Deadly Little Secret

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  Word is Ben came to school today. But no sooner did he step off his bike than a bunch of boys jumped him. It’s all very vague as to whom the culprits were, but apparently he ended up with his lip split open and a bruise under his eye. The administration called his aunt and had him sent home for the day, but they honestly don’t seem too concerned about his welfare. Their main concern right now is poor Debbie.

  And poor me.

  Teachers I never even had in class, kids I never even talk to—all have gone out of their way to offer a listening ear. And so all throughout the day, with each second look in my direction and every word of warning, I can’t help wondering if I’m being like one of those ditzy girls you see in horror flicks—the girl who keeps tripping over her own stiletto heels as she flees from her perpetrator.

  But I’m not like that. I’m going with my gut—with the tiny voice inside me, telling me to trust Ben, to hear him out, and that letting the school in on what’s happening now will only get him taken away, when what I need right now is to talk to him.

  It’s after school, and I’m standing across the street from his house, having just walked from the bus stop down the road.

  His bike is parked in the driveway. I cross the street to have a look at it, searching for any scratches, dents, or chipped paint—anything that might indicate whether or not he was in an accident last night. But, aside from a six-inch scratch on the gas tank, the bike appears perfectly fine.

  A moment later I hear a creaking noise coming from next door. I peer in that direction. There’s an elderly woman looking down at me from her porch swing. When she sees I’ve spotted her, she stops swinging—the whining of the hinges ceases—but still, she continues to stare.

  “Finding everything okay?” a voice says from just behind me.

  I startle and whirl around.

  Ben is there. His lip is puffed out, a trace of blood lingers in the corner of his mouth, and the area under his eye is a dark shade of purple.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, his face completely solemn.

  “I wanted to see you.” I take a step closer to inspect his wounds. There’s also a crescent-shaped cut on his chin. “Are you okay? I heard about what happened.”

  “Which part—the fight, or the fact that I’m the one who supposedly put Debbie Marcus in a coma?”

  I glance over my shoulder. The woman is still on her porch, still looking in this direction.

  “Don’t worry about her,” he says, motioning toward the woman. “People have been watching me and calling the house all day.”

  “What people?”

  “Reporters, angry parents, people on the school board, people who don’t even know me . . .”

  “And the police?” I ask, remembering what Matt said.

  He nods. “It’s like what happened with Julie all over again—except this time I didn’t do anything.”

  “This time?”

  He nods again, but he doesn’t address it. “I don’t need this crap. My aunt doesn’t need it, either. The principal called and told her I should take a few weeks off.”

  “They can’t do that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

  “And so what can I do?”

  “Tell me why you’re here?”

  “I wanted to see you,” I repeat.

  “Which is why you were inspecting my bike?”

  My heart tightens, and a lump forms in my throat. I look back at his bike, at the scratch on the gas tank.

  “Is there a problem?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

  “I just noticed the scratch,” I say, gesturing to it.

  “And where do you think I got it?”

  “I don’t know. Where did you get it?”

  “You don’t trust me, do you?” But it’s more of a statement than a question.

  “I just have some questions,” I say, to clarify things. “I mean, they say Debbie was hit around one thirty or two, on Columbus. That’s right near my house. That’s right around the time you dropped me off.”

  “But I didn’t hit her,” he assures me.

  “Were you on Columbus?”

  “What if I said yes?”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “What answer do you want?”

  “The truth,” I insist. “Just tell me the truth, and make me understand. Debbie seems to think it was you—at least that’s what she told the police.”

  “She said my name,” Ben says, correcting me. “And she said a motorcycle hit her. But she didn’t say I was the one who was driving that motorcycle.” He stares at me for my response—like what he’s saying is supposed to make things right.

  But it’s actually making things worse.

  I glance back at the motorcycle, wondering if the scratch was there before, fearing I would have noticed if it had been.

  “I got the scratch today,” he says. “Some kids kicked my bike over.”

  “Really?”

  “Is it so hard to believe?” He motions to his banged-up face. “So, what now?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  He reaches out to take my hand. “I still need to help you.”

  I hesitate, looking down at his palm, not ready for him to touch me yet—and to know what I’m thinking.

  But he takes my hand anyway.

  His fingers close around mine. It’s tender at first, almost comforting, but then he starts to squeeze.

  “Ben,” I plead, trying to pull away.

  He draws me closer. His other hand cinches my wrist.

  “Let go,” I say, louder this time.

  But it’s like he doesn’t even hear me. His eyes are wild. His mouth is a straight, tense line. He grips harder, causing my joints to ache. My body turns cold. My head starts to spin.

  Ben’s face is pale and furious—no doubt from what he’s sensing. I look up again at the woman on the porch. She gets up from her swing and hurries inside. Maybe she’s going to call for help.

  After several moments of more pleading and pulling, I jab the wooden heel of my shoe into his shin. It catches him off guard, and I’m able to yank free. I take several steps back, all out of breath. A look of horror is frozen on my face—I can feel it there. “What just happened?” I ask.

  Ben’s trembling, too. He bites his lip, to stop the shaking maybe. “I lost control,” he whispers.

