Deadly Little Lessons (11 page)

W
ES’S CAR KEYS
gripped in my hand, I hurry downstairs, grab my cell phone from my room, and continue down to the lobby. No one’s working the front desk, so I decide not to bother signing out. Instead, I plow through the doors, my adrenaline high, expecting the crying to be louder outside. But it’s the same as it was in Wes’s room: still there, yet somewhat distant and nowhere near as intense as it was just moments before, or when I could hear her actual words.

I proceed to his car anyway, hoping that I’m not too late—that the voice will intensify as soon as I get behind the wheel. Two campus security cars are parked on the other side of the soccer field. The fronts of the cars are pointed in opposite directions, but the driver’s-side windows are lined up so they can chat. They don’t seem to notice me—or if they do, they don’t appear to care—as I disarm Wes’s car alarm, slip inside, and start the ignition.

I pull out of the parking lot and circle the area, concentrating on the sound of Sasha’s tears, but they’re barely above a whimper now. I pull over and type the address of the Beckerman residence into Wes’s GPS, hoping that seeing her house may help evoke her voice more.

The roads are mostly empty. Strips of light from the streetlamps reflect off the rain-soaked pavement. I take several turns, passing through the center of town, finally arriving at my destination, only five minutes from the campus.

The Beckerman house is like something straight out of a storybook: a grand Victorian-style home with multiple peaks. A pretty brick walkway leads to a stained-glass front door, illuminated by a porch light.

Other than the Beckerman house, none of the houses on the street have their outside lights on. The Beckermans must be keeping theirs on for a reason: maybe so that Sasha can find her way home.

I park out front and wait several seconds for something magical to happen. But the crying voice remains the same, making me feel both stupid and guilty. I never should’ve driven out here or taken Wes’s keys. I reach for my phone, wanting to call him to apologize, but I’m reluctant to wake him again.

Just as I roll down the window to get some air, my cell phone rings. I pick it up, hoping it’s Ben, that somehow he’s sensing how lost I feel right now. But when I check the screen, I see that it’s Wes.

“I’m sorry,” I say, in lieu of a hello.

“You
do
know that grand-theft auto is a felony, don’t you? Punishable by up to five years in prison?”

“So, do me a favor and have me arrested. I’ll probably be better off.”

“Hmm…tempting.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, shaking my head, hating myself for betraying his trust.

“Just tell me you’re not sitting in front of the Beckerman residence right now, because that would, like, make you a crazy person for sure.”

I look in the rearview mirror. “You’re not spying on me, are you?”

“And how would I finagle that one? It’s not like I have a car.”

“Okay, so then you know me way too well.”

“You’re certifiable, Camelia.”

“I know,” I mutter, feeling a crumbling sensation inside my chest.

“Of course, you’re
also
sleep-deprived and hearing voices,” he continues. “So, I may have to give you a free pass—
this time
. Just get your thieving ass back here.”

“Will do.” I hang up and take one last look at the house, about to pull away. But someone inside has turned on a light. It’s on the second floor, in what I’m guessing may be a bedroom.

I take off my seat belt, slide over to the passenger side, and search the window in question. A couple of sheer curtains hang at the sides, allowing me to see inside the room. The walls are yellow. There’s a dresser with a mirror positioned over it, with what appear to be snapshots or cards of some sort tacked around the glass. It’s Sasha’s room; I’m sure of it.

The crying in my head gets louder, telling me that I need to go inside, but first I need a plan. A woman in the house crosses in front of the window. She doesn’t seem to notice I’m there. Her hair is tied back, but I’d recognize her anywhere—Sasha’s mother.

She moves in front of the window again, but this time she stops and looks out. Straight at me. My heart pounding, I scramble to get back behind the wheel and speed away as fast as I can.

I
RAP LIGHTLY
on Wes’s door and he answers with his hand extended.

“Thanks for your keys,” I whisper, depositing them into his palm. “I’m sorry again for taking them.” I start to walk back down the hall, but he stops me.

“Hold on,” he orders, stepping out into the hallway. “You don’t seriously think you’re going to wake me up in the middle of the night, steal my keys, and not give me details, do you?”

“It was kind of a bust, but I suppose that’s what I get for not thinking things through.”

“Feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?”

