Deadly Little Voices

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  Carl, in case you were wondering, is twenty-nine years old and in graduate school, working full-time days while taking acting classes at night. He says he wants to be the next Jim Carrey, but I’ve honestly never seen that side of him. He always looks like his dog just died (especially when you come around).

  Before I could ask him to elaborate, a loud clunk came from the back pantry. Carl headed in that direction, while you bolted out the door.

  I remember how my fingers shook as I struggled to open your note. TONIGHT, 9PM, it read. CAN WE TALK? I-M ME AT JACKFORJILL@YAHOO.COM.

  I wonder if you saw me rush to the front window, if you were watching as I gazed out into the parking lot. I remember spotting someone getting into a dark car, but I couldn’t quite tell if it was you. The driver didn’t wave, nor did he pull out of the space. Still, I pressed the napkin-note against my chest, hoping that it wasn’t part of a dream, or, if it was, that I’d never wake up.

  …

  MY MOM’S IN AUNT ALEXIA’S ROOM. The door is open a crack, and I can hear them speaking in hushed tones. Standing in the middle of the hall, I do my best to listen in, but I can’t make out much more than “I’m not hungry” and “I’m just so tired.”

  Mom continues to ask Aunt Alexia questions—now it’s something about her art—but a floorboard creaks beneath my feet, and I know I’m caught.

  I retreat toward the kitchen, but it’s already too late.

  “Hey, there,” Mom says, poking her head out into the hallway. She closes Aunt Alexia’s door behind her and points me toward the kitchen, where I find a spread of vegan delights set up on the island—from peanut butter cups to flaxseed chips with faux nacho dip.

  “What’s the special occasion?” I ask, noticing that some of the food looks surprisingly edible.

  “Aunt Alexia says she prefers her food cooked.”

  “Go figure,” I say, taking one of the peanut butter cups.

  Mom tucks a corkscrewlike strand of her auburn hair back into her bun. “How’s school going? No more panic attacks, I hope.”

  “I take it Dad filled you in.”

  “Dad, Ms. Beady, your art teacher, the mailman…” She counts them off on her fingers.

  “Okay, well, not the mailman.” She smirks. “But you get the point. It would’ve been nice to have heard the news from you.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “A couple days.” She grabs a knife to chop some carrots. “Your dad told me, and then I got a voice message from Ms. Beady. I kept waiting for you to say something.…” Chop, chop, chop.

  “I was going to tell you,” I say, disappointed that it took her so long to ask me. “I mean, it’s not like it was some secret.”

  “I don’t want to lecture you, Camelia. I know that I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately.”

  Chop, chop.

  I look back at her array of snacks, trying to put myself in her shoes—having her sister here and still blaming herself for her sister’s suicidal tendencies, while dealing with the stress I cause her.

  When they were growing up, their mother (my grandmother) believed that Aunt Alexia’s birth was the reason her husband left them. And so, Aunt Alexia was constantly punished for simply having been born, while my mother was often doted on, making Aunt Alexia feel even more unwanted.

  “You’ve been fine,” I tell her, deciding to cut her some slack.

  “Yes, but school for you hasn’t been, so why not fill me in? Before the mailman does, that is.” She smiles.

  I smile back, glad to be able to share some of the lighter details. And so I give her the complete lowdown on Ben. “He looked so happy with that Alejandra girl today.”

  “But you said you wanted time to yourself, right?”

  “Right.” I sigh, following up with a halfhearted bite of a peanut butter cup. To my surprise, it tastes like heaven inside my mouth. “Are you kidding me with these?” I snatch another.

  “Glad you like them.” She stops chopping to push the plate closer. “Edible therapy, wouldn’t you say? And, speaking of which, your dad made an appointment for you to see that therapist, but it’s not until next week.” She eats her worried expression along with a dehydrated flaxseed chip. “Your dad and I think it’s good that you’ll be talking to someone.”

  “I guess,” I say, not convinced, because, aside from Dad, everyone in this household is seeing a shrink, but no one seems any better off for it.

