Deadly Little Lessons
Page 14
Wondering if Ben might still be awake, I reach for my phone and then notice a text from Dad. He tells me to check my e-mail for the video and that he loves me more than anything.
I reply with a simple thank-you, knowing that my brief response—not to mention my lack of an “I love you, too”—will probably sting. I push send, suddenly realizing that I’m more like Sasha than I thought. When Sasha found out the truth about her parents, she tried to punish them by acting out instead of communicating how she felt. And so I send Dad another text, thanking him for the video and telling him that it’s the first laugh I’ve had in days.
Several hours later, I’m up, showered, and dressed for class. I call Wes to see if he’d like to join me for breakfast.
“Am I to assume that you’re all geared up to go on this glorious day of redemption?” he asks.
“Something like that, which is why I’m off to partake in the most important meal of the day. Care to partake with me?”
“We’re already partaking,” he says; I can hear that his mouth is full.
“We?”
“Just some friends from class.” He pauses to laugh at something one of his friends has said.
“Hello?”
“Come to the student union,” he insists. “Waffles with whipped cream and strawberry drizzle: your mom’s worst nightmare come true.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll be there in five.”
AT BREAKFAST, Wes introduces me to his new posse—a trio of kids from his photography class: Doug, Leanna, and Rocky. They all seem nice and welcoming enough, but what I really want do is tell Wes that Mailbox Girl has called me again.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, picking up on my anxious vibe.
“Everything’s great,” I lie, forcing a sincere-looking smile as I take a bite of waffles, knowing that, frustrating as it is not being able to fill him in, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy—this relaxed and confident—with anyone aside from Kimmie and me. And so maybe my Mailbox Girl news can wait.
Thirty minutes later, in pottery class, Professor Barnes lectures us about form versus scale with respect to the integrity of a given artistic piece. He then gives us an hour to sculpt an example of form taking priority over scale.
The students, Ingrid included, get right to work on the assignment. I wedge out a hunk of clay, telling myself that I’m not going to have another psychometric episode—at least not in the next sixty minutes.
Ingrid appears to be sculpting a house of some sort, which makes perfect sense and seems perfectly simple: a model replica in which form takes priority over art.
I look at the clock. Forty more minutes. I’ve already managed to burn away twenty. The back of my neck is hot. Sweat trickles from my temples. And Sasha’s cries seem louder than normal. The sound distracts me, psychs me out, and makes me feel like I don’t belong here.
I gaze up at Barnes. He stares back at me. I have thirty minutes left.
I close my eyes and then sink my fingers a little deeper into the clay. Several moments of smoothing my palms over the mound and kneading the sides with my knuckles pass before an image finally flashes across my mind.
The crying inside my head gets louder. I breathe through it and begin to sculpt, mentally turning the volume down.
“Fifteen-minute warning,” Barnes announces; I can hear the amusement in his voice.
I continue sculpting, unable to think about anything else, or even to consider fulfilling the assignment. I work fast, trying to get all the details just so, adding texture to the creases and carving into the top with my fingernail.
“Time’s up,” Barnes says, smacking his hand against the table.
I look at my sculpture, almost startled by how much it resembles the image inside my head.
A hand, palm facing down. Its fingers are extended, as if reaching out. And there’s a capital W—about two inches tall and wide—carved into the wrist.
A totally creepy piece. And totally outside the parameters of the assignment.
“So, shall we get started?” Professor Barnes asks, looking toward Ingrid’s sculpture. He spends several moments pointing out its merits before moving around the room and assessing the other students’ work.
And then he gets to mine.
He sits down beside me and cocks his head to one side as he examines my sculpture. Then he stifles a little laugh, as if enjoying every moment of my humiliation. “Care to explain how this satisfies the requirements of the assignment?” he asks.
“It doesn’t,” I say, shaking my head. Coming up with an excuse would only make things worse.
I look at my sculpture, noting that it actually has a lot of promise…or would have, if I had the time to finish the fingernails. Still, the detailing of the bones and the precision of the knuckles and joints almost make up for any weirdness. Almost.
“I guess I was sort of inspired by this hand,” I tell him, hearing my voice crack. “I know that it was done to scale, which is the exact opposite of what you asked for. I mean, I do understand the whole point you’re trying to make—”
“The point I’m trying to make?” His grin widens.
“I guess I just couldn’t think of anything else,” I say, which is actually pretty close to the truth.
“You thought of the W,” he teases. “Any clues for us as to what it might stand for? Don’t keep us in suspense, now.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out, because I honestly don’t have the answer. I glance past him at Ingrid. Even she appears to feel sorry for me. Her mouth twitches, and she looks down at her perfectly (and purposely) not-done-to-scale house, covering it with a tarp.
“I should go,” I tell him.
“That would probably be wise, Ms. Hammond. I think you’ve wasted enough of our class’s time.”
I bite my lower lip, and then exit the classroom before he can see me cry.
