Deadly Little Lessons (8 page)

I
SPEND THE NEXT FEW DAYS
filling out the paperwork for the program in Rhode Island, helping Kimmie pack, and learning more about Sasha Beckerman. Her crying voice continues in my mind, like an incessant ringing in my ear—one that won’t go away, even when I’m asleep.

In my room, I sit down at my computer just as Mom raps on my door.

“Camelia?” She walks in carrying a large white envelope in one hand and a candle in the other. “Blood orange,” she says, referring to the candle. “Care to help me break it in?” Without waiting for my response, she grabs a pottery dish off my shelf and sits down in the middle of the floor. “Come join me.” She sets the candle on the dish and lights the wick.

I sit across from her with the candle between us, noticing that her henna-red hair is just a couple of shades darker than the wax. “So, your dad told me all about this summer program you want to attend…in Rhode Island.”

“Spencer says it’ll look good on my résumé.”

Mom reaches out to take my hand. “I assume that’s not the only reason you want to go.”

“You assume correctly,” I tell her. “I need some space to figure things out. Plus, the program sounds pretty interesting—a three-hour studio in the morning, using an array of sculptural media, and then a theory class in the afternoon.”

Mom looks down at our hands. They’re clasped together in an awkward position; my pinkie finger’s left out of her grip. “There’s something I want to show you,” she says, breaking the clasp to open the envelope. She pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me.

It’s a copy of my birth certificate.

“Dad said you were asking to see this,” she says.

I gaze down at my name, just below Alexia’s, feeling a slight chill. The space for the father’s name has been left blank. “It’s really real,” I say, like there was any question.

“Definitely real and definitely empowering—that is, if you choose to see it that way.”

“Did Aunt Alexia name me, then?”

“No.
I
did. That was never a lie. As soon as I held you, I could feel your strength. It emanated from your soul. Like a chameleon, I knew you’d have good survival instincts and that you’d be able to adapt to your surroundings.”

Because I needed to adapt to them.

Mom hands me another document. “Here’s the amended birth certificate.” It’s dated six months after the original, when she and Dad officially adopted me.

“Wow,” I say, feeling the hairs stand up along the back of my neck. It’s one thing to hear about the details of my birth, but it’s another thing to see the proof.

“Just one more piece to this puzzle,” Mom says, reaching into the envelope again. She takes out a photograph and holds it up in the candlelight. “It’s a little murky.…”

It takes me a second to process what I see: a picture of Aunt Alexia in a hospital bed, holding a baby. Holding me. The flickering of the candle casts a shadow on Alexia’s face, highlighting her curious expression: a half smile, as if for an instant she might’ve been almost happy.

“So, now you can see for yourself,” Mom continues. “We can have a clean slate. There are no longer any secrets.” She grins like this is all a good thing.

But I’m not quite so sure. With the photo pressed between my fingers, I assume Aunt Alexia is oblivious to its existence. “Did she happen to mention that I didn’t show up to visit her this past weekend?”

Mom shakes her head. “Alexia’s so focused on her therapy these days. She had a progress check recently, and all the doctors agree that she’s been so much happier and more alert lately—so much more at peace with herself, despite being cooped up in a hospital.”

When I first found out that one of Dr. Tylyn’s specialties was the existence and nature of extrasensory powers, I knew that I wanted her to work with me
and
my aunt. I knew that my aunt’s therapy up until that point had mainly consisted of hopping around from mental institution to mental institution, and lots of prescription meds. Clearly it wasn’t working for her, as evidenced by her attempts at suicide. And, as talented as some of her previous doctors might have been, none of them had ever explored the possibility that maybe her symptoms weren’t simply psychotic—that maybe she was psychometric.

“Dr. Tylyn has truly been a godsend,” Mom says. “Your father and I are so grateful to her. Not only has she been instrumental in your aunt’s healing process, she’s been great for all of us. I’ve grown closer to my sister, and now I’m working to move past my resentment for my mother.…” Mom closes her eyes, places her hands together in a prayer position, and takes a full breath, as if thanking the therapy gods and goddesses, the ones who sent Dr. Tylyn our way.

