“Wait, are we still talking about the picture?”
In her mind, John must be down to his Skivvies by now. “Yeah, it was probably Wes,” she continues. “He is taking photography this year. Plus, he’s done stupid stuff like this before. Last year he left a Saran Wrapped rubber Teletubby in my duffel bag, along with a note that said, ‘Save me. I’m suffocating.’”
“I’m not even going to ask.”
“Bottom line—I wouldn’t obsess over it, especially when there are way more delectable things to obsess over.” She stares longingly at John.
“You’re hopeless,” I tell her.
“Hopelessly in love.” She fans herself with her anatomy lab book, which is oddly apropos, considering that the front cover has a picture of the human heart on it.
“The weird thing,” I continue, “is that the picture was taken yesterday. I recognized my outfit, meaning whoever took it developed it the same day it was left in my mailbox.”
“So?” she says. “Ever hear of one-hour photo?”
“Actually, I think someone printed it at home. It looked a little rough around the edges.”
“That’s the beauty of digital photography—no middleman, no wait time, and no worries about getting even your most incriminating photos developed. Remember the time I took that picture of my butt in the mirror? The store where I went to have it developed deleted the negative completely.”
“Tragic.”
“You bet it was. So much for my Christmas card idea.”
“I have to go,” I say, checking the hallway clock. There’s only a minute left before homeroom, and I have a full two-minute walk to get there.
I turn to leave, but not even three steps away, I end up smacking right into John Kenneally’s chest. “Sorry,” I say, wondering how that just happened, and noticing how his clothes smell like peony-scented musk.
“No worries.” He smiles. “I enjoyed it.” He lingers for just a moment too long before finally continuing down the hallway.
A second later, Kimmie twirls me back around to face her. “Oh my god, I absolutely hate you,” she says. “What did it feel like? What did he smell like?”
“Kimmie,” I say, “get a grip.”
“A grip around him, I hope.”
I watch John walk down the hallway. At the same moment, he turns to look back. He waves in our direction, and I wave back. But Kimmie, too busy fanning herself again, doesn’t even notice.
9
In chemistry, I loiter toward the back of the room, waiting for everybody to file in. Mr. Swenson (nicknamed Mr. Sweat-man, for obvious reasons), has this rule that, whoever you choose to sit with on the first day of class becomes your lab partner for the entire year.
Needless to say, seat selection is definitely critical.
Since the sciences, collectively it seems, aren’t really my strong suit, I search around for someone who I think might do well with things like beakers, test tubes, and Bunsen burners.
Until I finally see her—Rena Maruso, the girl who helped get me through bio.
“Hey,” I say, waving her over. I gesture to a table in the back and sit down. “We can be lab partners again this year.”
But Rena appears less than delighted to see me, despite my stellar organization skills. She may not want to admit it, but thanks to me, we always handed in the neatest, most orderly lab reports.
“It won’t be so bad,” I say, trying to assure her. “At least this year we won’t have to dissect anything, right?”
I know she must still blame me for accidentally spilling my Gatorade on that poor dead frog. Not only did it score us a big fat goose egg on our lab report, but I also got detention for having an open drink container in class.
Rena scans the room to see who’s left, but it seems people have quickly paired off. She lets out a sigh and finally sits down, stacking her books between us to mark her personal science-loving territory. But after a few moments, when everybody has pretty much settled into their places, she switches seats, spotting an open chair at the front of the room, right beside tree-hugging, save-the-planet Tate Williams.
Just perfect.
I look up at the Sweat-man, waiting for him to announce the inevitable: that I’ll have the unequivocal pleasure (not) of pairing up with him this year for my labs— of having to smell his sweaty self and be subjected to the flyaway dandruff in his hair. (Note to self: wear lab smock.)
But then Ben walks in.
He hands a slip of paper to the Sweat-man, probably denoting his enrollment in our class. A couple of snickers come from the corner of the room. Mr. Swenson checks and rechecks the slip of paper, comparing it to his attendance list, as if maybe there’s some mistake.
“Take a seat,” Sweat-man finally says. He scratches his head, releasing at least a tablespoon of dandruff over his shoulders.
Ben searches the room, and so do I, but the only remaining chair is the one beside mine. He sees it and our eyes lock. “Is there a problem, Mr. Carter?” The Sweat-man is glaring at him. Ben just stands there at the front of the room. Staring at me. Making my face go hot and my palms clammy. “No problem,” he says, finally. He joins me at my table, but he doesn’t look at me again for the entire block. Not once. Even though I want him to. Even though I know I shouldn’t.
10
The following day in chemistry, Sweat-man starts prepping us for our first lab, saying that we need to work as two-person teams, that any slackdom affects not only ourselves but also our partners, blah-blah-blah.
I really want to talk to Ben.
He looks more amazing than usual today in a pair of artfully tattered jeans and a faded blue T-shirt. His skin is a bit darker, too, like maybe he’s been spending time out in the sun.
He sits down beside me and starts paging through his notes.
“Hi,” I venture.
He nods, but he doesn’t look at me; just keeps flipping pages back and forth.
