Deadly Little Secret

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “I can’t talk right now,” she says, superconscious of the crowd. “But if you don’t believe me about what’s going on, just check this out.” She pulls a note from her coat pocket and hands it to me. “It was taped up on my locker this morning.”

  I unfold it and stare down at the message. The words You’re Next! are scribbled across the page in black ink.

  37

  Before I go back inside, I spot Kimmie and Wes sitting outside in the courtyard across the lawn. Kimmie waves, and I head over to join them, slightly taken aback by her outfit du jour. There’s a pink studded choker fastened around her neck. An actual dog leash is attached to it, which in turn hooks on to her matching pink gumball ring.

  “It’s from my Princess S-and-M line,” she explains.

  “Where were you last night?” I ask.

  “Sorry,” she says. “After I got back from your house, I got into a huge fight with my parents for going out at all. They sequestered me in my bedroom sans cell phone.”

  “What about the library?”

  “Um, what library?”

  “Your mom said that’s where you went.”

  Kimmie shakes her head. “I was home. I have the designs to prove it—a strappy dress with beaded fringe and leather detail. I call it Roaring Twenties Meets Today’s Vampy Vixen. “

  “Or you could simply call it ugly,” Wes suggests.

  “I bet she just said that so she wouldn’t have to come get me in my room,” Kimmie continues. “The woman was a raving loony last night.”

  “And I have the bite marks to prove it,” Wes jokes.

  “I guess . . .” I mutter, not knowing what else to say— or what to believe.

  “This school is lame,” Wes says. “I mean, check it out.” He gestures toward the sign with his Slurpee. “They didn’t even spell murderer right.”

  “Um, yes they did,” Kimmie says.

  Wes sips thoughtfully and takes another look, trying to figure it out.

  “Has Snell been out here?” I ask.

  “Principal Smell,” he says, “has yet to make an appearance.”

  “But I’m sure he’s crapping himself as we speak,” Kimmie says. “Rumor has it a reporter for the Tribune was here earlier. Apparently they already nabbed a photo op. Prepare to see it on the front page tomorrow.”

  “With a bunch of cheesy freshman posing in front of it,” Wes says.

  “Speaking of freshmen,” I say, “I spoke to that Debbie girl.”

  “The one who’s supposedly on Ben’s butcher list?” Wes asks.

  I nod reluctantly and then fill them in on what she said, including about the note.

  “Just a note?” Kimmie asks. “No creepy snapshots of her hanging around the school?”

  “No pj’s left on her windowsill?” Wes adds.

  “The note didn’t look anything like the ones I got,” I say. “It actually looked more like the one on Ben’s locker. They were both written on scraps of paper in regular black ink.”

  “So, what does that prove?” Wes asks.

  “Maybe hers is a joke, but mine isn’t.” I shrug.

  “I don’t know,” Wes says. “It seems pretty weird that Ben’s been hanging around you both.”

  “And randomly shows up at both of your houses when you least expect it,” Kimmie adds.

  “Not to mention the notes, the stares, the way he’s always touching you,” Wes says.

  “But he doesn’t touch her,” I pipe up, as though that’s supposed to defend him.

  “Oh my god!” Kimmie squeals, spotting John Kenneally in the crowd. She straightens out the hem of her poofy skirt. “Is he coming over here? How do I look?”

  “How can you even be interested in him?” I ask.

  “Are you blind?”

  “Are you? Did you not see the way he acted in the cafeteria the other day—how he dumped a bowl of soup over Ben’s head?”

  “Okay, no comment.” She exchanges a look with Wes—complete with bulging eyes and raised eyebrows.

  “Right,” Wes says. “Let’s talk about something a bit safer, shall we?”

  “Forget it,” I say, getting up from the table.

  “Camelia!” Kimmie squawks. “Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?” I snap. “How can you be attracted to someone so openly cruel?”

  “And how can you can be attracted to someone so completely creepy?”

