, finally. “And so I’ve tried to avoid sculpting—like how you tried to avoid touch—but that doesn’t seem to work.”
“No,” he says, looking down at his hands, just a finger’s length now from my knee. “It definitely doesn’t.”
“And so, what’s a psychometric girl to do?” I fake a smile and meet his eyes, choosing to keep things light.
But Ben’s face remains serious. “How can I help you?”
I shake my head, knowing he can’t—that what’s going on inside my head has nothing to do with him. “Don’t worry about it. I think I’m just feeling really stressed right now.”
“So, then let me feel it, too,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask, completely confused.
Ben extends his hands to me, as if silently asking me to weave my fingers through his. “I mean, let me feel whatever it is you’re going through.”
I gaze into his dark gray eyes, almost forgetting that we’re no longer together. My chest tightens until I can barely breathe, and a tiny gasp escapes my throat.
“Will you let me?” he asks, his hands still extended. There’s a pleading look in his eyes, as if he truly wants me to touch him.
I bite my lip, wondering if what he’s proposing is remotely possible—or if I even want it to be. Do I want to open up to him? Wouldn’t it be a whole lot smarter to keep all personal business under wraps in an effort to protect my heart?
I rack my brain for something rational to say—some explanation as to why this isn’t a good idea. But before I can, Ben reaches out to touch the side of my face. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but no words come out.
Because deep down, I want him to feel what I’m feeling, too.
His eyes locked on mine, he slides his fingers down my cheek.
“Ben,” I whisper, knowing that I should go.
But his touch compels me to stay.
Still looking into my eyes, he peels off my jacket and moves his hands up the length of my arms, beneath the sleeves, causing my insides to tremble and whir.
“Do you sense anything?” I ask him. My whole body feels suddenly swollen.
Instead of answering, Ben moves his fingers along my neck, sending tingles straight down my spine. I tilt my head back, imagining him drawing out all of my secrets, until I’m completely exposed.
After a few moments, I look at him again. His eyes are closed, and his forehead is slightly furrowed, as if he can indeed read my thoughts.
“Ben?” I ask, noticing that his neck is splotched. I start to pull away, but he tightens his grip. His fingers press into my throat, and I let out a splutter.
Ben jumps and drops his hands.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “You didn’t hurt me.” I rub the spot on my neck, feeling a slight sting.
Ben gets up from the bench, taking a couple of deep breaths to regain his composure.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me, over and over again.
He seems almost as disappointed as I am.
“It’s just that I thought I could handle this.” He looks at me, his lips parted. His eyes look tired and red.
“What did you sense?” I ask, eager for the answer.
“What’s your connection to Danica Pete?”
“Nothing,” I say, wondering if he knows it’s a lie—if he can sense the guilt I still carry, four years later. “And what’s your connection to her?”
“No connection,” he says, a little too quickly—like he’s not being honest either.
“I saw her approach your lunch table today,” I tell him. “Why are you still keeping secrets from me?”
“I’m just trying to protect you.”
“Like the last time…when I was trying to help Adam?” I look away, thinking about how secretive he’d been—and how that secrecy helped drive us apart.
Still, he doesn’t comment.
“Are you and Alejandra seeing each other?” I ask, before I can think better of it.
Ben’s eyes search my face, landing on my lips. “Are y
ou and Adam seeing each other?”
“Is there a reason why we shouldn’t be?”
He swallows hard. I watch the motion in his neck. And for five amazing seconds I think he’s going to give me a big long list of reasons, the top of which would include the fact that he wants me all to himself. But instead he simply shakes his head and tells me there’s no reason at all.
I LEAVE BEN IN THE Tree Huggers’ sanctuary, feeling even worse than I did before.
Ben feels worse, too; it’s obvious from his posture—his elbows resting on his knees, his hands combing through his hair, and his eyes focused on the ground—making me think that maybe we’re just not good for one another.
