Deadly Little Secret Part 24

And poor me.

Teachers I never even had in cla.s.s, kids I never even talk to-all have gone out of their way to offer a listening ear. And so all throughout the day, with each second look in my direction and every word of warning, I can't help wondering if I'm being like one of those ditzy girls you see in horror flicks-the girl who keeps tripping over her own stiletto heels as she flees from her perpetrator.

But I'm not like that. I'm going with my gut-with the tiny voice inside me, telling me to trust Ben, to hear him out, and that letting the school in on what's happening now will only get him taken away, when what I need right now is to talk to him.

It's after school, and I'm standing across the street from his house, having just walked from the bus stop down the road.

His bike is parked in the driveway. I cross the street to have a look at it, searching for any scratches, dents, or chipped paint-anything that might indicate whether or not he was in an accident last night. But, aside from a six-inch scratch on the gas tank, the bike appears perfectly fine.

A moment later I hear a creaking noise coming from next door. I peer in that direction. There's an elderly woman looking down at me from her porch swing. When she sees I've spotted her, she stops swinging-the whining of the hinges ceases-but still, she continues to stare.

"Finding everything okay?" a voice says from just behind me.

I startle and whirl around.

Ben is there. His lip is puffed out, a trace of blood lingers in the corner of his mouth, and the area under his eye is a dark shade of purple.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, his face completely solemn.

"I wanted to see you." I take a step closer to inspect his wounds. There's also a crescent-shaped cut on his chin. "Are you okay? I heard about what happened."

"Which part-the fight, or the fact that I'm the one who supposedly put Debbie Marcus in a coma?"

I glance over my shoulder. The woman is still on her porch, still looking in this direction.

"Don't worry about her," he says, motioning toward the woman. "People have been watching me and calling the house all day."

"What people?"

"Reporters, angry parents, people on the school board, people who don't even know me . . ."

"And the police?" I ask, remembering what Matt said.

He nods. "It's like what happened with Julie all over again-except this time I didn't do anything."

"This time?"

He nods again, but he doesn't address it. "I don't need this c.r.a.p. My aunt doesn't need it, either. The princ.i.p.al called and told her I should take a few weeks off."

"They can't do that."

"It doesn't matter. It's done."

"And so what can I I do?" do?"

"Tell me why you're here?"

"I wanted to see you," I repeat.

"Which is why you were inspecting my bike?"

My heart tightens, and a lump forms in my throat. I look back at his bike, at the scratch on the gas tank.

"Is there a problem?" he asks, like he already knows the answer.

"I just noticed the scratch," I say, gesturing to it.

"And where do you think I got it?"

"I don't know. Where did did you get it?" you get it?"

"You don't trust me, do you?" But it's more of a statement than a question.

"I just have some questions," I say, to clarify things. "I mean, they say Debbie was. .h.i.t around one thirty or two, on Columbus. That's right near my house. That's right around the time you dropped me off."

"But I didn't hit her," he a.s.sures me.

"Were you on Columbus?"

"What if I said yes?"

"That's not an answer."

"What answer do you want?"

"The truth," I insist. "Just tell me the truth, and make me understand. Debbie seems to think it was you-at least that's what she told the police."

"She said my name," Ben says, correcting me. "And she said a motorcycle hit her. But she didn't say I was the one who was driving that motorcycle." He stares at me for my response-like what he's saying is supposed to make things right.

But it's actually making things worse.

I glance back at the motorcycle, wondering if the scratch was there before, fearing I would have noticed if it had been.

"I got the scratch today," he says. "Some kids kicked my bike over."

"Really?"

"Is it so hard to believe?" He motions to his banged-up face. "So, what now?" he asks.

"I don't know."

He reaches out to take my hand. "I still need to help you."

I hesitate, looking down at his palm, not ready for him to touch me yet-and to know what I'm thinking.

But he takes my hand anyway.

His fingers close around mine. It's tender at first, almost comforting, but then he starts to squeeze.

"Ben," I plead, trying to pull away.

He draws me closer. His other hand cinches my wrist.

"Let go," I say, louder this time.

But it's like he doesn't even hear me. His eyes are wild. His mouth is a straight, tense line. He grips harder, causing my joints to ache. My body turns cold. My head starts to spin.

