Deadly Little Lessons (Touch)

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

“I guess time will tell,” he says, dropping the money clip into the plastic bag and then labeling the bag EXHIBIT A.

  “It’s like a crime lab in here,” I say.

  Wes shrugs, pulling off his gloves. “Dad says I need to grow up, that I should’ve gotten over my wannabe detective phase back in elementary school.”

  “And I say you’re pretty amazing,” I tell him. “Don’t ever change, okay?”

  “Me? You’re the one who shouldn’t change. All this stuff you sculpt that comes true? You’re pretty freaking rock star, you know that? I mean, get a load of what you can do.”

  “Seriously?” I ask, feeling a smile creep onto my face, because I’ve never really thought of myself as having rock-star potential. Because Wes’s version of me is so much better than the version I have of myself.

  WES AND I REMAIN IN HIS CAR for several more minutes, discussing whether we should go check out the address on the envelope or just drive back to campus.

  “My thought is that we should wait to check it out,” Wes begins. “Whoever left this clue wants you to go to this address. They probably even expect it.”

  “And how is that a bad thing? I mean, there’s obviously more that they want me to know.”

  “Yes, but once again, my dear Chameleon, if things were that simple, this person would come right out and tell you. They’re calling all the shots, sending you on a hunt.”

  “Yes, but I am on a hunt.”

  “So, let’s continue that hunt tomorrow, when guards are down and we have a plan. Going right now wouldn’t be smart. Plus, it’s getting late.”

  I glance at my watch. It’s a little after six. “Anxious for cafeteria food, are we?”

  “Maybe I have plans,” he says, pulling away from the curb.

  “Is there another featherbrained photo shoot in your near future?”

  “Cluck-cluck.” He smirks.

  We return to the Sumner campus and grab a quick bite in the student center—superchewy pizza and overcooked broccoli smothered in a cheesy orange glaze. I’m just about to go pitch it in the trash when I spot Professor Barnes pouring himself a cup of coffee at the self-serve bar.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Wes, before making my way over to Barnes.

  Standing right beside the professor now, I look at the side of his face, waiting for him to acknowledge me. But instead he continues to stir cream into his coffee, as if trying to get the color just right.

  “Excuse me,” I say, but the words are barely audible. The cafeteria is loud. Someone’s just dropped a stack of dishes. There’s a band setting up (C-squared, featuring Carlie and Courtney from the orientation committee).

  “Can I talk to you a moment?” I ask, louder now.

  He stops stirring finally, to look at me. His face is absolutely deadpan.

  “I’m sorry about what happened in the studio,” I tell him. “And I’m sorry for missing class. I have a lot going on right now…not that that’s any excuse. But if it’s okay, I’d like to try to—”

  “You know how lucky you are?” he asks, cutting me off.

  “Lucky?”

  “If it were up to me, you’d already be out. But luckily for you, a certain individual who’s in your corner—one to whom I owe many a favor—plays by the three-strikes-out rule.”

  “Spencer,” I say, eternally grateful.

  “He assures me that you’ve got some talent, and so I’ll try to forget what I witnessed earlier today.”

  “Thank you,” I say, but I’m not even sure he hears me, because he’s already turned away, and is headed for the exit.

  Back in my room, I continue arranging things on my dresser, still trying to get into the idea of being here—and studying art. I set a couple of pieces of jewelry down on one of my pottery dishes, including a bracelet from Adam: a wide gold bangle with a dangling heart charm. I slip it on, remembering the night he gave it to me.

  We were sitting on a bench in front of the duck pond at the park. Adam reached into his pocket and pulled out a purple box tied with a silver ribbon.

  “These past couple months have been amazing,” he told me.

  “For me, too,” I said.

  “I’m glad.” He motioned to the box, obviously eager for me to open it.

  I took it, untied the ribbon, and lifted off the lid. “Adam, it’s beautiful,” I gushed. “Thank you so much.” I leaned in and kissed his cheek before putting the bracelet on.

