Deadly Little Lessons (12 page)

A
CLUNKING SOUND ROUSES ME
. I whisper Ben’s name and reach out to touch him, opening my eyes, startled to find Wes’s sweatshirt scrunched up beside me. I’ve been using it as a pillow.

And that’s when I realize that Ben isn’t here. He was part of a dream. It was Wes who fell asleep in my bed last night, but now he’s gone.

I roll over and start to sit up, hearing a gasp escape from my throat. Sitting across from me, at my desk, is Adam.

Adam.

“Am I still dreaming?” I ask, wondering how this can be real, if maybe he’ll vanish in a couple of blinks.

“If I were part of a dream, don’t you think I’d be wearing nicer clothes?”

I gaze at his long-sleeved T with tattered sleeves and his sweatpants with a hole in the knee.

Adam flashes me a tiny smile, and I want to smile back. But I’m too busy worrying he might’ve heard me whisper Ben’s name just now.

“I left my apartment right after talking to Wes,” he explains.

I glance at the clock; it’s a little after one in the afternoon. I missed my studio class. Adam’s missed his shift at work. If he doesn’t leave soon, he’ll miss his night classes as well.

And for what?

“Adam, I feel awful. You didn’t have to come all this way. I mean, what did Wes
say
to you?”

Adam comes and sits beside me on the bed. “First of all, don’t be mad at Wes. When I called this morning, he said that you were sleeping in because you’d had a rough night.”

“And ‘a rough night’ brought you here?”

“Okay, so he might’ve also mentioned something about a nervous breakdown. But, like I said, don’t be mad. It took a bit of prodding—not to mention some serious negotiating—to get the information out of him.”

“Negotiating?”

“Kidding, of course.” He smirks. “Wes can’t be bribed.”

“Well, thanks,” I say, still feeling awkward. “For coming all this way, I mean.”

“I must say, I was a bit surprised when Wes answered your phone.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “I didn’t even know he was doing this summer program with you, and then, when he admitted to having fallen asleep in your bed…”

“You can’t honestly tell me you’re jealous of Wes.”

“Okay, so maybe not.” He takes my hand. “But only because I
do
trust you. Completely.”

“I can’t even believe you came here,” I say, shaking my head. His kindness is almost too much to bear.

“Are you kidding?” he says, squeezing my hand; his face is all aglow. “I’d drive cross-country for you.”

I swallow hard and look away, not quite sure that I deserve his trust, and relieved that it doesn’t seem he heard me whisper Ben’s name.

“Let’s go somewhere,” he suggests. “I’ll take you to lunch. Or, in this case”—he checks his watch—“how about breakfast?”

“I’m not really hungry,” I say. “But maybe we could talk?”

“Sure.”

“How much did Wes tell you?”

Adam reaches into his backpack and pulls out a bag from the Press & Grind. “Wes just said that you were probably homesick, which is why I thought I’d bring along a piece of home.”

I peek inside the bag, spotting a triple-fudge brownie. “You’re so sweet, you know that?”

“I have no doubt that you’d do the same for me.”

I try to smile, thinking how unbelievably lucky I am.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” he asks. “Because I have a feeling it’s not just a campy case of homesickness, especially since you’ve barely been gone for twenty-four hours.”

“Not just homesick,” I admit.

“So, is it the whole adoption thing again? Or are you still feeling paranoid that you’ll end up like your aunt?” His tone is soft, but his words hit hard.

“Paranoid?”

“You know what I mean.” He flashes me a smile.

“I had another psychometric episode,” I say, deciding to switch topics. “The stuff I’ve been sensing revolves around a girl named Sasha Beckerman. She’s been missing for months now, and a lot of people think she ran away.”

“Wait—is that the girl I’ve been hearing about on the news?”

“It is,” I say, curious as to whether he knows that she’s from Rhode Island.

“Why are you sensing stuff about
her
?”

“Because Sasha was adopted, too.… At least, I think that’s why. As soon as I started researching her case, I felt an instant connection.”

“Don’t you feel you have enough going on without worrying about some girl that the FBI is already looking for?”

“And what if I’d had that same attitude a few months ago, when it was your life that was in danger?”

Adam lets out a giant breath. “Okay, so what can I do to help?”

“Let’s talk about it later,” I say, feeling slightly reassured by his words, even though I can see the conflict in his eyes. I know he wants things to go back to the way they were before. What I wouldn’t give for that, too.

I pull him a little closer, so that his face is within kissing distance. Adam’s deep brown eyes are wide and unblinking as I press my lips against his mouth, hoping for a little normalcy.

My mouth smears against his as I silently remind myself how thoughtful he was to come all this way. Adam is everything any girl would ever want.

He starts to relax. His hands move over my hips as he leans back, pulling me on top of him.