I shrug and turn away, wishing that I’d just listened to him in the first place and gone back to my room. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

Even though it’s four a.m., there’s no way I can fall asleep. Back in my room, I bring my laptop over to my bed to check my e-mail. I scroll down past at least a dozen junk-mail messages until I find the message I was hoping would be there.

Dear Camelia,


I can’t sleep tonight, can’t get my brain to shut off. Sometimes I wish I could pick up the phone and call you, but I think that would make things confusing, and you don’t need to be confused. Anyway, I hope all is well and that you’re happy. You deserve all the happiness that life can bring you.


I’ll be busy over the next few days, but I’ll write again when I can.


Love,


Ben


I read his e-mail over and over and
over
again until my vision becomes slightly blurred. He sent the message less than thirty minutes ago, meaning he could still be awake.

I grab my cell phone, noticing that I have three missed calls—two from my parents, one from Adam—as well as a text from Kimmie ordering me to call her just as soon as I’ve settled in.

I search my phone’s address book for Ben’s number. My thumb hovers over the dial button for several seconds before I finally have the nerve to press it. After five rings, I assume my call will go to voice mail.

But then he actually answers: “Camelia.”

The sound of his voice makes my whole world spin. “Were you sleeping?” I ask him.

“I wish.”

“I got your e-mail.”

“Sorry about that.” He lets out a sigh. “After I hit
SEND
I wished that I could take it back. I don’t want you worrying about my lack of sleep.”

“I can’t sleep, either,” I tell him. “I mean, obviously, right?”

“Is there something on your mind?”

I pull the covers over me and stretch from head to toe, relishing the comfort of his voice. “I’m too restless, I suppose,” I say, deciding not to tell him where I am.

“Yeah, I guess I’m feeling restless, too.”

There’s silence between us for several seconds—no doubt because neither one of us wants to reveal too much and become too vulnerable.

“Where are you, by the way?” I ask, wondering if he can hear the anguish in my voice.

“Not so far from home, actually.”

“Are you headed back to Freetown?”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Even though you sounded so happy on the road?”

“I guess I could use a little break from traveling. How’s everything going with Adam, by the way?”

“Do you and he still keep in touch?”

“I talk to him,” he says. “All the time.” The tone of his voice is strong and emphatic, as if he wants to drive the point home and have me read between the crooked lines: that he stays in regular contact with Adam for the sole purpose of keeping tabs on me and ensuring that I’m safe. “I probably always will,” he continues.

His words stir an aching sensation inside my heart.

“But Adam keeps pretty tight-lipped where you and he are concerned,” he adds.

I close my eyes, thinking about how I made a conscious decision to be with Adam—because I have fun with him, because he’s good to me, because I always know where I stand with him—unlike the way I feel with Ben, where everything is always a mystery.

“I hope you and he always will keep in touch,” I say, curious to know if he’ll read between the lines, too—and if in turn he’ll figure out what he is for me: the boy I will forever want but should never have.

“Adam’s a really great guy,” he reminds me. “And you deserve to be with someone great.”

“I should probably go,” I say, not wanting to discuss my love life with him.

“Not yet,” Ben says. “I want to tell you about the Botanic Garden in D.C.”

“You went there?” I ask.

“I’d love to say that it was because of your suggestion, but I actually visited it before I got your e-mail.”

“And so, what did you think?”

“That’s the weird part, because it reminded me of you.”

The response hangs a question mark over my head. I mean, what is he trying to say?

He spends the next couple of minutes talking about how enchanting the garden is, with its varied species of trees and exotic breeds of ivy. And all the while, I can’t help imagining him lying here beside me, the warmth of his chest against my back.

“Sorry about all my babbling,” he says. “I should let you get some sleep.”

“I miss you,” I say without thinking, feeling my eyes well up.

“I miss you, too,” he says, which makes everything so confusing, because it’s not like him to tell me how he feels. “But I’ll be in touch.” He clears his throat, making me wonder if he’s not getting choked up, too.

We hang up and I silence my phone, finally able to unleash my tears. They’re accompanied by gut-wrenching sobs that surprise even me. How long have I been holding them back? How long have I been this unhappy?