  “Now you have my heart,” he said. “So take good care of it, okay?”

  I touch the dangling charm, thinking how happy we were when things were simple, and wondering if we’ll ever be that way again.

  I pick up my phone and dial his number. “Hey,” I say, as soon as he answers.

  “Hey,” he says. “I’m glad you called. I feel like such an ass about earlier. I never should’ve bolted like that.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, encouraged by his words. “It was my fault, too. I feel like such a mess—like I’m messing up everything.”

  “Well, life is messy,” he tells me. “But it also goes on, right?”

  “I guess I’m finding that whole rising-above-it thing to be a lot easier said than done. I need to figure things out first—not just for myself, but for Sasha, too.”

  “Sasha,” he repeats, skepticism in his voice. “Have you talked to your shrink about her?” His tone tells me that he thinks I’m nuts.

  “Look, I know that what I’m going through isn’t the most ideal for our relationship—”

  “I just want you to be happy,” he says.

  “I’ll get there.”

  “But that’s just it. You don’t have to get there on your own. Your therapist can help you.”

  “I have to go,” I say, frustrated that he’s still looking for something (or someone) to fix me.

  “Camelia, wait.”

  “Wes just showed up at my door,” I lie. “I’ll have to call you back.”

  “Sure,” he says, but he sounds unsure. “Maybe we can get together this weekend. I can drive down again…”

  “I’ll call you,” I repeat, thoroughly unsure as well.

  I hang up, noticing how my bed linens smell like campfire—like the air outside, wafting in through my window. Someone must have a fire going on the beach. I look out the window. The sky is a bright shade of pink, making everything look warm and glowing, including the walls of my room.

  I reach for my bag, eager to lose myself in work. I fish the envelope from the side pocket, take out the money clip, and focus hard on the engraved t. I close my eyes and try to picture the clip in someone’s hands, but I can’t seem to concentrate. There’s a group of students outside on the terrace. They’re laughing and talking, clearly enjoying the beautiful night, while reaffirming to me that mine sucks.

  I’m almost tempted to venture out to join them, but instead I lie back on my bed, debating whether I should show the clip to the police or wait until tomorrow, after I visit the address on the envelope. I sit down at my laptop and type the address into Google. A restaurant pops up right away. The Blue Raven Pub. It’s fifteen miles from campus.

  I click on the link, but there isn’t much on the site to help me—some menu highlights and the pub’s hours. I forward the link to Wes and then check my e-mail. To my surprise, there’s a message from Dad.

  I open it, even more surprised to see that he’s sent me a video.

  “Hey, Camelia,” Dad says, as soon as I click PLAY. He’s sitting at the kitchen island, speaking directly into the camera. I spy Mom’s jar of almond butter in the background. “Your mom said that I should respect your privacy. I do want to respect it, but I also want you to know that I’m thinking about you. When you have a chance, call me. I’d love to hear how you’re doing. And in the meantime…” He pauses to open a bag from Taco King. He takes out a chicken chalupa and a basket of nacho chips drizzled in cheesy goodness. “Mom served dehydrated flaxseed sandwiches tonight. Need I say more?” He takes a bite and I can’t
help but laugh.

  The video ends and so I play it again, missing our late-night junk-food excursions. And missing him. More than ever.

  He’s here again. The door slams shut, a boom that jolts me awake. I feel like I’ve been sleeping for days. Without food, I’ve felt so weak.

  At one point, hours ago, or maybe it was yesterday, I woke up and reached through the darkness for the area around the hole. The tape recorder was gone. I must’ve slept through one of his visits.

  He moves closer, his feet scraping against the dirt floor, and suddenly I can see. The hole is illuminated by his lantern.

  “Are you anxious to hear if I liked the tape?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say; my voice is barely a whisper. I’m beyond hot, and yet I have the chills. I can feel goose bumps all over my skin.

  A moment later, I see the tape recorder again. He’s placed it down in front of the hole. The sight of it makes acid travel up my esophagus, burning the back of my throat.

