Deadly Little Lies (3 page)

I tell Ms. Mazur that I need to be excused to use the bathroom. But by the time I get out into the hallway, Ben is no longer there.

Instead I see John Kenneally, Kimmie’s former crush, coming out of the physics lab.

“Hey,” he says, nodding in my direction.

I reluctantly make my way over to say hello, the giant hallway pass—a life-size replica of a toilet plunger that a former student carved in wood shop—clutched against my work apron.

“So, how was your vacation?” he asks.

“Okay,” I say, still looking around for Ben.

“Just okay?” He proceeds to fill me in on his vacation: how he had basketball practice every other day, a party to go to every single night, and back-to-back dates to fill up his weekends. “So many hearts, so little time, I tell you. The work of a heartbreaker is never done.”

I resist the urge to stick my finger down my throat, and turn to gaze over my shoulder, wondering if maybe Ben has a free period this block—maybe he was coming from the library.

“Is everything okay?” John runs a hand through his dark blond hair, which is much longer and shaggier than last I noticed, like maybe he’s going through some wannabe rocker phase even though he’s a jock.

“Did you happen to see Ben come this way?” I ask.

“Ben? As in
Killer
Ben?” His brown eyes widen.

I give a reluctant nod, since I honestly don’t feel like getting all defensive right now.

“He doesn’t go here anymore,” John says, like I’ve been living under a rock for the past several months.

“No,” I correct him. “He’s coming back this term. At least, that’s what I heard.”

“For real?” He smiles. “That guy’s got some big ones, huh? If I were him, I wouldn’t show my face within a thousand-mile radius of this place.”

“So you didn’t see him?” I snap.

“Come on, Camelia, didn’t you have enough fun with your stalker-ex last term? You really need to go hanging out with full-blown killers?”

“Forget it,” I say, gripping my bathroom-pass-plunger and moving down the hallway.

In the bathroom, I stand at the sink and splash some cold water onto my face. It’s not John Kenneally that’s got me so unhinged—at least it’s not only him. I know he just speaks for the masses—that there are dozens who’ll say something similar the moment they see me talking to Ben. What I don’t know is why Ben’s being all mysterious, first allegedly outside my house, now for certain outside my classroom.

I take a deep breath and try to get a grip. A second later, there’s a knock on the bathroom door. I ignore it at first. But then there’s another knock, even louder this time.

I glance in the direction of the sound, but from where I’m standing, I can’t see anything. There’s a wall that separates the sink area from the door.

I turn back around, but the knocking continues. It sounds like someone’s beating on the door with their fist.

I grab the bathroom pass and take a couple steps toward the door, but then I hear something else. The door creaks open. I hear the hinges whine, but I still can’t see.

And then the lights go off and everything goes black.

Frozen in place, I wait to hear something else, wondering if someone’s come inside. I open my mouth to call out hello, but no sound comes out.

I step forward, the hall pass positioned like a baseball bat, ready to swing. “Who’s here?” I shout.

No one answers.

“I know you’re here.” I swipe at the air, moving toward the door, but nothing interrupts my path. And so I reach out in search of the light switch on the wall. My fingers rake over the cold, hard bricks, unable to find the switch. Instead I find the doorknob and go to tear the door open, but it doesn’t budge.

Like someone’s locked me inside.

I pull and twist the knob with all my might, but it’s no use. I let out a scream and start pounding at the door. No one comes. And there’s a broken-glass feeling in my chest when I breathe.

I take a step back, trying to keep focused. The faucet drips behind me, a monotonous ping that echoes through my brain.

After a few moments, I try searching for the light switch again. This time I find it and flick it on, relieved to see that I’m alone. But then I notice a folded piece of paper at my feet. Someone must have slipped it under the door.

I reach down to grab it, my head feeling suddenly woozy. Using the wall as support, I unfold the note. The words IT ISN’T OVER YET! stab right through my heart and shake me to the core.

The knob finally turns and I’m able to open the door. I hurry down the hallway, the note crumpled in my hands. A second later, the bell rings. The hallway fills. And my pulse continues to race. I push through the crowd and head straight to the guidance office.

Ms. Beady’s door is partially closed, but I go in anyway. “I need to talk to you,” I say, even though she’s on the phone.

“Hold on a minute,” she says into the receiver. “Camelia, can’t this wait until after lunch?”

I shake my head and she pauses a moment to study me, noticing maybe how I look like I’m about to blow. Finally she tells the person she’s talking to that she’ll have to call them back.

“You can’t just come charging in here without knocking first,” she says once she hangs up. “That was an important call.”

“Yeah, well, this is important too.”

She gestures for me to sit in one of the two vinyl chairs facing her desk. “What’s going on?” she asks.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” I say, standing firmly in place.

Her eyebrows furrow like she doesn’t have a clue.

“He’s back,” I snap. “You told me he was expelled. You told me I’d be safe here.”

“Wait,” she says, tucking a strand of her mousy brown bob behind her ear. “Slow down. I assume you’re talking about Matt.”

“Was there some other student recently on trial for kidnapping and assault with a dangerous weapon?”

“Matt isn’t here,” she says. “He
was
expelled. You should feel secure in knowing that he won’t be back.”

“He
is
back.” I toss the note onto her desk.

Ms. Beady unfolds it and reads the message. “Where did you get this?”

“In the bathroom, just now. Someone shut off the lights, locked me inside, and slipped the note under the door.”

“So it might not even be for you.”

“Are you kidding? Look at the lettering. Look at the red marker he used. It’s the same writing as the notes from before.”

“Calm down,” she insists, gesturing to the chair again.

“You’re not going to help me, are you?”

