Deadly Little Lessons

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Shall we?” he asks, handing me his helmet.

  I hop right on behind him, holding on tight, and we ride off into the sunset.

  IT’S SATURDAY MORNING a week later, and Kimmie and Wes are sitting in my dorm room eating bagels and helping me pack. Kimmie went back to New York for the week, but then took the bus here last night.

  “Thanks again for coming all this way,” I tell her.

  “You’re paying me back, remember?”

  “Right, and agreeing to walk in your fashion show ranks right up there with abandoning New York City two weekends in a row and breaking into an abandoned sewing factory to search for a missing girl.”

  “You’re going to have to wear leather spikes and carry a whip,” Wes reminds me.

  “Okay, so maybe we are even,” I joke.

  Wes and I have agreed to be part of the fashion show that Kimmie is organizing as part of her internship.

  “For your information”—she glares at him—“it’s not a whip; it’s a frilly cane.”

  “Silly me.” He fakes a smile.

  “Of course, breaking into that old sewing building did have its merits,” Kimmie says. “I got to see the layout of what used to be one of the most productive sewing factories in the country. Plus, I snatched myself a swanky souvenir.” She pulls a thimble from around her neck; it’s attached to a leather rope. “I found this gem whilst trying to get into a locked closet. Wes had me convinced that Sasha Beckerman was tied up and gagged in there.”

  “What can I say?” He shrugs. “It was a kidnapper’s dream: a padlocked room on the basement floor of an abandoned building, hidden behind an old soda machine.…”

  “It was a closet,” Kimmie reminds him. “And, FYI, Detective Tanner was less than impressed.”

  “Sorry we snagged her from you.” Wes gives me a sheepish grin. “I mean, you were supposed to be getting some rest. Who knew you’d wind up at a burning house where the captor was being flame-broiled, and then down in a root cellar where you had to fend off his jealous girlfriend?”

  “No worries. It wasn’t like Tanner was willing to help me, anyway.”

  After Sasha was taken away in the ambulance, Ben and I went down to the police station to give a formal statement. I found out that most of what I’d assumed to be true had been. Ben had followed Tommy that day, and watched him at the farm. When Tommy stepped away from the cellar, leaving the trapdoor wide open, Ben went down to investigate, never having imagined that there would be someone held captive inside.

  Tommy returned to the cellar after only a few minutes, most likely shocked to find Ben. He struck him from behind, knocking him unconscious, and then went back to the house for some rope.

  That’s when Tommy’s girlfriend (Darcy, for the record) decided to get her revenge on Tommy. She’d been suspecting that Tommy was cheating on her. And apparently, when he came back to the house for the rope, he was muttering about how someone had found his secret place and how they wanted to steal his girl.

  Enraged, she drugged him—just enough so that he’d be semiconscious—and then burned the house down with him inside.

  “So, the t on Darcy’s neck stood for ‘Tommy’?” Wes asks.

  I nod. “Because she belonged to him. Just like there was a t on Sasha’s wrist, because Sasha was his as well—or at least, that’s what he thought.”

  “And the W on Tommy’s wrist?” Kimmie asks.

  “It stood for Wendy, his stepmom,” I explain. “Because, apparently, growing up, she treated him like a possession.”

  “Issues,” Wes sings.

  And unfortunately, the issues don’t exactly end there. After talking to Sasha, the police again questioned Misery, who turned out to be Mailbox Girl. Misery knew Tommy. They’d first met at the Blue Raven and had been acquaintances ever since.

  Misery confessed that Tommy had paid her a thousand dollars to set him up with someone who could be described as “lost,” someone who didn’t get along with her parents and could have used some time on her own.

  According to Misery, Sasha had seemed to be the perfect candidate, always bragging about running away. “I didn’t think he’d go all abductor,” Misery argued to the police. “I mean, yeah, he was a little off, but I never imagined he’d just keep her like that—for two whole months.”

  “The weird part,” I say, “is that Misery didn’t seem too surprised that Tommy took Sasha, only that he took her for so long.”

