Deadly Little Lessons (Touch) Read online

  We spend the next several minutes discussing the idea more, including the pros and cons of various programs, as well as their geographical benefits (i.e., powdery beach sand versus being close enough that Adam can visit).

  “Do you think your parents will be supportive?” Spencer asks.

  “Honestly, they have no right not to be.” For all I know, they may actually welcome the idea of my being away. It might actually benefit us all.

  “Anything you want to talk about?” Spencer asks. “No more bouts of temporary insanity, I hope.”

  “No,” I say, fully aware that he’s alluding to what happened at the studio a few months back. While working on a sculpture here, I had a major psychometric premonition that included both visions and voices. The result wasn’t pretty, and involved my being pinned to the floor by a group of EMTs and jabbed in the leg with a sedative.

  Spencer saw the whole thing. But oddly enough, we haven’t really talked about it, so he thinks it was just a seizure.

  “So here’s what I need you to do for me today,” Spencer begins.

  “I kind of thought I was here to fix my project.”

  “Yeah, right.” He laughs, looking down at my pathetic sculpture. “Give me a hand—literally.” He plops a wad of clay in front of me. “In addition to busts, I need various body parts for this class. Think you can mold me one?”

  “No sweat,” I say, happy to abandon my work-in-progress—for now, anyway.

  While Spencer goes into his office to make a phone call, I wedge out my clay, taking note of my knuckles and joints in preparation for my sculpture. And then I begin to form the shape, beginning with the wrist.

  A couple of seconds later, I’m interrupted by the sound of my cell phone ringing in my bag. I’m tempted to pick it up, suspecting it may be Adam, but since my fingers are thoroughly saturated with clay, I decide to let it go to voice mail.

  I close my eyes, trying my best to concentrate, even though part of me fears that I may have a psychometric episode (since I’m here at Knead rather than at home in the privacy of my own studio). I continue to work anyway, reassuring myself that my pottery has been premonition-free lately, and so have my dreams. The clay is silky-smooth against my waterlogged fingertips. I run my palms over the mound, thinking about Spencer’s suggestion that I get away.

  But then I hear someone crying.

  I look toward Spencer’s office, but the door is closed. Spencer’s in the kiln room. I can see him loading the kiln with pieces ready for firing. Still, the crying persists. (A female; I’m almost sure of it.) I close my eyes again and concentrate on my sculpture, assuming that the voice is in my head, and that this in fact is part of a premonition, but with each breath the crying gets softer and less urgent.

  “How’s it coming?” Spencer asks, stepping out of the kiln room.

  “Did you just hear something?” I ask.

  “Something like me loading the kiln with a bunch of tacky garden trolls?”

  “I guess,” I say, unwilling to get into it. Instead I look back down at my hand-in-progress, expecting to see a partially formed wrist.

  But instead I see the shape of the letter t: two intersecting tubes of clay stare up at me, confusing me, shocking me, making my heart beat fast.

  “Is everything okay?” Spencer asks. “No chance I’ll find you writhing around on the floor and moaning like a wounded cat?”

  I shake my head and roll the t up into a ball before he has a chance to see it. “I’ll be fine.” I do my best to form fingers from the mound of clay, but I can’t think straight. Meanwhile, the faraway whimper continues to play in my mind.

  LATER, AT HOME, still shaken up about the voice I heard at the pottery studio, I log on to my computer and do a search for the word psychometry, remembering a blog I cyberstumbled upon a few months back called Psychometrically Suzy.

  On her blog, Suzy talked about an incident in which she heard her father’s voice, long after he’d passed away, while touching an old hat that had belonged to him. There were a couple of similar entries—instances where she was able to touch an item and smell, see, or hear something from the past—but unfortunately, in none of the posts did she discuss how she coped or dealt with what was happening or how having a touch power affected her life and relationships.

  And right now I kind of need that. I need someone I can talk to, or at least read about, who understands, firsthand, what I’m going through, especially since Ben isn’t here.

  Not so surprisingly, there still isn’t too much else online about psychometry. I find a couple of sites dedicated to defining what it is, a site to help people develop their own touch powers, and another that says that those who possess extrasensory powers are doomed to the depths of hell. As if I needed hell on my plate in addition to everything else.

  I click on a blog entitled Touched, written by someone named Neal Moche. Since there are no pictures, nor any details about the author, my first thought is that it’s going to be a dud, but even so, I identify with it right away.

  There are pages and pages of entries. Some of them are locked, but a few are open, for anyone to read. And so I start with the one that was written yesterday.

  From the Journal of Neal Moche

  He’s here again, at the park. Three days in a row now. This is obviously his routine. He likes to come here on his coffee breaks, have a bite and get a smoke, and then go back to work two streets over.

  It feels weird keeping tabs on someone I don’t even know, some guy I’ve never met before, but psychometry does that to you. It gets you up close and personal in other people’s business whether you want it to or not.

  So far, I know what this guy drives (a Ford pickup with a dented fender); where he likes to hang out (here, Tidy’s Bar, and Village Billiards); and that he works in construction doing odd jobs.