  I look away, not knowing what to say, deciding not to tell them about my mirror, the shredded pj’s, or my night out with Ben.

  “Seriously,” she continues, “you can’t honestly tell me this Sour Patch Kids mood of yours is all because I happen to think John’s hot.”

  I shrug, suspecting she’s right—that it has more to do with who I can trust. I glance back in the direction of the sign and, as if by fate, Ben’s motorcycle comes pulling into the parking lot.

  “Shit, meet fan,” Wes says, somewhat under his breath.

  Ben parks his bike and then sees the sign. Meanwhile, everyone is staring right at him, waiting for his response.

  I clench my teeth, hoping he won’t let it bother him, that he’ll take the proverbial high road and let it roll right off his back. But instead he takes his helmet and whips it at the sign, then hops back on his bike and revs up the engine so loud I feel my insides explode.

  He peels out of the parking lot, and it’s quiet for several moments—there’s just the hum of his engine as it continues down the street.

  38

  The day is a complete and total bust, one I never should have gotten out of bed for. Ben doesn’t come back to school. Kimmie and I don’t really talk much. The principal calls for an impromptu assembly, where he lectures about the Polly Piranha vandalism, the havoc wreaked since the very first day of school, and the way the reputation of our high school has been seriously damaged (the real impetus for the assembly). Top all of that off with the Sweat-man’s brilliant idea of throwing a near-impossible pop quiz, and I’m an emotional wreck.

  And so, in spite of how weird things got between Spencer and me in school the other day, I head to work early, hoping that the sensation of sticky red clay against my cold and clammy fingertips will help me relax and put things in perspective. The good thing is that Spencer isn’t even there when I arrive. I’ve got the entire studio to myself.

  I line up all my tools, grab my board, and unwrap the piece I started, removing the plastic tarp and damp paper towels—essentials that keep the clay from hardening. With my eyes closed, I spend several moments just breathing into the clay, trying to block out any stray thoughts, to focus instead on my fingers as they smooth over bumps and glide across cracks.

  After several minutes, I feel the clay begin to take shape beneath my fingertips. My eyes still closed, I prod a little further, creating what feels like a sharp angle extending up from a boxlike base. I open my eyes to see what it looks like.

  Spencer’s there. He’s standing just a few feet away.

  I let out a gasp and take a step back, knocking a stack of cups off the shelf behind me.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “You just looked so inspired. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “Where did you come from?” I ask, looking toward the door, knowing I would have heard the bells jingle if he’d just come in.

  “I was downstairs pulling molds.” He takes a step closer to view my piece. “What are you working on?”

  “Something with a pulse, I hope.”

  Spencer smiles and runs a hand through his dark hair. “I had a feeling you were bothered by that.”

  I shrug and look down at my piece, anxious to see what’s become of it. There’s a rectangular form at the bottom, with a smaller version of the same on top—sort of like a car, minus the wheels.

  “I only said that to push you deeper,” he says. “You have a lot of talent, but sometimes I think you take the easy way out. You don’t take the time to examine the guts.”

  The guts?

&n
bsp; “Dig a little,” he continues. “Search. Examine. Sculpt from the inside out, and not the other way around. Don’t be afraid to screw up along the way.”

  “I screw up plenty,” I tell him, still looking at my lame-o car figure.

  “Good.” His smile morphs into a smirk. “You need to screw up to learn. You need to experience to create greatness. It’s not just about bowls, you know.” He takes another step, as if he wants to get an even closer glimpse of the angles of my piece, but instead he’s looking at me, his face just inches from mine now. “It’s good to see you experimenting. I can’t wait to see what comes of it.”

  “Yeah,” I say, noticing the razor cut on his neck. “Me, too.”

  “And that invitation’s still open if you ever want to talk.”

  I nod, suddenly feeling as if the walls are closing in. I try to move away, but between the shelf and Spencer I’m totally pinned.

  A moment later, I hear the door jangle open. Spencer moves to pick up the cups that fell off the shelf, and then turns to see who’s here.