  He kicks the tape recorder into my cell, following it with the microphone.

  I assume he’s going to ask me to do the recording again, but instead he feeds some items through the hole: a flashlight, some bandages, a tube of antiseptic cream, a box of crackers, and a handful of granola bars. As if all of that weren’t enough, he pushes through ten bottles of water.

  “Wow,” I say, almost beyond words. I actually catch myself in a smile. I hate that he can probably hear my happiness.

  “Where’s my thank-you?” he asks.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the flashlight, opening a granola bar, reaching for a bottle of water. I try to open the water, but my hands aren’t quite strong enough, and so I feed the granola bar into my mouth.

  I turn on the flashlight and shine it over my wrist. My wound looks worse than I expected. The edges are crusty and dark and the skin is unrecognizable.

  “I really liked your recording,” he says.

  “You did?” I ask, initially feeling proud to have pleased him—a gut reaction, as sick as that is.

  “Enjoyed it so much,” he continues, “that I’d like you to do another. Only this time, I want you to tell me why you’re here.”

  “Why I’m here?” I ask, still eating. I’m here because you drugged me, because you took me, because I was too stupid to know what was good for me.

  “This was your choice, after all,” he says. The sound of his voice gives me more chills. “You came here of your own free will. You wanted time on your own. I merely provided that.”

  “My own free will?” I ask, desperate to know what he’s trying to say. Does he want me to make something up? To say that he did me a favor by taking me? Maybe then if he’s caught, the police will think that I was happy here and not be able to arrest him?

  “You know you wanted to come here. You remember begging me to take you, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I say, playing along. “I want to be here. I asked you to bring me. This whole experience has been really good for me.”

  “Exactly,” he says; I can hear the smile in his voice. “But you can’t just say the words. You have to make them believable. Why did you want to come?”

  I nod, totally getting it. I need to pull off my biggest acting role yet. I grab the microphone and the box of crackers, feeling more excited than I have in a long time.

  AFTER TOSSING AND TURNING for a couple of hours, I sit up, still able to hear the voices of students outside. It’s hot in my room, even with the window open and the slight ocean breeze filtering in through the screen.

  I get up and trade my sweats for a pair of shorts and my long-sleeved T for a tank top. Slipping on some flip-flops, I go downstairs and through the lobby, hoping that some fresh air will help me to relax.

  Once outside, I notice that the sky is a deep purple color. I cross the back lawn to look out at the ocean. The moon paints a strip across the water. The waves ripple forward in glittering rows, spilling out over the rocks below, producing liquid gold. It’s almost too beautiful to be real.

  I start down the set of stairs that leads to the beach, and then I walk out to the water. The incoming tide rolls over my feet, bathing them in an iridescent glow. I spend a few moments wading in the water before turning back and coming to a sudden halt.

  I blink hard and shake my head, convinced that I must be seeing things. But he’s there, descending the stairs, coming right toward me.

  Ben.

  My pulse races and my head starts to spin.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, feeling my face turn as pink as the sky was just hours ago.

  Ben is dressed in torn jeans and a T-shirt. His hair is rumpled from the wind.

  “How did you know where to find me?” I ask him.

  He’s standing right in front of me now, and it’s almost too hard to breathe.

  “I have my ways.” His steel gray eyes focus right on mine, turning everything inside me into molten mush.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says, taking me in his arms, just like old times. He smells like charcoal and kindling wood.

  I melt against him, drinking him in, cementing this moment in my mind forever. “You’ve been talking to Adam, haven’t you? Is that how you knew where I was?”

  He moves back to stare into my eyes again. “We have a lot of catching up to do, don’t we?” Ben extends his hands to me, with the palms up.

  My fingers trembling, I place my hands on top of his. He grips them tightly. His breathing is heavy. His eyes are closed. He’s somewhere else entirely.

  A few seconds later, I almost have to pull away, because his grip tightens. “Ben?” I ask, wondering what he senses. I try to breathe through the stinging sensation, but he squeezes my hands harder. “Ben!” I shout, louder this time. My fingers are absolutely throbbing.

