Deadly Little Secret Part 3

It's a jet black, cap-sleeved, knee-length number, with a giant silver bow that sits at the waist.

"Very cute."

"It's beyond cute," she says, correcting me. "It makes me feel like a walking present."

I'm tempted to ask her if that explains all the tissue paper, but I bite my tongue instead.

"Now, who shall be my birthday boy?" She scopes the hallway for prospective victims, her eyes zeroing in on John Kenneally standing across the hall in a throng of his soccer teammates. John bends down to tie his shoelace, sending Kimmie into an absolute tizzy.

"So beautiful." She places her hand over her well-insulated chest, completely taken aback. "I mean, honestly, how does one get an a.s.s like that? So firm . . . so symmetrical."

"Unlike your gift-wrapped b.o.o.bs."

"Excuse me?"

"I hate to break this to you, but I have way more pressing issues to contend with than John Kenneally's b.u.t.t cheeks."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"Maybe Wes left it," I press on, refusing to drop the whole photo issue.

"Left what?" she mutters, still eyeing John.

"Forget it," I sigh.

"Wait, are we still talking about the picture?"

In her mind, John must be down to his Skivvies by now. "Yeah, it was probably Wes," she continues. "He is is taking photography this year. Plus, he's done stupid stuff like this before. Last year he left a Saran Wrapped rubber Teletubby in my duffel bag, along with a note that said, 'Save me. I'm suffocating.'" taking photography this year. Plus, he's done stupid stuff like this before. Last year he left a Saran Wrapped rubber Teletubby in my duffel bag, along with a note that said, 'Save me. I'm suffocating.'"

"I'm not even going to ask."

"Bottom line-I wouldn't obsess over it, especially when there are way more delectable things to obsess over." She stares longingly at John.

"You're hopeless," I tell her.

"Hopelessly in love." She fans herself with her anatomy lab book, which is oddly apropos, considering that the front cover has a picture of the human heart on it.

"The weird thing," I continue, "is that the picture was taken yesterday. I recognized my outfit, meaning whoever took it developed it the same day it was left in my mailbox."

"So?" she says. "Ever hear of one-hour photo?"

"Actually, I think someone printed it at home. It looked a little rough around the edges."

"That's the beauty of digital photography-no middleman, no wait time, and no worries about getting even your most incriminating photos developed. Remember the time I took that picture of my b.u.t.t in the mirror? The store where I went to have it developed deleted the negative completely."

"Tragic."

"You bet it was. So much for my Christmas card idea."

"I have to go," I say, checking the hallway clock. There's only a minute left before homeroom, and I have a full two-minute walk to get there.

I turn to leave, but not even three steps away, I end up smacking right into John Kenneally's chest. "Sorry," I say, wondering how that just happened, and noticing how his clothes smell like peony-scented musk.

"No worries." He smiles. "I enjoyed it." He lingers for just a moment too long before finally continuing down the hallway.

A second later, Kimmie twirls me back around to face her. "Oh my G.o.d, I absolutely hate hate you," she says. "What did it feel like? What did he smell like?" you," she says. "What did it feel like? What did he smell like?"

"Kimmie," I say, "get a grip."

"A grip around him, I hope."

I watch John walk down the hallway. At the same moment, he turns to look back. He waves in our direction, and I wave back. But Kimmie, too busy fanning herself again, doesn't even notice.

9.

In chemistry, I loiter toward the back of the room, waiting for everybody to file in. Mr. Swenson (nicknamed Mr. Sweat-man, for obvious reasons), has this rule that, whoever you choose to sit with on the first day of cla.s.s becomes your lab partner for the entire year.

Needless to say, seat selection is definitely critical.

Since the sciences, collectively it seems, aren't really my strong suit, I search around for someone who I think might do well with things like beakers, test tubes, and Bunsen burners.

Until I finally see her-Rena Maruso, the girl who helped get me through bio.

"Hey," I say, waving her over. I gesture to a table in the back and sit down. "We can be lab partners again this year."

But Rena appears less than delighted to see me, despite my stellar organization skills. She may not want to admit it, but thanks to me, we always handed in the neatest, most orderly lab reports.

"It won't be so bad," I say, trying to a.s.sure her. "At least this year we won't have to dissect anything, right?"

I know she must still blame me for accidentally spilling my Gatorade on that poor dead frog. Not only did it score us a big fat goose egg on our lab report, but I also got detention for having an open drink container in cla.s.s.

Rena scans the room to see who's left, but it seems people have quickly paired off. She lets out a sigh and finally sits down, stacking her books between us to mark her personal science-loving territory. But after a few moments, when everybody has pretty much settled into their places, she switches seats, spotting an open chair at the front of the room, right beside tree-hugging, save-the-planet Tate Williams.

Just perfect.

I look up at the Sweat-man, waiting for him to announce the inevitable: that I'll have the unequivocal pleasure (not) of pairing up with him this year for my labs- of having to smell his sweaty self and be subjected to the flyaway dandruff in his hair. (Note to self: wear lab smock.) But then Ben walks in.

