Deadly Little Secret

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  But who am I to talk? I get nervous, too. Whenever I see her, I can barely think straight. I try to calm myself down— to remind myself to be patient, to not be too anxious, that I’ll soon have everything I want.

  Inside my head, I chant, “calm, calm, calm.”

  13

  It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m sitting in chemistry class, doing my best to focus, to take Kimmie’s advice about chalking the whole mysterious photo issue up to some lame-o’s idea of a joke, since, after all, she’s probably right.

  It’s the first lab session of the year, and Ben and I have a handful of test tubes set up in front of us, along with a graduated cylinder and a couple of teaspoons. The goal: to perform, discuss, and record the reactions that occur based on the mixture of a few choice chemicals.

  I’m trying my hardest to concentrate, to tell myself that combining distilled water with sodium bicarbonate is the most important thing in the world right now, even though Ben is watching and recording my every move.

  My hand shakes slightly as I add in a couple of teaspoons of phenolphthalein, which according to the Sweat-man, was formerly used in over-the-counter laxatives. I glance over at Missy and Chrissy Tompkin, otherwise known as the Laxative Twins, wondering if they’re going to try and pocket a stash for later.

  “Thirsty?” I ask Ben, holding the mixture up like a drink. The addition of the laxative stuff has made the solution resemble fruit punch.

  But he doesn’t think it’s funny. “Add in two grams of calcium chloride,” he says, keeping things all clinical-like.

  “Don’t forget,” Sweat-man announces. “This lab isn’t just about your visual senses here. What does the test-tube glass feel like with each added substance? Does it get heavier in comparison to the other tubes? Does it get cold or heat up? Is there any change in smell? Do you hear anything?”

  I look up at Ben, realizing we’ve completely omitted the whole touchy-feely aspect of the experiment.

  “Do you want to hold it?” I ask, extending the tube out to him.

  Ben looks at it but shakes his head, continuing to read me the directions from his lab book.

  “Wait,” I say. “We need to record this stuff—our reactions, what we observe.”

  “Can’t you just record it for the both of us?”

  I try not to let his slacking bother me, especially since, as far as things look in everybody else’s tubes, it appears as though we’re doing everything right. I jot down my observations and then, following the instructions as Ben reads them aloud, I add in a couple more ingredients, finally topping the solution off with nitric acid and bromothymol blue.

  The solution in the tube starts to fizzle and heat up, and the color changes from pink to yellow.

  “You really should feel this,” I say, holding the tube out to him again.

  But Ben has his own idea of fizzle: “I’m all set,” he says.

  “Not exactly a team player, are you, Mr. Carter?” The Sweat-man is standing right behind him now.

  Ben glances at the tube again, and for five full seconds I think he’s going to take it, but instead he says: “I’ve already felt it.”

  “Oh, really?” Sweat-man scratches his head, and I step back to avoid the flurry of flakes. “So, how would you describe the temperature of the tube?” he asks.

  Ben shrugs. “Kind of cold.”

  The Sweat-man makes his infamous game-show-buzzer sound, denoting the wrong answer. “You really should have phoned a friend.”

  “Why don’t you feel it again?” I say, in an effort to play nice. I hand him the tube, just as the Sweat-man walks away. But Ben’s still being all weird. His fingers linger in the air, just inches from mine. “Take it,” I say, all but placing the tube into his hand.

  He finally does. And his hand accidentally grazes mine. I feel the skin of his thumb rub against my middle finger.

  The next thing I know, Ben drops the tube. It shatters on the floor. Yellow solution spills out everywhere.

  Ben takes a step back, breathing hard.

  “It’s no big deal,” I tell him.

  But he doesn’t respond. He just stands there, staring at me. His dark gray eyes are wide and insistent.

  “Real slick,” Sweat-man says. “Clean it up—now.”

  Ben doesn’t move. So I grab a mop from the corner of the room and start to clean up the mess.

