Deadly Little Lies Read online

  I’m just about to go inside, when I spot a moving shadow near the driveway. “Hello?” I call out, pausing just a couple yards from the front door. I look toward the motion-detector light, trying to reassure myself. If someone was there, it’d definitely go on.

  But no one answers and I don’t hear anything.

  I move a couple steps closer to the door. At the same moment, the shadow moves from behind my mom’s car. I can see it clearly now, a narrow strip of darkness that grows wider with each step, until he’s only a couple feet away.

  Ben.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  Dressed in layers of charcoal and navy, his hair is tousled and windblown and his dark gray eyes are urgent and needy.

  “I was just riding around.” He motions to his bike parked across the street several houses down. “And I wanted to see you. I thought I’d return that sweatshirt of yours.”

  “You were supposed to leave it for me at school.”

  “Oh, right,” he says, as if just remembering. “I did leave it there. I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  I shake my head, completely confused, especially since I didn’t see my sweatshirt in homeroom this morning.

  “So, I just kind of wanted to check on you,” he says, suddenly abandoning his excuse.

  “What for?” I look over my shoulder at the outside light by the door, knowing that my parents are probably waiting up for me.

  “Were you out with that guy again?”

  “Do you honestly believe that you have any right to ask me that?”

  “He didn’t even walk you to the door,” Ben says, coming closer. His pale smooth skin is like a slice of moonlight.

  “He doesn’t exactly skulk around my house either.”

  Ben’s eyes lock on mine. “I’m not skulking,” he says.

  “Then what do you call it?” I ask. “Hanging around my house at night, where no one can see you?”

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” he says.

  “Then why didn’t you ring the doorbell?”

  He gestures to my bedroom window, where the shade’s drawn. “I knew you weren’t home. The light’s been out all night.”

  “You should go,” I say, wondering how long he’s been out here waiting for me.

  “Is that really what you want?” He steps even closer, so that our faces are only inches apart. I can smell the motorcycle fumes on his clothes.

  “You have no right to come here,” I snap. “You have no right to sneak up on me, or ask me about other guys.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. Just say you want me to leave, and I’ll go.”

  “I want you to leave,” I say, hearing the quiver in my voice.

  Still he doesn’t move. Instead he touches me. His thigh grazes my leg as if by accident. I close my eyes, feeling an electric current pulse through my veins.

  “Are you sure you want me to go?” he whispers into my ear.

  “Yes,” I lie, almost tempted to touch his shoulder, to rest my head against his chest, and then to kiss him until my lips ache.

  His thigh still pressed against my leg—our only point of physical contact—I want more than anything to draw him even closer, to feel the heat of his body pressed against mine. Kiss me, I scream inside my head. His mouth is just millimeters from brushing against my cheek. I can feel his breath, a slow and rhythmic pant.

  “I just wanted to check on you,” he says again.

  Despite the chill in the air, I can feel perspiration beading up at the back of my neck. I’m half-tempted to tear off my coat, to snake my arms underneath his jacket, and feel his pulse on my skin.

  I open my eyes finally, while his remain closed. “Why did you want to check on me?” I ask. “Is there something wrong?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Ben?”

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he says. At least I think that’s what he said. His voice is barely above a whisper.

  Part of me wants to say that I miss him too, but instead I tell him that I should go in. “My parents will be wondering where I am.” I take a reluctant step back, just leaving him there.

  “Good night,” he says, looking back at his bike so I can’t see his disappointment.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and moves toward the street until I can no longer see him. There’s just a shadow against the pavement now.

  And an aching deep inside me.

  45

  Once inside the house, I press my back up against the door and remind myself to breathe.

  “That must have been some date,” Mom says, noticing the flushing of my cheeks, or how I can barely stand straight. “Well?” she asks.

  “Good,” I say, suddenly realizing that the answer doesn’t even fit.

  “You really like this boy, don’t you?” she asks.

  “I’d take that as a yes,” Dad says, studying my expression.

  “So, tell us about him,” she insists.

  I nod, trying to gain full composure, to stop the well of tears I feel filling up behind my eyes. “He’s nice,” I say, reluctant to tell them about Ben.

  “How nice?” Mom asks.

  I take a seat opposite them on the sofa, fully aware that my legs are still shaking. I glance toward the living room window, wondering if Ben’s still outside. I haven’t heard his motorcycle start up yet.

  “Camelia?” Mom pushes.

  “He listens when I talk,” I say finally. “He seems genuinely interested in what I do. He’s respectful during our time together—”

  “Well, he sounds pretty perfect,” Dad says.

  “Are you sure that you don’t want to date him?” Mom asks him.

  “That depends. Is he a vegan, vegetarian, raw foodist, fruititarian, macro-bi-whatever, or a combination of any of the above?”

  “I don’t believe so,” I say, eager to get away.

  “Well then, I just might be tempted,” he jokes.

  But Mom seems in a far less joking mood. “I have to go out of town for a couple days,” she says, pulling the plug on any possibility of humor. “I’ve decided to go meet with Aunt Alexia and her doctor. They’re in Detroit.”

  “And just when were you planning on telling me this?” Dad asks.