“And speaking of your mother,” I start to segue, “did you ever end up calling her back?”

Mom meets my eyes again, but she doesn’t speak.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” I say, when she hesitates.

She shrugs, like the call was no big deal, but I can see otherwise. Red splotches appear on her chest. “She said she’d heard that Aunt Alexia was staying with us.”

“That’s it?” I ask, suspecting a lot more.

Mom swallows hard, clearly reluctant to tell me. “My mother wanted to make sure that Alexia was all set financially—that your father and I wouldn’t be looking for any monetary help or support, because your grandmother doesn’t want to give any.” Mom studies my face, checking for my reaction. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but there’s power in honesty, right? I need to be mindful of that.”

“Does that mean you regret not telling me the truth about my birth?”

“No regrets,” she says, pressing her eyes shut. “I agree with your dad that we did the right thing by not telling you when you were young, especially considering Aunt Alexia’s shaky path. And then this past year, when we were planning to tell you, I wasn’t quite prepared, having almost lost my sister, not to mention everything that you were going through. But, at the same time, I feel that your emotions are valid, and so there must’ve been some other way to handle this—to prepare you for the news, or to give it to you in pieces. In any case, life is about learning lessons, and I obviously needed to learn that one…even if it was the hard way. And so I’m grateful for it—for what I’ve learned.”

“Wait,
what
?” I ask, repelled by her yogaspeak. I don’t want her to feel grateful for betraying my trust, for distorting my world.

“Tell me more about this summer art program,” she continues. Her Zen attitude makes me want to scream. When did this become about her? About
her
lesson? About
her
growth?

I breathe in the blood orange scent of the candle. Meanwhile, the crying in my head gets louder. “I think I need some air,” I say, hoping she gets the message and leaves.

But instead, she chatters on about how time and distance can give way to wisdom and perspective. “If all canals are open,” she adds, “and you allow the water to ebb and flow—”

“Except my water has hit a dam.”

“Water that flows
always
finds a way,” she says, refusing to let my bitterness poison her peaceful mood. “Just give it a little time.… Which reminds me… Yikes!” She checks her watch. “I should probably get dinner ready. F-egg-salad sandwiches.” She rubs her palms together as if fake-egg-salad sandwiches (scrambled tofu, mixed with turmeric) were a rare treat.

I muster a polite grin, relieved when she finally lets me be.

“Do you think I could have a new bandage?” I ask him, referring to the one on my wrist, in the same place where he’s got his mark. I’m pretty sure I asked him about his mark that night, but I’m fairly certain I couldn’t see it clearly. He might’ve had a wristband partially covering it, or maybe it was his sleeve. Or maybe I’m remembering wrong.

The edges of the bandage are tattered and black. I lift the tape to peek at my wound. Red, raw, and puffy, my skin burns as the air hits it and I wince. It looks as if I’ve been branded, like cattle—as if someone took a burning iron and seared it right into my skin. From one angle the mark appears to be an
x
. From another angle, it’s more like a plus-sign.

“Please,” I continue, curious to know how I really got this cut and if it has any significance. “I think it’s infected.” Is this how gangrene sets in? I vaguely recall a lecture in science class, when Mr. Manzo was talking about untreated surface abrasions.

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Hopefully by that time you’ll know better than to talk unless spoken to.”

I can see the heel of his work boot through the hole in the wall as he walks away.

“Please,” I repeat; my voice is hoarse. My wound is throbbing. I venture to the front of the cell, angling my body so that I can stick my face into the hole. His lantern is still on the ground. It lights up the powdery dirt floor. The rest of the room appears as usual: concrete walls, wooden door, a pile of burlap bags in the corner.

