We reach a stoplight and Ben glances back at me. Later, he turns and gives me a slight smile. Meanwhile, I have no idea where he’s taking me. I just know that the cool, salty breeze tangling the ends of my hair is beyond intoxicating.
I rest my head against his back and breathe in his sugary scent, trying to calm my nerves—to tell myself that this is okay, that we’re outside, where people can see us, and that my cell phone is charged and in my bag if I need it.
Still, I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never just taken off out my window, not telling my parents where I was going, or acted on pure instinct, without a set plan in place.
About fifteen minutes later, Ben pulls up in front of Jet Lag, a twenty-four-hour diner famous for serving breakfast at night and dinner in the morning. He extends his hand to help me off his bike, but then pulls away, as if the mere touch of my skin were too intense.
“Sorry,” he says.
I nod, full of questions, but before I can ask even one, he takes a step back and then turns to open the restaurant door for me.
The place is beyond dead—only one solitary couple in a far corner. We take the opposite corner and slide the menus out from between the salt and pepper shakers.
A waitress comes shortly after and plunks a couple of mugs down on the laminated table. “Coffee?” she asks, the pot held high.
We nod, and she fills up the mugs, muttering how we look like we could use it.
I end up ordering a plate full of cinnamon French toast even though I’m anything but hungry.
“And for you?” the waitress asks Ben.
“The same,” he says, forgoing the menu completely, since it’s obvious we both want to be left alone.
“You felt something just now, didn’t you?” I ask, as soon as she steps away.
Ben pours sugar into his mug and stirs. “I always feel something with you.”
“So, what was it? Why did you pull away?”
“First, you answer my question,” he says, looking right at me. There’s a trace of sweat on his brow. “What happened tonight?”
My mouth drops open in surprise. “What makes you think something happened?”
“Tell me,” he insists.
I wonder how he knows, whether my eagerness to bolt gave me away, or maybe it was something else.
“Can you tell me?” I ask. “I mean, if you can really sense stuff the way you say you can.”
“Are you testing me?”
“Maybe.”
Ben reaches across the table and glides his hand over mine. He encircles my fingers and takes a full breath, sending tingles straight down my back. “Did somebody give you something?” he asks finally.
“Something . . . like what?”
“I can see broken glass,” he whispers, squeezing my hand harder, “and a scribble of red—like writing. Did you get a letter or a message?”
I feel my lips tremble; I’m wondering if I should tell him, but I’m suspicious just the same. I mean, if he were the one doing all this, he’d know exactly what happened tonight, and what the message said.
“You have to trust me,” he says, as though reading my mind.
A second later, he closes his eyes and grips my hand even harder—so hard I have to pull away.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes wide, like he has surprised even himself.
Before I can answer, the waitress comes to deliver our plates—thick wedges of French toast with pitchers full of syrup on the side.
“I’m sorry,” he continues, referring to my hand. “Sometimes it’s hard to control myself.”
I nod, thinking about Julie—and how he supposedly couldn’t control himself with her, either.
“What can I say to make you trust me?” he asks.
I cut a piece of my French toast, considering the question and what it would take to trust anyone right now. “Touch me again,” I say, meeting his eyes, “and tell me something other than what’s going on right now— something from my past, maybe. Are you able to do that?”
He nods and searches the restaurant, maybe to see if anyone is listening in. Meanwhile, I reach across the table, my palm open and waiting.
Ben takes it and closes his eyes, breathing in and out as if this takes his full concentration—as if he’s trying his hardest not to hurt me again. His palm is warm against my skin. I close my eyes, too, wondering what he feels.
And if his heart is beating as fast as mine.
His fingers graze my hand, as though memorizing the lines of my palm and the skin over my bones. It’s all I can do just to sit here—not to hurtle over the table and kiss him again. I open my eyes to gaze at his mouth. It quivers slightly, like he’s someplace else entirely.
I’m tempted to ask what he sees, but I really don’t want to break this moment.
Or have him let go.
His eyes move beneath the lids, as if he can really sense something, making me feel suddenly self-conscious. Maybe it’s me who has something to hide.
“I can see you as a little girl,” he whispers finally. “At least, I think it’s you—same wavy blond hair, same dark green eyes. You’re wearing a long yellow dress with big purple flowers, and there’s tall grass all around you.”
I nod, remembering the dress. A chill runs up the back of my neck.
“And you’re crying,” he continues. “Are you lost?”
I squeeze his hand, remembering that day in the second grade when I wandered away from the playground at school. My mother, having always kept a tight leash on me, was beyond hysterical when she got the phone call— or so everyone says—but luckily she didn’t have to worry long. No sooner did the school contact her than a teacher’s aide found me, crouching down and crying, worried more about my mother’s reaction than about finding my way back home.
The thing is, I never intended to go very far, just over the rocks and down the hill—just to see if I could and what it would feel like. To sneak away.