  I almost wish that I didn’t know any of it, almost wish that I’d never made a pit stop here as I was passing through town, that I’d never accidentally brushed up against him in line that day and gotten that sudden shock. For the record, I haven’t sensed something that intense in months.

  We’d been standing in line at the pretzel cart. He stumbled back as he fished in his pocket. In doing so, he bumped into me, which isn’t easy. I always keep a good distance from people; I like my personal space and then some. But he managed to collide with me anyway, stepping right on my feet.

  That’s when I got dizzy. It’s also when I sensed his plans for later that day and found myself struggling to stay upright.

  He was going to head home, drink some more, and then smack his girlfriend across the face. I could see his finger marks on her skin. The image was fleeting, but I was able to see that she had blond hair, brown eyes, and a tattoo of a cross on her neck. Quite a bit of detail, but still not nearly enough to know who she was, or where to find her.

  After the guy stumbled, he looked at me and slurred out a “Sorry,” but an apology was the last thing on my mind, because there was so much more going on than what I’d sensed about his girlfriend.

  It’s hard to explain. I mean, I sense stuff all the time. As much as I try to avoid colliding with people, it happens. And every time I do, I see stuff that I’d rather not know about.

  But this was different—like a bolt of lightning striking inside my head, nearly knocking me to the ground. My pulse started racing and I felt my face flash hot, and in that moment, as screwed-up as it may sound, I almost felt as if we were supposed to bump into each other, as if it might somehow impact my life.

  “Don’t do it,” I told him, referring to his afternoon plans for his girlfriend. The response was more impulsive than smart.

  “Huh?” he asked. A goofy grin crossed his face.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I walked away, which got me a night full of restless sleep, unable to blot out those finger marks, and unable to stop myself from guessing the reason his touch had made me feel like that.

  I sink back in my seat, feeling chills run over my skin. Th
e author of this blog seems to know exactly how I feel—haunted, confused, alone, responsible. I search the page, curious about Neal’s contact info—if there might be a link to e-mail him or post a comment. But I don’t see either option.

  “Hey, there,” Dad says, poking his head into my room. “Do you have a minute?”

  I go offline just as he walks in.

  “Kimmie phoned while you were out,” he says, without waiting for my response. “She said she’d tried to get you on your cell, but that you didn’t pick up.”

  “Oh, right.” I nod, remembering the missed call at the studio. “I need to call her back.” As well as Adam and Wes. “Did she happen to also mention her internship in New York this summer?” I ask, wondering if I should broach the topic about going away.

  Dad barely shakes his head before taking a seat on my bed. “How did your appointment with Dr. Tylyn go?” he asks.

  “Fine. I mean, helpful. But, she didn’t seem at all surprised by the news.”

  “A good therapist never shows surprise.”

  “I guess,” I say, still suspecting there may be more to it than just a good poker face.

  “So, your mom and I have been discussing everything, and—”

  “Where is she?” I ask, cutting him off.

  “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. She’s at the hospital, visiting with Aunt Alexia.”

  “She isn’t going to tell her, is she?” I ask, trying to imagine what it might be like if Aunt Alexia knew that I knew the truth. How would it change things between us?

  “No. And we’d prefer it if you didn’t say anything to her, either. Your mom thinks it’d be too hard for Alexia, especially if she has somehow blocked it out.”

  “Too hard for her?” I ask, wondering how—or if—I even factor in to the equation.

  “It’s hard for us, too,” he says, looking down into his hands, perhaps wishing, like me, that things could go back to the way they were. “Anyway, it’s good that Dr. Tylyn knows the truth now. She’ll know what to do—how to use the information to help us get through this.” He looks up from his hands and gives me a tiny smile, but there’s zero happiness behind it. His eyes look strained and tired.

  I want to tell him that none of this even matters and that things will eventually return to normal. But I’m not sure if either of these things is true, which somehow feels worse than finding out about my birth.

  After he leaves the room, I start searching for summer intensive pottery programs, grateful for the distraction. Several pop up right away. I’m just about to check out the one at Savannah College of Art, remembering that Spencer recommended it. But something else catches my eye: the words Renowned Master Potter Chase DeLande to Lecture at Sumner’s Summer Intensive. I click on it and Sumner College’s pretty New England campus sprawls across the screen in full, sweeping color with the heading SUMMER INTENSIVES FOR HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS. I open up another browser window to do a separate Google search on the town of Peachtree, Rhode Island, where the college is located.

  A bunch of links pop up: news reports, cultural info, and event happenings. Both Peachtree and the program at Sumner appear to be rich in art and opportunity. But surprisingly, the link that catches my interest the most involves Sasha Beckerman, the girl who’s been missing.

  ACCORDING TO EVERYTHING I’ve researched online, Sasha was given up by her biological mother shortly after birth and adopted by the Beckerman family. Two parents, one cat, and thirteen built-in cousins.

  One particular Web site maps out Sasha’s life from childhood to present. She grew up the only child of John and Tracey, in a warm and loving home in Peachtree. Good in school, voted most valuable player in soccer, and a loyal member of the art club and contributor to the literary magazine, Sasha kept a tight network of friends. But once she reached her fifteenth birthday and learned the truth about her parents (like me, she discovered it by accident, when she found her birth certificate in her mother’s keepsake box), everything fell to pieces, including her picture-perfect life.