I try to relax as well—to savor his kiss and enjoy the warmth of his touch. But I can’t get my brain to shut off. I can’t seem to stop asking myself questions and punishing myself for not being into the moment. And so I end up pulling away.

“Is something wrong?” Adam asks.

“I’m sorry,” I say, hating myself. “I guess I’m a little distracted.”

“You
guess
?” He sits up.

I shake my head, knowing he’s right to feel frustrated. “I realize I’m sending mixed messages.”

“Yes, but
why
?”

“There’s just so much going on for me right now,” I say, getting emotional all over again.

But this time, Adam doesn’t ask me about it, and I can’t really say I blame him. We remain seated on the bed, angled toward opposite sides of the room, not uttering a single word. If a psychologist were to come and evaluate our relationship based on our body language, we’d seriously be doomed.

“I should go,” he says, after what feels like hours. “You’ll probably want to get to class.”

I nod, even though my theory class started an hour ago and I really don’t feel like showing up late, especially since it meets for only ninety minutes.

I walk him to the door and we exchange a peck on the lips. I lean in for a hug, but I barely get a pat on the back. I want to tell him again how sorry I am, but I can’t quite find the words. They all suddenly seem so inadequate.

“Thanks again for coming all this way,” I tell him. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay a bit, get some brunch, talk some more?”

“I’ll call you later,” he says, stepping out into the hallway. Understandably, he wants to leave.

And, as disappointed as I feel, part of me is relieved to see him go.

A
FTER ADAM LEAVES
, I feel sick to my stomach, as if I’ve made a big mistake and I’m the most ungrateful person on the entire planet (not to mention the most stupid). I consider calling and asking him to come back, but instead I sink down to the floor, unsure of what I could possibly do or say that would make it all better. I can’t pretend that I’m over the issues with my family and that everything is fine.

The phone vibrates against my desk, but I don’t get up. I always thought that things between Adam and me would forever be black and white—the opposite of my experience with Ben. But in fact, I have no idea what just happened, or what it means, or what I’m going to do.

Meanwhile, the phone continues to vibrate. I force myself up to answer it.

“Where are you?” a male voice asks.

I check the caller ID. “Spencer?”

“You missed your classes, didn’t you? And on the first day?” He tsk-tsks.

“Wait, how do you know that I missed them?” I peek out the window.

“Let’s just say that I have my connections,” he says, in a tone that’s sharp and accusing. “And my connections tell me that you didn’t show up.”

“Were you checking up on me?” Spencer, as I’m learning more and more, is pretty well connected within the sculpture community. “Do you know one of the instructors here? Am I in big trouble?”

“Artists don’t get mad, they get even.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fix it,” he snaps.

“How? I overslept.”

“Don’t you realize what an opportunity it is you’re blowing?
Fix it
.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then don’t come back to work.”

My mouth falls open; I’m completely taken aback. “You can’t be serious.”

“You’re right.” He sighs. His tone softens slightly, “I’m not. I need you for my boob mugs.”

“Is that all I’m good for?” I attempt to joke. “Glazing and firing tacky pottery crap?”

“Don’t blow this, Camelia. Promise me.”

“I won’t,” I assure him.

“Good,” he says, hanging up before I can say good-bye.

I splash some water on my face, leave a message for my parents that Wes is here and that I’m adapting as well as I can, and then head out to find the 3-D studio building where I was supposed to have my morning class.

When I get there and walk in, I discover it to be even more amazing than the photos online depicted it: high ceilings, pottery wheels galore, extruders and slab rollers, shelving packed with tons of tools, and not one but
three
kiln rooms. There are several students working inside the studio, a couple of whom I recognize from the orientation festivities.

“Hey,” I say to one of them, hoping she can fill me in on what I missed. “I think I met you yesterday?”

“Right,” she says, stepping away from her sculpture—a wide-rimmed bowl that looks like someone punched it at the base (but in a good way). The sides fold slightly inward, reminding me of ribbon candy. “I’m Ingrid.” She extends her hand for a shake, but then realizes it’s covered in clay, and ends up wiping it on the front of her apron instead.

“Camelia,” I say, proceeding to explain that I overslept and missed the morning studio.

“And you don’t have an alarm clock?” She gives me a pointed look. “Because you
do
realize you missed Chaste effing DeLande, don’t you?”

“
Who
?” I ask. Maybe I didn’t hear her right.

Ingrid looks at me as if I’m speaking another language, her amber eyes magnified behind a pair of square black glasses. “He’s the master sculptor…the visiting artist,” she explains. “
The Black Diamond Lady
,
Crystals in Winter
Snow
…”

“Oh, right,” I say, suddenly remembering having seen his name on the Sumner Intensive Web site. “And are those the names of his pieces?”

She pauses in disbelief. “His work sells for six figures in some of the most exclusive art galleries in the country…to people like the Obamas. He gets commissioned to do installations all over the world.”

