Deadly Little Secret (22 page)

I tell Ben to take us to Knead; it’s after hours, but I have the key. He pulls his bike around to the back, and I lead him to the rear entrance. “Are you sure this is okay?” he asks, sensing my mounting anxiety.

I nod, reminding myself that Spencer said I could come here anytime, that this is no big deal, and that we probably won’t stay for more than a few minutes.

My fingers shake just trying to get the key into the lock. Finally it clicks, and I open the door.

“Is that turpentine?” he asks, noticing the smell.

I nod and flick on the light, then proceed to give him the grand tour. I point out shelves full of paints, glazes, and greenware; bins full of slip, tools, and decals—probably explaining way more than he’s interested in. I’m just so completely nervous right now, just being here. Alone with him.

“Are you sure you won’t get in trouble?” he asks.

“I’m sure,” I say, leading him into the studio. The floor creaks beneath our steps.

“Well, then, can I see your stuff?”

I point out several bowls I’ve made as models for the classes, suddenly realizing how similar they all look—all versions of the same thing.

“And what are you working on now?” he asks.

I glance over at the tarp-covered piece that sits in the corner.

Ben follows my gaze, then goes over to look more closely. “This one?” he asks, trying to sneak a peek.

I nod, hesitant to show him, but then I lift off the plastic covering and remove the paper towels. The car-shaped piece sits slumped against the board, just as sad-looking as it was on the day I sculpted it. “It’s a work in progress,” I tell him.

“Cool.”

“Maybe. I’m not really sure what it is yet. I was kind of just going with my gut—if that makes any sense.”

“It actually makes perfect sense.” He spends several moments looking at it from different angles, as if he can see something I can’t. “It’s really something,” he says.

“Something,” I smile. “I think that would be a good assessment.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I venture to look at his face, conscious that there’s way more going on here than just my sucky sculpture.

Ben stares right back at me. His jaw tightens, and he presses his lips together. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I say, trying to stay composed.

“Why did you want me to pick you up? I mean, I’m glad you did, don’t get me wrong. I’m just curious.”

I cover my piece back up, not knowing how to answer.

“Did it have anything to do with your mom?” he asks.

“What about her?”

“I touched her, remember?”

My mind races as I imagine what he might know— that he was able to sense anything at all.

“There was an accident,” he continues. “It involved someone really close to your mom, like a sister or a close friend.”

“You were able to sense that from a handshake?”

“Am I right? Is she okay?”

“My mom or my aunt?”

“Both.”

I look down at my tarp-covered piece, thinking about the last time my mother was this depressed. “It seems my aunt will be okay. As for my mother, I honestly don’t know.”

“She needs to stop blaming herself for whatever happened. It wasn’t her fault.”

“Maybe you should take your own advice,” I say, looking back at him.

“Who says I blame myself?”

“I do. And I don’t even need to touch you to know it.”

“Maybe I just wish I could go back and make things right.”

“Will helping me make things right? Will it help ease some of the guilt?”

“It isn’t the only reason I want to help you. I mean, maybe it started out that way, but now, after getting to know you, I need to help you.”

“Really?” My voice is shaky.

“Really,” he says, moving closer. Our faces are just a kiss apart.

I try to touch his scar, but he pulls away before I can.

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning away so I can’t see his face or how runny his eyes look.

“Not all touch is bad, you know.” I open a box of fresh red clay, slice off a nice, thick chunk, and then set it down on a board in front of him.

“What’s that for?” he asks.

“You said you wanted to learn sculpture, didn’t you?”

Ben nods hesitantly and takes the hunk of clay. Slowly, he palms the surface, but it’s clear he doesn’t know what to do.

“It isn’t going to bite,” I say, filling a cup with some water from the sink. I dip a sponge inside the cup and then squeeze some droplets of water over his fingers to help him dampen the clay. “You’ll need to keep saturating your work so it doesn’t dry out.”

He pushes at the clay with his fingertips, but it’s almost as if he won’t let go—as if he’s holding a big part of himself back.

“Here,” I say, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. “Try to get into it.”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Maybe sculpture’s not my thing.”

“Just give it a chance.” I roll my sleeves up, too, and then gently place my hands over his. Ben flinches at first. The veins in his arms tense. But then I guide my fingers over his, helping him knead the clay. Together, we roll it out beneath our palms, and eventually his fingers relax.

Ben’s breath is slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying his best to concentrate.

“You won’t hurt me,” I say, sliding my hand up his forearm, then touching his scar. My fingers run over it, making the hairs on his arm pasty and wet.

Ben locks eyes with me.

“Is this too much?” I ask, conscious of my breathing, too, and how my heart is beating extra fast.

Ben opens his mouth to say something, but instead he stays quiet, allowing me to continue guiding his hands over the clay. Our fingers thread themselves together and push against the mound’s surface, creating notches and dents. After several minutes we sculpt what appears to be a pear-shaped pinecone.

“Not bad,” I say, noting the symmetry. “What do you think?”

Ben faces me. His eyes bore into mine, like he has something important to say.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did you sense something I should know about?”

He reaches out to touch me. His skin is moist and slippery against mine. “Shhh . . .” he says, concentrating. He glides his palms over my forearms and then snakes them up toward my shoulders, beneath my sleeves.