  I move my cursor up to the menu bar and click on the About Me link. It brings me to the bio page of the person who maintains the site. I recognize her right away: Sasha’s adoptive mother. I plug in my earbuds and click on a YouTube video Mrs. Beckerman has made, where she sits in front of the camera, urging anyone with details about the case to contact either her or the authorities. I stare into her pale blue eyes, wanting to know why she and her husband never told Sasha the truth about her birth. Were they concerned that Sasha wouldn’t love them anymore, or afraid that she’d want to find her biological parents?

  Mrs. Beckerman continues to speak to the camera, trying her best to be strong: “Please know that Sasha wasn’t some reckless teen who acted out in school or went to underground parties. She was angry at her father and me, which caused her to behave in a way that was out of character. Sasha distanced herself from family and friends, abandoned her studies, and went to places she normally wouldn’t have—and with people we didn’t know. Her father and I understand that anger, and we will have to live with the choices we made on her behalf.”

  I wonder if she thinks that Sasha’s already gone—if that’s why she speaks about her in the past tense. I grab a Twinkie from my stash in the drawer, flashing back to what Dr. Tylyn said earlier: that there’s no steadfast rule for when to tell your child that he or she’s been adopted.

  But does there ever come a point when it’s too late to tell them—when the truth is a legitimate betrayal?

  I spend the next hour eating junk food and learning more about Sasha, until she almost feels like a friend…or at least someone I already know. I read about the night that she disappeared. The people she was with claim to have been drinking. Supposedly, they don’t remember if she’d left the party with anyone, or what the guy she’d been talking to looked like. Why aren’t more people talking about him? Why is everyone just assuming that she ran off on her own?

  As if in reply, the answer pops up in a small-town newspaper article, the writer of which interviewed the two friends that Sasha went to the party with, both of whom agree that Sasha had been threatening to run away for weeks and had even boasted about having a bag packed. The suitcase the investigators found in her bedroom closet contained a couple of sweaters, some old books, a few pairs of sweats, and a handful of travel products.

  But if she really ran away, then why didn’t she take that suitcase?

  I play Mrs. Beckerman’s video again, muted this time, because I don’t want to be influenced by her words, by the cracking of her voice, or by the part at the end where she gets so emotional that her speech becomes almost too muddled to understand.

  Mrs. Beckerman’s face is creased with worry. There are times when she can’t even look at the camera—like she’s hiding something, or ashamed. By the end of the video, her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s huddling forward, curled up on the chair. She looks more like a little girl than like a parent.

  I glance at the clock again, startled to find that I’ve been researching Sasha’s case for more than two hours now. Clearly, what started out as a harmless distraction has turned into a time-sucking obsession, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to know more.

  I decide to head down to my studio in the basement, hopeful that I might have a Sasha-infused premonition. I know it’s a long shot. I know I’d probably need to go to her house and be among her surroundings to actually sense something significant. But still, I have to give my power a try.

  I’M ABOUT TO GO down to the basement when my phone rings. It’s Adam. “Hey,” I say, picking up right away.

  “Hey, stranger,” he answers back.

  “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Well, I’ve missed yours.”

  “I know. I’m sorry for not calling you last night, but I’m a total train wreck, complete with lack of sleep and junk-food binges.”

  “Just wait until your mom finds out,” he says.

  My mom i
s a hater of any food that hasn’t been picked from a tree, vine, or the earth. She’s therefore made it her mission in life to rid the world of junk food, one whoopie pie at a time. During freshman year, she started a petition at my school against the cafeteria’s serving of any foods that contained artificial additives, preservatives, sweeteners, or food colorings, or that were bleached, overly processed (according to her standards), or genetically modified. The petition stated that those who signed would be more than happy to pay extra (up to double) for lunch in exchange for “whole food.” The idea was a flop; she got only seventeen signatures.

  “Are you going to tell her about my stash of Oreos?” I ask him.

  “Only if you aren’t nice to me.”

  “Okay, but don’t feel too excluded, because I didn’t call Wes back, either.”

  “So, you’re an equal-opportunity callback offender.”

  “Something like that.” I smile.

  “Anyway, I was thinking that maybe we could go to that drive-in movie place over in Lawston. We had such a great time there the last time we went. I mean, I know it’s no carnival,” he attempts to joke. “But it still might be fun, unless you’d rather…” His voice trails off. He seems slightly nervous.

  I honestly can’t say I blame him, because my gut reaction is to give him a big fat no. I don’t want to pretend everything’s okay. I don’t want to have another carnival disaster.

  “Camelia?”

  It was just about a month ago that we went to that drive-in. It was John Hughes night, we saw a double feature of The Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles, and Adam did the best impression of Long Duk Dong I’d ever heard. I laughed so hard I snorted out my root beer. Without a doubt, it was the funniest and grossest night I’d had in a long time. But still… “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I tell him. “Only because we had so much fun the last time we went to that drive-in… I wouldn’t want to ruin the memory with my depressing present state.”