And so I look even closer and admire him even more— his tousled dark hair and the scruff on his chin; his strong, broad shoulders and the muscles in his forearm. I try to think up something clever to say, but all I can come up with is: “Do you have any Wite-Out?”
Without so much as glancing in my direction, Ben reaches into his bag and slides the little white bottle across the table at me.
“Thanks,” I say, noticing the dimple in his chin, and how he smells like melon soap. Not knowing what to do with the Wite-Out, I resort to blotting my name from the inside cover of my notebook. “Did you do the homework last night?” I ask, passing the bottle back to him.
He nods.
“Well that’s good, because Mr. Swenson lives for pop quizzes. You never know when he might spring one on us—hence the word ‘pop.’”
Ben doesn’t say anything. He just keeps reading over his notes, probably thinking I’m a complete and utter idiot because, let’s face it, I certainly sound like one.
After class, he starts to pack things up but ends up leaving the Wite-Out on the table.
“Hey,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder before he can sneak away.
Ben whirls around and takes a step back. “Don’t,” he snaps.
I gesture to the Wite-Out. “You forgot something,” I say, feeling stupid for even trying to be nice.
Ben rebounds with an apology. His eyes soften, and his lips form a smile, but it’s far too little and way too late, and so I ignore him and hurry out the door.
* * *
Later, for free period, I decide to go to the library, determined to get to the bottom of Ben’s story. Armed and ready with notepad and pen, I claim a computer in the corner and start googling his name, along with the words murder, accident, and cliff.
A bunch of Ben Carters pop up: Ben Carter, astrophysicist; Ben Carter, real estate mogul; Ben Carter, whose Web page shows a picture of a forty-five-year-old guy looking for love.
I let out a sigh, wondering if my lack of luck is because Ben was a minor at the time of the incident—if m
aybe the press was trying to protect his privacy. I’m just about to call it a day when I feel something touch my back.
I jump in my seat and swivel around—only to find Matt.
“Hey, there,” he says, taking a step back as if I’ve scared him, too. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay,” I say, mentally peeling myself off the ceiling.
He stands there a few moments, shuffling his feet like the mere sight of me makes him nervous.
But I guess I’m nervous, too. I wish things could go back to the way they were at the pre-dating stage—when he was Matthieu and I was Camille and we were each other’s role-playing buddies in French class.
“What’s up?” I ask him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night.”
I feel my brow furrow in confusion as I suddenly flash back to the end of last year—when he used to call me at least twice a day.
“About French tutoring,” he continues.
“Oh, right.”
“I mean, I hate to bother you. It’s just that you know how I suck at French, and I have Madame Funkenwilder this year. I hear she’s a real hard-ass.”
“She is.” I giggle, suddenly wishing my science skills were even half as good as my linguistic ones.
“So, do you think you could help out? I mean, I could pay you. I just don’t want to screw up my GPA, and I have a quiz next Tuesday.” He glances over my shoulder at the computer screen.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, doing my best to rebound. I grab the computer mouse to shut things down, but the evidence is right there in the search-engine box.
Matt pulls up a chair and sits. “You heard about that guy, huh?” he says, obviously having spotted Ben’s name.
“Who hasn’t?”
“So, why are you checking him out?”
“He’s my lab partner this year,” I say, forgoing the whole saving-my-life story.
“And you’re nervous about him?”
“I’m curious about him,” I clarify.
Matt smiles slightly. His teal blue eyes look right into mine, making me smile, too.
“What?” I ask, feeling my cheeks start to blaze.
“I know you, Camelia, remember?”
“And?”
“And let me help you. I’ll find out this guy’s deal.”
“There is no deal. I was just curious,” I remind him.
“So, let me un-curious you.” He smiles wider, smoothing back a strand of his dirty-blond hair. “I have connections, you know.” He winks at me, all covertlike. “It’s the least I can do as thanks for helping me out with French.”
“Well, don’t lose any sleep over it or anything.”
He nods. His eyes linger a moment on my flushed cheeks. We make plans to study together Monday night. “I’ll swing by after my movie date with Rena,” he says. “Did you know the theater downtown shows Hitchcock flicks every Monday afternoon?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t even know you were dating Rena Maruso.” Pretty, pert, petite, good-at-science Rena Maruso.
“Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s so incredibly yesterday’s news.
And, no, it’s not that I’m jealous. I just don’t want to hear about Rena Maruso, or anyone else who might be dating my ex, for that matter—especially when said ex is being so nice, almost making me forget why we broke up in the first place.
Almost.
11
It’s the last block of the day, and everyone’s talking about Ben’s locker. Sometime before lunch there was another sign left on it. Only this time, Ben couldn’t just tear it down. Someone had written the words Killer Go Home down the length of the door in permanent black marker.
The sign was up there for two full hours before Mr. Snell, the school principal, ordered a janitor to come and cover it up with a few strokes of red paint.
“Remember last year,” Kimmie says, applying a fresh coat of my peach-colored lip gloss, “when Polly Piranha got vandalized?”
Since our English teacher is out sick today, Kimmie, Wes, and I have the rare treat of an extra free block. And so we’re sitting in the courtyard behind the school— basically a glorified asphalt driveway with a bunch of picnic tables set up—pretending to do our homework.