“Wow,” I say, realizing how ignorant I must sound.

“His promise to make spontaneous visits to campus this summer quadrupled the number of sculpture applicants, you know. Anyway, bummer for you that you missed him.”

“Yeah,” I say, more eager than ever to redeem myself. “So, is that something from class you’re working on?” I gaze at her piece again, trying to imagine what the assignment might’ve been…obviously, something on the wheel.

“This isn’t high school, Caroline. You don’t need to be told what to do.”

“Camelia,” I say, correcting her.

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes.

I turn my back, trying not to let her snooty attitude get the best of me.

Falling in line with the other students in the studio, who, like Ingrid, seem to have made themselves at home working on their various projects, I pick a spot in a corner of the room, slice myself a thick hunk of clay from the plethora of bagfuls, and wedge it out against my board.

Ingrid shoots me a dirty look with each thwack, bang, and slam of my clay, as if I’m disturbing her concentration.
Bonus
.

I glance around to see if I might be bothering any of the other students. But luckily, they seem too engrossed to care. Perhaps they missed the morning class, too, and are scrambling to catch up. Or, more likely, they’re really into sculpture, as I’m supposed to be. As I’ve actually always been. But it’s so much harder now that pottery—something I truly love—is tied to my touch power, which is something that’s easy to hate.

I close my eyes, able to hear Sasha’s whimper. It hasn’t left me yet. Who knows if it ever will?

My clay all wedged out, I spend several minutes running my fingers over the mound and smoothing every crack. Images of all sorts start flying across my brain, but one particular image stands out brighter than the others. And so I start to sculpt it.

I concentrate as my fingers get to work, but with each stroke and pinch of clay, Sasha’s crying gets louder and more insistent. I breathe through it, hoping her cries will dissipate, especially since I’m not alone.

But then I hear something else. A musical tune: a high-pitched chiming that I don’t recognize.

I open my eyes and survey the other students to see if they’ve noticed how tormented I must look. One boy, sitting across from me, stares in my direction. His mouth is moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.

“What?” I ask, but I don’t hear my own voice. The crying is shrill inside my head, creating a gnawing ache.

I stand up and take a step back. My forehead is sweating. My heart palpitates. I poke my clay-covered fingers deep inside my ears. Meanwhile, the music continues, too. It plays just behind the crying—a childlike tune with a repeating melody. I listen hard, trying to determine whether there’s a message in the song.

But then I notice Ingrid. She’s staring at me as if I’m a full-on freak. Her gaze travels upward, as though looking at someone behind me. I turn to find an older man—maybe in his sixties—standing there, shaking his head at the sight of my work. His lips are moving, but the only voice I hear is Sasha’s. She’s saying actual words again, wailing for me to hear her, for me to help her, for me to bring her out of the darkness.

“How?” I ask, without even thinking, still covering my ears, no longer able to hear the music.

The man continues to try to talk to me. The creases in his forehead deepen, and the corners of his mouth have turned downward.

My stomach lurches; bile burns at the back of my throat. I take a deep breath and tell the voice to quiet down, not sure if I’ve actually said the words out loud. Finally, I take my fingers out of my ears.

The man, most likely my instructor, points to the door, but I’m suddenly starting to feel better. Sasha’s voice has weakened, and I’m able to hear other noises: the humming of overhead fans, someone mowing the lawn outside, and water dripping in the sink.

I look down at my sculpture, almost surprised by what I see: a clay frog, sitting inside a box. A rectangular slab, which I assume is the lid, lies beside it.

“Are you in need of medical attention?” the man asks.

“Professor Barnes?” I say, remembering the name on my schedule. “I mean, are you…” The remaining words in my mouth freeze, as does my entire body.

“Are you in need of medical attention?” he repeats, though his face shows irritation rather than concern.

“No. I just…I get a little carried away with my work sometimes.”

“Carried away?” he says, clearly skeptical. “First you don’t show up to class, and then you swagger in here at your leisure, and get
carried away
with the college’s supplies.…”

I look back down at my sculpture, feeling my face flash hot. The boy across from me has paused at his work. Ingrid’s vase looks even better than mere moments ago, the lips opening up like tulip petals. Another girl, sitting a few stations down, uses a hammer and chisel on a hunk of oak, sculpting what appears to be a seashell from the wood. Meanwhile, my pieces look like something from one of Spencer’s small-fry classes.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper.

“With all due respect,” he says, softening slightly, “this is a serious place with serious students. If you want theatrics, then I suggest you check out the drama department.”

Ingrid laughs.

“I
am
serious,” I say, knowing how ridiculous I must sound. But instead of fighting back harder, I merely walk out of the room, knowing that he’s right. I
am
a distraction, and for that reason I don’t belong here.