But there was obviously a lot more to it.
“Actually, it’s not nearly as freaky as the fact that Camelia decided to go to the psycho’s house without even calling us first,” Kimmie says.
“I already told you guys, I didn’t have my phone.”
“And you’ve obviously never heard of a collect call,” Wes says.
“Nor have you heard of nine-one-one.” Kimmie’s barbell-pierced eyebrow rises high.
“Because I hear that’s free as well.”
“What’s going to happen to that freak-o, anyway?” Wes asks.
“Word’s still out,” I say. “Those other two girls, whose pictures were part of the Jack and Jill shrine, never reported the fact that he took them to his apartment for photo shoots. And, unfortunately, they’re still not willing to talk, so no one’s sure how they escaped or if they even had to.”
The police said that Jack had been described by neighbors and former classmates as a loner. He ended up dropping out of school and changing his appearance so he could feel as if he fit in. He targeted those he believed to be “lost souls” in hopes that he could heal himself by healing them—by making them his partners, while at the same time boosting their self-confidence (and “taking their pain away”).
“I’ll bet his dad knew what he was up to,” Wes says.
“Because where family’s concerned, there’s only so much you can hide, right?” Kimmie asks, painting a giant capital F on my thumbnail with the white polish.
I bite my lip, knowing she’s talking about what happened a few days ago, when Kimmie and I took a walk to China Moon.
It was late afternoon, so the restaurant was pretty dead, but there was an overly amorous couple in the corner booth. Kimmie and I tried to kill time while waiting for our order by making fun of the couple’s audible kisses and the way at one point the girl actually sat in the guy’s lap.
But then the guy got up to pay his bill. And we were able to see his face.
It was Kimmie’s dad, cheating on Tammy the Toddler with some girl he’d recently met.
“I never told you this,” Kimmie confessed after a full-on scene at China Moon (as a result of which we’ve been forever banned from the place), “but I knew my dad had been cheating on my mom. It’s sort of why I hate him.” She wiped her purple-shadowed eyes on her anti-D scarf.
After that, we went back to my house, and Kimmie opened up about her family, really talking about how she felt and what she feared. It was nice to be able to be there for her—to be able to reciprocate her friendship in spite of all the chaos going on in my life.
While Kimmie paints capital F’s on all of my fingernails, Wes gives said F’s a curious look. “Do you really think Prana Mama will approve?” he asks.
“FYI: the F stands for ‘fearless,’” Kimmie says, “because that’s what our dear Chameleon truly is.”
“The ovaries of a champion,” Wes agrees. “And the snout of one, too.” He gestures at my nose. It’s still slightly swollen from falling on my face at Jack’s apartment, but luckily, it isn’t broken. “And fearlessness such as yours,” he continues, “is just one of the reasons I’ve brought you a long overdue present.” He pulls his poetry journal out of his bag. “I’d love your honest—and fearless—opinion.”
“You got it,” I say, knowing that in showing me his work, exposing another side of himself, he’s being fearless, too.
“I’m sure your Neanderthal of a dad loves that you’re writing poetry,” Kimmie says.
“Does he still plan on having the Audi painted pink?”
“Are you kidding? No matter what he says, he’d rather die than see me in anything pastel, vehicles included,” Wes says.
“Did he report the vandalism on your car?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Now he thinks I deserved what happened, that people are saying someone like me doesn’t deserve to drive a car like mine—that the car’s way out of my league and people are disgusted with my ways.”
“What ways?” I glance down at his poetry journal, excited to finally get him, and still wondering if it wasn’t indeed Jack who keyed his car.
“Not being more like him, I guess.” Wes shrugs.
“More grotesque, sluggish, and stupid, you mean?” Kimmie asks.
“Camelia?” Mom says, interrupting us. She raps lightly on the door (the lock of which has recently been removed). “I’m heading to the hospital to visit Aunt Alexia, but your father will be home.”
Both my aunt and I have been meeting with Dr. Tylyn regularly—not together, just on our own. My parents have been meeting with the doctor, too, trying to comprehend fully just what I’m dealing with as far as my psychometric powers go. That’s one of the few blessings that’s come out of all this—my parents have actually bonded over my gift.
And luckily, I wasn’t punished after everything that happened. Initially, my mom accused me of not keeping her in the loop (once again), but the truth was, at some point, she stopped being able to be in it. Her behavior at the hospital was a direct example of that: of her regressing back to childhood, to everything Aunt Alexia had been dealing with. She couldn’t handle the idea of my following in my aunt’s path.
My dad, on the other hand, seemed a bit more reliable. And so I tried to open up to him on more than one occasion, though it was sort of like part of him didn’t want to know the truth, either—didn’t want to accept the possibility of my mother’s biggest fears coming true.
For now, the most important thing I want both my parents to know is that I’ve chosen to handle things differently from the way my aunt has.
For as long as I possibly can.
Before Mom leaves, I grab Miss Dream Baby from my closet. After Aunt Alexia was admitted to the hospital, I retrieved the doll from her room, cleaned her up, and wrapped her in a silk-trimmed blanket. “Can you give this to her?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, giving me a puzzled look. But still she doesn’t question it.