  It’s Matt, and I couldn’t be happier to see him.

  Holding two cups of coffee, he approaches cautiously, glancing back and forth between Spencer and me, like maybe he thinks he’s interrupting something.

  “Come on in,” I tell him.

  He slides a cup of coffee across the table at me—since my hands are covered in clay. “I was just in the area.” He looks back at Spencer. “I thought I’d say hi.”

  “I’m glad you did.” I smile wide, hoping Spencer gets the hint and heads back downstairs.

  But instead he sticks around, introduces himself, and starts telling Matt how talented he thinks I am. “This girl is going places,” Spencer says. Eventually, he turns and leaves us alone, and I’m able to regroup.

  Matt looks particularly good today—sun-kissed hair, a charcoal gray sweatshirt to contrast with his glowing complexion, and a bit of golden stubble across his chin.

  “Thanks for the coffee.” I wipe my hands and take a sip, noticing the hazelnut flavor with just the right amount of sugar and milk. “You remembered how I take my coffee.”

  “It wasn’t that long ago.”

  “Right,” I say, remembering how our relationship actually started with coffee—with the two of us meeting up at Press & Grind, the coffee place downtown, every Thursday night to study.

  “Those were some fun times,” he says. His blue eyes beam right into mine. “Remember Philippe?”

  I let out a giggle, recalling the wacko barista who used to juggle espresso cups and do magic tricks with cappuccino foam. “I wonder if he still works there.”

  “We should totally go check one day.”

  “That’d be fun,” I say, hoping some of the awkwardness has finally lifted between us. It’s just so weird how only three short weeks of dating can screw up what had been an otherwise perfectly good platonic relationship. I tried to explain that on one of our last dates—that things had worked better when it was just coffee, books, and entertaining baristas. But he didn’t really get it, and I didn’t know what else to say.

  And what could I say? He was the quintessential perfect boyfriend—good-looking, called me all the time, bought me thoughtful little gifts, and remembered everything I told him. Kimmie thought I was verging on insanity, but breaking up with Matt was like having a really good cup of coffee—completely eye-opening and totally essential. I just wasn’t ready for all that intensity. Not the way I am now.

  I look down at my mound of clay, thinking about Ben—about the intensity I felt at his touch alone.

  “So, what’s up with your creepy boss?” Matt asks.

  I shake my head, wondering where he went off to. I didn’t hear him go back downstairs.

  “Seems you have a lot of creepy guys in your life,” he continues.

  “Have you been talking to Kimmie?”

  “Just a little.” He smirks.

  “Did she send you down here?”

  “She’s worried about you,” he says. “And I guess I am, too.”

  “What did she say?”

  He shrugs. “Stuff about that Ben guy—how he’s hanging around you a lot.”

  I purse my lips, not surprised by her blabbing, but relieved that it seems she didn’t say anything about the whole touching issue. “I can handle Ben.”

  “Are you sure? Because you know how I feel about that guy.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “And what are you doing? I mean, the guy’s developed quite a reputation for himself, don’t you think?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Well, then make me understand.”

  I shake my head, unwilling to get into it—with my ex, of all people.

  “Look, I’m not trying to piss you off,” he continues. “I’m just looking out for you. Ex-boyfriends are allowed to do that, right?”

  “I suppose,” I grin.

  “Well, suppose this,” he says, all smirky again, “I’m always here if you need me.”

  “You know you really need to stop being so mean to me all the time,” I joke. “People will start to talk.”

  “I like being mean to you,” he smiles.

  “Do you like being mean to Rena Maruso?” I ask, regretting it just as soon as the question comes out my mouth.

  He takes another sip, clearly amused. The corners of his mouth turn upward, and he stares at me over the rim of his paper cup. “What if I said yes?”

  “Then I’d be happy for you.”

  “And if I said no? That I much prefer torturing you?”

  I feel my face get hot.

