My dad, a conservative tax attorney by day and my mom’s yoga victim by night, gives me a pleading look. But, unfortunately for him, my downward-facing-dog days ended around the age of twelve, when my mom paid a visit to my class on career day and talked about the benefits of colon cleansing.
“Matt called for you again,” she says, her voice rising above the Buddhist monk’s chant coming from our stereo.
“What do you mean, again?”
“He called yesterday, but maybe I forgot to tell you.”
“Is it something important?”
“He didn’t say.” She plunges her heels into my poor dad’s shoulders in an effort to arch herself upward. “Someone else called for you today, too.”
“Someone else?”
“He wouldn’t leave a name.”
“He?”
She manages a nod in spite of the position she’s in. “When I told him you weren’t home, he hung up before I could say anything else. How was your date, by the way?”
“Interesting,” I say, thinking about Ben—about how when I asked him why he didn’t call me instead of just coming over, he said he wanted to talk face to face. “Did whoever it was say he’d call back?”
But my mother, having finally gotten into her back-bend, is too busy counting kundalini breaths to answer me now. And so I head up to my room, wondering if I should get Kimmie’s take on all this. I reach for the phone, but it rings before I can even pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Camelia,” says a male voice.
“Who’s this?”
“Who do you think it is?”
“Ben?” I ask, my heart pumping hard.
He doesn’t answer.
“Okay, I’m going to hang up,” I say.
“Maybe we should talk first,” the voice whispers.
“Not if you don’t tell me who you are.”
“You’re so pretty; you know that?”
I click the phone off so I can dial *69, but I don’t get a dial tone.
Because we’re still connected.
“You think hanging up on me will make me go away?” he asks.
I hang up again and the phone rings, not two seconds later. I click it on, but I don’t say a word.
“I know you’re there,” he says.
“Who is this?”
“You can hang up on me all you want, but you can’t get away. I’m everywhere you are—watching you, dreaming about you—”
“Wes?” I ask, hoping it’s him and that this is another one of his lame jokes.
“Consider this your warning,” he says. His voice is smooth and deep.
“My warning for what?”
“For being a good girl. Will you be a good girl for me?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I click the phone back off. This time it disconnects, and I’m able to dial *69. But the caller’s number is blocked.
“Camelia,” my mother calls.
I take a deep breath, trying to get a grip, wondering what he meant about how he’s everywhere I am.
I leave the phone off the hook so he can’t call back, and then glance toward my bedroom windows. A breeze blows the curtains into the room.
I know for a fact that I didn’t leave my windows open this morning.
Slowly I move toward them, wondering if maybe my mom was trying to air out the room. In one quick motion I pull the curtains open completely, steeling myself for whatever happens next.
But there’s nothing out there—nothing unusual, that is. A cluster of trees, my dad’s toolshed, and Mr. Ludinsky’s minivan, parked in front of our house.
I let out a breath and look again, noticing that both the windowpane and the screen are hiked up at least six inches. Did my mom or dad do this? Even though neither ever comes into my bedroom. Did I do this? Is there something I’m not remembering? I glance around my room, but everything appears just as neat and orderly as I left it. Meanwhile, my mind is spinning, and my hands won’t stop shaking.
I move to close the window again. That’s when I see a pink package, sitting in the flower box.
I grab it, still telling myself this must be some stupid joke. Aside from a pink bow that sits on top, the package is blank—no name, no card—and so I wonder if it’s even for me.
“Camelia,” my mother calls again.
“In a second,” I say, tearing the paper off. I recognize the pink and green packaging right away. It’s a gift box from the lingerie store.
I close my eyes, still able to hear the caller’s voice in my ear, telling me that he’s watching me.
Was he watching me at the mall the other day?
I lift the cover off the box and unfold the contents from the layers of tissue, the answer becoming quickly apparent.
It’s the pink pj’s that I picked from the rack at the store and then put back. A note sticks out of the pocket. With trembling fingers, I open it. The words THIS IS OUR LITTLE SECRET are scribbled across the page in bright red marker.
I drop the note and cover my mouth, trying my best to hold it all together.
A moment later, I feel something touch my back. I whirl around and let out a gasp.
“Camelia?” Dad asks, standing right behind me.
“You startled me,” I say, closing the box back up.
“Didn’t you hear your mother? Dinner’s ready.” He rolls his shoulders back with a crack.
“Were you in my room today?” I ask, glancing toward my window.
He shakes his head.
“Was Mom?”
“Not that I know of, why?”
I shrug, too embarrassed to explain to my dad that someone left me a gift from a lingerie store.
“Are you sure everything’s all right?” he asks.
I nod, somehow mustering a smile.
“So how come the phone’s off the hook?” he asks, pushing for information.
“Oh,” I say, just noticing it, even though the dial tone blares like a siren between us. “Wes thinks it’s funny to prank me.”
“But he wasn’t the one who called you earlier,” he says; it’s more of a statement than a question.