Sort of like tonight.
I pull away, not wanting to hear any more. “I believe you,” I whisper, staring right at him. Ben’s eyes are red, making me wonder if in some way he could feel my fear just now.
“How’s the French toast?” the waitress asks, standing over our table.
“A little intense,” I say.
She looks back and forth between the two of us, as though noting our expressions and the sudden flushed appearance of our faces.
“Maybe I should try the French toast,” she says, somewhat under her breath.
A nervous giggle escapes me. Ben smiles, too. And a weird, awkward moment passes over us—as if we share a secret. As if we’ve known each other for years.
“It’s easier to sense stuff from the past than it is to project the future,” he says once the waitress leaves.
“I want to tell you about what happened tonight.”
Ben nods, as though eager to hear it. And so I tell him everything, including what happened earlier in the week.
“Maybe we should call the police,” he says.
“And tell them what? That you touch me and see my dead body? That I’m getting weird notes, just like that Debbie girl? I mean, do you honestly think they’ll take any of it seriously?”
“I honestly think it’s worth a try.”
I feel my jaw stiffen, still able to picture my mom on the sofa tonight, tears soaking her face as Dad tries to console her. “My parents have enough problems to deal with right now.”
“Your life is in danger,” he reminds me. “Even the notes say that.”
“So, let’s figure it out.” I dump the contents of my bag out on the table. “Does your power work with stuff or just people?”
“Stuff, too, but it’s much harder. It isn’t as intense as skin-to-skin contact—touching something with an actual pulse.”
I nod, feeling my own pulse race, wondering if he notices the heat I feel on my face.
“Plus,” he continues, smiling as if he does indeed notice, “it onl
y works when the person has recently handled the object—when I can still feel the vibrations.”
“Can you feel these vibrations?” I ask, sliding my bag, with the photos and the note, across the table.
Ben spends several moments running his fingers over and through the contents of my bag, spending the most time on the photo from tonight. He presses the edges hard, until they crinkle up.
“He’s planning something,” he says, finally looking up at me.
“He?”
“I’m pretty sure.” He reaches for the note and the shreds of pajama fabric, but then shakes his head. “It’s like he thinks you’re ungrateful for something.”
“And that’s why he’s leaving me stuff?”
“He’s leaving you stuff because he wants you to know you’re being watched.”
I glance out the window. “Is he watching me right now?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to touch you again.”
“So, go ahead.”
Ben glances at my hand but then shakes his head. “Maybe I should take a little break.”
I look at the photo, all mangled and bent now. “Because you’re afraid you might hurt me?”
“Because I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. It’s hard to keep touching people. It takes a lot of restraint, a lot of self-control, to not squeeze too hard or push too deep. It’s like my mind wants to go one way, but my body wants to go another. It’s sort of like sleeping with one eye open.”
“And what happens when both eyes are shut?”
Ben glares at me, unwilling to answer. And maybe he doesn’t have to.
I sink back in my seat, feeling stupid for even asking. “You still blame yourself for what happened with Julie, don’t you?”
“Maybe we should talk about something else.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s an ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’”
“Have you ever talked with anyone about it?”
He shakes his head. “Before you, I barely talked to anyone. And I definitely didn’t touch them.”
I bite my bottom lip, wondering what it’s like to go through life without touching a single soul. “What made you stop homeschooling, then?”
“I wanted to try being normal again.” He looks at his hands, his eyes still red. “But maybe normal isn’t right for me.”
“Will you let me touch you?”
Before he can answer, I reach my hand across the table. Ben closes his eyes, and I run my fingers over the lines in his palm. His skin is rough and callused beneath my fingertips.
“Don’t,” he whispers.
Still, I slide my hand back and forth over his, imagining what he senses right now—if he can feel the boiling inside me.
His eyes are still closed, and I can see the urgency in his hand. His fingers curl up, like he wants to grab me.
“Sorry.” I pull away.
He opens his eyes. “You have no idea how hard this is for me.”
“Which part . . . holding on or letting go?”
“Both.”
I feel my lips part, suddenly conscious of my every move.
“You have no idea how hard it was for me that day in the parking lot,” he continues. “It took everything I had not to touch you too hard.”
I rest my hand over my stomach. “You didn’t hurt me,” I assure him.
“I’m glad.” He smiles.
I take a bite of French toast, trying to get my mind off this aching inside my bones. Ben starts to eat, too. He chews in silence, staring out the window, maybe trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness between us.
But I can’t ignore it. And so I drop my fork to the plate with a clang.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
I shake my head, feeling my face flash hot before I can even get the words out. “I was just kind of wondering . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I was just kind of wondering,” I repeat. “How long will I have to wait before you touch me again?”
Ben stares at me for several seconds without saying anything.
And then he touches me.
