Kimmie shakes her head, a worried expression on her face.
I grab the umbrella again and step into the doorway, checking outside to see if anything looks off. But aside from Kimmie’s bike, parked smack in the center of my mother’s jasmine bush, everything appears fine.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
“Someone was pounding.”
“But I was outside, remember? I would have seen someone knocking.”
“Not if you were out back, throwing rocks at the bathroom.” I let out a giant breath and start to close the door. But that’s when I see it; a shiver runs down my back.
“What’s wrong?” Kimmie asks, following my glance.
I gesture toward the mailbox. The red flag is pointing up, indicating that something’s in there, even though I know for a fact I checked the box on the way in and it was empty, with the flag pointing down.
“Do you want me to check?” she asks.
I shake my head, not knowing what to do—scared to know what’s in there, but maybe even more scared to just leave it alone.
“What the hell did Ben say to you today?” she asks.
I continue to look outside, straining my eyes, wondering if I’m being watched at this very moment—if someone’s out there lurking behind a car or down the street.
Kimmie steps outside and opens the mailbox.
“What is it?” I ask.
She looks up at me, her lips parted in shock, like she doesn’t want to say.
“Tell me,” I demand.
She reluctantly takes it out and turns it over so I can see.
It’s another eight-by-ten photograph of me. Only, instead of a bubbly heart surrounding my image, someone’s scribbled over my face and then written the words I’M CLOSER THAN YOU THINK across my body in bright red marker.
I grab Kimmie, slam the door closed, and lock both locks. “Someone’s watching me,” I whisper.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says, wrapping her arms around me.
I wait for her to explain it all away—to tell me this is another joke, or blame the whole thing on Wes. But instead she remains silent.
32
Kimmie brings me a cup of my mom’s dandelion tea and then sits down beside me on the living room sofa. “It was the strongest thing I could find.”
“My mom likes to keep a chemical-free home, remember?”
“Right.” She fishes inside her satin-lined clutch for a pad of paper and a pen. “So, I really think we need to tell your parents.”
I nod, glancing down at the coffee table, where my mom’s old family album is still opened up to the picture of her and Aunt Alexia. They’re twelve and seven, respectively, and they’re posing in front of the Christmas tree, candy canes in their hands.
There’s a bright smile on Aunt Alexia’s face, and so I know my grandmother wasn’t the one taking the picture. Aunt Alexia looks way too happy, after all.
I close the album, remembering the last time Aunt Alexia was in a mental hospital and how my mom ended up in a hole of depression for over two weeks—two weeks of barely getting out of bed and having to be reminded to eat, sleep, and bathe.
“I don’t want to bother my parents with this just yet,” I say finally.
“And you don’t think an untimely death will be a bother?”
“Just give me a couple more days,” I insist. “I want to try and figure things out on my own.”
“Well, you’re not alone.” She slips on her cat-eye glasses and stares at me from above the rims. “So, let’s review. What do we know for sure?”
“I’m being followed.”
“Right,” she says, jotting it down.
“Someone’s watching me, and he’s getting closer.”
“Do you have any idea who this someone might be?”
“Well, I’m assuming it’s a guy.”
“Rule number one,” she says, crossing her legs at her faux-tattoo-adorned ankle, where a smiling Betty Boop winks up in my direction. “Never assume.”
“But it was a male voice who called me, remember?”
“Male, schmale. Just look at Wes. He can change his voice on cue—and not just guy voices, either. He’s an equal-opportunity impersonator.”
“You still think this is Wes?”
“All I’m saying is that we can’t rule anyone out. Also, haven’t you ever heard of voice-changers? They can make any female sound male and vice versa.”
“But he told me I was pretty.”
“You are pretty, so what’s your point?” I shrug and glance toward the picture window, tempted to pull down the blind. “We also shouldn’t rule out the whole conspiracy theory,” she continues. “You think this could be more than one person?”
“Rule number two: anything’s possible. Which brings me to my next question: what did Ben say to you today?”
“That he can see me dead.”
“That’s normal.”
“I can explain.”
“Okay, so rule number three,” she says, already annoyed. “Stop making excuses for Ben.”
“I’m not making excuses,” I say. “He’s psychometric.”
“I know. A total nut job, right?”
“Not psychotic, psychometric: he can sense things through touch.”
“Excuse me?”
I take a deep breath and explain the whole thing— everything he told me and all that I learned online. “So, let me get this straight,” she says, taking a sip of my tea. “The boy touches stuff and can sense the future?”
“Sometimes the future, sometimes the past. Sometimes he sees an image. Other times it’s just a feeling.”
“Like a crystal ball,” she says. “Minus the ball.”
“Okay, so, balls aside, how can I get him to touch me? I need to know if John Kenneally is going to ask me out.”
“He doesn’t like to touch anyone,” I say, to clarify matters.
“Except you,” she smirks.
“Except me,” I whisper, swallowing hard.
