Deadly Little Secret Part 4

"And?"

"And let me help you. I'll find out this guy's deal."

"There is no deal. I was just curious," I remind him.

"So, let me un un-curious you." He smiles wider, smoothing back a strand of his dirty-blond hair. "I have connections, you know." He winks at me, all covertlike. "It's the least I can do as thanks for helping me out with French."

"Well, don't lose any sleep over it or anything."

He nods. His eyes linger a moment on my flushed cheeks. We make plans to study together Monday night. "I'll swing by after my movie date with Rena," he says. "Did you know the theater downtown shows. .h.i.tchc.o.c.k flicks every Monday afternoon?"

I shake my head. "I didn't even know you were dating Rena Maruso." Pretty, pert, pet.i.te, good-at-science Rena Maruso.

"Well, yeah," he says, like it's so incredibly yesterday's news.

And, no, it's not that I'm jealous. I just don't want to hear about Rena Maruso, or anyone else who might be dating my ex, for that matter-especially when said ex is being so so nice, almost making me forget why we broke up in the first place. nice, almost making me forget why we broke up in the first place.

Almost.

11.

It's the last block of the day, and everyone's talking about Ben's locker. Sometime before lunch there was another sign left on it. Only this time, Ben couldn't just tear it down. Someone had written the words Killer Go Home Killer Go Home down the length of the door in permanent black marker. down the length of the door in permanent black marker.

The sign was up there for two full hours before Mr. Snell, the school princ.i.p.al, ordered a janitor to come and cover it up with a few strokes of red paint.

"Remember last year," Kimmie says, applying a fresh coat of my peach-colored lip gloss, "when Polly Piranha got vandalized?"

Since our English teacher is out sick today, Kimmie, Wes, and I have the rare treat of an extra free block. And so we're sitting in the courtyard behind the school- basically a glorified asphalt driveway with a bunch of picnic tables set up-pretending to do our homework.

I laugh, still able to picture it-the giant wooden cutout of a piranha, our school mascot, with b.o.o.bs spray-painted right over her fins. Poor Polly had apparently sat in the same spot by the football field for more than thirty years, and this was the first time she'd sported hooters.

"Yeah," I say, "but in that case Snell had her taken down within minutes."

"A d.a.m.ned shame." Wes shakes his head. "Those were some nice hooters."

"The only ones you'll ever see up close," Kimmie says.

"Um, excuse me, but haven't you ever heard of Playboy Playboy?" he asks.

"Haven't you you ever heard of ever heard of hard-up hard-up boy?" boy?"

"I wonder how the truth even leaked out about Ben," I say, cutting through their banter.

"Are you kidding?" Wes squawks. "This is a small town, with even smaller minds. A guy can't even scratch the wrong way without people suspecting he's got a killer case of the crabs."

"Something you want to tell us about?" Kimmie asks.

Wes gives her the middle-finger nose scratch.

"Well, if this town is so small," I ask, "how come n.o.body told me Matt was dating Rena Maruso?"

"What?" Kimmie's jaw drops.

"Apparently true. I talked to him earlier."

"Not true," Kimmie protests. "Rena's in my Spanish cla.s.s. The girl tells me everything."

"Maybe she only tells you some some things," Wes says. things," Wes says.

"Or maybe Matt's trying to make you jealous," Kimmie says. "It's the oldest trick in the book."

"Well, whatever," I say, eager to get back to business. "I've been asking people about him."

"Matt?" Kimmie perks up.

"No, Ben."

"Okay, so, no offense," she says, "but does this fascination with Ben have anything to do with you deciding to give up your senior-citizen way of life?"

"Senior citizen?"

"Yeah, you know, safe, habitual, carefully planned, doesn't like surprises, likes to be in before dark-"

"You have to admit, you are a bit of an old lady," Wes adds.

"Of course, we love that about you," Kimmie insists.

"Right," Wes says. "I mean, who doesn't love their grandma? And it could explain your sudden fixation with Danger Boy."

"Hold up," Kimmie says. "If Ben were a real real danger boy, who danger boy, who really really killed his girlfriend, do you honestly think they'd allow him back in school?" killed his girlfriend, do you honestly think they'd allow him back in school?"

"You don't think he did it?" I ask.

"What I think is that you're starting to sound just a tad bit obsessed."

"Well, it's a little hard not to be. I mean, Ben's name is everywhere-in practically every conversation."

"In practically every girl's worst nightmare," Wes says, creepifying his voice by making it superdeep. He uses a pencil as a makeshift knife to jab at the air.

"Well, dangerous or not," Kimmie says, popping a fireball candy into her mouth, "the boy is hot-for an alleged killer, that is."

"Why is it that all the good ones have to be killers?" Wes lets out an exaggerated sigh.