His fingers glide along my forearm and then clasp my wrist, sending an electric current down my back. He takes in a long full breath to keep himself in check. Still, his forehead is sweating, and he’s shaking all over.
He stares down at our hands, clasped together like two parts of a ceramic mold. “I should probably get you home,” he says, finally letting go. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?”
I agree, secretly wishing the day could be longer.
36
It’s the following morning, about twenty minutes before the warning bell, and I’m actually relieved to be in school.
I don’t think Mom slept at all last night. And neither did I. While she was busy pacing back and forth in the kitchen, drinking cup after cup of her dandelion tea, I lay in bed with my light on and the door open a crack, completely freaked out.
At breakfast, I tried to ask Mom about Aunt Alexia, but she wasn’t up for talking. Nor was Dad. Both just sort of sat at the table, staring off into space—Dad with his coffee and Mom with more tea. Neither mentioned anything about me wanting to talk last night.
Neither ever noticed that I sneaked away.
The corridors at school are eerily deserted this morning. I look out my homeroom window, curious about whether there’s been a fire drill, expecting to see rows of students lined up in the parking lot. Instead, there are swarms of people hanging around by the football field. And so I head out there, too, not quite prepared for what I see.
Polly Piranha, the school’s mascot, has once again been vandalized. Someone’s changed the words that float above her fins from Freetown High, Home of the Piranhas to Freetown High, Home of the Convicted Murderer.
I look around for Ben, wondering if he’s seen it. Meanwhile, a group of freshman boys is practically in stitches on the sideline. And they’re not the only ones. People are laughing. Boys are high-fiving. Groups of girls are giggling between whispers.
I turn to go back inside when I spot a mob of people crowded around a freshman girl. She looks upset. Her face is red, and there are tears streaming down her cheeks. I get close so I can listen in. They’re asking her questions about Ben—about the notes he’s supposedly left on her locker, the way he’s been following her around, and how he’s allegedly been staring her down in history class.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she says, tucking her fists into the pockets of her coat.
I move to the front of the crowd, until the girl and I are face to face.
“What?” she asks, giving me the once-over.
“Is your name Debbie?” I ask.
“Who wants to know?”
“I do,” I say, taking a step closer.
She shuffles her feet and continues to study me; her deep brown eyes look me up and down.
I hand her a tissue from my bag. “Are you Debbie Marcus?” I ask.
She takes the tissue and wipes her face. There’s a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “Yeah,” she says, finally.
“Well, then, can we talk a minute . . . over there?” I gesture to a spot behind a row of parked cars.
Debbie tucks her curly auburn locks behind her ears and then returns her hands to her pockets. “I guess so,” she says, still sniffling.
We move away from the crowd, making sure no one follows.
“Is it true what I’ve been hearing?” I ask once we’re behind the school van.
“If you’re referring to the way Ben Carter’s been harassing me, the answer is yes.”
“Can you be a bit more specific?”
“About the harassment?”
I nod, noticing that her neck is all blotchy with hives.
“It all started in history class,” she says. “He kept staring at me, like he was trying to psych me out.”
“Did he touch you?”
“Touch me?” She cocks her head, visibly conf
used.
“I mean, did he grab you, or bump into you in any weird way?”
She looks back at me, completely puzzled. “He keeps his distance. He has some bizarro phobia, you know.”
I manage a nod.
“But that doesn’t keep him from watching me,” she continues. “It doesn’t keep him from leaving notes on my locker, or following me home.”
“He followed you home?”
She nods. “A friend of mine spotted him sitting in the bushes across the street from my house.”
“Did you do anything about it?”
“Of course I did. I told my parents; they called the school; my dad consulted a lawyer.”
“And?”
“And what’s it to you?” she asks, her lips bunching up. “Why are you asking me all this?”
“I’m just trying to figure things out.” I look back toward the sign—and the word Murderer.
“What’s there to figure out? The guy murdered his girlfriend.”
“He wasn’t found guilty.”
“Because the judicial system is stupid. The police told my dad there’s nothing we can do about him—that he has rights, that there’s nothing illegal about looking at someone or even watching their house.”
“You called the police?” I ask, remembering how Ben suggested that I do the same.
“Well, yeah, we called them. He was hiding in the bushes,” she reminds me.
“Did you actually see him?”
“I didn’t have to.” She shrugs. “My friend saw him. She said he didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was there. He just sort of sat there, huddled up, watching her watch him, like part of him enjoyed it. Like he didn’t even care about getting caught.”
“And, so, did you catch him? Did you go out there?”
“My dad went out, but Ben was already gone. You could totally tell where he was hiding, though. My neighbor’s bush was all mangled and broken. Apparently not evidence enough, though, even with my friend’s word. He has to do something big for the police take us seriously.”
“Something big?”
“Be careful,” she warns me. “And watch your back, if you know what I mean.” She peers over my shoulder, where a group of onlookers is forming.
“No.” I take a step closer. “What do you mean?”