  And that’s when he touches me.

  His hand glides down my forearm and encircles my wrist, hard, making my heart beat fast and my pulse start to race. I open my mouth to say something—to ask what he’s doing, to tell him to let go—but nothing comes out.

  “Shhh,” Ben says. He takes a step closer, his eyes fixed on mine. I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck.

  “Hey, check it out,” I hear someone whisper.

  Still, I don’t look away. Because I honestly don’t want to.

  A smattering of giggles erupts in the classroom, catching the attention of Sweat-man at the front of the room. He makes a beeline for our table and butts his sweaty self between us as Ben releases his grip on my forearm.

  “Did he hurt you?” Sweat-man asks.

  I shake my head, feeling a slight sting in my wrist from Ben’s grip. After a few awkward moments, Sweat-man orders me to finish cleaning up, and then he orders Ben to the office.

  “No,” I balk. “It’s fine. I’m fine. He was only trying to help me.” I look down at the mess on the floor.

  But Ben doesn’t question the order. He just collects his books, takes one last look at me, and then scurries out of the room.

  14

  Even though I’m not scheduled to work at Knead today, I end up going there right after school.

  I just have to get away.

  Spencer, my boss, can sense my moodiness as soon as the doorbells announce my arrival.

  “Here,” he says, handing me a mound of clay. “Sculpt your way to a happier self.”

  Spencer is the greatest—totally laid back and unbelievably talented. You’d never know it from his hard-as-nails exterior—complete with straggly long hair, torn up jeans, and a three-inch scar down the side of his face—but he sculpts the most feminine of figurines using the most unyielding of materials.

  I take his clay-mound offering but refrain from telling him that it’s not exactly unhappiness I’m dealing with right now. It’s confusion. I mean, why did Ben touch me like that? Why was he being so weird in lab? And what’s with all the mixed signals?

  “Is it a guy?” Spencer asks, setting up the tables for tonight’s pottery class.

  I nod and slip on an apron.

  “Care to elaborate? I can give you the male perspective— free of charge, of course.”

  “Maybe after I wedge,” I say, slamming the clay down on my work board.

  Spencer is barely twenty-five, but he’s owned this shop for a little over two years now. I first met him during my freshman year, when he was substituting for Ms. Mazur, his supposed mentor—something he does only sparingly now that he has the shop. He told me I was a natural with the potter’s wheel and asked if I wanted a job. About a year and a half later—the time it took me to convince my parents I was responsible enough to handle work and school— I finally took him up on it.

  And it’s been my dream job ever since.

  After only three weeks of working for him, he gave me free run of the place: “So you can work on your stuff whenever inspiration hits,” he said, dropping the shop’s keys into my palm, “be it eleven o’clock at night or three in the morning.” And, though I’ve yet to take him up on the generous offer to work whenever I please, I have a feeling those days are coming.

  I honestly can’t remember another time in my life when I felt this unhinged.

  “Will you be needing something a bit stronger than that?” Spencer asks, referring to the clay. “A little maple wood? Or some iron, maybe?”

  “No,” I smile, giving my clay another good thwack against the board. “This will do just fine.”
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  Spencer gives me a thumbs-up and then leaves me alone. But I’m not alone for long. Not even ten minutes later, Kimmie comes bursting through the door. “I knew I’d find you here,” she announces.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She sets her design portfolio down against the table with a thud. “I’ll say something’s wrong. You didn’t even call me. Word is he practically took you down in chemistry.”

  “Wait—what?”

  “Everybody’s talking about it—about him—and how he tried to maul you today.”

  “Ben?”

  “Was there someone else who tried to maul you?”

  “That’s not how it happened,” I say, squeezing and resqueezing my clay in an effort to remain calm.

  “I know, because apparently you didn’t even put up a fight. Apparently you didn’t even seem to mind.”

  “He touched me again,” I say, my heart tightening at the mere words.

