Deadly Little Voices

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “It happened between Danica and a couple of the Candies,” Kimmie explains.

  The Candy Clique is a group of girls whose names all rhyme with “candy.” There’s Shandy, Mandy, Andy (short for Anderson, her last name), and Sandy (whose real name is Jen, but whose mother’s maiden name is supposedly Sandy).

  “For the record, I have no idea what either of you are talking about.”

  “Tell me, oh, dearest Chameleon,” Wes says, “does the rock under which you live have heat and running water?”

  “Apparently, a couple of the Candies wanted to cheat off Danica in precalc,” Kimmie says, “and Danica told them where they could stick their slice of pi.”

  “But really loudly,” Wes adds. “She announced it to the entire class, and then said that their brains, collectively, amounted to the size of a pea. People initially thought it was funny.

  Supposedly, even Puke-o was caught smirking.”

  “Good for her,” I say, flashing back to an incident that happened in junior high, when I wish she’d been as brave.

  And when I wish I’d been brave, too.

  “But now the Candies are mad as hell, and the masses have joined their stampede.”

  Kimmie points to the soccer table, where John Kenneally (who just happens to be dating Andy Candy) and his team of lemmings appear to be plotting something evil. They’re eyeballing Danica and huddling in close.

  “People are treating her like dog dung.” Wes sighs. “Even more so than normal.”

  “Because no one can think for themselves,” I say, watching the candy-colored clique (literally, since they’re dressed in contrasting pastel colors today) stand up from their table, dump their trash in unison, and move toward the exit.

  “You don’t seriously expect any of the Candies to have an independent thought, do you?”

  Wes asks, stifling a laugh. “But I certainly like the way you think.” He flashes his bright blue notebook, the cover of which reads: WES’S POETRY JOURNAL. “Sage wisdom such as yours is just one of the reasons why I’m considering letting you be the first reader of my poetry.”

  “Since when are you a poet?” Kimmie asks.

  “Since I needed to find a way to express myself in a manner that doesn’t include snapshots of period panties and joining my own candy-coated group.”

  “Well, just say the word,” I tell him, taking a sip of hemp-milk heinousness. “I’d love to read your work.” I continue to look around, checking for people’s reactions as Danica makes her way across the cafeteria.

  That’s when I spot Ben, sitting with Alejandra Chavez.

  “I’m almost surprised that Danica doesn’t take her lunch in the library,” Kimmie says. “I mean, it’d probably be a whole lot less painful.”

  I bite my lip, surprised that Ben isn’t in the library, either, that he’s elected to be among everybody else, risking the possibility of touch.

  And of having me see him with Alejandra again.

  Ironically, Danica stops at their table, but Alejandra seems less than excited to see her.

  She keeps her focus on Ben, practically ignoring the fact that Danica is standing there, looking completely desperate as she shuffles her feet and finally shrugs her shoulders.

  “What’s all that about?” Wes asks, slipping on a pair of tiny, round, wannabe John Lennon eyeglasses.

  “The fact that Danica is standing at Ben’s table?” Kimmie asks. “Or that Ben is out of seclusion and lunching with Freetown High’s Most Beautiful Person?”

  “Both,” I whisper, relieved to see that Ben doesn’t follow Alejandra’s lead. He makes direct eye contact with Danica and nods toward an empty seat.

  But Danica turns away and heads toward the soda machines.

  “Paging Camelia Chameleon,” Kimmie says, using an empty juice cup as a makeshift intercom to get my attention.

  The next thing I know, Danica’s down on the ground. It appears that John Kenneally has

  “accidentally” bumped into her, spilling the contents of her tray down the front of her sweater.

  John tries to stifle his laugh with a lame little cough, then scoots down as if to help wipe up the spill.

  Finally, Mr. Muse comes over to see what the commotion is all about. He sticks around for a few moments, making sure that Danica and John have things under control, but then disappears inside the kitchen area, most likely to get his fill of swill.