  “It’s healthy to have someone outside your network of friends and family to talk to,” she continues. “Someone with a different perspective.”

  I nod reluctantly, thinking how it wasn’t so long ago that she insisted I tell her everything. I glance past her at the bottle of pills on the counter. She used to keep it stashed behind the jar of almond butter, but now it’s out in the open beside the salt and pepper shakers, like they’re suddenly just as common. “How’s Aunt Alexia doing?” I ask, curious to know what all the whispering was about.

  “She’s been asking about you, too.” She fakes a smile. “She’s doing okay, but she still needs some time. Coming here is a big adjustment.”

  “To say the least.” I nod in agreement while taking a bite of faux nacho dip and wishing I’d stopped at the peanut butter cups.

  Later, Mom drops me off at Hayden for my art class. With sketch pad and pencils in hand, I hurry down the hallway, noticing that a bunch of the rooms on both sides of the corridor have the letters PSY before the number.

  I slow down to scan the names on the doors. Finally I find Dr. Tylyn’s office, sandwiched between a water fountain and a supply closet. The light’s on, and the door is wide open, but no one’s inside.

  I lean forward for a closer look. At the same moment, someone grabs my shoulder from behind, completely startling me.

  It’s Kimmie.

  “Okay, what are you even doing here?” I slap my hand over my chest. “Besides trying to give me a heart attack, that is?”

  “For your information, I’m trying to ward off depression.” She flashes her palm at me.

  There’s a dark brown capital D, with a slash mark through it, stamped in the center. “It’s henna,”

  she explains. “In other words, temporary. And, before you ask, the D stands for ‘depression.’”

  I’m tempted to ask her if it might instead stand for dumb, but I bite my tongue.

  “It was Wes’s suggestion,” she continues, “and Weed, the tattoo artist who did it, said it was sure to do the trick—that even when I’m not thinking about the tattoo, my subconscious will be well aware of its presence, thus ridding my mind of depressive thoughts.”

  “What happened?” I ask, already suspecting the truth. Kimmie was supposed to be dining with her dad tonight.

  “He said he needed to reschedule,” she says, her eyes welling up. “He said he had to work late, but it was all a bogus lie. I went by his place and his car was there. Tammy’s was there, too.”

  “What can I do?” I ask, giving her a hug.

  “Just be with me. I don’t want to be alone, okay?”

  “Do you want me to ditch my class?”

  She shakes her head and tries to regroup, taking a step back and wiping her eyes with a coordinating scarf (there’s a crossed-out D at the hem). “Can I come and sketch naked people with you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Before you object, I know how much this art class means to you. I know that Spencer went out of his way to get you in, and so I promise not to laugh at any impending floppiness.”

  “Well, in that case,” I say, hooking elbows with her, “how could I possibly say no?”

  ON THE WAY into the art studio, Kimmie explains that she isn’t crashing the course for antidepressive purposes only. “If I’m going to have my own design business one day, I need to start becoming more aware of the body.”

  “Especially if that body is tall, dark, and ripped?” I ask, suspecting an ulterior motive.

  Dwayne, the art professor, spots us right awa
y. “Welcome to my lair,” he says, in a voice as big as he is. Standing at least six feet seven, he has Einstein-like hair and tortoiseshell glasses with round frames.

  Kimmie introduces herself as an aspiring designer, and Dwayne eats up every word, telling her about his obsession with designers like Giorgio Armani and Oscar de la Renta. “Fine tailoring, fine artists,” he tells her. “It’s all about line, contour, and proportion.”

  “Amen to that,” she says, evidently inspired.

  “And you must be Camelia.” Dwayne turns to shake my hand. “Spencer told me all about those troublesome bowls of yours.” He tsk-tsks.

  “Troublesome?”

  “As you embark upon your sketches,” he replies, “I want you to consider things like form, texture, and size.”

  “Because size is definitely key,” Kimmie whispers, grinning at me. “Especially when sketching naked people.”

