Deadly Little Games (14 page)

DOCTOR:
Let’s talk today about revenge.

PATIENT:
Why?

DOCTOR:
What’s your take on revenge?

PATIENT:
Some people deserve it.

DOCTOR:
Has anyone ever sought revenge on you?

PATIENT:
My parents. Whenever I did something that upset them, they got me back for it.

DOCTOR:
Have you ever sought revenge on other people?

PATIENT:
I suppose.

DOCTOR:
Are you seeking it now?

PATIENT:
Right at this moment?

DOCTOR:
You know what I mean.

PATIENT:
(Patient doesn’t respond.)

DOCTOR:
Is that a difficult question to answer?

PATIENT:
People are so stupid. They think they’ve got the whole puzzle figured out, but they’re really so far off.

DOCTOR:
What are you referring to specifically?

PATIENT:
This, you, everybody. Everybody’s just so dumb.

DOCTOR:
But not you?

PATIENT:
I’m just trying to see that things are done right.

DOCTOR:
Are you still trying to protect your friend?

PATIENT:
Very much so.

DOCTOR:
And does that mean seeking revenge on someone else?

PATIENT:
Once again, everyone is just so dumb.

A
FTER ADAM DROPS ME
off at home, I sit in my room trying desperately to get through the last few pages of
The Scarlet Letter
. But for some reason, I can’t get my mind off Aunt Alexia’s journal. It practically stares at me from my night table, as if daring me to touch it.

Finally, I cave in and grab it. I start to flip through a few of the pages, but the phone rings, interrupting me. I click it on, but no one answers when I say hello. “Who’s there?” I ask, sitting up in bed.

But somehow I already know the answer.

I can hear someone breathing on the other end. It’s a rhythmic, faraway sound that makes my skin itch.

“Aunt Alexia?” I ask; my heart tightens.

A few moments later, the phone clicks as if someone’s hung up, and then eventually it goes to a dial tone. I press star-six-nine and scribble the phone number that’s given on the edge of a notebook. It’s definitely from out of town; I don’t recognize the area code or the exchange.

With trembling fingers, I click the receiver back on and dial the number. A voice-mail recording comes on right away: “Hi, this is Haven. Leave me a message, and I’ll jingle you right back.”

I hang up, beyond disappointed, totally confused, and maybe even a little surprised. Because I have no idea who Haven is (someone with a wrong number, or who likes to make random prank phone calls?). And because my gut really told me the call was from Aunt Alexia.

My adrenaline surging, I grab the most recent crossword puzzle and venture down to my studio, hoping to relax—to take my mind off things by sculpting something meaningful. But I can’t really concentrate. I run my fingers over the crossword’s paper, hoping for a little inspiration. But nothing comes to mind.

No specific images.

No voices in my head.

Nothing extraordinary whatsoever.

I set the puzzle back down and continue to wedge out my ball of clay. Twenty minutes later, with my fingers waterlogged and my hands cold and clammy, I’m no closer to finding out the answers than I was before I started.

I glance over at my tile pieces from the other day. They’re almost fully dry now. I spend several moments arranging the tiles so they form an exact replicate of the crossword puzzle. Then I grab a carving tool and begin filling in all the clues we have so far.

The sight of some of my predictions—of the precise number of tile squares, and the overall shape of the crossword puzzle, not to mention the YOU DESERVE TO DIE clue etched out on several of the tiles—is almost invigorating. It almost makes me begin to embrace this power I have.

So how come I can’t get that power to work now?

I cover my work with a plastic tarp. A second later, the phone rings again, making me jump. Only, this time it’s my cell, buzzing from inside my pocket.

“How did things go with Adam?” Kimmie asks, as soon as I pick up.

“It’s all so confusing.”

“Only to you it is. Wes and I tend to see things a whole lot clearer than you do. And, as luck would have it, he just happens to be here with me, hiding out from his dad. So why don’t you get your confused ass over here, too?”