  “Translation: Misery knew what she was getting into,” Wes says, “but then she freaked out at the thought of being named an accomplice.”

  “Because she was an accomplice,” I say, thinking about the doodling I found in Sasha’s bedroom—how Sasha had written Tommy’s name. According to Sasha’s statement, Misery had originally told Sasha that there was a good-looking guy named Tommy that she’d wanted her to meet. But then, once Misery had collected her money from Tommy and arranged for both Tommy and Sasha to be at that party, she’d started having second thoughts about the arrangement, which was why she told Sasha to keep a distance from him.

  But that only made Sasha want to meet him more.

  “My vote is that Misery, postpayment, somehow developed a conscience,” Wes says, taking a big bite of bagel.

  “How did Misery even know about you?” Kimmie asks me. “I mean, if Mrs. Beckerman supposedly didn’t fill her in…”

  “She’d been watching the Beckerman house,” I say, “feeling guilty for her part in Sasha’s disappearance…or so she recently confessed to the police. She saw me leave the Beckerman house that first day and decided to follow me. When I pulled over, I thought that was it—that she was gone—but she’d merely turned on to a side road, waiting for me to drive past, so that she could continue following. At Sumner campus, she asked people about me—who I was, where I was from, which dorm I was staying in. Once she got all that information, it wasn’t hard for her to get my phone number.”

  “What’s going to happen to her now?” Wes asks. “Or to Pyro Darcy, for that matter?”

  “The verdict is still out on those two. And unfortunately, Tommy isn’t around to testify.”

  “But happily, Sasha is,” Kimmie chirps. “And how’s she doing?”

  “It’s going to take some time,” I say, disappointed that I haven’t been able to see her yet. “Aside from talking to the police, she hasn’t really been up for chatting with anyone outside her immediate circle. I’ve been keeping in touch with her parents, though. Her mom calls me daily with updates and to thank me. But in some way, I feel like I should be thanking her, too. I mean, I know it sounds all corny, but she helped me understand my own parents better. I’ve been talking to them more, and I’m going to see my aunt in a couple days. It’s, like, I finally feel ready to go home.”

  “Especially now that Ben will be going home, too?” Wes snickers.

  I feel my face grow warm just thinking about him. Ben will be returning to Freetown and graduating on time, with all of us. He’s been renting a room in downtown Providence, which is where he is right now, packing his things, getting ready to leave.

  “I’m so happy that you and Ben are back together.” Kimmie bats her red-coated eyelashes at me.

  “And even happier that Adam is now available.” Wes raises a suspicious eyebrow at her.

  “Who says I give a frick about Adam?”

  “Hmm…” he says, tapping his chin in thought. “Your latest I-heart-Adam-so-hard-that-my-head-hurts angel-inspired minidress might’ve been the tip-off.”

  Kimmie flicks a glob of cream cheese at his face. Conveniently, it lands at the corner of his mouth, so he’s able to lick it up. “You’re such a fun-sucker.”

  “You named the dress, not me,” he says.

  “Do you seriously heart Adam?” I ask, feeling dumb for never knowing, and even dumber for using a shape as a verb.

  “Okay, so maybe it’s only half a heart.” She gives me a sheepish grin.

  “And maybe that would only be half the truth,�
�� Wes says.

  “Would it be okay if I was interested?” she asks me. “Or would that be totally weird-incestuous-obnoxious of me? Because the last thing I want is to hurt you, or jeopardize our friendship, or have you feel all freakish at the sight of Adam and me sucking face.…”

  “Whoa,” I say. “How long have you felt this way about him?”

  “Pretty much since that first time we met,” she says. “After figure drawing class.”

  “When you saw him naked,” Wes clarifies, kindly reminding us of Adam’s nude studio modeling days.

  “It wasn’t just his nakedness.” She flicks more cream cheese at Wes’s head; this time it lands in his gel-crispy hair. “It was after class,” she explains, “when we all went out for pizza, and when I really got to talk to him. He just seemed so incredibly sweet and smart and sensitive and attentive.”

  “Adam is all of those things,” I assure her.

