Deadly Little Secret Part 23

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 pa.s.sed by her room earlier, the covers were drawn up over her shoulders, and she refused to talk.

"She just needs a little s.p.a.ce 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 cla.s.ses 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 s.p.a.ce."

"But what if she doesn't need need s.p.a.ce?" s.p.a.ce?"

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 we can talk." He clinks his mug against my juice gla.s.s. "I'm sorry I've been so preoccupied lately." can talk." He clinks his mug against my juice gla.s.s. "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 pa.s.s 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. "n.o.body 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?"

"They think you're next."

"What?" My heart clenches, and my head fuzzes over.

"Camelia?" Matt takes a step closer and touches my forearm. "Do you need to sit down?"

I shake my head, trying to get a grip.

"You can't honestly tell me you're surprised, can you?" he asks.

"I just don't understand."

"This is all just what I heard," he a.s.sures me. "But the police are questioning him now."

"Him, as in Ben?"

"Well . . . yeah." He bites the inside of his cheek, like he can see how bothered I am-and like that bothers him, too.

"How do they know it was a motorcycle?" I ask. "Did anyone see it happen?"

"She told the police it was a motorcycle," Kimmie says, inserting herself into our conversation. "She also said Ben's name right before she fell into the coma."

"What was she doing walking around by herself at that hour?" I ask.

"People are saying she was supposed to be sleeping at her friend Manda's house," Matt explains. "But apparently there was some drama, and so Debbie decided to walk home, since her house is only five minutes away."

I shake my head again, completely confused. "It just doesn't make sense. How did this happen?"

"I think the question we should be asking ourselves is: what are you you going to do about it?" Kimmie asks. going to do about it?" Kimmie asks.

"Me?"

"Well, um, h.e.l.lo, he's stalking you, too."

"We're just worried about you," Matt says. He exchanges a look with Kimmie, like they've obviously discussed my welfare.

"Ben's not the one stalking me."

"Oh, yeah, and who told you that?" Kimmie asks. "Ben?" "Ben?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," I tell her.

"No," she snaps. "You don't. I'm just trying to be a good friend-unlike you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

While Matt excuses himself, promising to talk to me later, Kimmie digs her fists deeper into the pockets of her dress.

"When was the last time you asked me about what I'm I'm feeling, or what's going on in feeling, or what's going on in my my life?" She continues by pointing out that I never inquired about the workshop she's applying to at the Fashion Inst.i.tute, and that I haven't shown even a speck of concern about what's going on inside her house. life?" She continues by pointing out that I never inquired about the workshop she's applying to at the Fashion Inst.i.tute, and that I haven't shown even a speck of concern about what's going on inside her house.

"You mean with your dad?" I ask, noticing the letter K K patched at the hem of her dress, along with a black lipstick smudge-her trademark logo. patched at the hem of her dress, along with a black lipstick smudge-her trademark logo.

"Well, yeah, with my dad," she snaps. "I mean, he's been acting all twenty-something-frat-boy lately, and you haven't even asked me about it. And it's not just me," she continues, without missing a breath. "You haven't been supportive of Wes, either."

"Wes?"

She nods. "How come you never offered to play girlfriend in front of his dad?"

"I don't know," I say, feeling my chin shake.

"I don't know, either." She sighs. "And I really don't feel like fighting with you anymore, especially about Ben."

"I've had a lot on my plate," I say in my own defense.

"Which is why I've been so patient with you. It's also why I've indulged you with all your Ben talk."

"You don't understand about Ben," I say. "He was able to sense that time I got lost in the second grade. Remember . . . at recess?"

"Are you seriously kidding me?" She rolls her eyes. "Everybody at that school knew you were lost-they announced it over the loudspeaker. You think it would be totally unheard of for him to find out? This is a small town, Camelia. People talk." at that school knew you were lost-they announced it over the loudspeaker. You think it would be totally unheard of for him to find out? This is a small town, Camelia. People talk."

I take a deep breath, my head spinning. It feels like I've been socked in the gut.

"Look," she continues, taking a step closer to meet my gaze, "I'm only going to say this once: I don't trust Ben. I don't trust the stories he's been feeding you. And neither does anyone else. One girl is dead, another is in a coma. What's going to happen to you?"

"I don't know," I whisper, feeling my eyes fill up, suddenly more afraid than ever.

"You need to talk to the police," she demands, handing me a tissue from the front of her dress. "Have you told your parents yet?"

"It isn't that easy."

"Of course not." Another eye roll.

"No," I say, blotting my eyes with the tissue, "you don't understand. I'm talking to my father tonight."

"Well, if you don't, I will-and that's a promise. You have until eight tonight to spill it."

"Kimmie, I'm sorry."

"I know," she says, finally cutting me an inch of slack. "If it were up to me, all boys would come with a label: Failure to take in small doses may result in irrational behavior, poor judgment, and estrangement from one's friends. Failure to take in small doses may result in irrational behavior, poor judgment, and estrangement from one's friends." And with that she turns on her heel and heads off to homeroom. The zigzag hem of her baby-doll dress flaps out behind her with posh precision, reminding me how truly talented she is.

And how completely out of the loop I've been.

46.

I got called into the guidance office today.

Ms. Beady acted as if it were just a routine check-in, but then she started probing-asking me if everything was okay, if I had a boyfriend, if I felt safe here at school.

I didn't give her an inch, even though a part of me wanted to. A part of me wanted to unload everything, just to get it off my shoulders.

Word is Ben came to school today. But no sooner did he step off his bike than a bunch of boys jumped him. It's all very vague as to whom the culprits were, but apparently he ended up with his lip split open and a bruise under his eye. The administration called his aunt and had him sent home for the day, but they honestly don't seem too concerned about his welfare. Their main concern right now is poor Debbie.