“Why is he hiding out?”

“Because his dad paid Helga to come on to him.”

“Helga the cleaning lady?”

“Believe it. That woman may be sixty years old and carry her teeth around in a Dixie cup, but apparently she still has game.”

“Heinous.”

“To put it mildly. So, are you coming over or what?”

“I’ll be there,” I say, snapping my phone shut. I climb the basement stairs to the kitchen, where my mother is preparing dinner. Dad’s helping out by dicing up some raw potatoes.

“Better wash up,” Mom says. “We’ll be eating in a few minutes.”

I glance toward her mixing bowl, in which she’s blending something resembling Cat Chow.

Dad grimaces at the sight of it. “What do you say, Camelia?” he says. “Maybe after dinner you and I can head over to Flick-tastic to rent a couple videos?” Translation:
Let’s save ourselves from this swill by hitting the drive-through of Taco Bell
.

“Actually, Kimmie just called,” I say, breaking the news to him. “Wes is having some major drama with his dad and they asked me to come over.”

They both study me for a couple of seconds, as if trying to decide whether or not to let me go, but then Mom gestures toward her keys. “You can take my car. Just promise you’ll be home by nine. School tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say, noticing Mom’s monogrammed pendant. Her name—Jilly—is written on it in a pretty gold cursive. Aunt Alexia sent it to her for Christmas, and Mom’s been wearing it ever since. “Have you spoken to Aunt Alexia or her doctors since our visit?” I ask.

Mom nods and continues to mash her mush.

“
And
?” I ask, when she doesn’t elaborate.

“And it’s a long story that we can discuss at some other time.”

I look at Dad to see if he might have some answers, but he shakes his head slightly, implying the subject is definitely taboo.

“What’s wrong?” I persist.

“Go along to Kimmie’s,” Mom says. “We can talk about it later.” She turns her back on me, gobbles a giant spoonful of almond butter—her edible vice—and then chases it with a shiny green pill—something her therapist claims will soothe her, even though it never does.

I linger a few more seconds, but Mom doesn’t turn around.

“I haven’t forgotten about that calculus assignment you asked me about,” Dad fibs. “How about after you get back I give you a hand with it?”

More code. This time he’s suggesting that we have one of our heart-to-heart chats tonight, whereby he’ll clue me in as to what’s going on with Mom.

“Sounds good,” I say, and grab Mom’s keys, annoyed that she continues to keep secrets from me, while I’m expected to tell her everything.

A
BOUT FIVE MINUTES LATER
, I arrive at Kimmie’s, where she and Wes are camped out on the floor of her room amid remnants of denim and pleather.

“Don’t laugh at my outfit,” she says, referring to her perfectly pressed chino pants, her powder blue crewneck sweater, and her tan leather loafers. Kimmie’s hair, as well, is much tamer than usual, one side held back with a coordinating blue barrette. “It’s sort of a long story, and I really don’t feel like getting into it.”

“And how are
you
doing?” I ask Wes, noting his pink-striped shirt and leather clogs—no doubt the ammo that set his dad off.

“In some way I almost feel bad for my dad.” He shrugs. “I’m his worst nightmare come true.”

“You’re hardly a nightmare,” I counter. “Your dad’s an ass for not seeing what an amazing person you are.”

“Well, then, I’m an amazing person with a friend who’s on the road to getting herself killed.” He lowers his glasses to glare at me over the rims.

“What are you talking about?” I ask him.

“Wes and I got talking about all this Adam stuff,” Kimmie explains for him. “And maybe getting involved isn’t such a good idea. I mean, haven’t you already been through enough?”

“And what if Ben had shared that same philosophy?” I ask them. “What if last September he’d just decided to look the other way when all of that stuff was happening with Matt? I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something bad happened to Adam because I did nothing to try and stop it.”

“Yes, but you don’t even know if Adam’s telling you the truth,” she says.

“What does Ben say about all this?” Wes asks.