“Oh my god, do you know how hot that is?” She fans herself with her pad of paper. “I mean, even if it is complete and total BS.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Oh, puh-leeze,” she says, still fanning. “He’s obviously just looking for excuses to feel you up. You got to give the boy credit for creativity, though. I mean, that’s some pretty original BS.”
I shake my head, disappointed that she doesn’t believe him, but not sure I can blame her.
“When are you supposed to see him again?” she asks.
“He said he wanted to talk later.”
“Later as in tonight?”
I nod, wondering if it was him beating at the door. “Just don’t say anything, okay? About his psychometric powers, I mean. He doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“Honey, you have bigger things to worry about than keeping secrets.” She looks at the eight-by-ten photo again. “It was taken at the park on the day of your date.”
I nod, noticing the grassy hill in the background behind me. “But it was taken after the date,” I say, pointing out my positioning—how I’m walking away from the hill, back toward the car.
“So, Ben was still behind you,” she says.
“No,” I say, correcting her. “Ben was hightailing it out of there, remember?”
“Maybe that’s just what he wanted you to think. Maybe he started to take off, but then when he saw you do the same, he snapped a picture behind your back— literally.”
“I also bumped into John Kenneally at the park,” I say, suddenly remembering it.
“And I’m just hearing about this now?”
“His team practices there every Saturday afternoon, by the way.”
“But it can’t be him,” she says, running her finger over the pen scribbles on the photo. You can see where the marks are etched into the paper, like whoever did this was really angry. “This isn’t John’s style.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do, okay? En
d of story.”
“Which brings us to rule number one,” I say. “Never make assumptions, remember?”
“No,” she corrects. “It actually brings us to rule number four: don’t trust anyone.”
“Not even you?”
“Okay, except me and your parents. And rule number five: don’t go out anywhere alone. Call me. I’ll come.”
“Even tonight?”
She lowers her cat-eye glasses to the tip of her nose. “What’s tonight?”
“I want to talk to Ben some more.”
“Okay, are you seriously as psychotic as he is?”
“Not psychotic, psychometric.”
“Whatever,” she snaps. “It’s a bad idea.”
“Well, it’s the only one I’ve got right now. I mean, just think about it. Weird stuff is happening to me. Ben claims to sense I’m in danger. Even if he is lying, maybe I’ll be able to figure that out just by talking to him.”
“And, if he’s not . . . and you are in danger?”
“Then I’ll be able to hear him out,” I say, surprised she’s even entertaining the idea that he’s telling the truth. “I think I owe myself that, don’t you?”
“I think you should put his touchable powers to the test,” she says, gesturing toward the photo. “Have him touch some of this stuff and see what he has to say about it. My guess is you’ll be able to smell the BS from a mile away.”
A moment later, there’s a knock on the door, making me jump. My knee bumps the teacup, and the liquid goes spilling across the cherrywood table in a long, narrow stream that reminds me of blood.
I return the photo to the envelope and then stuff it inside my sweatshirt. Meanwhile, Kimmie grabs my wheel-spun bowl from the end table.
The screen door swings open, and the knob jiggles back and forth. Someone’s trying to get in.
Kimmie approaches the door, the bowl positioned high above her head.
A second later, I hear it—a key pushing into the lock. The door swings open.
“Hey, there, lovey,” my mom says, tossing her yoga mat to the floor.
My dad follows close behind her, squawking that the line’s been busy for the past two hours.
“Sorry,” I say. “I thought I hung it up. Where have you guys been?”
“Dinner,” Mom says, planting a kiss on my cheek. She eyes the pottery bowl, still in fighting position high above Kimmie’s head. “Is everything okay in here?”
“You bet,” Kimmie says, returning the bowl to the table. “I mean, aside from thinking you might have been a crazy ax murderer trying to break in.”
“But all’s well now,” I say, wishing I had a muzzle for her.
Mom gives Kimmie a smooch on the cheek as well. “Are you girls hungry? I have some leftover lettuce cups in the fridge.”
“Run for your lives,” Dad jokes.
“Actually, I should probably get going,” Kimmie says. “I have some design stuff I want to finish. I’m trying to get into a workshop at the Fashion Institute. You have to submit a portfolio even to be considered.”
“That’s great,” my mother chirps, catching a glimpse of her own yogified apparel in the hallway mirror.
“Wait, what about studying tonight?” I ask, giving Kimmie a pointed look.
Kimmie’s face scrunches up for about half a second before she finally gets the picture. “If you absolutely have to.”
“I do.”
“It’s almost nine o’clock,” Dad says. “How much later do you expect to work?”
“How about I call you in a little bit?” Kimmie suggests. “I really think we should go over that list of rules one more time.”
I nod as my dad lets her out. A giant pit forms in the center of my gut, because I know that there’s no convincing Kimmie—not tonight, anyway. If I want to talk to Ben, I’m totally on my own.
33
I head down the hallway to my room, suddenly realizing that Kimmie left me with the honor of telling my parents about the broken bathroom window. So while they cuddle up on the living room sofa, I go check out the damage.
It’s even worse than I thought. Not just a tiny crack or hole; the window is completely smashed in.