I hug my pillow to my belly, feeling completely tormented, because Ben
isn’t
good for me, because Adam’s the one I’m supposed to want. But it’s not just the loss of my relationship with Ben that I mourn; it’s also the loss of our friendship. I want so badly to tell him things (about my aunt, about my parents, about where I am and what I’m doing here). But I can’t, because of this palpable energy between us. An energy that’s bound to suck me up and spit me out if I ever dare to open up to him again.

I roll over in bed and cry until I can barely breathe. Until I end up choking on my own tears.

Until Wes comes and crawls right in beside me.

Is it possible that I was crying so loud that he heard? Or maybe he couldn’t wait until tomorrow to talk more? Did I leave my door open?

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, and I’m not sure how much he heard of my phone conversation, if anything at all. Instead, he cradles me in his embrace and allows me to simply feel.

A
FTER ABOUT AN HOUR OR SO
, when all my tears have dried up, I turn over to look at Wes. Still lying beside me on the bed, he’s managed to nod off. His head rests against my pillow, and a string of drool drips from his mouth onto my bedsheet, creating a circle of spit.

I couldn’t be more grateful for his friendship. Having him here also makes me miss Kimmie, the missing member of our tight little trio—so much so that I reach for my phone to send her a text:
Just wanted to let you know that I’m
settling in okay and that I really miss you. I hope you’re having
a great time. Let’s catch up soon.

I push
SEND
, thinking once again about how things have really changed between us. Normally, I would’ve called her, regardless of the time. Normally,
she
would’ve been the one to come to my room, and offer a shoulder, and fall asleep on my pillow. And, as much as I love Wes, the fact that Kimmie’s no longer that person makes my heart ache.

I get up, mindful of Wes’s spit, and retreat over to my desk in search of a diversion. I open up my laptop and navigate to Neal Moche’s blog.

From the Journal of Neal Moche


Last night, after the lights had gone out at that guy’s house, I decided to stick around and see if anything might happen after dark. My gut proved correct. After about an hour, a light inside the house went on.


Concealed by trees, I moved closer and crouched down behind some trash cans in the side yard. I could see his silhouette moving in the window of what I’d guessed was a mudroom. He was pulling on a pair of shoes and grabbing a jacket, getting ready to go somewhere, despite the fact that it was a little after midnight.


I leaned out a little farther, able to see him through the crack between the shade and the window.


That’s when his girlfriend came into the room, startling him. The window was open, so I could hear some of what they were saying. She kept asking where he was going and if he thought she was stupid.


“Are you cheating on me?” she asked him. “Is that where you’re going right now? To be with her?”


“You’re speaking out of turn,” he shouted, grabbing a lantern off a shelf. “Now go back to bed!”


I attempted to move a little closer, scurrying along the ground to hide behind a wheelbarrow, when I accidentally bumped against a trash-can cover. It fell with a crash.


I tried not to flinch, hoping they’d think the noise was from an animal trying to get into the garbage. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the shade move and heard the window slam down. After that, the light switched back off. I kept still, fearing that one of them might take another peek toward the trash—toward me.


A second later, an outside light went on, illuminating the porch, only a few yards away from me. I heard a lock click, followed by the sound of a door creaking open. He was outside. I listened to the sound of his boots as he clomped down the stairs, catching his heel on one of the broken steps.


Holding my breath, I knew I wasn’t completely concealed. I was pretty sure that my legs were visible under the wheelbarrow and that my feet were sticking out.


I could hear the jingling of keys. Was he going to drive somewhere? His pickup was parked at the front of the house, which meant he’d have to pass by me to get there. My head tucked down, I clenched my teeth, straining to hear something that might tell me his next move. Something dropped to the ground. The sound was followed by his footsteps.


He was moving away, toward the back of the house, using the lantern to guide him. I got up and started to follow him. He proceeded into the woods behind the house. I kept a good distance behind him so he wouldn’t hear the snapping of twigs as I trampled over broken branches. But with no flashlight, I felt the woods closing in on me. With each step, it was getting harder to see my hand in front of my face, never mind follow a light that seemed to get farther and farther away.


The overgrowth was overwhelming, scratching at my face as I worked to navigate through the brush. The guy’s lantern was no longer visible. I’d lost him.


By the time I get to the end of the entry, my adrenaline is pumping, and not just because of where Neal was and how he almost got caught, but also because of how much I can relate to him—chasing the unknown and going where he wouldn’t otherwise venture, all because of what he senses, of what he needs to know.