  “But I’m okay,” I assure him.

  “Maybe now, but what about next time? All it takes is one slipup.”

  “But there’s no cliff here,” I say, trying to make light of it, even though my insides are completely rattled.

  Ben shakes his head, like he doesn’t want to hear anymore, like he can’t even face me now. “You’re right not to trust me.”

  “But I want to trust you. That’s why I’m here. It’s why I chose to come here instead of telling the police everything.”

  I reach out to take his hand, but Ben pulls away before I can even touch him.

  “I need you,” I continue. “I need you to help me figure everything out.”

  Still shaking his head, he turns away and goes back inside the house.

  47

  It’s just after four o’clock, and since I know my dad isn’t home yet and Mom’s not answering the phone, I decide to go to Knead.

  Spencer’s there. He’s teaching a group from the senior center. There’s a frail, pink-haired lady painting a giant, boob-shaped mug for her boyfriend—one in which you actually drink from the nipple. I can’t decide what’s weirder—the fact that an eighty-year-old woman is painting it, or that she’s chosen a bright blue base color with red and white stripes for the accent, as if it were some celebration of America. Either way, it makes me laugh, which is exactly what I need right now.

  I rub my wrist, still red from Ben’s grip, and then unravel my clay car from its plastic covering, eager to get to work.

  “I’m glad to see you still working at this,” Spencer says, standing right in front of me no
w.

  “I’m determined to get it right.”

  “I know how that feels. Sometimes my work keeps me up at night. I feel guilty just going to bed, sort of like I’m abandoning a friend in crisis.”

  I nod, anxious to see what becomes of my piece—to surrender myself to the power of touch, as ironic as that sounds.

  Spencer lingers a moment, watching as I moisten the clay’s surface with a sponge and then carve out an opening for a door. “I have a feeling this is going to be your most intriguing piece yet, or at least the one with the biggest pulse.” He smiles.

  I smile, too, continuing to work my fingers along the car’s exterior. While he resumes his class, I create a bumper and fine-tune a tailpipe. Then I close my eyes and concentrate on the power of touch and where it can lead me. I smooth my fingers over the clay, making the passenger-side door of my car sculpture open wide. I spend several minutes adding a dent to the fender and a gash to the grill, and then I put a bunch of holes into the side for no other reason than that I feel they belong there.

  More than two hours later, even after Spencer leaves and turns the CLOSED sign toward the street, I continue to work, conscious that time is running out and I need to get home. My dad will be looking for me. I start to put everything away, catching a glimpse of the pinecone sculpture Ben and I made together.

  I start to pick it up, but the door chimes sound, startling me.

  It’s Matt.

  “Hey,” he says, all out of breath. “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”

  I look back toward the door, surprised Spencer didn’t lock it on his way out. “Is something wrong?”

  His face is pale and sweaty. “It’s Ben,” he says.

  “What’s Ben?”

  “He had an accident. He dumped his bike.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, the guy went ballistic and started drag racing me down by the lake. I didn’t even want to, but he started tailing me, getting right up on my ass. He even put a dent in my door.”

  “Wait—what?”

  “You need to come with me. You’re the only one he’ll listen to.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Matt shakes his head and looks toward the door. His car is parked right outside, under the streetlamp.

  Without further questions, I grab my jacket and lock the studio up behind me.

  “Where is he now?” I ask, once we start driving.

  Matt turns the radio up—some heavy metal song— and then takes a bunch of turns, leading us onto the main drag.

  “Where is he?” I repeat, talking over the music.

  “The hospital. The guy was racing me and got carried away. He flipped his bike and plowed into a tree.”

  “And you called an ambulance?”

  “Yeah, I called them. He was banged up pretty bad.”

  “Why were you racing? Did you guys get into an argument or something?”

  “The guy went ballistic,” he repeats.

  “Yeah, but why? I mean, there had to be a reason.”

  “Apparently not for him.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense.” I sigh. “That’s not like him.”

  “Have you not seen his temper yet?”

  Unwilling to answer, I glance out the window, watching as Matt takes another turn, pulling out onto the highway.

  “What hospital is he at?” I ask, noticing how we keep getting further and further from the lake.

  “Fairmont.” He turns his radio up even louder.

  “Why Fairmont?” I say, competing with the music.

  Matt shrugs. “It’s where the ambulance took him. The EMT guy said there are more people on staff there tonight.”

  I dig my nails into the palm of my hand, eager to get there and to see him. The speedometer climbs up well past eighty. Meanwhile, the heavy metal pours out of Matt’s dual speakers, making me even more anxious.

  Finally, Matt weaves over to the right lane and takes the Fairmont exit. A couple of minutes later, we reach the center of town and follow the first few hospital signs.

  The town of Fairmont is even more desolate than I remember; which is why I almost never come here. Only a small grocery store, a pizza restaurant, and a gas station occupy an otherwise dark and narrow street. I spot another hospital sign, positioned under one of the few streetlamps. It directs us to the right.

  But Matt takes a left.

  “You missed the sign,” I say, pointing back at it.