“Of course I’m going to help. I just don’t think there’s any reason to jump to conclusions.”

“You think it’s a coincidence?”

“I think we need to discuss it further,” she says. “Unfortunately, as you know, there are a lot of kids around here who like to play practical jokes, especially on the underdog—someone who might have experienced a difficulty or hardship not too long ago.”

“Someone, meaning me,” I say to be clear.

“It’s only the first day back after the break,” she says, “and already the office has given out four detentions and two in-house suspensions for practical jokes related to last semester. And it’s still morning.”

“But why now? Why all these pranks four months later?”

“Why do you think?” she asks, meeting my eyes.

I press my lips together, knowing it’s because of Ben’s return.

“Look,” she continues, “I want you to know that the school takes these pranks very seriously. We want students to feel safe when they come to school, which is why, over the holiday break, we had surveillance cameras set up at the front, side, and rear entrances of the building. Principal Snell is also going to address the entire student body and issue a no-tolerance policy for pranks or practical jokes of any kind.”

“What took him so long? Debbie Marcus was in a coma for over two months because of some ‘pranks.’ Why didn’t he institute a policy then?”

“Debbie’s coma wasn’t exactly caused by ‘pranks,’ as I’m sure you know. Plus, the students in that situation were suspended for two weeks.”

Two weeks as opposed to two months. “It hardly seems fair.”

“We’re trying our best.” She lets out a sigh. “And, between you and me, a lot of kids—and parents—are really upset about Ben’s return this semester, even though he has every right to be here.”

“Even though he saved my life,” I remind her.

She clears her throat, but refuses to respond.

“So Ben really is back?” I ask.

She nods and continues to study my face, trying to see maybe if his return upsets me too. “And since he’s back, we have to prepare ourselves for a flurry of more pranks, as awful as that sounds.” She gestures toward a plastic bag on her desk. Inside I can see a Hiker Barbie, backpack and all, covered in what looks like raspberry jam.

“So you think this note is a joke too?”

“That’s not what I said.” Her tiny gray eyes are highlighted by way too much purple eye shadow “We can’t assume anything right now. But I have a meeting with the principal set for this afternoon. I’ll be sure to tell him about your experience this morning.”

“Great,” I say, less than grateful.

“Listen”—her face softens—“I know you’re upset. You have every right to be. You’ve been through a lot.”

“What does that have to do with me being trapped in a dark bathroom?”

“Nothing, but maybe we should schedule some further discussion.” She reaches for her desk calendar.

“Forget it,” I say.

“Camelia.” Her lips pucker up in concern. “Try not to worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

But I’m having serious doubts. I snatch the note right out of her hands, accidentally tearing a corner of the paper, and leave her office, even forgetting to ask for a “get out of jail free” card in the form of a late-pass.

Luckily, Mr. Swenson, a.k.a. the Sweat-man, doesn’t give me a hard time. After all, I’m not the only one to come in late to chemistry.

Not thirty seconds after I take my seat, Ben arrives.

He sees me and our eyes lock. And my heart starts stomping around inside my chest. He looks just as amazing as I remember him—tall, rumpled brown hair, and eyes as dark as midnight.

“Well, hello, Mr. Carter,” the Sweat-man says. “You can take your old seat.” He gestures to the chair beside mine.

Ben looks at it and then up at me, but he doesn’t move an inch.

“Is there a problem?” the Sweat-man asks.

My whole face blazes and I feel my palms get clammy.

Ben shakes his head and glances around the room, noticing maybe that there are no other seats available.

“Today would be nice,” the Sweat-man sings.

Finally, Ben takes the seat beside mine, pausing only to nod a brief hello.

“Am I to assume you’ll be continuing your pattern of lateness this term?” the Sweat-man asks him.

Ben nods and opens up his notebook.

“What a joy for the rest of us,” the Sweat-man mocks.

A sprinkling of giggles erupts in the classroom, but Ben pretends not to care, instead jotting down the date. I can see the tip of his pen shake beneath his grip.

Whether the Sweat-man likes it or not, Ben has permission from the principal to arrive to all his classes late. Most people, including Principal Snell, think he suffers from claustrophobia or agoraphobia, or possibly a blending of both.

They don’t know the truth about him—about his touch powers, that he comes to class late because he wants to avoid careening into people in the hallway.

Like what happened that first time he touched me.

I continue to stare at Ben’s hands as he nervously folds and unfolds the edge of his notebook page. While the Sweat-man turns his back to scribble a formula for ionic bonding on the board, I scribble my own formula in the form of “Hi. Welcome back. I think we should talk.”

I slide the note across the table toward him. He reads it but remains unresponsive, leaving the note right there on the table in open view. I sink back in my seat, knowing it’s because he doesn’t want to touch it. And the mere thought of that—of him not wanting to ever touch me again, never mind a measly scrap of paper that might carry my vibe—is like a giant sock to my gut.

I snatch the note back and stuff it into my pocket, fighting the urge to dissolve into a puddle of hot, boiling tears. Either that or chuck the note in his face.

When the bell rings, Ben finally turns to me. His mouth is a straight, tense line. “We do need to talk,” he says.

I nod, eager to ask him about the incident in the bathroom.

“Do you have time now?” he asks. “I’m free this block.”

“I thought you had a free
last
block,” I say, picturing him—his eyes—peering through the door glass of the art studio.

“No,” he says, glancing at my mouth.

I bite my lip, completely aware that I have English next block, that I’ve yet to skip even one solitary class during my entire academic career, and that according to Principal Snell, skipping class is equal to defacing school property, resulting in at least one week of mandatory suspension.

But I decide to go with Ben anyway.