I grab a dustpan and brush, and start to sweep it all up, but then I notice a trace of mud on the floor. It trails across the ceramic tiles to the hallway and then toward my bedroom.
My mind races. I glance back at the window. Both the pane and screen have been pulled up. Like someone climbed through.
I look toward the shower, wondering if someone might be in there now. Slowly I approach it, my pulse quickening. I snatch a razor from the vanity, preparing myself to fight. In one quick motion, I whisk the curtain open and let out a gasp.
But luckily it’s empty.
My chest heaving, I try to get a grip, remind myself that my parents are only four rooms away.
I inch down the hallway to my room. The door is closed, even though I know I left it open. The razor still gripped between my fingers, I turn the knob, step inside, and see it: the word BITCH written across my dresser mirror in dark red lipstick.
34
My hand trembles over my mouth. I approach the dresser. There’s a mysterious pile of fabric sitting on top of it. I let out a breath and move a little closer, almost startled by my own reflection in the mirror, by the way the word BITCH cuts across my face and makes me look like I’m bleeding.
I look down at the fabric—the pale pink color, the soft fleece fabric, and the bits of ribbon. It’s the pajamas he bought me. They’ve been torn into a million tiny shreds, as if with a knife.
I glance over at the corner of the room, where I’ve been keeping the gift box and packaging. It’s all been ripped open. The note and tissue paper have been tossed onto the floor.
Still shaking, I drop the razor and close my eyes, cover my ears. I feel myself breathe in and out, trying to calm myself down, even though every inch of me wants to scream.
I take several steps backward, preparing to exit the room, peering out of the corner of my eye at my closet door, which is still closed. Instead of checking inside it, I hurry down the hallway and into the living room. My parents are sitting on the sofa. Tears stain my mother’s face.
“Mom?”
“Cam, can you just give us a few minutes?” Dad asks, his back to me.
My mom sobs—like I’ve never heard her before.
“What happened?” I ask, taking another step, noticing my mom’s cell phone gripped in her hands.
Dad turns to me finally. “Your mom just got some unsettling news.”
“About Aunt Alexia,” Mom says, trying to regain her composure.
“What about her?” I ask.
“She’s back in the hospital,” she says, tearing up even more; it’s as if saying it aloud only makes it worse.
I linger a moment, watching her sob, waiting for one of them to fill me in on what’s going on, but neither of them answers me. It’s like I’m no longer there. I turn away finally and head back to my room.
The closet is in full view.
My heart racing, I grab an old trophy from my desk, clutch it above my head, and pull the door open.
But there’s no one in there, and nothing looks awry.
I let out a breath and try calling Kimmie, but her mom tells me she went to the library. I dial her cell phone, but it goes straight to voice mail. Wes isn’t home, either.
Not knowing where to turn or what to do, I wash the word BITCH from the mirror, as if it were never even there. Then I sweep the pajama remains into the lingerie box and stuff it under my bed, completely out of sight.
My mom’s still crying in the living room; I try calling Kimmie’s cell again. No luck. Finally, I hear the cabinet door slam shut in the kitchen. I head out there, only to find Dad pouring gin into one of Mom’s favorite glasses— even though she never drinks. Even though I didn’t even know they kept a secret stash.
“Dad?” I ask, catching him by surprise.
He turns t
o face me. “Your mom’s really upset,” he says, trying to explain the gin away.
“I know, but I really need to talk to you about something.”
“Can it wait until morning?”
I suck in my lips, noticing how my dad’s eyes have reddened, like he’s just as upset as Mom.
“The window in the bathroom is broken,” I say, finally, testing the waters. “It was an accident. Kimmie threw a rock and it—”
“That’s fine,” he says, cutting me off. “I’ll take care of it later.” And with that, he goes back into the living room, where Mom is curled up.
Back in my room, I try calling Kimmie yet again. Still no luck. And so I sit down on the edge of my bed, trying to hold it all together, even though I feel like I’m coming apart.
I grab Ben’s phone number from my jewelry box, scared to death to call him, but I really need to talk to somebody. And maybe he’s all I have right now.
I start to dial his number, but then I hear something outside my window—the sound of an engine revving.
I move to the window to look. Ben cuts his engine, hops off the motorcycle, and makes his way to the front door. But before he gets there, I call out his name, surprising even myself.
He waves when he sees me. The moon casts its light over him—over the sharp angles of his face and his dark gray eyes.
Without saying a word, I stuff the photos into a bag along with the note and the shredded fabric, pull up the screen, and climb outside.
35
Ben suggests that we sit on my front steps, but after everything that’s happened tonight, I really just want to get away.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod, and he studies me for just a second, as though trying to decide. But then he hands me his helmet and tells me to hold on tight.
I wrap my arms around his waist, and we take off down the road. The buzz of his motor awakens my senses, makes me feel more in the moment than ever. I must have driven down this street a million times, but I never noticed the explosion of color—how the neon lights from store signs and buildings illuminate the pavement in bright strips of red, gold, and blue.
Deadly Little Secret Page 10