  I yank her away so that we can find seats. The easels are arranged in a circle, with space in the middle where the model stands. There are about twelve students in total, including us—a mixture of early-twenty-somethings and people who look to be my parents’ age.

  “I wonder if we’ll ever bump into Adam on campus,” Kimmie says.

  I shrug, having wondered the same, especially since I’ll be coming here for the next several weeks.

  A moment later, I notice that our model has come into the studio. With his back to me, he stands in the center, dressed only in a robe and flip-flops.

  “Passengers, prepare for takeoff,” Kimmie says, as he drops his robe to the floor.

  I clench my teeth, trying my best to focus—to ignore the fact that there’s a naked guy standing right in front of me now. A naked guy with sculpted legs, a muscular back, and perfectly chiseled arms.

  “Holy buttocks,” Kimmie says under her breath.

  “You’ll have fifteen minutes to sketch the model in his first pose,” Dwayne tells us,

  “after which he’ll reposition and you’ll begin anew.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. The model gets into his pose, with his arms folded in front of him. He turns his head ever so slightly.

  And I notice.

  The way his chin juts out and the line of his jaw.

  My pencil drops from my hand, and I feel my heart pound.

  “Camelia?” Kimmie asks. She touches my shoulder, perhaps wondering if I’m having another one of my psychometric episodes. “Do you need to go get some water?”

  I nod and start to get up, bumping into my easel. It scratches against the floor. My sketch pad topples over with a smack.

  “It’s no big deal,” Kimmie says, scrambling to pick it up.

  But it is a big deal. Because people in class turn to look.

  People, including naked Adam.

  “Camelia?” he asks, seemingly as horrified as I am. He grabs the first thing within reach—a piece of wax fruit from a bowl near him—in a futile attempt to cover himself.

  “Is there a problem?” Dwayne asks; he seems annoyed by the disturbance.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, collecting my things.

  Meanwhile, Kimmie gawks at Adam as he holds the apple over his serpent. “Holy Garden of Eden,” she whispers, making the sign of the cross. “That Eve’s a lucky girl.”

  I FLEE FROM THE STUDIO, eager to get away.

  Kimmie reluctantly follows. “It’s just the novelty of the nudity,” she assures me. “By the second pose, you’ll be so used to seeing his naked ass you won’t even give it a second thought.”

  “How can you honestly say that?” I whirl around to face her. We’re standing in the middle of the hallway, a good six doors down from the studio. “He practically had that ass in my face.”

  “And the problem with that is…”

  “It’s just too weird,” I say, shaking my head, feeling my heart beat at triple its normal speed.

  Kimmie looks crushed, the way she did the time I accidentally spilled glaze all over the front of her favorite poodle skirt.

  “I won’t be mad if you want to go back in,” I tell her. “I’ll even wait for you.” I point to a group of sofas in an alcove at the end of the hallway.

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  I nod, almost surprised that she wants to take me up on the offer to sketch Adam naked.

  Almost.

  Kimmie turns to go back to the studio just as Adam comes rushing out.

  Wearing his robe again, he looks relieved to have caught us. “Hey,” he says, moving in our direction. His face looks sweaty. His neck is splotchy. Still, all I can picture is that wax apple between his legs.

  “Do you have a second?” he asks me.

  “Don’t you need to be in the studio?”

  “I need to be right here,” he says, pointing toward the sofas. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Wait, does this mean that they need another model?” Kimmie taps her chin in thought.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I tell her.

  “Actually, they’re sketching one of the students,” Adam says. “With clothes on.”

  Even so, Kimmie seems interested. She excuses herself and heads back to the studio.

  Meanwhile, Adam and I move to the alcove to talk.

  He takes a seat on the sofa, and his robe falls open. “Sorry,” he says, turning all shades of red. He holds his legs closed, keeping the robe firmly in place. “So…” he says, clearly awkward.

  But I’m awkward, too. I fidget in my seat, not quite sure where to look.

  “Come here often?” he jokes.

  “Spencer suggested that I take this course.”