IN MY ROOM, still reeling from what just happened with Professor Barnes, I try calling Adam, but his phone just rings and rings. I’d pop up to Wes’s room, but I know he’s still in class. I go over every reason I shouldn’t call Ben. But, desperate for someone to talk to, I dial his number anyway.
It goes right to voice mail. Still, it’s good just to hear his recorded message—to hear the confidence in his tone and his promise to return the call. And so I call back again, after the beep, to hear his voice one more time. I sink down to the floor by my bed and begin a semicoherent ramble: “I’m sorry to be bothering you,” I tell him, pausing to wipe my nose with a tissue. “I just feel like I’m screwing everything up here—here being Peachtree, by the way. I’m not sure if Adam told you, but I’m at a college in Rhode Island, trying to get away and take some classes. Only, my classes have been a failure—the one class that I’ve actually managed to attend, that is—because I’m sculpting things that don’t make sense.”
I stop to take a breath, sure that I sound like a flake. I purposely avoid mentioning Sasha’s case, fearing that doing so might cause him to change his plans, wherever he is. Instead, I apologize again for calling him—for dumping my issues into his lap. “I just needed someone to talk to,” I say, hearing the tears in my voice, and hoping he doesn’t hear them, too. “Someone who really gets me.” I shake my head, fully aware that I’m exposing way too much. “I should probably go,” I say. “But maybe I’ll talk to you—”
A loud beep cuts me off.
Still desperate for a connection, I grab my aunt’s journal, flashing back to the last time I went to visit her at the hospital, just before I found out the news about my birth. We sat in the communal area, playing round after round of gin rummy and snacking on pretzel chips. It almost felt normal, as if we were sitting at her kitchen table, rather than in a mental health ward.
I spend the next couple of hours rereading pieces of her journal, reminded once again of how similar we are with respect to our art. But we’re also very different. While Alexia is a victim of her powers, I’m trying my hardest not to be.
Out in the hallway, I check my phone for messages. There’s a recent text from Wes: Call me when ur free.
I call him right away.
“Hey,” he says, picking up.
“Did you get out of class early?”
“Imagine that. Have I mentioned how much I love college?”
“Except this is summer school for high school kids.”
“Whatever,” he says, like the distinction is no big deal. “How’s redemption day?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Less than redeeming then, I take it? Well, are you busy? Do you want to go check out that creepy address?”
I consider going back to class, but the thought of sitting there for another half hour makes me want to cry right along with Sasha. “I’ll meet you in ten minutes,” I tell him.
Wes picks me up in front of the dorm, and we drive to the address on the envelope. It’s a bit farther than I expected—in the next town over and about thirty minutes from the bakery where we got the money clip. On the way there, I tell Wes about the hand that I sculpted, as well as about my most recent phone call from Mailbox Girl.
“Despite her cryptic ways, I really think Mailbox Girl wants Sasha found,” I tell him.
“Which probably means that Mailbox Girl is afraid for Sasha. I mean, if Sasha truly ran away with some hot boy toy, Mailbox Girl probably wouldn’t care.”
“Right,” I say, impressed by how quickly he catches on. “She wants her found, but for whatever reason, she’s too afraid to say so or get involved.”
“Because she may already be involved.”
“Exactly my theory.”
Wes takes a turn onto Farm Road and I peer out the window, looking for the Blue Raven Pub. It’s a quiet street with only a few houses. The pub sits at the very end, bordering some woods. A sign outside says it’s TWO-FOR-ONE CHRISTMAS MEAT LOAF NIGHT.
“Our lucky day,” Wes jokes. “Except…what exactly is Christmas meat loaf? Meat loaf that’s been kept in a freezer for seven months?”
“I actually think it means it’s got red and green peppers in it.”
“How festive,” he says, pulling into the side lot.
We go inside, where it smells like cafeteria food. A bar shares the same space as the dining area, but people don’t seem to mind. It’s actually kind of homey, with a giant fireplace, plum-colored walls, and artwork hanging all around.
There’s one loner guy sitting at the bar, eating something that looks suspiciously like the Christmas meat loaf. There’s also a long table where at least ten people are seated, all of whom seem to be part of a book discussion group.
“I say we go talk to the bartender,” Wes suggests, nodding toward a woman with a purple ponytail. “They always seem to have the answers.”
He sidles up to the bar like a regular on two-for-one Christmas meat loaf night and takes a seat on one of the stools.
The woman smirks at his effort to fit in. “No milk on tap tonight,” she tells him.
“We’re hardly here for milk and cookies,” he says, wielding his SpongeBob-adorned notepad. “What we’re looking for is answers.”
“Answers to what?” she asks, leaning over the bar. The silver feather in her hair matches the color of her lips.
Before Wes gets into it, he orders us a couple of root beers with cherries.
“You’re going to get us thrown out,” I say, as soon as the bartender turns away to get our drinks. I take a seat on the stool beside him, but he doesn’t respond to my comment; he’s far too busy jotting down today’s date and time, and our present location.