  Matt turns down the music and tells me he knows a shortcut, but we end up at a stoplight—one that seems to take forever.

  The inside of his car is cold and damp—and getting more uncomfortable by the minute.

  “I think we should go back,” I say.

  Matt scratches nervously at his face and then adjusts his rearview mirror. The pinecone air freshener dangles with his gesture, forcing me to notice the toxic scent in the air—like bug spray. “I think we’re lost,” he mumbles, turning down a desolate road, and then another, until I’m completely turned around.

  There’s a sickly feeling raging in my stomach as we drive farther and farther from the center of town and deeper into a dark wooded area. I glance down noticing that the door handle is missing.

  “Relax,” Matt says, bringing his car to a stop at the end of a dead-end street. There’s a trailer parked in the woods, like maybe we’re on the fringes of a campsite. He cuts the engine and then turns to face me. A relieved smile crosses his face. “Are you scared?”

  My jaw tenses. I feel my eye twitch. I try to nonchalantly run my hand over my jacket pocket and search for my cell phone. But Matt notices, snatches the phone away, and chucks it out the window.

  “Now’s no time for a phone call,” he says, moving in closer.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Relax,” he says again. “I just want to talk.”

  “You lied about Ben.”

  He nods and stares at me. His teal blue eyes are wide and intense. “I had to. You wouldn’t have come with me otherwise. . . . Right?”

  I look toward his door, noticing his handle’s still there. “What do you want to talk about?” I say, trying to play along.

  “Us,” he whispers, taking my hand.

  I resist the urge to snatch it away. Instead I lean in closer, wondering if I can grab his car keys from the ignition—if maybe I can use them to fight.

  “I still care about you, you know.” He rakes my palm with his fingertips.

  “I care about you, too,” I manage to say.

  “No,” he says, peeking up at me. “I mean, I really care about you. I wish we never broke up. Why did we?”

  My mind reels, searching for the perfect answer. “We thought we were better as friends.”

  “No,” he snaps. “That’s what you thought. You said you didn’t want a relationship, but it looks like you want one now—hanging all over Ben.”

  “I’m not interested in Ben,” I lie.

  “Then, why did you come with me? Why did you seem so upset when I mentioned his name . . . when I mentioned his bike accident?”

  I move my free hand down my leg, hoping to reach for the keys. Meanwhile Matt continues to scold me, telling me how tired he is of watching me flirt with other guys, that I have no consideration for anyone but myself, and that I’m such a selfish bitch.

  “My dad’s going to be looking for me,” I say, suspecting it must be well after seven.

  “Well, let him look for Ben.” He smirks. “That’s who everyone’s going to blame when they can’t find you.”

  “They’ll find me,” I whisper, feeling a knot form in my chest.

  “It actually couldn’t have worked out better,” he continues. “Ben’s shady past, your sickening attraction to him. . . .”

  “Did you hurt Debbie?”

  He shakes his head and moves even closer. His face is only inches away now. “I haven’t been following Debbie,” he whispers. “I’ve been following you.” He runs his finger down my cheek, t
hen strokes my chin. “We never did get to kiss much, did we?”

  “A few times,” I mutter, remembering the last time we went out. The night seemed more like an appointment with the dentist than an actual date. It was like pulling teeth to get him to talk that night. He wouldn’t relax or open up, but he still tried to kiss me before we parted ways. I turned my head in the nick of time—just before his lips bumped the corner of my mouth.

  Matt traces my bottom lip with his thumb, like he’s about to try and kiss me again. “You’re so beautiful, you know that?”

  Keeping focused on the keys, I move closer and press my mouth against his. Matt closes his eyes to kiss me back. Meanwhile, I reach behind him and try to snatch the keys from the ignition. They wiggle out. And make a jingling sound. Matt notices and grabs my wrist, twists my arm behind my back, and pins it there.

  “You’re such a bitch!” he shouts.

  “Please,” I tell him. “I’m cold. Turn the heat on.” I gesture toward the ignition.

  Matt relaxes for just a moment, as if he might believe what I’m saying, but then he reaches into his console and grabs a set of handcuffs. He pulls my pinned hand from behind my back to try and put the cuff around it, but I’m able to thwack him with my other hand; my fingers just miss his eye. He recoils slightly but then rebounds, grabs both my wrists, and snaps the cuffs around them.

  He opens his car door and starts to pull me out. I let out a scream and try to bite his hand, but he pushes me back against the car and then squeezes my neck.

  “Shut up!” he shouts.

  My throat burns. I hear myself sputter and choke. Finally, he lets go, muttering how next time I won’t be so lucky.

  It’s pitch black outside. With the door still open, only the car’s interior light shines over our immediate area.

  Keeping a firm hold on the cuffs, Matt leads me to the rear of his car. He pops the trunk and turns his back to fish inside. And so I kick him, hard, right in his upper thigh. Matt stumbles back, but tugs me with him, still holding on to the cuffs. I raise my arms and try to pull away. Tears stream from my eyes.

  “Enough!” He swings and misses my face. I duck away just before he can hit me.