  With the coast now clear, John gets up and tosses a napkin at the glob of spaghetti on Danica’s sweater. Meanwhile, kids are laughing and pointing. The soccer-team table cheers John on. “You rock!” someone shouts out.

  I grab a stack of napkins and hurry over to help her. Danica’s face is almost as red as the sauce stain on her sweater, and she is holding back tears.

  “What are you doing?” she snaps, unwilling to trust me. And I know exactly why. She tucks a strand of her shoulder-length dark hair behind her ear, getting a smear of sauce on her cheek.

  I gesture to her face with a napkin, then resume cleaning up the mess. It isn’t long before I get the floor spic-and-span, but Danica still looks upset. “Let’s go get you cleaned up,” I say, giving a reassuring squeeze to her forearm.

  Danica heads toward the bathroom. I start to follow her, but then I come to a sudden stop.

  Ben is standing up at his table, staring straight at me.

  It appears that Alejandra is asking him something—begging for him to sit back down, maybe. Her arms are waving, and there’s a pleading look in her eyes.

  But Ben remains focused on me.

  My heart hammers, and my mouth turns dry. I’m tempted to stay and see what he wants.

  But instead I give him a little wave, and turn to follow Danica.

  THE SIGN ON THE GIRLS’ bathroom door says OUT OF ORDER, so Danica and I head across the hallway to the locker room. There aren’t any ice skates in front of the door, as there were in my hallucination in the sculpture class, and the lights inside are all working. But still, just being in here gives me major déjà vu.

  Danica stops short just a few steps inside.

  We’re not alone: voices come from behind the wall that separates us from the sink area.

  A moment later, there’s a crash.

  “Holy crap,” one of the voices shouts. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

  At the same moment, Mandy Candy peeks out from behind the wall, into the locker area, bursting into laughter when she sees us. “Well, at least the cleanup crew is here.”

  “Let’s go,” Danica says.

  “No way,” I say, nodding toward the stain on the front of her sweater.

  We wait for the Candy Clique to finish up whatever it is they’re doing. After several moments of whispering and giggling, Shandy Candy finally emerges from behind the wall and stops right in front of Danica. Tube of lipstick in hand, she applies a fresh coat of flaming red.

  Mandy, Sandy, and Andy have all done the same—all of them wearing the exact same shade.

  “Since you did such a great job cleaning up in the cafeteria,” Shandy says, getting right up in Danica’s face, “and since you probably don’t want us making English class a living hell for you later—”

  “And you know we can,” Mandy adds.

  “We figured you’d be more than happy to tidy up our little mess,” Shandy continues.

  “We’re not tidying up anything,” I assure her.

  But, surprisingly, Danica doesn’t say anything. And Shandy couldn’t be less interested in what I have to say.

  When Danica still remains silent, Shandy puckers up her red lips and blows an air-kiss at her. Her Candy lemmings follow suit, blowing kisses in Danica’s direction before they finally exit the locker room.

  “Let’s go,” I say, leading Danica toward the sink area with barely five minutes left before the lunch bell is supposed to ring.

  And that’s when I see it.

  One of the mirrors is broken. Shards of glass lie in a sink and on the floor. And there�
�s writing across what remains of the mirror. In a smear of bright red lipstick, it says, DANICA PETE WAS HERE. SHE’S SO UGLY THAT THE MIRROR BROKE. P.S.: DIE ALREADY, WILL YOU?!

  I shake my head and take a step back, rereading the message, and realizing that Aunt Alexia predicted part of it.

  “What’s wrong?” Danica asks.

  My hand over my mouth, I look toward the windows, feeling the need for some air. But the glass has been covered up with a dark-blue tarp, as if maybe it’s being replaced.

  “Afraid that you’ll be branded by association?” she continues. “Because even talking to me can have reputation-ruining repercussions.”

  “That’s not it,” I say, noticing a chunk of red lipstick in the sink as well (a piece that must’ve broken off). Water from the faucet pours over it, making the inside of the sink look red.