  “But he was also really into you,” she says, “which is why I never said anything. I didn’t want to be the sour cream that came between you and Adam’s spicy hot pepper.”

  “For the record, things never got above mild salsa.”

  “Well, Ms. Chameleon,” Wes interjects, “I must admit, you never cease to amaze me.” He’s holding up a gray checked shirt. Whether he’s referring to my lack of style or to my alleged lack of spice, I have absolutely no idea.

  While the two of them begin to discuss Kimmie’s fashion show, I open the desk drawer and pull out Aunt Alexia’s journal. I flip through the individual entries, grateful to have had such an amazing support system this past year. Aunt Alexia obviously wasn’t as lucky, which explains so much about her, including the reason she decided to give me up at birth.

  My parents still think it’s best that I don’t tell her I know the truth. And after reflecting on it, I agree. If and when Aunt Alexia wants me to know about my birth, she’ll tell me on her own.

  “So, are we done?” Wes asks.

  “I just have a few more things.” I stuff the journal into my bag.

  “And then you’ll be ready to abandon me?” He feigns crying.

  “I have a sneaking suspicion that you won’t be suffering,” I say, tossing him an empty box of tissues. Wes has decided to extend his stay at Sumner by signing up for Summer Session II.

  “Don’t get too comfortable here,” Kimmie warns him. “Because in just a few short weeks, there’s that thing called senior year. It runs from September to May.…”

  “Fear not, I’ll be back for senior slide, especially now that I know there’s light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “Do you think you’ll be okay with going home?” I ask him.

  “Better than okay,” he says. “And I have you, Ms. Chameleon, to thank. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for your borderline-psychotic obsession with Sasha Beckerman’s case, not to mention the fact that you’re the love child of a mental-hospital romance gone wrong, from which you needed a serious vacation, I’d have never experienced such bliss.”

  “Well, you’re welcome.” I smirk. “I think.”

  BACK AT HOME TWO DAYS LATER, one of the first stops on my agenda is to see Aunt Alexia. “Do you want to come with me?” I ask Mom.

  Both she and Dad are in the kitchen, whipping up a tofu-ginger dish, which on its own is a huge step for Mom. For one, the dish requires cooking. For another, it’s actually edible, complete with pasta and soy sauce. A far cry from her rawt roast (made with pureed nuts and dehydrated kale paste).

  But I digress.

  “No, thanks,” Mom says. “You go. It’ll be good for you and Aunt Alexia to spend some time together. And your father and I will finish up here.”

  Dad slides his arms around Mom’s waist and kisses the nape of her neck. It’s the happiest and closest I’ve seen them in a long time.

  As soon as I got home yesterday, Mom called Dr. Tylyn to schedule a family session. “It’ll be healthy to discuss everything,” she said.

  I couldn’t agree more.

  I say good-bye and then grab Mom’s car keys. The ride over to the hospital goes by far too quickly. I feel like I could use another hour to mentally prepare myself to see Alexia.

  Sitting in the parking lot, I flash back to my short but memorable stint in the emergency room, when the doctors wanted to lock me up, too. And what if they actually had? What if I hadn’t gotten away? Would I be sitting on the inside looking out, rather than procrastinating in the parking lot about to go in?

  Up on Aunt Alexia’s floor, I silence my cell phone and then ring the doorbell outside the entrance to the mental-health wing. One of the staff members, a new guy whom I don’t recognize, answers. He’s wearing a beret (even though it’s July).

  “Well, I don’t need to ask who you’re here to see,” he says.

  “And why is that?” I ask. Did Aunt Alexia tell him that I was coming? Or maybe she showed him a picture.

  “The resemblance is striking,” he says.

  “I’m here to see Alexia,” I tell him, feeling nervous just saying her name.

  “Let me see if she’s up for a visit.” He closes the door again.

  About five minutes later, he invites me inside, has me fill out a form, and then inspects my bag, making sure I haven’t brought along any sharp objects.