  “From what I heard, it was way more than just a touch.” She folds her arms and taps her patent-leather Mary Jane against the linoleum floor.

  “No,” I say. “You don’t understand. He touched me, like in the parking lot that day—and it got all weird.”

  “Weird as in creepy?”

  “Weird as in unbelievable,” I say, still able to picture it, to picture him—the way our faces were only inches apart and how his bottom lip quivered when he told me to shush. “It’s like he touches me on my arm or my stomach, but my whole body feels it.”

  “Honestly, Camelia, do you know how cheesy that sounds? Even for you.”

  “You know what I mean. I need to know what he’s all about.”

  “Is everything okay?” Spencer asks, inserting himself into our conversation. I glance toward his work area at the back of the shop, wondering how long he’s been standing behind us and how much he actually heard.

  “Better than okay,” Kimmie says, openly admiring his Rambo-like physique. “Especially if you’ll be substituting for Ms. Mazur anytime soon. I’d love to show you my technique. I call it the thump-and-slap.”

  “Sounds like you’re having fun. Maybe if Ms. Mazur calls in sick.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she says, practically drooling. “Camelia, do we know anyone with whooping cough? I hear it’s supercatchy.”

  “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that,” I say.

  “I’m heading out to pick up some molds,” Spencer says. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour. Camelia, will you be around when I get back?” A lock of his wavy dark hair falls into his eyes, turning Kimmie to virtual mush. “I thought maybe we could talk about stuff.”

  “Talk is cheap,” Kimmie interrupts. “Don’t you have anything to show?”

  “As in, what I’m working on?” Spencer asks.

  “For starters.”

  “Well, I’m about to begin sculpting a six-foot-tall ballerina in bronze.”

  “Need a model?” She stands on her tiptoes. “I could wear my stilettos.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” he says, and turns to me. “So, will I see you later?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, glancing at his hand. It still lingers on my shoulder. “I kind of have a lot of homework.”

  “On a Friday?” Kimmie asks.

  “So, maybe another time,” he says, reminding me to lock up when I’m done.

  Kimmie bops me on head with a sponge once he’s gone. “Honestly, what is your problem?”

  “You’re the one with the problem. What are you doing hitting on my boss?”

  “He was hitting on you,” she says, correcting me.

  “No way,” I say. “Spencer’s just like that . . . he’s just nice.”

  “Yeah, well, nice boss plus open invitation to hang out after hours equals a very happy lizard . . . meaning you, Miss Chameleon. You want a spicier life? Well, then, he’s your chipotle pepper.”

  “I am so not interested in Spencer.”

  “Because he didn’t supposedly kill anybody?”

  “Okay, I’m done having this conversation.” I roll my clay up into a ball and plop it down against my wedging board.

  “Fine,” she says, drying her hands. She tosses the wad of paper towels to the floor, in lieu of the garbage barrel, and it catches on her heel. “Call me later.”

  “Will do,” I say, watching as she walks off, the roll of paper towels trailing along after her like industrial-strength toilet paper, totally making me giggle.

  15

  She’s become my addiction and she doesn’t even know it. Part of me wants her to know—wants her to feel me out there. Watching her. Checking how she dresses. And what she eats. And who she spends her time with. Watching as she opens her bedroom curtains first thing in the morning. And walks to school. And shops for nail polish in town.

  I take note of some of her favorite things—like yogurt-covered pretzels, pale peach lip gloss, and hooded sweatshirts with big front pockets.

  And I know when she goes to bed, usually around eleven thirty, right after chatting online with I can only wonder who.

  That’s the hard part—not knowing EVERYTHING about her, despite how hard I try. Even when I’m up close, I can’t always hear what she’s saying in conversation. I can’t always watch her lips, for fear she’ll catch on, which would ruin everything.

  I want to talk to her. And sometimes we do talk. But it’s never for very long and we never say anything important.