  “Then, what?” she asks.

  I close my eyes, feeling an array of emotions rush through me—the strongest one being relief. Relief because I predicted this, too. Because my dreams and hallucinations must indeed be part of something bigger—something extrasensory. And not merely part of something crazy.

  “Well?” she says.

  Instead of answering, I dampen a bunch of paper towels, topping them off with a couple of squirts of green gel soap from the dispenser.

  “What are you doing?” Danica snaps.

  “What does it look like? I’m trying to help you.”

  “Yes, but why?” She folds her arms, trying to appear tough, but I can see the dried-up tear tracks on her face, painted down over her freckled cheeks, almost like a mapping of sorts.

  A mapping to track years of heartache.

  “Look, I know I haven’t given you any reason to trust me,” I say, referring to what happened in junior high. “But I want to help you.” I force some paper towels into her hand.

  Danica starts to wipe a smudge off her cheek, then gazes into the sink full of broken glass.

  “It’s okay,” I say, wishing she’d show me how she truly feels; but I know that’s not her style.

  Freshman year, she barely showed the slightest inkling of emotion when Steve Hartley thought it’d be funny to show up at the Halloween dance dressed in a “Danica costume,”

  complete with an ugly brown bathrobe (to replicate the tan cardigan she always used to wear), pink tennis shoes, and a bowl over his head for hair. Appearing resilient to ridicule has always been her first line of defense.

  “I could care less what those Candies say,” she tells me. “What anyone says, for that matter.”

  “Well, they don’t know what they’re talking about,” I say.

  But I’m not so sure she’s listening. She picks up one of the glass shards. It has a jagged hook at one end.

  Exactly like what I sculpted.

  She takes a step closer to the mirror. The cracked surface makes her face appear distorted, cut up into shapes, reminding me of one of Picasso’s paintings.

  “We don’t have to clean this up, you know,” I tell her. “We can go to the office and turn them in.”

  “It’s easier this way,” she says, perhaps tired of taking their ridicule.

  But before we can even start to clean, the door bursts open and the lights go out, leaving us in the dark. The tarp-covered windows block out any sunlight.

  “Don’t panic,” I whisper, assuming we’re not alone, that someone else in the room must’ve flicked off the switch.

  The sound of giggling erupts from near the door.

  I take a deep breath, trying to ease the palpitating of my heart, and thinking how things are finally making sense—the way Danica’s constantly getting ridiculed, the way kids are always putting her down. And the voices inside my head—calling me ugly, telling me I’m stupid, and saying that I’d be better off dead.

  There’s no doubt in my mind.

  Danica is the one in trouble.

  THE BELL RINGS before either of us can turn the lights back on, but luckily I remember the mini-flashlight tucked in my bag (a stocking stuffer from Dad). I use it as we clean up the shards of glass and the writing on the broken mirror, per Danica’s insistence, and guide us out of the locker room.

  “Better?” I say, once we’re back out in the hallway. But unfortunately, Danica’s sweater is still stained with red sauce. A bit of sauce remains on her cheek as well. “I’m sure if you go to the nurse’s office, she’ll let you clean yourself up.”

  “It’s fine. I’m fine.” She loops the straps of her backpack over her shoulders and turns away without saying good-bye.

  I watch her walk down the hallway, disappearing among the sea of students. For just a moment I wonder if I should try to catch up with her, but I’m not even sure what I’d say.

  I try to explain the whole incident to Kimmie after school, but she’s far too busy trying to digest the fact that what happened in sculpture class wasn’t purely psychotic.

  It was psychometric.

  “Are you seriously telling me that all that moaning and clawing had a point?” she asks.

  We’re standing in the parking lot behind the school as a parade of cars screeches by to escape.

  “It didn’t just have a point,” I say, disappointed that she doesn’t seem more relieved by the news. “It had a purpose: to warn me.”

  “That Danica Pete is a loser?” she asks, picking at her chocolate brown nail polish.

