Deadly Little Secret Part 11

"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 a.s.sume that whoever pranked you today is the same person who left this stuff outside your window."

"Why wouldn't wouldn't I a.s.sume it? Have you forgotten about the photograph in my mailbox?" I a.s.sume 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 little like him? The boy's got more voices than I've got vintage handbags." 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 pus.h.i.+ng me out of the way in the parking lot behind the school, and how he said I was in danger.

"Um, h.e.l.lo, so there's 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 . . ." 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 on my date. I mean, things were going perfectly fine until I kissed him." 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 b.i.t.c.h."

"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-s.h.i.+rt. 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 was spying on me." 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 Sat.u.r.day?"

"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 week's worth of English homework."

"Be serious."

"Take it or leave it."

"Do you know something?"

"Do you have the answers to the Macbeth Macbeth questions?" questions?"

"Don't be a jerk."

"Me? Did you not just accuse me of spying on you, prank-calling you, and trespa.s.sing 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 a.s.s?" He attempts to brush pa.s.s me, but I'm able to stop him by grabbing the sleeve of his brand-new, Kimmie-selected, Abercrombie s.h.i.+rt.

"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 cla.s.s, Kimmie is all abuzz, telling me how she heard-but can't confirm-that Spencer is the subst.i.tute 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.

"No substance," he says, correcting her.

Kimmie looks offended. "What's that supposed to mean?"

But he ignores her (and the worm), instead looking down at my coil pot. "You didn't stick around at the studio on Friday."

It takes me a moment, but then I remember how he'd offered to chat. "Too much homework, I guess."

"Right." He nods.

I look down at my work, suddenly conscious of my every move.

"Another bowl?" He gestures at my piece.

"A pot," I say, as if there were some significant difference.

"Don't you ever get tired of sculpting bowl-like things?"