  I can’t be myself around her. I can’t relax or open up, or show her all the pictures I’ve got tacked up on my wall: pictures of her at the beach, in front of her house, at the mall, and in the bakery downtown.

  Lately she’s been talking to everyone, even to people she never normally associates with. She’s been asking them questions about something that shouldn’t even matter to her, something she shouldn’t even know about.

  Luckily, she redeemed herself, though. We got really close recently. Or, should I say, I got really close to her. At first I thought it made her nervous, but then it seemed like she kind of enjoyed it. Because she didn’t back away.

  I want to get close to her again. I want to see how far she’ll let me go—how far I’ll have to push before she has no choice but to let me in.

  16

  It’s Monday afternoon, the last block of the day, and a full six minutes and thirty seconds into chemistry class when Ben finally comes in. He smiles at me, totally catching me off guard. And totally making my face heat up.

  I saw him earlier today, too, and I had a similar reaction. We were passing one another near the front entranceway of the school when we collided, and his shoulder bumped against my forearm.

  It nearly made me drop my books.

  I mean, it wasn’t just the mild collision. It was the way he lingered there, asking me if I was okay, telling me it was an accident, running his fingers over my arm to make sure I was okay. He gazed into my eyes and smiled an irresistible grin—as if we shared some secret.

  My heart pounded, and my insides turned to bubbling lava. I secretly hoped his bumping into me wasn’t an accident at all, but 100 percent intentional.

  Ben slides into the seat beside mine and starts flipping through his notes.

  “Is everything okay, Ms. Hammond?” the Sweat-man asks, obviously noticing my spaceyness, and how I can’t stop staring.

  Ben looks beyond delicious, dressed in layers of chocolate brown. He glances at me, checking for my response, and so I give a quick nod, my insides stirring up even more.

  Sweat-man continues with his lecture, failing to say anything about Ben’s lateness, which only confirms the rumor that the principal’s given Ben carte blanche as far as promptness goes. There are several theories as to why his tardiness is accepted. Some think it’s for Ben’s own safety—because he’s constantly getting harassed, and maybe the administration is afraid a fight will break out in the hallway as people are changing classes. Others say it’s because he has a phobia—either claustrophobia or agoraphobia, or possibly
a blend of both.

  Personally, I don’t know the reason for his lag time. I’m just really happy to see him.

  While Sweat-man prattles on—something about chemical and ionic bonding—I can’t help noticing the olive tone of Ben’s skin, the mole on his left cheek, and how every few minutes he turns to glance at me.

  When class is finally over, he collects his books in a stack and then moves past me, the sleeve of his shirt brushing against my back, sending tingles all over my skin.

  “I’ll see you later,” he says in a hushed tone.

  I nod, wondering if he really means it, if he really intends to see me later, or if it’s just his way of saying good-bye.

  He heads up to talk to the Sweat-man, and I’m so tempted to hang around and wait until he’s done.

  But Kimmie spots me first. She pulls me from the doorway, yanks me out into the hall, all the while babbling on about how she needs to get to the mall—STAT—to buy herself some decent underwear.

  “Sounds like a dire emergency,” I say, keeping an eye on the chemistry room door.

  “It is an emergency,” she insists. “How can a girl this chic—meaning me, before you ask—run around with a rubber band holding up her undies?”

  “Wait—what?”

  “I have three words for you: underwear, broken elastic waistband, down around my ankles in Spanish class.”

  “Okay, but that was way more than three words.”

  “Whatever,” she says. “Here, feel my ball.” She gestures toward her waist.

  “No, thanks.” I grimace.

  She smirks and shows me the ball of fabric bulging out from her vintage poodle skirt—where she’s obviously got a rubber band tightened around her panty fabric to hold said panties up.

  Meanwhile, I continue to keep focused on the door, anticipating Ben’s exit.

  “Did Kimmie tell you about Spanish?” Wes shouts, barreling his way up the hallway toward us.

  Kimmie rolls her eyes. “Do we really need to rehash all the details?”