Deadly Little Games (8 page)

O
N THE FLIGHT BACK
to Boston, I check my cell phone for messages, surprised to see that I have seven: four from Kimmie and two from Wes, both ranting at me for not giving them up-to-the-minute details about my trip.

The final message is from Ben. He doesn’t really say much, just that he hopes that things are going well and he’ll see me when I get home.

I flip my phone closed and glance at my mother. Her vacant stare is aimed down at her magazine, at an ad for hemorrhoid cream. She hasn’t flipped a page in well over an hour. I want to talk to her about what could possibly be going on with Aunt Alexia and her powers, but I’m almost afraid she might actually believe that I’m going crazy, too.

Once we land and retrieve our bags, I head for the exit ramp, feeling completely anxious about the idea of getting back to my life. I mean, if it isn’t overwhelming enough to have Adam’s fate on my shoulders, I also feel like I need to fix things with my aunt.

Not that I’m complaining. It’s just that I feel more responsible than I ever thought possible, and I’m not so sure I can handle it.

“Camelia?” Mom asks. “Are you feeling okay?”

It’s the most she’s said since we left Detroit, which obviously means that I must look pretty spooked.

“I’m fine,” I lie, walking toward the arrivals area.

To my complete and utter shock, Ben is there, waiting for me. There’s a bouquet of lilacs clenched in his hand.

Without a second thought, I drop my bag and rush into his arms.

“I guess this means that you didn’t miss me at all,” he jokes.

I bury my face into his coat, almost wishing he could swallow me whole.

Ben runs his fingers down the length of my back and then whispers in my ear: “Two days without you is definitely too much.”

I look up into his face, hating the fact that we can’t freeze this moment.

“I called you a couple of times on your cell, by the way,” he says, “but I didn’t want to explain things in a message. I really wanted to talk to you. I feel bad about the way we left things.”

“We have a lot to talk about,” I tell him.

“I know.” The expression on his face is as grave as mine now.

“Camelia?” Mom calls from just behind me.

Subtly I try to wipe the buildup of emotion at the rims of my eyes. “Look who came to greet us,” I tell her.

Mom gives him a quick hello. A second later, Dad emerges through the double doors and gives Mom a surprise attack hug. Mom can’t help letting out a smile, but I can tell she’s still distracted, even as Dad reveals what he’s got in his pocket—a dairy-free brownie from Rawbert’s, one of my Mom’s favorite places to eat.

“I figured you’d be going through withdrawal by now,” he jokes, referring to her lack of vegan cuisine over the weekend.

Mom gives him a tiny smooch on the cheek before turning to me. “I take it Ben will be driving you home.”

“Is that okay?” I ask.

“It’s fine,” Dad says, answering for her. “But we’d better run. I’m double-parked.”

While Ben and Dad load up the car, Mom gets into the front seat, seemingly eager to get away.

“Is she going to be okay?” Ben asks, once Dad drives off.

“Honestly? I don’t know. Things got pretty ugly with my aunt. I’ll fill you in on all the disturbing details later.”

“And what about us?” he continues. “Are
we
going to be okay?”

“We have to be.” I wipe my eyes again. “Because I’m not so sure I can make it through all of this without you.”

“So you
need
me, is that it?” He grins.

I bite my lip, wishing I had the courage to tell him how I really feel.

That this is so far beyond need for me.

That it’s beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before.

I
N MY ROOM
, I tell Ben about what happened with my aunt. And all the while, his expression remains mostly unfazed, as if maybe he’s known the truth for some time now.

“I think Adam might really be in trouble,” I insist. “How else do you explain the portrait? My aunt doesn’t even know him. She’s never even seen Adam before.”

“As far you know, she doesn’t know him.”

“Seriously?” I raise an eyebrow.

“It’s possible,” he says, taking a seat at my desk. “I mean,
you
met him. He sought you out, uprooted his life to break into yours. Stranger things have happened.”

