Deadly Little Secret Part 22

With a pillow clutched over her middle, my mother told me that Aunt Alexia tried to kill herself again (for the fourth time, to be exact).

"Is she going to be all right?"

Instead of answering, Mom started crying, and so dad scooped her up and carried her off to their bedroom.

And meanwhile I went off to mine.

I roll over in bed, looking for my stuffed polar bear, but it isn't burrowed under my covers or stashed under my mound of pillows. I let out a sigh and gaze toward the window.

The moon is swollen and stirring tonight-just like me. My body feels bruised, and I can't seem to stifle this tugging sensation inside me. I pull the covers up to my chin only to find that they make me feel smothered. And so I sit up in bed, wishing I were outside, to feel the velvety night air over my skin and allow its darkness to swallow me whole.

I look toward my bedroom door. My mother is still sobbing-I can hear her in the bedroom across the hall. I can hear my dad, too. He tells her everything will be okay. I wonder if he really believes it.

The moon casts a strip of light across my bed, cutting it in two. Slowly I get up and move to the window. I pull up the screen, and a salty breeze blows through, smelling like the sea, reminding me of Ben.

I grab my cell phone and start to call him, but I'm still not getting a signal, and so, without even thinking, I reach for my jacket and crawl outside, hoping that will make a difference. Finally, the call goes through.

"Camelia?" He answers on the first ring.

Standing at the front of my house, I clutch the phone against my ear, not even knowing what to say.

"Where are you?" he asks, not even asking for explanation.

"Outside," I reply, trying to be mysterious. The light of the moon illuminates a puddle on the street. "And you?"

"Same," he whispers.

"For real?"

"I couldn't sleep. I needed some air."

My pulse quickens, and my blood stirs. It feels like there's a fire inside me. I look back toward my bedroom window, unwilling to go in just yet. "Will you come get me?" I ask.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

"Really?"

"Really," he says, "because I'm already on my way."

He clicks the phone off. A few minutes later, I hear the sound of his motorcycle from several streets away. It moves closer, getting louder and filling my head with a numbing buzz.

I walk to the edge of the street, finally able to see him. He pulls over, hands me his helmet, and tells me to hop on.

44.

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 cla.s.ses, 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 a.s.sessment."

"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.