A few seconds later, the bartender returns with our drinks, and then gives Wes a pointed look. “Now what?” she asks, scratching her nose, where she has a square hoop through one nostril.
I reach into my bag for Sasha’s photo. “We’re looking for our friend,” I say, sliding the photo toward her. “Have you seen her?”
The bartender—Brooke, according to her name tag—picks up the photo, squinting at it. “Something tells me I might’ve seen this girl before,” she says.
“Sasha Beckerman has been missing for a couple months now,” I explain. “Is it possible that you saw her photo on TV?”
“That’s it!” Her face brightens. “And so why are you asking me? You think she hung out here or something?”
I shake my head. “We’re not really sure.”
“But we have a couple leads.” Wes motions for me to show Brooke the money clip.
I pluck it out of the envelope—it’s back in the plastic bag—and slide it across the bar toward her.
She takes it, turning the bag over in her hand looking closely at the engraving on the clip. “Where did you get this?”
“Have you seen it before?” I ask her.
“Do you have any idea what the t stands for?” Wes adds.
She turns away to polish the bar. “Don’t you think the police know what they’re doing?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?” Wes asks.
“Look,” I begin, “if you have information about this clip—”
“It’s Tommy’s,” she says, cutting me off. “He used to work here, in the kitchen, washing dishes.”
“Do you know where he works now?” I ask. “Or where we might be able to find him?”
She shakes her head, still polishing. “Weird guy, though. I remember him pulling that thing out,” she says, nodding toward the clip. “I didn’t know people still used them. I remarked on it once and he got all pissy.”
“So, if he worked here, then you must have all his info,” I say. “You must know where he lives and how to reach him.”
“Hold on.” She stops polishing and closes her eyes, as if all of this is going just a little too fast. “Why are you asking about Tommy? And why do you have his money clip? Is he dead or something? Is he involved in the Beckerman case?”
“We’re not sure,” I tell her. “But finding Sasha is really important to us, and we have reason to believe that Tommy might have some information.”
“Have you told the police?” Brooke asks.
“Not yet,” I say, taking a sip of root beer. “But it’s definitely our next step, especially now that we know he worked here.”
“Yeah, well, unfortunately, you’ll be hard-pressed to find any info on him here. He got paid under the table—cash only—and said he didn’t have a permanent address…always crashing at a different friend’s place. He also claimed not to have a phone because he couldn’t afford the monthly bill. It was all a pain, including his attitude, which was why he got canned.”
“Are you seriously telling me that nobody who works here knows how to reach him?” Wes asks.
“Nobody,” she says, staring right at him. “And to tell you the truth, it’s been at least six months since Tommy worked here. I’m pretty sure that everyone who works here now came after that.”
“Except you,” Wes says, clearly suspicious.
“What can I say?” She rolls her eyes. “I’m a sucker for crap pay and no benefits. But at least I get my weekends off.” She gazes over her shoulder at the guy eating Christmas meat loaf.
“Can you tell us anything else?” I ask.
“Hold on,” she says, turning her back to get Wes another root beer. “I do remember something. He’d wear his kitchen gloves everywhere. He said he had this hang-up about germs. But once I caught him with the gloves off.”
“And?” I ask.
“And he had this really weird scar on his wrist. It almost looked like a burn. He must’ve been embarrassed about it, because he didn’t want anyone to see it.”
“Was it in t
he shape of a W?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, tilting her head. “How did you know?”
“Did he say what the W stood for?” Wes asks, still taking notes.
“Not so fast,” she says, looking directly at me. “How did you know what the scar looked like? Do you know Tommy already? Did he send you here to talk to me?”
“We should probably go,” Wes says, getting up from the stool. “My hemorrhoids are starting to act up. If I don’t get myself some anti-itch cream soon, there’ll be no helping me. Camelia, can I borrow your hairbrush? My fingernails are still dull from my last flare-up.” He drops a ten on the bar and then extends his hand to Brooke for a shake.
“Later,” she says, leaving him hanging. And who can really blame her?
ON THE RIDE HOME, Wes and I dissect and discuss all the details of our visit to the pub, including the possibility that Brooke might’ve been either wrong or lying about nobody knowing of Tommy’s whereabouts.
“Maybe we should go back to the pub when Brooke isn’t working,” Wes suggests. “We can ask somebody else.”
“Definitely,” I say, having thought the exact same thing.
Wes takes a turn onto the Sumner campus and pulls up in front of the dorm to drop me off. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with?” he asks me. He and some friends are heading down to the beach for pizza by a fire.
“Maybe next time,” I say.
“Well, call me if you change your mind.”
“Will do, and thanks again.” I give him a peck on the cheek.
Back in my room, I sit down in front of my laptop to read Neal Moche’s latest blog entry.
From the Journal of Neal Moche
I scoped out his house again. Yesterday, when I knew he was working, I knocked on his door, pretending to be advocating for the environment. I even brought along a clipboard for signatures and some literature about environmental causes.