I laugh, still able to picture it—the giant wooden cutout of a piranha, our school mascot, with boobs spray-painted right over her fins. Poor Polly had apparently sat in the same spot by the football field for more than thirty years, and this was the first time she’d sported hooters.
“Yeah,” I say, “but in that case Snell had her taken down within minutes.”
“A damned shame.” Wes shakes his head. “Those were some nice hooters.”
“The only ones you’ll ever see up close,” Kimmie says.
“Um, excuse me, but haven’t you ever heard of Playboy?” he asks.
“Haven’t you ever heard of hard-up boy?”
“I wonder how the truth even leaked out about Ben,” I say, cutting through their banter.
“Are you kidding?” Wes squawks. “This is a small town, with even smaller minds. A guy can’t even scratch the wrong way without people suspecting he’s got a killer case of the crabs.”
“Something you want to tell us about?” Kimmie asks.
Wes gives her the middle-finger nose scratch.
“Well, if this town is so small,” I ask, “how come nobody told me Matt was dating Rena Maruso?”
“What?” Kimmie’s jaw drops.
“Apparently true. I talked to him earlier.”
“Not true,” Kimmie protests. “Rena’s in my Spanish class. The girl tells me everything.”
“Maybe she only tells you some things,” Wes says.
“Or maybe Matt’s trying to make you jealous,” Kimmie says. “It’s the oldest trick in the book.”
“Well, whatever,” I say, eager to get back to business. “I’ve been asking people about him.”
“Matt?” Kimmie perks up.
“No, Ben.”
“Okay, so, no offense,” she says, “but does this fascination with Ben have anything to do with you deciding to give up your senior-citizen way of life?”
“Senior citizen?”
“Yeah, you know, safe, habitual, carefully planned, doesn’t like surprises, likes to be in before dark—”
“You have to admit, you are a bit of an old lady,” Wes adds.
“Of course, we love that about you,” Kimmie insists.
“Right,” Wes says. “I mean, who doesn’t love their grandma? And it could explain your sudden fixation with Danger Boy.”
“Hold up,” Kimmie says. “If Ben were a real danger boy, who really killed his girlfriend, do you honestly think they’d allow him back in school?”
“You don’t think he did it?” I ask.
“What I think is that you’re starting to sound just a tad bit obsessed.”
“Well, it’s a little hard not to be. I mean, Ben’s name is everywhere—in practically every conversation.”
“In practically every girl’s worst nightmare,” Wes says, creepifying his voice by making it superdeep. He uses a pencil as a makeshift knife to jab at the air.
“Well, dangerous or not,” Kimmie says, popping a fireball candy into her mouth, “the boy is hot—for an alleged killer, that is.”
“Why is it that all the good ones have to be killers?” Wes lets out an exaggerated sigh.
“You’re such a spaz,” I say, throwing a corn chip at his head. It sticks in his mousse-laden hair, but he picks it out and eats it anyway.
“So, what did you find out about him, Nancy Drew?” Kimmie asks me.
“Nothing reliable.” I shrug. “The stories are getting more ridiculous by the minute.”
Wes nods. “Last I heard, the boy chopped up his entire family and ate them for breakfast.”
“That’s sick,” Kimmie says.
“But tasty.” He thieves a handful of my corn chips.
“Speaking of sick
,” I say, “what was up with the photo you left in my mailbox?”
“Photo?”
I nod. “The one of me . . . in front of the school . . . with a heart around it.”
He tilts his head, visibly confused. “Qué ?”
“Don’t be a dick,” Kimmie says. “Fess up. It was you. Just like it was you with that Teletubby stunt.”
“Honestly,” he says, “dicks and Teletubbies aside, I have absolutely no idea what you’re even talking about.”
“Hold up,” I say. “You didn’t leave a photo of me in my mailbox?”
Wes shakes his head.
“Aren’t you taking photography this year?” I ask.
“And so, what does that prove—that I’m suddenly taking random pictures of people and leaving them in their mailboxes?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Kimmie spits her fireball into her palm. “It’s probably just some lame-o’s idea of a joke.” She shoots Wes an evil look.
“Hey, don’t look at this lame-o,” he says, pointing out the front of his T-shirt, where the words Innocent Until Proven Guilty are printed across the chest.
12
I’ve been seeing her a lot lately, making it a point to be wherever she is.
I wonder if she can feel my eyes watching her—crawling over her skin, memorizing the zigzag part of her hair and the way her hips sway from side to side when she walks.
There’s so much I want to ask her about, like if she sleeps on the left side of the bed or the right, and what color her toothbrush is.
And if she liked the picture I left in her mailbox. I wish I’d been there when she opened the envelope. I’d love to have seen her expression—if she bit her bottom lip like she does when she gets nervous. If she hugged the photo against her chest, imagining someone like me. Or if her lips curled up into a smile worthy of a magazine cover.
I took that picture from across the street, standing at the side of the telephone building. I had my camera set to zoom as I waited for the perfect angle.
She looked so nervous. She kept fidgeting with her bag strap and twisting her fingers through her long blond hair.