“She would’ve mentioned it if she knew him.”

“Maybe it wasn’t even Adam in the painting. Maybe it was just someone who looked like him.”

“And maybe my horse sculpture was a coincidence, too.”

Ben takes my hand and pulls me close. “I’m only trying to be helpful.”

“It was
him
,” I say. “Aunt Alexia knew it, too. She knew the portrait had meaning to me. I mean, talk about strange things happening. It wasn’t so long ago that the biggest drama in my life was what color to paint my pottery bowl.”

“And now you have me in your life, and everything’s completely—”

“Better.”

“Yeah, right.”

I squeeze his hand, hoping he can sense that I’m telling the truth. “A whole lot better.”

“Minus the abductions, the psychotic gifts, and all the other stalker stuff.”

“I want you in my life,” I tell him.

“And you want this touch power of yours, too?”

“I don’t think I have any other choice.”

“I don’t know.” He grips my hand harder. “Maybe if I went away, it would go away, too.”

“It didn’t work that way the last time you left. And it didn’t work that way for Aunt Alexia. There was no magical boy who came along one day and turned her power on. According to her journal, it wasn’t until she was around my age that her power really started to develop.”

“And now she’s in a mental hospital because of it.”

“Because she didn’t know how to deal with it. She didn’t know what it was, or why she was hearing voices. Her doctors didn’t, either. They still don’t. But it won’t be that way with me.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, perhaps feeling somehow responsible.

“Whatever’s going on with my touch power has nothing to do with you. You didn’t do this to me.” I break his grip on my hand and run my fingers up the length of his arms, over his scar and then across his chest.

Ben draws me closer. My knees graze his inner thighs.

“So, let’s just say for the sake of argument that Adam really
is
in trouble,” he says. “What does the snail painting have to do with anything?”

“You think I know?”

“Why not?” He smiles. His fingers linger at the small of my back, beneath the hem of my sweater, sending tingles all over my skin. “You seem to have all the other answers.”

I smile, too, flattered that he sees me that way, because I couldn’t feel more confused.

The phone rings a second later, pulling the plug on what would otherwise be the beginning of a perfectly romantic make-up scene. I wait for my parents to answer, but they don’t.

Mom and Dad have shut themselves up in their bedroom, no doubt also discussing the details of the trip.

“Hello?” I say, finally answering the phone on the sixth ring.

“Hey,” Adam says. “How are you?”

Instead of responding, I lock eyes with Ben. Meanwhile, Adam chatters on about school and his apartment, about how his obnoxious roommate has finally moved out and how he’d love to get together some time.

“Sounds good,” I say, knowing that we need to meet up soon.

Ben remains staring at me, clearly suspecting that it’s Adam on the phone. After a few moments he gets up to put on his coat.

Don’t go
, I mouth to him.

“Camelia?” Adam says.

“Yeah,” I mutter into the phone. “I’m still here.”

“So, what do you say? Coffee? Dinner and a movie? Dinner and/or a movie? A movie and then coffee afterward—”

“Coffee,” I say, cutting him off. “And it won’t be a date.”

“Of course not. This will just be a couple of old friends getting together over very civilized cups of java. We won’t even request any froth.”

“Okay,” I agree, eager to get off the phone.

We make plans to meet tomorrow after school, and then I hang up.

Ben is waiting for me at the doorway.

“That was Adam,” I say, as if he hadn’t already figured it out.

“You didn’t sound so surprised that he called.”

“I wasn’t surprised,” I admit, proceeding to tell him that I’d called Adam after the incident in pottery class. “I just wanted to make sure that he was okay. I was really worried.”

“Well, I’m worried, too.” He looks away, making it hard to decipher whether he’s more angered or hurt.

“Worried because of Adam?”

“Because of a lot of things.”

I cross the room to take his hand, hoping he can sense how open I’m being—how I no longer have anything to hide. “Come with me tomorrow when I meet with him. We’ll work as a team.”