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Camelia?” he asks, reaching out to touch my shoulder.
I’m just about to cave completely when he says, “Dinner’s on the table. Get the tempeh while it’s still chewable.”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Well, come anyway. It’ll make Mom happy. She’s been a little blue lately.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
“Nothing really—just some stuff with her sister. She’s convinced herself something isn’t right with her.” He twists his hips, producing more cracks. “We can talk more after dinner—catch up on stuff. I’ll make us some hot chocolate. The real kind, with cream and sugar. No soy products whatsoever.”
“Sounds good,” I say, hoping I’m doing the right thing by not telling him what happened.
Not yet at least.
23
Instead of father-daughter chatting with Dad after dinner, I tell him that Kimmie’s in crisis mode and wants me to come over, pronto. Luckily my parents don’t give me a hard time, which only makes me feel worse. I honestly hate having to lie to them like this. To compound the guilt, Mom even packs me up a care package, complete with granola-flaxseed bars and carob-walnut cookies (it’s the thought that counts), and then drops me off in front of Kimmie’s house.
Kimmie is one big question mark when I show up on her doorstep—one big green question mark, I should say. There’s a thick layer of olive green mud mask on her face and, oddly enough, she’s wearing a pair of matching green footie pajamas—whether to coordinate or by coincidence, I have no idea.
“Did your mom tell you I was coming?” I ask, noticing Nate camped out on the stairs to eavesdrop, a notepad and a pencil in his hands.
She shakes her head, her wet hair swept up in a towel.
“Well, I needed to ta
lk, and I told your mom it was an emergency. You were in the shower.”
“Say no more.” She grabs me by the arm and ushers me past Nate.
We head up to her bedroom, and she closes the door behind us. “So, what’s up?” She takes a seat on the corner of her bed.
“Something really weird is going on,” I say, plunking down beside her.
“Weird as in John Kenneally asking you for my number? Of course, that probably wouldn’t be too weird, would it? The boy did lend me a brand-new, sharpened, number two pencil in English yesterday.”
“Can we please forget about John Kenneally for five measly minutes?”
Kimmie’s mouth drops open, as if the idea of it appalls her.
“Did you notice anyone following us at the mall the other day?” I continue.
“No, why?” She furrows her eyebrows, creating cracks in the mud mask.
I pull the pajamas from my backpack.
“Wait, are those granola bars?” Kimmie spots the Tupperware containers Mom packed in my bag.
“Focus,” I say, showing her the gift-packaging. “This is the same outfit I picked out at the store. Someone left it outside my bedroom window.”
“Someone, or Wes?”
“Why would Wes buy this for me?”
Kimmie shrugs, inspecting a granola bar. “His family has way more money than they know what to do with— hence Wes’s staggering allowance. Maybe he was trying to be nice. Are these hazelnuts?”
“Then, why not just offer to buy it for me?” I ask. “Why leave it outside my window?”
“Maybe he has a crush on you and wants to be all mysterious.”
“That’s doubtful.”
“It’s possible,” she says, correcting me.
“It wasn’t you, right?”
“I’m not that generous,” she says, looking at the seventy-dollar price tag.
“There’s more,” I say, taking a deep breath. I pull the note from my pocket and hand it to her.
“This is our little secret,” she reads.
“Do you think it’s a threat?”
Kimmie’s mud-slathered face goes blank, like she doesn’t know what to say.
“Some guy called me tonight, too,” I tell her. “He said he’s watching me. He said he’s everywhere I am.”
“Wait—what?”
“It’s true.” Hearing myself say this all out loud makes me feel even more freaked out.
“Did he say he left something outside your window?”
I shake my head.
“Okay, so slow down. There’s no need to assume that whoever pranked you today is the same person who left this stuff outside your window.”
“Why wouldn’t I assume it? Have you forgotten about the photograph in my mailbox?”
“A joke,” she reminds me. “For all you know, this could be two different people—a jokester and an admirer.”
“Or a psycho and a psycho-er.”
Kimmie laughs. “That totally sounds like something I would say.”
“Kimmie, somebody’s following me. He said his phone call was to warn me.”
“About what?”
“To be a good girl.” My voice is shaky. “For all I know, he’s been inside my bedroom.”
“Okay, let’s not get all paranoid. We’ll call Wes. We’ll find out if he’s behind any of this. Are you sure the guy who called didn’t sound even a little like him? The boy’s got more voices than I’ve got vintage handbags.”
“Wait,” I say, letting out a breath. “It gets weirder. Ben said I was in danger.”
“And why am I only hearing about this now?”
I tell her everything—how he showed up at my house tonight, and how he finally admitted to pushing me out of the way in the parking lot behind the school, and how he said I was in danger.
“Um, hello, so there’s your answer.” She pretends to knock at my head. “Creepy boy who watches you from afar, then shows up at your house shortly before he calls you . . .”