"You're such a spaz," I say, throwing a corn chip at his head. It sticks in his mousse-laden hair, but he picks it out and eats it anyway.

"So, what did you find out about him, Nancy Drew?" Kimmie asks me.

"Nothing reliable." I shrug. "The stories are getting more ridiculous by the minute."

Wes nods. "Last I heard, the boy chopped up his entire family and ate them for breakfast."

"That's sick," Kimmie says.

"But tasty." He thieves a handful of my corn chips.

"Speaking of sick," I say, "what was up with the photo you left in my mailbox?"

"Photo?"

I nod. "The one of me . . . in front of the school . . . with a heart around it."

He tilts his head, visibly confused. "Que ?" ?"

"Don't be a d.i.c.k," Kimmie says. "Fess up. It was you. Just like it was you with that Teletubby stunt."

"Honestly," he says, "d.i.c.ks and Teletubbies aside, I have absolutely no idea what you're even talking about."

"Hold up," I say. "You didn't leave a photo of me in my mailbox?"

Wes shakes his head.

"Aren't you taking photography this year?" I ask.

"And so, what does that prove-that I'm suddenly taking random pictures of people and leaving them in their mailboxes?"

"I wouldn't worry about it." Kimmie spits her fireball into her palm. "It's probably just some lame-o's idea of a joke." She shoots Wes an evil look.

"Hey, don't look at this lame-o," he says, pointing out the front of his T-shirt, where the words Innocent Until Proven Guilty Innocent Until Proven Guilty are printed across the chest. are printed across the chest.

12.

I've been seeing her a lot lately, making it a point to be wherever she is.

I wonder if she can feel my eyes watching her-crawling over her skin, memorizing the zigzag part of her hair and the way her hips sway from side to side when she walks.

There's so much I want to ask her about, like if she sleeps on the left side of the bed or the right, and what color her toothbrush is.

And if she liked the picture I left in her mailbox. I wish I'd been there when she opened the envelope. I'd love to have seen her expression-if she bit her bottom lip like she does when she gets nervous. If she hugged the photo against her chest, imagining someone like me. Or if her lips curled up into a smile worthy of a magazine cover.

I took that picture from across the street, standing at the side of the telephone building. I had my camera set to zoom as I waited for the perfect angle.

She looked so nervous. She kept fidgeting with her bag strap and twisting her fingers through her long blond hair.

But who am I to talk? I get nervous, too. Whenever I see her, I can barely think straight. I try to calm myself down- to remind myself to be patient, to not be too anxious, that I'll soon have everything I want.

Inside my head, I chant, "calm, calm, calm."

13.

It's Friday afternoon, and I'm sitting in chemistry cla.s.s, doing my best to focus, to take Kimmie's advice about chalking the whole mysterious photo issue up to some lame-o's idea of a joke, since, after all, she's probably right.

It's the first lab session of the year, and Ben and I have a handful of test tubes set up in front of us, along with a graduated cylinder and a couple of teaspoons. The goal: to perform, discuss, and record the reactions that occur based on the mixture of a few choice chemicals.

I'm trying my hardest to concentrate, to tell myself that combining distilled water with sodium bicarbonate is the most important thing in the world right now, even though Ben is watching and recording my every move.

My hand shakes slightly as I add in a couple of teaspoons of phenolphthalein, which according to the Sweat-man, was formerly used in over-the-counter laxatives. I glance over at Missy and Chrissy Tompkin, otherwise known as the Laxative Twins, wondering if they're going to try and pocket a stash for later.

"Thirsty?" I ask Ben, holding the mixture up like a drink. The addition of the laxative stuff has made the solution resemble fruit punch.

But he doesn't think it's funny. "Add in two grams of calcium chloride," he says, keeping things all clinical-like.

"Don't forget," Sweat-man announces. "This lab isn't just about your visual senses here. What does the test-tube gla.s.s feel like with each added substance? Does it get heavier in comparison to the other tubes? Does it get cold or heat up? Is there any change in smell? Do you hear anything?"

I look up at Ben, realizing we've completely omitted the whole touchy-feely aspect of the experiment.

"Do you want to hold it?" I ask, extending the tube out to him.

Ben looks at it but shakes his head, continuing to read me the directions from his lab book.

"Wait," I say. "We need to record this stuff-our reactions, what we observe."

"Can't you just record it for the both of us?"

I try not to let his slacking bother me, especially since, as far as things look in everybody else's tubes, it appears as though we're doing everything right. I jot down my observations and then, following the instructions as Ben reads them aloud, I add in a couple more ingredients, finally topping the solution off with nitric acid and bromothymol blue.

The solution in the tube starts to fizzle and heat up, and the color changes from pink to yellow.

"You really should feel this," I say, holding the tube out to him again.

But Ben has his own idea of fizzle: "I'm all set," he says.