He hands a slip of paper to the Sweat-man, probably denoting his enrollment in our cla.s.s. A couple of snickers come from the corner of the room. Mr. Swenson checks and rechecks the slip of paper, comparing it to his attendance list, as if maybe there's some mistake.

"Take a seat," Sweat-man finally says. He scratches his head, releasing at least a tablespoon of dandruff over his shoulders.

Ben searches the room, and so do I, but the only remaining chair is the one beside mine. He sees it and our eyes lock. "Is there a problem, Mr. Carter?" The Sweat-man is glaring at him. Ben just stands there at the front of the room. Staring at me. Making my face go hot and my palms clammy. "No problem," he says, finally. He joins me at my table, but he doesn't look at me again for the entire block. Not once. Even though I want him to. Even though I know I shouldn't.

10.

The following day in chemistry, Sweat-man starts prepping us for our first lab, saying that we need to work as two-person teams, that any slackdom affects not only ourselves but also our partners, blah-blah-blah.

I really want to talk to Ben.

He looks more amazing than usual today in a pair of artfully tattered jeans and a faded blue T-shirt. His skin is a bit darker, too, like maybe he's been spending time out in the sun.

He sits down beside me and starts paging through his notes.

"Hi," I venture.

He nods, but he doesn't look at me; just keeps flipping pages back and forth.

And so I look even closer and admire him even more- his tousled dark hair and the scruff on his chin; his strong, broad shoulders and the muscles in his forearm. I try to think up something clever to say, but all I can come up with is: "Do you have any Wite-Out?"

Without so much as glancing in my direction, Ben reaches into his bag and slides the little white bottle across the table at me.

"Thanks," I say, noticing the dimple in his chin, and how he smells like melon soap. Not knowing what to do with the Wite-Out, I resort to blotting my name from the inside cover of my notebook. "Did you do the homework last night?" I ask, pa.s.sing the bottle back to him.

He nods.

"Well that's good, because Mr. Swenson lives for pop quizzes. You never know when he might spring one on us-hence the word 'pop.'"

Ben doesn't say anything. He just keeps reading over his notes, probably thinking I'm a complete and utter idiot because, let's face it, I certainly sound like one.

After cla.s.s, he starts to pack things up but ends up leaving the Wite-Out on the table.

"Hey," I say, tapping him on the shoulder before he can sneak away.

Ben whirls around and takes a step back. "Don't," he snaps.

I gesture to the Wite-Out. "You forgot something," I say, feeling stupid for even trying to be nice.

Ben rebounds with an apology. His eyes soften, and his lips form a smile, but it's far too little and way too late, and so I ignore him and hurry out the door.

Later, for free period, I decide to go to the library, determined to get to the bottom of Ben's story. Armed and ready with notepad and pen, I claim a computer in the corner and start googling his name, along with the words murder murder, accident accident, and cliff cliff.

A bunch of Ben Carters pop up: Ben Carter, astrophysicist; Ben Carter, real estate mogul; Ben Carter, whose Web page shows a picture of a forty-five-year-old guy looking for love.

I let out a sigh, wondering if my lack of luck is because Ben was a minor at the time of the incident-if maybe the press was trying to protect his privacy. I'm just about to call it a day when I feel something touch my back.

I jump in my seat and swivel around-only to find Matt.

"Hey, there," he says, taking a step back as if I've scared him, too. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay," I say, mentally peeling myself off the ceiling.

He stands there a few moments, shuffling his feet like the mere sight of me makes him nervous.

But I guess I'm nervous, too. I wish things could go back to the way they were at the pre-dating stage-when he was Matthieu and I was Camille and we were each other's role-playing buddies in French cla.s.s.

"What's up?" I ask him.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you last night."

I feel my brow furrow in confusion as I suddenly flash back to the end of last year-when he used to call me at least twice a day.

"About French tutoring," he continues.

"Oh, right."

"I mean, I hate to bother you. It's just that you know how I suck at French, and I have Madame Funkenwilder this year. I hear she's a real hard-a.s.s."

"She is." I giggle, suddenly wishing my science skills were even half as good as my linguistic ones.

"So, do you think you could help out? I mean, I could pay you. I just don't want to screw up my GPA, and I have a quiz next Tuesday." He glances over my shoulder at the computer screen.

"Don't worry about it," I say, doing my best to rebound. I grab the computer mouse to shut things down, but the evidence is right there in the search-engine box.

Matt pulls up a chair and sits. "You heard about that guy, huh?" he says, obviously having spotted Ben's name.

"Who hasn't?"

"So, why are you checking him out?"

"He's my lab partner this year," I say, forgoing the whole saving-my-life story.

"And you're nervous about him?"

"I'm curious curious about him," I clarify. about him," I clarify.

Matt smiles slightly. His teal blue eyes look right into mine, making me smile, too.

"What?" I ask, feeling my cheeks start to blaze.

"I know you, Camelia, remember?"