  Finally, he releases me. “Why didn’t you tell me about your aunt?” He opens his eyes; they look swollen and sorrowful. “How could you possibly have kept something like that from me?”

  I stare at his lips, feeling my bones ache. “Maybe I was protecting myself from opening up too much and getting hurt all over again,” I tell him. “I was protecting you, as well. You’re the one who’s always telling me how much better off I’ll be without you. But maybe you’re better off, too.”

  “My life will never be better off without you,” he says.

  Without another word, I move closer and press my lips against his mouth. He tastes like sea salt.

  We stay on the beach kissing as the sky folds in all around us, changing from plum purple to smoky black. Ben’s hands move over my waist and knead the small of my back.

  As much as I’m into the moment, it isn’t long before I’m overwhelmed by a sense of panic, knowing that I’m betraying Adam. I pull away, all out of breath.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, staring into his eyes, wondering if he can sense how much I want us to be together.

  A second later, my cell phone rings. I check my pockets, startled to find that these shorts don’t have any. And that I didn’t bring a bag. So where is the ringing coming from? I look at Ben, figuring it must be his phone.

  But he’s gone now. Vanished. And still the phone continues to ring.

  I sit up in bed, gasping for breath, realizing finally that it was a dream. I look at the clock. It’s three a.m. The voices of students still linger outside. And the money clip remains clenched in my hand. I look at my fingers—at the impressions made from the metal tip.

  Meanwhile, my phone continues to ring. A blocked call. I hesitate to answer it, still shaken up from the dream. On one hand, I’m disappointed it wasn’t real. On the other hand, I’m completely relieved.

  “Hello?” I say, finally answering.

  “I saw that you went to the mailbox,” she says. “And did you also go to the address?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not? I was under the impression that you wanted to find Sasha.”

  “And going to the Blue Raven will help me do that?”

 
; “It’s a start,” she says.

  “And you want me to find her,” I say. “If you’re the one with all the clues, then how come you haven’t been able to?”

  She doesn’t answer. Maybe she’s thinking of what to say.

  “You want her found,” I continue, sensing that she does. “So, what’s your deal in all of this?”

  “Go to the Blue Raven.”

  “Is that where you got the money clip?” I persist. “Who does it belong to? And what does the t stand for?”

  “It’s obviously someone’s initial.”

  “Do you know who that someone is?”

  “I think you’ve asked me enough questions,” she says.

  “Should I take that as a yes? Is it a first initial? Or does it stand for a last name? Are you looking for Sasha, too?”

  But unfortunately I’ve managed to push her too far. She responds by hanging up.

  UNABLE TO GET BACK TO SLEEP after my dream—not to mention the phone call—I go back to my in-box to reply to Dad’s video message when I notice a new e-mail from Ben.

  Dear Camelia,

  I hope your summer is off to a great start or at least that it’s better than mine. I’ve sort of taken a brief hiatus from traveling. Let’s just say I’m stuck in the same place for a bit, but I guess that’s life. We don’t always get to go where we want, and I suppose my priorities have shifted a bit.

  I miss you, as always. For the record, it’s 2 a.m. as I write this and I can’t get to sleep. I had a dream about you tonight, and I’m still trying to figure out what it means. Maybe you can help.

  In the dream, we were both working on the same fifty-thousand-piece puzzle. The thing is, the puzzle was so big that we didn’t even know that the other was working on it. It was like I was floating above the scene, looking down on us as we worked independently of each other, completely oblivious to the fact that we both had the same goal of putting all the pieces together.

  Any ideas?

  Love,

  Ben

  I reread his e-mail, thinking how surreal it is that we each dreamed about the other on the same night, and that neither of us can sleep as a result. I wonder why he’s taken a hiatus from traveling and what he means by “stuck in the same place.” I crawl back into bed, wanting to fall asleep, but my brain won’t seem to shut off. I’m so wide awake that it almost hurts; my head feels like it could explode.