  “I told you before, and now I’m telling you again.”

  “You didn’t tell me they were in Detroit.”

  “Well, they are,” she says, defensive. She moves to the window, her back turned toward him. “And they want me to come as soon as possible.”

  “And when’s that?” he asks. “I’ll need to ask for the time off from work.”

  “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “I want to come with you.” He crosses the room and forces her to face him.

  It takes some prodding, but after a few moments, she wilts into his embrace, making my heart tighten and my eyes well with tears.

  Still, I have to wonder, if they go to Detroit together, who will stay with me?

  I turn away and head down to my studio. My horse-in-progress is sitting on the worktable. I remove the plastic covering and close my eyes. The image of the horse resurfaces in my mind’s eye like a model of sorts. I peel off my coat and get to work, somehow still able to feel the heat of Ben’s thigh pressed against my leg.

  I breathe through the sensation, trying to keep focused on my sculpture. I work diligently on the horse’s front legs in their kicked-up position. Then I run my sponge over the horse’s back, admiring the silvery clay color and the smooth texture of the horse’s coat.

  Several hours later, even after my dad comes down and tells me to get to bed, I remain glued to my worktable. My fingers turn waterlogged as I create the curves of the body and the muscles in the hind legs. The horse’s tail whips out, as if entangled in the wind. Meanwhile, its eyes are wild, like he wants to run free.

  Once finished, I take a step back to inspect my work. About fourteen inche
s high, the horse is exactly as I pictured, exactly as it should be.

  I close my eyes, still able to see the horse’s image inside my head. And still able to hear Ben’s voice from tonight. When he told me how much he misses me.

  46

  May 25, 1984

  Dear Diary,

  I haven’t done art in a couple months. And my life has never been emptier. I thought it would’ve made things easier, but instead I feel even more alone than ever.

  Alexia

  47

  The following day at lunch, Kimmie, Wes, and I try our best to digest the swill du jour— something the cooks have curiously dubbed Mexican Extravaganza—made with red beans, rice pilaf, and what appears to be chunks of albacore tuna.

  “Heinous,” Wes says, throwing his fork down.

  “Seriously, is this horse meat?” Kimmie inspects a suspicious tan glob on her fork.

  “Speaking of horses,” I begin, “I’ve decided to give my latest sculpture to Ben.”

  “No way,” she squawks. “Adam is the one who made you that stick-figure pottery studio thingamajig. Now it’s time for you to reciprocate with something crafty.”

  “Though, personally I’d have sculpted something sexier,” Wes adds.

  “Like what, a banana?” she asks, referring to the enthusiasm with which Wes is eating his. He practically engulfs the phallic fruit in two bites flat.

  “As long as it comes with a peel,” he jokes. “It’s always best to play it safe.”

  “I’m giving Ben the sculpture because he’s the one who helped inspire the piece,” I explain.

  “Because he reminds you of a horse?” Kimmie asks, almost spitting out a mouthful of milk.

  “Impressive,” Wes says, shifting uneasily in his seat.

  “Because I was almost afraid to finish the piece,” I correct them, “but he encouraged me to go with my impulse. To not overanalyze things.”

  “I like the horse analogy better.”

  “I saw him last night, by the way. He was at my house when Adam dropped me off.”

  “And?” She perks.

  “And it’s time we ended things.”

  “Again?” Wes raises an eyebrow in curiosity.

  “What he means to say is, haven’t you guys ended things, like, thirty times at least?” Kimmie asks.

  “But this time I mean it.”

  “As opposed to the other twenty-nine times.” She rolls her eyes, the lids highlighted by a dark purple color that reminds me of prunes.

  “Adam said he wants to meet him,” I venture, eager for their opinion.

  “Him, as in Ben?” Kimmie asks.

  “The one and only.”

  “Well, you can’t exactly blame the guy,” Wes says. “I suppose I’d want to size up the competition too.”

  “I’m not even sure he was serious,” I say. “I mean, the idea of it is just too weird.”

  “No,” Wes argues. “What’s weird is that a guy who supposedly wants nothing more to do with you—who won’t even shake your hand or talk to you in the hallway at school—keeps calling you and showing up at your house.”

  “Not to mention trying to come up with bogus reasons to see you,” Kimmie adds, referring to my sweatshirt, which I’ve yet to see in homeroom, even though Ben claims to have left it there.

  “Ben said he came by because he wanted to check up on me,” I explain.

  “What for?” Kimmie asks.

  I shake my head, wishing I had an answer.

  “Well, it could be either one of two possibilities,” she continues. “He either A) sensed something shady when he touched you the last time, or B) still has the hots for you and wants to ‘check on’ how things are going between you and Adam.”

  “Yes, but if it’s option A, then why wouldn’t he tell me?”

  “That’s why my vote’s on B,” she says.

  “Why don’t you simply ask him?” Wes asks, gesturing to the juice machine.

  Ben is standing there. He grabs his juice can from the dispenser and then pauses a moment to stare back at me.

  “I thought Touch Boy avoided the cafeteria at lunch,” Kimmie says.

  “He does,” I whisper, feeling a pummeling sensation inside my gut. “At least, he used to.”