I head out to the parking lot in search of Wes’s car, in the hope that he might still be around, but it seems he’s already left. On a whim, I catch the Number 42 bus across the street, feeling somewhat brave after opening up to Ben. Brave because the Number 42 bus takes me to Mill House Park, which is right near Danica’s house.
I haven’t actually been to her house before—not to visit her, anyway. But four years ago, in junior high, a bunch of people went down to Mill House Park to hang out. Surprisingly, I was included in the group, but it was pretty much by default. I’d had soccer practice that afternoon with Rhiannon (a.k.a. Randy) Lester, one of the original Candy girls. Our coach had to bolt early for an unexpected emergency, and though most of the other teammates got picked up soon after, Randy and I were left to wait.
But we weren’t alone.
Randy’s entourage of Candies were there (most of whom had already graduated), not to mention her boyfriend, Finn Mulligan. As horrible as it is to admit now, it felt kind of good to be included in their group. But as I watched Finn climb the steps of the swirly slide, with an evil grin on his face, and a box of some sort in his arms, I knew that trouble was imminent.
It took me a moment to realize that he was carrying a crate of avocados, straight from the store.
Once he got to the platform at the top, he took one of the avocados out to show us, and squeezed it so we could see the overripe green guts ooze.
Randy and the Candies were laughing and cheering, all of them in the know as to what he was up to. Meanwhile, I remained somewhat oblivious, merely reveling in the fact that they were allowing me to be there with them.
Finn turned toward the house directly behind the slide, just beyond a chain-link fence.
“Hey, Pete,” he called out at least a dozen times, until Danica finally appeared at the sliding glass doors. Finn waved when he spotted her, acting excited to see her there.
I almost didn’t recognize her at first. She was wearing a towel-turban that covered her hair, a thick terry cloth robe that made her look much bigger than she actually was, and her face was red from the shower. She waved back, but it wasn’t with the same excitement Finn had shown. There was a confused expression on her face, especially when Finn motioned for her to open the door.
I shook my head, hoping that she wouldn’t, wishing that she would just look at me and see that I was silently telling her no.
But instead she did just as Finn said, most likely swept up in all the attention, and took a step out onto the balcony.
“Are you feeling a little green?” he shouted out.
She took another step, apparently unable to hear him. A second later, Finn chucked one of the rotten avocados at her. It exploded against the door ledge, and green ooze pelted her in the face.
“I’ll bet you’re feeling green now!” he shouted.
Still she didn’t move. And so three more avocados came flying at her—hitting one of her ears, splattering against her shoulder, and then dripping down the side of the house.
Finn was laughing, the Candies were begging to have a turn at it, and I was left feeling guilty for just standing there. And watching it all.
Finally, Danica went back inside the house. She tried to close the door, but it seemed to be stuck. Meanwhile, more avocados hit her—one of them smack against the top of her head.
After a few moments, she vanished from the door, but Finn and the others persisted in throwing the remaining avocados—what had to have been a good twenty or so. Only now, they went soaring into what I guessed was her bedroom (I could see part of a bed and dresser in the background).
I wonder whether Finn and the Candies truly felt good about it all, or whether the image of her crying, with avocado splattered over her face, still haunts them today—the way that the memory of just standing there and doing nothing still haunts me.
I move around to the front of Danica’s house, feeling my pulse race. Standing at the end of the walkway, I can tell that her house used to be nice: three stories, windows galore, and an entryway with columns. But on closer look, you can see that the paint is peeling, the shrubs are overgrown, and the shutters are broken and falling off.
I take a couple of steps toward the door with the sudden sensation that I’m being watched. I search the windows, wondering if Danica might be spying on me as I procrastinate here. But I don’t see her anywhere. Nor do I spot her parents or any siblings. I look out at the street, noticing a man carrying groceries into his house, as well as a car parked about halfway down the block.
I focus hard on the car: a black four-door sedan. The motor’s running and the windows are tinted, but I can’t quite tell if there’s anyone inside. I move back toward the sidewalk, pretending to have dropped something, in an effort to get a better look.