  “Forget it,” he says. “Don’t answer that. Maybe I don’t want to know.”

  “It was really sweet of you to stop by,” I say, trying to fill the sudden and very awkward silence. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “My pleasure.” He turns away, leaving me somewhat hanging, even though a part of me doesn’t want to know the answer either.

  39

  She royally betrayed me, but now it’s my turn to make things right. Part of me wants to rip her in two. Another part wants to laugh out loud, knowing what I’ve got planned for her.

  I felt that way in her room. I saw that lingerie still in its box. How ungrateful is that? And so I ripped the material to shreds.

  I imagined it was her there, and then I angled my body over the clothes, teasing the fabric with the tip of my knife right before I slashed it up.

  It felt good to do it, too. I started to laugh after it happened. I could barely even calm myself down. Everything just seemed funny all of a sudden. But then I saw what I did.

  I saw the word Bitch on her mirror. And it even scared me.

  I stood there, looking at everything I’d done. I didn’t know if I should laugh some more or be sick. I started shaking. But then I remembered that this is what she wants, that she’s such a selfish bitch, and that she doesn’t know what’s good for her, not like I do.

  40

  The remainder of my day at Knead is pretty uneventful. While Spencer spends most of my shift pulling molds downstairs, I use my time setting up for classes, firing a bunch of greenware, and trying to decide what to do.

  This whole Debbie scenario has got me completely on edge, especially considering the timing of things. I mean, just when I decide to trust Ben, something like this happens, that makes me question everything all over again.

  After work, I take a bus to the stop at the end of our street, despite Spencer’s offer to drop me off. But when I get to my house it’s completely dark. It seems my parents aren’t home yet, even though it’s after eight o’clock.

  Not knowing where else to go, and feeling stupid for considering hanging out at one of my neighbors’ houses, I unlock the door and switch on some lights. I tell myself everything will be fine, even though my stomach is in knots.

  In my room, I glance toward the mirror. For a split second, I see the red letters splotched across my face, but when I blink, they’re go
ne.

  I continue around the house, making sure that all the doors and windows are locked. I even go down to the basement, passing by my pottery station and noticing the jump rope–like worm I sculpted the other day; I’m surprised I forgot to clean it up.

  A second later, the phone rings, startling me. I decide to ignore it and head back upstairs to check out the bathroom. My dad’s tacked some plastic up over the broken window, but someone could easily break through it.

  I grab a razor from the shelf and look over my shoulder. At the same moment a shadow moves across the wall. I let out a gasp and peer down the hallway in both directions. There’s nothing there. Meanwhile the phone continues to ring. It’s like someone keeps calling back because they know I’m home.

  Alone.

  I move into the kitchen and check the answering machine, but no one’s left a message.

  Completely unnerved, I drop the razor on the counter and pick up the receiver, hoping that it’s my parents. I click the phone on and mumble a hello, but no one answers. It’s just quiet on the other end, like someone’s listening in.

  “Hello?” I repeat, a little louder this time.

  Still nothing. I hang up, feeling my skin ice over.

  I click the phone back on to leave it off the hook and then grab my cell phone from my bag, but unfortunately I can’t get a signal.

  I move toward the window, hoping that will help. I catch a glimpse of a note tacked up on the fridge. It’s from my mom, along with a twenty-dollar bill, instructing me to order a pizza from Raw. It seems she and my dad won’t be home until late.

  Still without a cell phone signal, I take a deep breath and sit on a stool, literally counting to ten, trying to reassure myself that everything will be okay, despite the buzzing sound of the phone off the hook and the racing of my pulse.

  After several seconds, the phone finally stops, and I’m able to calm down, but my stomach rumbles, and my head feels foggy. I reluctantly click the phone back on and peer up at the list of take-out numbers by the fridge, realizing I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. The number for Raw is highlighted in bright melon pink, but instead I order a good old-fashioned cheese-and-mushroom from the pizza shop downtown, and then sit perched on the living room sofa waiting for it to arrive.