  I step into a large lounge area. A group of middle-aged men watch a tennis match on the big-screen TV that hangs suspended from the ceiling. There are a couple of women playing a game of chess, and a smattering of patients reading books or doing crossword puzzles. It takes me a few moments to spot Aunt Alexia. Sitting at a table in the corner, she’s staring straight at me. The paleness of her skin accentuates her ruby-colored lips and the olive tone of her eyes.

  I join her and take a seat.

  “It’s good to see you,” she says, reaching across the table to take my hands. Her palms are stained with light blue paint.

  I nod, thinking about the last time I visited her—almost a month ago now—when I promised I’d come the very next weekend. Has she been waiting for me since then? “I was away for a little bit.”

  “Yes, your mother said.”

  “My mother,” I repeat, testing the word in the air, checking her face for a reaction.

  But Alexia’s expression remains neutral. “A lot has changed since the last time we saw each other, hasn’t it?” she says.

  “It has,” I say.

  “Every time I see you”—she squeezes my hands, as if sensing something significant—“you’re so much stronger than the last.”

  I squeeze her hands back, noticing a mole above her wrist bone—in the exact same spot where mine is.

  “You’re doing such great things,” she continues. “I’m so proud of you—of all you’ve been able to accomplish, of the person you’ve become…”

  “Thanks,” I say, unable to help wonder if she can sense what happened with Sasha, or if maybe Mom told her. When I called my parents from the police station, I ended up telling them about my involvement in the case. Most surprising was that Mom didn’t explode. She’d known that something was up, especially after our previous phone conversation, when I’d told her that my power of psychometry was screwing things up for me in class. But, this time, instead of talking about her own personal growth, she actually listened when I explained that I felt it was my duty to search for Sasha.

  Little did I know then that I would also find myself in the process.

  My father, on the other hand, was absolutely crushed that he didn’t know, telling me over and over again how much he wished he’d been there for me, and how he never should’ve let me go.

  “I helped save a girl’s life,” I told him. “This isn’t a time for blame or regret. It’s a time to be truly grateful.”

  Helping to rescue Sasha—and my whole philosophy about what truly matters with respect to my future as a potter—is one of the first things I plan to discuss with them in our session with Dr. Tylyn tomorrow.

  Aunt Alexia’s eyes are unblinking.
It’s as if she’s studying my every move.

  “Are you able to do your art here?” I ask her, eager to switch gears.

  “I am,” she says, letting go of my hands. “Would you like to see my most recent piece?”

  “Of course.” I let out a breath, relieved to have a moment to myself while she goes off to her room to get her latest work.

  She returns a few moments later, holding a large piece of canvas behind her back. “Any guesses as to what this could be?” she asks. Her eyes are wild with excitement.

  “Something blue?” I guess, because of the color of the stains on her palms.

  She brings the canvas around in front of her, so that I can see it.

  My whole body tenses. It’s a picture of a faceless woman wearing a light blue hospital gown, lying in bed and holding a baby. The sharp angles of the woman’s face, her porcelain skin, and the loopy, pale blond hair that hangs down over her shoulders make it clear the painting’s a self-portrait. It’s definitely Alexia.

  “Do you like it?” she asks.

  I swallow hard, flashing back to the photo that Mom showed me of Aunt Alexia in the hospital holding me. It looked exactly like this painting.

  “Well?” my aunt asks.

  “Why is she faceless?

  She shrugs. “Because I’m not really sure who she is.”

  I nod, though I wonder what she means. Does she not know that it’s her? Is there some subconscious part of her—a part she’s yet to uncover in therapy—that’s leading her to paint bits of her past, stuff that she’s not yet ready to remember? Or maybe she’s simply trying to find out what I know—curious to see my reaction.

  “So, what do you think?” she asks. “Because as a fellow artist, I respect your opinion.”

  “It’s amazing,” I say, feeling my eyes fill with tears. Maybe Aunt Alexia was able to sense that I’d found out the truth about my birth.

  She looks at it, holding the canvas out. “Maybe someday I’ll know the identity of the woman. Until then, I’m calling it a work-in-progress.”

  “Isn’t that what we all are?” I ask her. “Works-in-progress, I mean.”