Ben's face is pale and furious-no doubt from what he's sensing. I look up again at the woman on the porch. She gets up from her swing and hurries inside. Maybe she's going to call for help.

After several moments of more pleading and pulling, I jab the wooden heel of my shoe into his s.h.i.+n. It catches him off guard, and I'm able to yank free. I take several steps back, all out of breath. A look of horror is frozen on my face-I can feel it there. "What just happened?" I ask.

Ben's trembling, too. He bites his lip, to stop the shaking maybe. "I lost control," he whispers.

"But I'm okay," I a.s.sure him.

"Maybe now, but what about next time? All it takes is one slipup."

"But there's no cliff here," I say, trying to make light of it, even though my insides are completely rattled.

Ben shakes his head, like he doesn't want to hear anymore, like he can't even face me now. "You're right not to trust me."

"But I want to trust you. That's why I'm here. It's why I chose to come here instead of telling the police everything."

I reach out to take his hand, but Ben pulls away before I can even touch him.

"I need you," I continue. "I need you to help me figure everything out."

Still shaking his head, he turns away and goes back inside the house.

47.

It's just after four o'clock, and since I know my dad isn't home yet and Mom's not answering the phone, I decide to go to Knead.

Spencer's there. He's teaching a group from the senior center. There's a frail, pink-haired lady painting a giant, b.o.o.b-shaped mug for her boyfriend-one in which you actually drink from the nipple. I can't decide what's weirder-the fact that an eighty-year-old woman is painting it, or that she's chosen a bright blue base color with red and white stripes for the accent, as if it were some celebration of America. Either way, it makes me laugh, which is exactly what I need right now.

I rub my wrist, still red from Ben's grip, and then unravel my clay car from its plastic covering, eager to get to work.

"I'm glad to see you still working at this," Spencer says, standing right in front of me now.

"I'm determined to get it right."

"I know how that feels. Sometimes my work keeps me up at night. I feel guilty just going to bed, sort of like I'm abandoning a friend in crisis."

I nod, anxious to see what becomes of my piece-to surrender myself to the power of touch, as ironic as that sounds.

Spencer lingers a moment, watching as I moisten the clay's surface with a sponge and then carve out an opening for a door. "I have a feeling this is going to be your most intriguing piece yet, or at least the one with the biggest pulse." He smiles.

I smile, too, continuing to work my fingers along the car's exterior. While he resumes his cla.s.s, I create a b.u.mper and fine-tune a tailpipe. Then I close my eyes and concentrate on the power of touch and where it can lead me. I smooth my fingers over the clay, making the pa.s.senger-side door of my car sculpture open wide. I spend several minutes adding a dent to the fender and a gash to the grill, and then I put a bunch of holes into the side for no other reason than that I feel they belong there.

More than two hours later, even after Spencer leaves and turns the CLOSED sign toward the street, I continue to work, conscious that time is running out and I need to get home. My dad will be looking for me. I start to put everything away, catching a glimpse of the pinecone sculpture Ben and I made together.

I start to pick it up, but the door chimes sound, startling me.

It's Matt.

"Hey," he says, all out of breath. "I had a feeling I'd find you here."

I look back toward the door, surprised Spencer didn't lock it on his way out. "Is something wrong?"

His face is pale and sweaty. "It's Ben," he says.

"What's Ben?"

"He had an accident. He dumped his bike."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the guy went ballistic and started drag racing me down by the lake. I didn't even want to, but he started tailing me, getting right up on my a.s.s. He even put a dent in my door."

"Wait-what?"

"You need to come with me. You're the only one he'll listen to."

"Is he okay?"

Matt shakes his head and looks toward the door. His car is parked right outside, under the streetlamp.

Without further questions, I grab my jacket and lock the studio up behind me.

"Where is he now?" I ask, once we start driving.

Matt turns the radio up-some heavy metal song- and then takes a bunch of turns, leading us onto the main drag.

"Where is he?" I repeat, talking over the music.

"The hospital. The guy was racing me and got carried away. He flipped his bike and plowed into a tree."

"And you called an ambulance?"

"Yeah, I called them. He was banged up pretty bad."