A moment later, I hear the familiar engine rumble of Adam’s car pulling up in front of our house.
“You’re not planning to have a party here, are you, Camelia?” Mom asks in a lame attempt at sarcasm—as if having three people over makes a party.
“Wes and I should probably go anyway,” Kimmie says. “I’ve got some design stuff I want to finish up for Dwayne.”
“Sketch class,” I say, knowing that I need to get back to it if I ever want to finish my bowl.
Both Kimmie and Wes give me hugs good-bye, and then my mom walks them out, warning me not to let Adam stay too long. “School tomorrow,” she reminds me.
Even though it’s barely three p.m.
As expected, Adam’s been great since the incident, calling me daily, coming by my house, surprising me with Mexican takeout one day and tabloid magazines the next.
While Dad does some work at the dining room table, Adam and I move out onto the back patio, where the signs of spring are definitely present. Mom’s tulips have sprouted in the garden, and the buds on the cherry tree have already started to bloom.
We sit on the porch swing, facing one another. Adam’s brought along the most delectable hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted—so rich and thick I can actually stand a piece of biscotti in the center and it won’t even lose a crumb.
“You don’t have to bring me treats all the time,” I tell him. “It’s nice just to see you.”
“So, no more hot chocolate and biscotti, I take it?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly go that far.”
We drink our hot chocolate and make small talk about school. But I can tell there’s something more pressing on his mind: his shoulders are tense, his face looks slightly peaked, and he keeps shifting against the bench as if he can’t quite get comfortable.
“Is everything okay?” I reach out to touch his forearm. He looks more fearful than I’ve ever seen him.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he says.
“What is it?” I ask, expecting
the worst.
“It’s about Ben.”
“Ben?” I repeat, surprised to hear his name brought up.
Adam looks down into his cup. His wavy brown hair is ruffled slightly by the breeze.
“You should know that he’s been calling me every day to see how you’re doing—if your wounds have healed, if you’re getting on with things…”
I nod, thinking how, like me, or perhaps because of me, Ben also got the sense that Danica, or someone connected to her, was in trouble, which is why he tried to spend time with her. “Where is he?” I ask.
“Back home. That’s where he was just before the attack. This is a really tough time of the year for him—the anniversary of Julie’s death.”
“Anniversary?” I ask, hating myself for not knowing that fact, for not figuring out the dates and putting two and two together.
“Yeah. It was the weekend when all that stuff went down with Jack—when he asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“I really wish he’d told me,” I say, disappointed that, once again, Ben hasn’t wanted me to be there for him.
“I was going to mention it,” Adam says, “but then Ben asked me not to…”
“Did he say anything else? Anything about why he was already on his way home that night?” I’ve gone over the scenario several times in my head. Ben’s hometown is more than three hours away. He supposedly called Adam to check in around seven, and then showed up at Jack’s house sometime after eight.
“He said it was just a coincidence that he decided to cut his trip short.”
“Really,” I say, suspecting there’s a lot more to it—that Ben must have sensed I was in trouble somehow, and that that was the real reason he decided to come back early. The anniversary of Julie’s death must’ve been beyond difficult for him, must’ve reminded him of what he feels he’s capable of—which is why he pushed me away at the labyrinth.
I zip up my sweatshirt, curious as to whether Ben misses it, or whether he even remembers that I still have it. It’s the same sweatshirt I was wearing that night at the labyrinth—the one I woke up with after being knocked out at Jack’s apartment. I can’t help wondering if it carried my vibe—if that’s how Ben knew I was in trouble and where to find me.
“Ben didn’t really talk much during our last conversation,” Adam says. “Except to say that he’s working on things, working on himself, and that he’ll be back soon enough. But bottom line, he really cares about you.”
“And why are you telling me all of this now?” I ask.
“You mean, why am I burning away any shred of hope that I might actually have of being with you?” he asks.
“Okay…” I feel myself smile.
“Because, like you, I don’t want any secrets.”
“Well, I’m glad you told me,” I say, thinking how hard the truth must’ve been for him to say. But how refreshing it is to hear.
“So, is there anything else I should know about?” I ask. “Any skeletons in your closet, or other secrets I need to know?”
Adam hesitates a moment, as if there might indeed be something else on his mind. But then he unleashes a tiny grin. “No more secrets,” he says.
I move to sit closer to him, almost unable to fully fathom the idea of a relationship without any secrets—a relationship where I don’t have to overanalyze every single solitary syllable because I’m trying to guess the truth.
I rest my head against his shoulder and glance down at the capital F’s on my fingernails, knowing that I am fearless. And so is Adam.
“So, what now?” he asks, followed by an angst-ridden breath. “Do you want to dump hot chocolate over my head for not telling you everything sooner?”
I hold my cup high, as if ready to call his bluff. Adam closes his eyes in anticipation. But instead, I kiss him full on the lips, reminding myself that I have choices.
And I’m happy to be choosing him.
Table of Contents
Epilogue
Laurie Faria Stolarz, Deadly Little Voices
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