  “He looks fine,” Kimmie says, drawing the adjective out for three full syllables. She lowers her cat’s-eye-shaped glasses to glare at him over the rims.

  Ben continues to stare at me, making my palms sweat and my pulse quicken.

  “He must be checking up on you again,” she says with a wink.

  “Could be,” Wes agrees. “It could be sort of like what happened with me and Wendy. Even after I called it quits with her, I still wanted to know what she was up to.”

  “Are you seriously kidding me?” Kimmie’s face goes deadpan. “You broke things off with Wendy because you were too cheap to continue paying her.”

  “But I still wonder how she’s doing.”

  “Yes, but the difference is you don’t continue to call her, to show up at her house, or to peep through her windows . . . or do you?”

  “Negative.” He lets out an exhaustive sigh. “I’m so boring and predictable.”

  “No, what you are is stylistically challenged.” She zeros in on his sweater. “I mean, seriously, is that a Chia Pet on your chest?”

  “It’s called mohair.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t simply add water and sit out in the sun?”

  “Like you can talk.” He gestures to her black-and-white-striped jumper with tights to match. “What do you call that . . . ‘Inspired by Zebras’?”

  “More like prison inmates.” She rolls up a sleeve to reveal a barbed-wire tattoo. “It’s fake. At least for now.” The tattoo snakes up her arm and twists around her neck. “I thought I’d take advantage of my hickey by making myself look really trashy. I call the look ‘schoolgirl gone bad.’”

  “Why don’t you just call it ‘Kimmie’?” he asks.

  While they continue to bicker, I try my hardest not to keep eyeballing Ben. He’s taken a seat at a table in the corner.

  “Fear not,” Kimmie says, snapping me to attention. “Ben is so obviously on the brink of coming around. I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks you back by the end of the week.”

  “It’s over,” I remind her. “Which is why I’m giving him my horse sculpture. It’s sort of my good-bye gift.”

  “No offense,” Wes says, trying to swallow down a chunk of tuna, “but a pound of chocolates might be a better idea.”

  48

  After school, Mom asks if I want to make brownies with her. “We haven’t made anything together in over a week,” she says.

  “Sure,” I say, suddenly suspicious, especially since she’s suggesting that we actually use the stove. I pull up a stool and load the food processor with the ingredients she’s set out. Meanwhile, Mom melts the vegan chocolate using a double boiler.

  She prattles on about our plans for the summer and how she’d like us to tour some of the colleges I’m interested in—and then she finally gets to the point: “Your father and I are leaving to visit Aunt Alexia,” she says, looking up from the stove. “At least, if you’re okay with it, we are.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning, first thing. I know it’s quick, but it’ll only be for a couple days. It’s just that the timing seems to work best for us. Aunt Alexia’s therapist thinks the sooner we get there, the better.”

  “Because she might try something again?” I ask.

  “Because she’s willing to talk now. She’s starting to open up about family stuff—stuff from our childhood— and she wants me there to discuss some of those things.”

  “You still feel guilty about her, don’t you?”

  She touches the monogrammed “Jilly” necklace around her neck—the one that Aunt Alexia gave her. “I just wish I’d done more to defend her, growing up. Your grandmother wasn’t exactly kind to Alexia. And I didn’t do much to make things better.”
>
  “I’m sure you did more than you think.”

  “Well, I know I did one thing.” She smiles. “Did I ever tell you the reason I became a vegan?”

  “Becaue of Aunt Alexia?”

  “It’s true. I thought it would be a surefire way to get your grandmother’s anger focused on me, by being super picky about what I ate.”

  “And now Dad and I have to pay the consequences.”

  She laughs. “Who could go back to eating animal products after all that? In some weird way I thought that eating ‘normally’ again would be like turning my back on Alexia. I know it sounds ridiculous.” Her face blushes. “After a while, the diet just stuck.”

  “Lucky us.”

  “You bet it is.” She licks her finger of wannabe-chocolate. “Anyway, this trip is important. It’s as if Alexia finally wants to get to the root of some of her problems.”

  “That’s great,” I say, trying to be positive.

  “It really is. For a little while there, I thought things were just getting worse. She was talking about feeling alone and hearing voices.”

  “Hearing voices?” I ask, nearly dropping my spoon.

  She nods. “I think I mentioned to you before that I didn’t think she was doing so great. She kept talking so much about having voices stuck inside her head.”

  “What kind of voices?”

  “Even she doesn’t know exactly. She says they’re from the future, though we’re not really sure what that means.”

  “What does her therapist think it means?”

  “I don’t think she understands what’s happening, from what I can tell. But she hasn’t been diagnosed with schizophrenia. . . .”

  “So, what has she been diagnosed with?”

  “Nothing yet. But for now, just agreeing to meet like this is a real step in the right direction. Do you want a taste, honey?” She dips a wooden spoon into the chocolate.

  I shake my head, having completely lost my appetite.

  “Well, if you change your mind about us going away, I can still back out,” she continues. “It’s just that if I don’t go now, she might not be so willing to discuss this stuff later. It’s one of those strike-while-the-iron’s-hot kind of things.”