My pulse is racing. My stomach starts tumbling. Ben brushes his hand against my cheek.

I close my eyes and feel his fingers at the nape of my neck. He pulls me even closer, and my cheek touches his chin.

“Relax,” he whispers into my ear.

And then he kisses me. His clay-covered fingers slide up the back of my T-shirt, against my skin, and turn my insides to mush.

I cup Ben’s face in my hands and kiss him back, feeling his grip at my forearms again—the gritty feeling of his hands clenching at my wrists. “Is this getting too intense for you?” I ask, once the kiss breaks.

He shakes his head and slides our work board to the side, lifts me up and sits me down on top of the table. His waist presses against my thighs.

“Is this okay?” he whispers in my ear. His breath is hot and thick.

I manage a nod, and then we end up kissing for another full hour—until the clay dries up and dusts off our skin.

Until my head feels woozy and I can barely stand up straight.

45

After Ben drops me off, I lie awake in my bed, wondering if the night really happened or if it was just a dream.

I know that sounds sort of crazy, and normally I’d laugh if Kimmie or someone else said anything even remotely similar, but if it weren’t for the tingling that still lingers on my lips or the pure electric current pulsing through my veins, I’d swear tonight was one big fantasy created by my subconscious. That’s how amazing our evening was.

At the breakfast table, Dad is all pastry and orange juice. He’s got a whole spread going, complete with sugarcoated strawberries, gluten-containing fritters, and a store-bought coffee cake that lists partially hydrogenated oil as one of its key ingredients. He’s obviously trying to overcompensate for Mom’s absence this morning. She’s still in bed. When I passed by her room earlier, the covers were drawn up over her shoulders, and she refused to talk.

“She just needs a little space right now,” Dad says when I ask.

“What about work?”

He sits down across from me at the island and takes a sip of coffee. “Someone’s taking over her classes for the next couple of days.”

“For the next couple of days or the next couple of weeks?”

He gives me a sharp look, but instead of answering, he keeps things light by asking about the cafeteria food at school and then handing me an extra five bucks for lunch.

“So, what are we going to do about it?” I ask.

“About Mom?” he asks, like I need to clarify. “We’re going to give her a little space.”

“But what if she doesn’t
need
space?”

Dad clears his throat. “I know you mean well, but this is really between your mother and her sister.”

“Aunt Alexia,” I say correcting him, though it’s weird to even call her that. The last time I saw her was when I was in preschool—at least that’s what I’m told.

Dad clanks his mug against the granite counter in an effort to maintain his ground. “You really don’t know anything about it.”

“Well, I know that blaming yourself for stuff that happened forty years ago isn’t the answer, either. I mean, do you honestly think it’s Mom’s fault that Grandma hated Alexia so much?”

“That’s not why your mom blames herself.”

“I know,” I say, confident that it has more to do with the fact that, growing up, Mom did nothing to protect her little sister. According to Mom, Grandma treated Alexia with nothing but hatred, blaming Alexia’s birth for her husband’s leaving her. Meanwhile, my mom was loved and indulged, often as a way to make Alexia feel even more unwanted.

“It isn’t Mom’s fault that Aunt Alexia is having all these problems.”

“Shhh . . .” Dad gestures toward the hallway. Their bedroom door is open a crack. “I honestly don’t know what the answer is,” he says, lowering his voice.

“Me, neither, but I do know that living in the past only messes up your present. Mom needs to deal with her demons and move on and stop living a life of guilt.”

Dad smiles and stirs his coffee, even though it’s black. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” I say, thinking about Ben.

“So, how do we help her demon-deal?”

“For one, she needs to talk with her sister.”

“And for two, I need to make a little more time so that
we
can talk.” He clinks his mug against my juice glass. “I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied lately.”

“It’s okay,” I say, almost tempted to tell him everything that’s been going on.

Instead we make plans to talk over dinner—a long-overdue trip to Taco Bell for chips and chalupas—and then I head off to school.

It’s barely eight in the morning, and the hallways are already buzzing. I pass by the groups of cliques huddled in conversation, wondering what they’re talking about and why they’re staring right at me.

I see Matt at his locker, and he waves me over.

“What’s going on?” I ask, noticing Davis Miller standing with a bunch of his band cohorts. They point in my direction.

“Haven’t you heard?” Matt slams his locker door shut.

I shake my head, spotting a group of girls all teary-eyed in the corner. Senora Lynch is trying to console them.

“Debbie Marcus is in a coma,” he says. “It happened last night.”

“What?”

“It’s true. Apparently she was walking home—late, like around one thirty or two in the morning—and someone plowed right into her.”

“
Someone
, or a car?”

“A motorcycle, to be exact. At least that’s what everybody’s saying.”

“So, they think it was Ben.”

Matt shrugs. “Nobody else was after her.”

“Wait,” I say, shaking my head, knowing that it was around one or one thirty when Ben dropped me off at home. “Where did it happen?”

“Columbus Street—not far from your house. Why? Do you know something?”

“No,” I lie, feeling my neck get hot. I take a deep breath and peer down the hallway, catching at least six different cliques all looking this way. “What’s going on?”