“Because you know it’s only a matter of time before he tries convincing you to stop helping Adam,” Kimmie says, before I can answer. “And you can’t really blame the guy. He isn’t going to want you putting yourself in danger again.”

“Nor is he going to want you spending all your free time with Adam,” Wes adds. “And that’s what you’re going to have to do, you know, if you really want to figure this all out.”

“Don’t you think I
should
figure it out?” I ask. “I mean, there’s a reason this is happening to me—that I’ve been given this insight. Shouldn’t I use it?”

“Not if it means getting yourself killed,” Wes says.

I shake my head, knowing that I haven’t even told them the worst of it yet. And so I spend the next several minutes filling them in on the details of the latest crossword puzzle, and how Adam suspects that someone broke into his apartment.

“And nobody else has a key?” Kimmie asks.

“What about his ex-roommate?” Wes suggests.

“Good question,” I say.

“Well, here’s a better one,” he continues. “What kind of lock is on the door?”

“What difference does that make?”

“It makes a huge difference in the scheme of breaks-ins. For example, is there a dead bolt? And if so, is it surface- mounted, lockset, or maybe a combination of both? Is the lock spring-loaded? Or is it the mortise kind, with a box? On second thought, considering what an ass-pit the place is, my guess is it’s a cheapo entry style, just waiting to get picked, but we should probably check it out just to be sure.”

“Or we could simply call the police and ask them to do their job,” Kimmie says.

“Adam’s against calling the police,” I say. “He doesn’t think we have enough proof. Plus he hates the idea of getting anyone in trouble, especially if it’s one of his friends.”

“Even if one of his friends wants to kill him?” Wes asks.

“I know,” I say. “It’s crazy.”

“Well, crazy or not, it sounds all too familiar.” She gives me the evil eye.

“So, let’s go check out the lock,” Wes says. “At least then we’ll know what kind of talent we’re dealing with.”

“But first…” Kimmie drops a first-prize ribbon into my lap, the gold part of which reads:
GRAND PRIZE: VINTAGE REVISTED
.

“What’s this?” I ask, fairly certain she would have mentioned having entered a contest.

“It’s Kimmie’s lame-o attempt at getting her parents back together.” Wes yawns.

“Explain, please,” I say, noticing that the ribbon was awarded by the Fashion Institute.

“Okay, so obviously it isn’t legit,” she confesses, plucking it out of my hands. “But my parents totally think it is, and as my reward I’ve told them I want to go out to dinner with just the two of them Saturday night.”

“Kimmie will arrange to meet them at the restaurant,” Wes explains. “But then she won’t bother showing up, leaving Mommy and Daddy to dine on their own.”

“Don’t you think that’s just a tad bit cheesy?” I ask her.

“Not to mention desperate and predictable,” Wes adds. “Which is exactly what I told her.”

“Well, I really don’t see what my alternative is.” She huffs. “I’ve already tried dressing boring…like you”—she gestures at my jeans and T-shirt—“and that didn’t catch their attention. And you know I went the whole hickey route a few weeks ago, and
that
was a total bust….”

“You don’t seriously think their separation is as shallow as a wardrobe malfunction, do you?” I ask her.

“You guys don’t understand,” she whines. “Everything’s different now that they’ve separated. My mom got a job at the hardware store downtown.”

“The horror of it all,” Wes jokes.

“Is your mom still drinking a lot?” I ask her.

“It seems she’s replaced drinking with working.”

“Well, that’s better, at least.”

“Not for Nate it isn’t. He has to go to the Y now every day after school. Meanwhile, Dad’s living a bachelor-pad life whilst dating someone barely old enough to vote.”

“But maybe they’re all happy,” Wes says. “I mean, for once your house is quiet. I can’t remember the last time I was here that it didn’t sound like a filming of
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
.”

“They only
think
they’re happy,” Kimmie says, sulking. “Things were so much better when they were trying to tear each other’s heads off.”