“I don’t know. I have a sneaking suspicion that Adam isn’t expecting anyone to tag along, especially me.”

“Who cares what he expects? We’re talking about his life here.”

“I know.”

“Then what?”

“I just need some time alone.” Still avoiding my gaze, he gives me a paltry peck on the cheek, and then heads out the door.

I
T’S THREE A.M.
I’ve been trying to fall asleep for the past four hours, but it obviously isn’t working. Finally, I give up and head down to my studio in the basement. I wire off a slab of clay and wedge it out against my worktable, concentrating on the clammy texture and the way its familiarity soothes me. My eyes closed, a series of images runs across my mind. I let out a breath, trying to see which image actually sticks. And then I start to sculpt.

Using a rolling pin, I smooth the clay out until it’s completely flat. Then I grab an X-Acto knife and cut out a bunch of square tiles, about an inch in length on all sides. I arrange the tiles against my work board, still focused on the image inside my head.

Pressed behind my eyes are squares that run both vertically and horizontally, intersecting one another to create a map of sorts. After a good hour or so, I have a whole slew of them. I place them against my board in a way that I feel makes sense.

In the end, I have something that resembles a crossword puzzle, minus the letters. I sit back on my stool and study its shape—at the top right the tiles form a capital
T
; in the bottom left, they make the shape of a capital
L.
There are numerous tiles positioned in the middle—a section of which almost looks like stairs—but I’m not quite sure I’ve placed everything right.

I cover it all over with a tarp and then return to my room, my mind more relaxed despite the surge of new questions. Still, I’m hopeful I’ll fall asleep.

Before homeroom at school the next day, Ben pulls up beside me in the parking lot on his motorcycle. He cuts his engine and removes his helmet. “Are you still meeting Adam today?” he asks.

“Definitely,” I tell him. “And I’d definitely like your help. I mean, I know this is really hard for you—”

“But you’re worth it.” He reaches out to touch the side of my face. The heat of his hand penetrates my whole body. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Then be honest with me.” I take his hand and kiss his palm. “Unlike
some
people, I can’t read minds. And I know there’s a lot you’re not telling me.”

Ben nods, but still he doesn’t come clean.

“Did you change your mind about coming with me after school?” I continue.

His dark gray eyes search my face, as if he were seriously considering the question. “I really think Adam will be less on guard if it’s just the two of you. You’ll be able to find out more. Plus, what am I supposed to do?” He smirks. “Ask him to hold my hand?”

“No.” I smirk back. “But you could touch his keys or something.”

“You can do this,” he insists. “And I’ll be here for you when you get back.” Ben steps off his bike and reaches out to take my books. As he does so, I notice some writing scrawled across the cover of one of his notebooks: the words
WATCH YOUR BACK,
in black capital letters.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the message. There’s a twisting sensation inside my gut.

Ben hesitates, as if fully aware that I’m thoroughly freaked. “It’s something I scribbled down late last night, after I left your house…when I couldn’t fall asleep. Those words just wouldn’t get out of my head, and so I wrote them down in case they were relevant.”

“They wouldn’t get out of your head?”

“Sort of like what happened to you in pottery class,” he says. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me more than you know.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, touching my head where there’s now a dull ache.

“The phrase popped into my head as soon as I touched you yesterday,” he explains. “At the airport. I assumed it was a message for me—that maybe I needed to watch
my
back—but then I remembered your aunt’s outburst. Were there any other choice phrases she happened to mention during your trip?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“So, maybe it’s just the result of my needing more than four hours of sleep at night.” He wedges the notebook between a couple of books, so no one can see it. “All I need is for someone to accuse me of walking around flashing harassing messages.”

I’m tempted to ask more about the message—to see if, once again, he’s being intentionally cryptic—but it’s already 8:11, and he’s saved by the proverbial bell. At least for now.