  “Because—newsflash— everybody at this dumbass school already knows that.”

  “Since when do you call anyone a loser?”

  “Since people like Davis Miller were born,” she says, giving him the evil eye as he makes his way to his car. “Plus, I’m merely stating the general consensus. It’s not like I have an actual opinion about the girl.”

  “Do you have an opinion about what I should do?”

  “Are you sure you really want it?”

  I nod, already suspecting what she’s going to say.

  Kimmie confirms those suspicions, telling me that I have enough to worry about in my own life without obsessing over Danica Pete, someone I barely ever talk to. “Have you even considered what people are going to be saying about you?” she asks. “Hanging out with Freetown High’s Most Socially Unacceptable?”

  “And high school social politics became a second thought for you when?” I nod toward her Tupperware-container-turned purse. “When did you start caring about what other people think? Plus, wasn’t it you who said ‘big whoop’ to the fact that I’ve been labeled a full-fledged freak?”

  “I’m just thinking about your own sanity here,” she says. “I mean, are you seriously going to play Supergirl every time you have one of these psychometric episodes?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, catching Davis Miller looking back at us.

  “Plus, I hate to be the one to break it to you,” Kimmie continues, “but Danica Pete is hardly capable of skating. If you haven’t already noticed, the girl isn’t exactly graceful on her feet. She can barely handle walking up a flight of stairs without tripping.”

  “Am I to assume the D stands for Danica today?” I ask, motioning toward her palm. “As in, anti-Danica?”

  “Look, I’m not trying to put her down. I’m just trying to bring some common sense into this picture.”

  Common sense as opposed to extra sense.

  “Did you report the Candies for the locker-room stunt, by the way?” she asks.

  “Danica didn’t want to. She said she didn’t need any more Candy drama.”

  “That was intelligent,” Kimmie says, in a lame attempt at sarcasm.

  “It wasn’t exactly my choice.”

  “Look.” She sighs. “I know you want to do the right thing, and I do believe that you have some sort of extraterrestrial gift.”

  “Extrasensory,” I say, correcting her. “It’s not like I’m an alien.”

  “Right,” she says, rolling her eyes at the mistake. “But you have to consider what’s right for yourself as well.”

  “I have consid
ered it. And just because I’m not friends with Danica Pete doesn’t mean that she deserves to die.”

  “Who said anything about dying? The girl needs help, so why not get her some? Talk to a teacher, tell Ms. Beady.…”

  “Tell them what?” I ask. “About my premonitions? I owe it to Danica to be involved, to see this through, to try and help her.”

  “You owe it to her?” Kimmie’s voice rises. “Why? Did Danica rescue you from a burning building that I don’t know about?”

  “I just do, okay?” I say, too ashamed to tell her about what happened in junior high.

  “Well, maybe I just have to do what’s best for me as well,” she says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look,” Kimmie says, turning away slightly so I can’t see her face—how emotional she’s getting just talking about all of this. “You’re my best friend.”

  I reach out to touch her shoulder, but she pulls away. “You’re my best friend, too,” I tell her.

  “Then let’s keep it that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, don’t you think you’ve been through enough? Your aunt wasn’t able to handle all this psychometric stuff. What makes you think that you can?”

  I want to assure her that everything will be fine, but I end up remaining silent, because I honestly don’t know if it will.

  Dear Jill,

  It was only five minutes past the hour, and already you were pacing in front of the window of the coffee shop, worried that I might not show up.

  Does it please you to know that I’d been sitting outside your shop for more than an hour, with the engine cut and the lights turned off?

  But you had no idea I was even there. No idea that I’d been watching you check your reflection in the handheld mirror you kept stashed beneath the counter. That I’d seen you braid and unbraid your hair at least five times, and reapply that silly lip gloss.

  If only you’d known that it wasn’t solely your looks that I found attractive, but also your solitude, your uniqueness, your earnest efforts, and your desire to be understood.

  I wanted to understand you. I was pretty sure I already did. I couldn’t wait to find out.