“Yes, but if he’s the one who’s doing all this, why would he warn me I’m in danger? Why would he show up at my house on the same day I get a bizarre phone call and a mysterious gift left in the flower box outside my window?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to keep you guessing—so you don’t suspect him.”
“He said that at first he didn’t want to believe I was in danger—but now, after today, he’s sure of it.”
“So, what happened between your date and when he showed up at your house?”
“Or, maybe the better question is what happened on my date. I mean, things were going perfectly fine until I kissed him.”
“What does kissing him have to do with you being in danger? Does he have a killer case of herpes or something?”
“He said he wanted to help me,” I continue. “He gave me his phone number and said I could call him.”
“And did you?”
I shake my head. “I was tempted to, but then, I don’t know. I called you instead.”
“Wise choice.” Kimmie pulls the towel from her hair and fingers the jet black layers. “This is probably just some scheme he’s got going to get close to you.”
“But then why pull away when I kiss him?”
“Cold sores?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she says. “Ever have one? They’re a bitch.”
“Maybe I should call him.”
“Him as in Ben? No way.”
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I ask.
“That was Wes’s T-shirt. Mine says, ‘Killers suck and they belong behind bars, not dating my best friend.’”
“I thought you didn’t believe the rumors.”
Before she can respond, there’s a knock on her door.
“Who is it?” Kimmie shouts.
No one answers.
She rolls her eyes and gets up to open it.
It’s Nate. He falls into the room with a thud, having been leaning up against the door, listening in on our every word.
“You’re such a lame little loser!” Kimmie shouts, ripping the notepad from his clutches. She tears the pages out and flushes them down the toilet in the bathroom across the hall. “Kiss it good-bye, Encyclopedia Brown!”
Nate lets out a scream, gaining the attention of Kimmie’s parents, her older sister, and her grandmother, who lives in the downstairs apartment. Even the dog starts barking at all the commotion.
Definitely my cue to leave.
24
I hate seeing her with other guys. The way she flirts with them and laughs at their stupid jokes.
I saw her talking to that dirtbag. So I called her. I had to set things straight. To put her in her place. And to warn her.
She needs to know I’m not going anywhere.
Then maybe she’ll think twice before she tries to make me jealous.
25
Unable to reach Wes over the weekend, I track him down first thing Monday morning to ask if he had anything to do either with calling me Saturday or with the gift left outside my window.
“How would that be possible?” He drapes his camera strap over his shoulder, en route to the photo studio. “I wasn’t even with you guys when you went to the undies store. How would I know which pajama set you picked out?”
“Any chance you were spying on us in the store?”
He lets out a laugh, but then realizes I’m not joking.
“I know. It’s stupid,” I continue.
“Of course, the proof is in the “pj’s,” he jokes.
“And obviously someone was spying on me.”
“It wasn’t this someone.” He slams his locker door shut. “I don’t even know your size.”
“And you didn’t call me Saturday?”
“Not that I can remember,” he says, tapping his finger against his bright orange chin—victim of the self-tanner. The poor boy looks like the Sunkist factory exploded on his face. “However, I could be bribed to rethink it with, say, a we
ek’s worth of English homework.”
“Be serious.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Do you know something?”
“Do you have the answers to the Macbeth questions?”
“Don’t be a jerk.”
“Me? Did you not just accuse me of spying on you, prank-calling you, and trespassing on your property? Not to mention buying you skeevy lingerie?”
“It wasn’t skeevy,” I say.
“Well, that figures.” Wes fakes a yawn. “Bottom line, I’m not the one dating a murderer, remember? So, why don’t you go bark up his guilty ass?” He attempts to brush pass me, but I’m able to stop him by grabbing the sleeve of his brand-new, Kimmie-selected, Abercrombie shirt.
“Don’t be mad,” I say. “I was actually hoping it was you.”
“You were?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Well, yeah,” I say, remembering what Kimmie said about him possibly having a crush on me. “I mean, I’d obviously rather it be you than some wacko.”
“There’s a compliment if I ever heard one.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, suddenly hating the sound of my own voice.
But, instead of indulging me in even one more syllable, he pulls away and heads off to homeroom. Great.
In pottery class, Kimmie is all abuzz, telling me how she heard—but can’t confirm—that Spencer is the substitute for today. “And we didn’t even need to give Ms. Mazur whooping cough,” she says.
“Right,” I say, playing along.
Not even thirty seconds later, the rumor’s confirmed. Spencer walks in, grabs a dry-erase marker, and writes his name on the board, explaining that Ms. Mazur is out for some professional development thing.
“Will she be out tomorrow, too?” Kimmie asks.
“Nope,” Spencer says. “Now, let’s get to work.”
“So much for small talk,” Kimmie coughs out, adding a coil to her clay pot.
I’m making a coil pot, too—one with a bubblelike base and a twisted handle.
Just as Ms. Mazur always does, Spencer takes a trip around the room, making comments and suggestions about everybody’s work.
“What do you think?” Kimmie asks once he reaches us. “Too floppy?” She dangles a wormlike coil at him.