  “Are you sure that’s the real reason you’re here?” he asks, still trying to be funny. He pulls up on the robe, revealing a bit of his knee.

  “You’re such a dork,” I say, unable to hide my smile.

  Adam bumps his shoulder against mine. “Yeah, but you know you love me.”

  I swallow hard, not quite sure how to respond.

  “And, hey,” he continues, before I have the chance, “any time you want to see me naked, just say the word. No need to make up excuses and go to all this trouble.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, playing along. “So, when did you start modeling?”

  “A month ago.” He shrugs. “I’m just trying to earn a few extra bucks.”

  “By baring your bod for cash?”

  “Why not? No animals are harmed while I pose.”

  “My PETA-loving mom would be so proud,” I say, noticing the golden-blond hair on his calves. “Are you still working at the art supply store?”

  He nods. “But I’m also hoping to transfer to a good architectural program in the fall, so I need all the extra money I can get.”

  “And now you’ve lost your gig.” I look toward the studio door, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t go back in.

  “Yeah, but the view is better out here.” He’s staring straight at me now. “And I’m not just talking about my hairy legs…though they’re pretty fine, too.”

  I laugh, but Adam’s expression remains serious.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says. His dark brown eyes focus hard on mine.

  “It’s only been a couple weeks,” I say, feeling stupid for even saying it. Because deep down, I’ve missed him, too.

  AFTER A GOOD THIRTY MINUTES or so spent catching up, Adam goes off to change into his clothes, while I remain in the alcove waiting until the drawing class lets out.

  “They should be wrapping up right about now,” he says when he comes to join me back on the sofa.

  He’s dressed in a pair of dark-washed jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, but still I can’t help picturing him just moments ago: like a Greek god statue in the center of Athens.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks, noticing maybe that I can’t stop staring.

  “It’s fine,” I say, relieved when people finally start to filter out.

  I make a beeline for the door and hurry inside to apologiz
e again to Dwayne. “I shouldn’t have run out of the room like that,” I tell him.

  “It’s just that seeing her ex au naturel totally caught her off guard,” Kimmie says, calling out from her seat. She’s putting the finishing touches on her sketch.

  Dwayne smiles, seemingly far more amused by our awkward situation than angered by it, and so he offers Adam the opportunity of modeling for his Tuesday night class and tells me to come back next week.

  “Thank you,” I say, grateful for his patience.

  Meanwhile, Kimmie closes her sketchbook and thanks Dwayne as well. “I learned a lot.”

  She gives him a thumbs-up. “But next week I want to sketch skin.”

  I drag her out of the studio before Dwayne can change his mind. Just a few steps down the hallway, Adam stops us. “What’s the rush?” he asks.

  I check my watch. It’s almost nine. “I should probably call my mom to come pick me up.

  Kimmie, do you need a ride?”

  “I could drive you guys home,” he says. “It’s on my way.”

  “Since when?” I ask. Freetown is a good twenty minutes away; his apartment is barely two.

  “Yeah, but the Press & Grind is open late, and they have the best mocha-chip brownies in town. I could use a little pick-me-up.”

  “Perfect,” Kimmie says, accepting for the both of us. “And why don’t we stop for a pizza en route? All that sketching has got me starving.”

  The next thing I know, I’m calling my mom to give her the scoop, and then hopping into the front seat of Adam’s old ’70s Bronco. The familiar rumble of the engine, coupled with the syrupy scent in the air—from Adam’s bacon-scented air freshener—takes me back to just months ago, when, sitting in this very car, Adam leaned toward me to touch my face and I couldn’t wait to kiss him.

  “This is a sweet ride,” Kimmie says, angling herself over the front seat to appeal to Adam’s ego. “You do know how much Camelia here loves vintage cars, don’t you?” (A big fat lie.)

  “Seriously?” Adam asks, practically beaming.

  “Are you kidding? Camelia can barely get enough of those car restoration shows on TV.…You know, the ones that feature old classic hotrods being restored to their original condition by a bunch of gearheads.” (Lie number two.)