I can almost see the silhouette of someone at the steering wheel. At the same moment, the car backs up. The driver puts the car in reverse, backs into a driveway to change direction, and then speeds away.
“Um, hello,” a voice says, coming from just behind me. “Care to tell me what you’re doing here?” I turn to look, startled to find Danica there. She’s standing on her doorstep with a backpack slung over her shoulder, seeming to be on her way out.
“Hi,” I say, trying my best smile.
Danica’s changed into a pair of pair of sweats, no longer in her spaghetti-stained clothes.
“How did you know where I live?” she asks.
I open my mouth, ready to make something up, surprised that she doesn’t automatically flash back to the image of me from her balcony four years ago, just standing there, doing nothing.
But at the same moment, I spot it.
Around her neck, fastened with a black leather string: a piece of sea glass.
Pale blue and diamond-shaped, it’s just like the one my aunt painted. “Where did you get that?” I ask, without even thinking.
It takes her a moment to figure out that I’m referring to the necklace. She touches the thick glass piece, about the size of a silver dollar. “Why do you care?”
I move closer to look, but she’s covering the piece with her hand now, loosening the clasp so that it hangs further down on her chest.
“It’s just that I’ve seen it before,” I explain. “Or at least one that looks a lot like it.”
“You’ve never seen it. It was found on the beach.”
“Found by whom?” I ask.
“What are you even doing here?” she asks again; her tone is both irritated and defensive.
“I’m worried about you,” I say, deciding to be honest. “I didn’t like what happened in the cafeteria today. And I definitely didn’t like what the Candies wrote in the locker room.”
“Since when does that sort of thing bother you?” she asks, folding her arms.
“Look, I’m just trying to do the right thing here.”
“Yes, but why?”
I look away, remembering how in the seventh grade, Chelsea Maloff dropped a pocketful of crabgrass onto Danica’s lunch tray and dubbed her Horse Face. The following year, Jazz
Minkum drew a picture of a monster in art class. When Ms. DiPietro asked him what his inspiration was, he said, “Danica,” and everybody laughed.
In neither of those incidents was I one of the people cheering, or laughing, or egging the instigator on
. But, as in the incident in the park with Finn, I didn’t do anything to stop what was happening, either.
And so Danica has no real reason to trust me.
“I think you might be in trouble,” I tell her, feeling my insides shake.
“What are you talking about?” She takes a step closer. “And why do you care?”
“Because I’m trying to be a friend,” I say, knowing how awkward the answer sounds; but it’s precisely how I feel.
“I know who my real friends are,” she scoffs. “And obviously you’re not one of them.”
She turns on her heel and takes off down the street, as if I’m no longer a second thought, and maybe I never was.
KIMMIE DOESN’T CALL me all weekend, so I know she’s still upset. The last time we went this long without talking, it was over summer vacation and she and her family had gone into the hills of East Bum Suck, Vermont, where her cell phone didn’t get any reception.
By Sunday night, I try giving her a call. When she doesn’t pick up even after my third attempt, I text her that I want to talk.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t text back.
Monday morning, as usual, I wait for her by my locker, where we always meet before homeroom. As expected, she doesn’t come by.
Somehow, I manage to get through my next four classes. Somehow, I manage to beat Wes to the cafeteria (so I’ll have some time alone with Kimmie), even though my last class takes place on the opposite side of the building.
Kimmie is sitting at our usual table in the cafeteria. I hurry over, taking a seat across from her. “We need to talk,” I tell her, all out of breath.
“About what?” she asks, as if she couldn’t possibly have a clue. Still, her demeanor says otherwise: shoulders stiff, body angled away from me, and no eye contact.
“Did you get my text last night?”
Instead of answering, she waves Wes over, lighting up at the sight of him—at the fact, perhaps, that she no longer has to be alone at the table with me.
While Wes quizzes her for a Spanish test, I swallow what’s left of my chick-un sandwich and do my best not to cry.
After school, Mom picks me up, and there’s a brief exchange of nothingness.