He’s whistling now. My words mean nothing. I watch as he picks up the lantern. He walks out of my field of vision and then I hear the sound of the door pulled shut.

F
AST-FORWARD TWO FULL WEEKS
. I’ve been officially accepted into the summer program at Sumner College, and I couldn’t be more elated.

“I’m hoping that some time away will give me clarity and perspective,” I tell Kimmie and Wes.

It’s late afternoon, and we’re sitting at the ice-cream counter at Brain Freeze, sharing a double-fudge peanut-butter barrel with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup.

“Okay, but if you come back as annoyingly evolved as your mom, I’m seriously going to have to beat some misery into you,” Wes says. “When I picked you up, she placed a crystal on my forehead and told me that my third eye was clogged.”

“Don’t mind her; she’s all about chakra cleansing these days. It’s almost like she’s glad that I caught her in a lie, because it’s given her an opportunity to become a better person.”

“Sickening,” he says.

“I know.” I take a giant bite of ice cream.

“And how is Adam handling the news of your departure?” Kimmie asks.

“Okay, so I haven’t exactly told him yet. We’ve only been out once since I got the green light from admissions, but we were so busy talking about my parental funkdom that by the time I was going to tell him, things somehow segued to an incident in third grade when he split his pants open…and something about a package of peanut butter. I was only half listening, which I know is all my fault, but he totally took it personally, even when I apologized, and then our night was over.”

“Torn pants and peanut butter… It doesn’t get any more mortifying than that.” Wes shudders.

“Oh, really?” Kimmie raises an eyebrow. “Need I remind you of freshman year, Halloween dance, Wesley the Oscar Mayer wiener?”

“Need not,” he says, unwilling to walk down memory lane.

“I’m going to tell Adam about Sumner tonight. I’m heading over there after this—that is, if you’ll drive me…” I give Wes a pleading look.

“Why should I, Miss
I’m Deserting You Over Summer
Break
? I mean, how am I supposed to survive swimsuit season with my dad without the two of you around? Did I mention he wants to feed me protein shakes, crack raw eggs into my mouth, and have me do weekly weigh-ins? He’s also installing chin-up bars on all the doors.”

“Well, at least you’ll look pretty buff.” Kimmie pinches his puny bicep.

He pauses in midlick (of syrup). “You do know that one can get salmonella poisoning from ingesting raw eggs, don’t you?”

She rests her head against his shoulder. “I’m just trying to look on the bright side.”

“Well, I have a better idea,” he says. “Let me come with you. I haven’t started the protein shakes yet, so I could probably still fit into your suitcase.…”

“Get in line behind my little brother Nate. He’s already threatened to down a bottle of hot sauce if I leave.”

“Because indigestion and stomach ulcers will keep you here?” Wes says, perking up.

“More like because hot sauce tastes like poison to him, and so he assumes it has the same effect,” she says. “Now that Dad’s got his new apartment and Mom’s started working, Nate’s been clingier with me than ever. He doesn’t want to see me go. Seriously, it’s hard being ecstatic about your future when just about everyone around you feels dismal.”

I slip my arm around Wes’s shoulder. “You can come visit me whenever you want,” I tell him. “I’ll only be a couple of hours away.”

“Which leads me to my next question,” Kimmie begins. “How did you even pick Sumner? I mean, don’t they have pottery programs in places like Miami or South Beach?”

“Yes, but you have to remember that I decided to look into this whole going-away idea a bit late in the game. I’m pretty sure that most of the other intensive programs were already filled by the time I started applying.”

I have no idea if that’s true, but I’m reluctant to tell them that though Sasha might not have been the original reason for my getaway, the fact that I’m sensing things about her now is the reason I ultimately chose the place.

Truth be told, I’ve almost caved at least a dozen times and told them about Sasha—about how the sound of what I assume is her voice has been keeping me up at night or about how stupid I was to call her mother. But I’ve felt as if Kimmie’s head was so far into the Big Apple that she wouldn’t be able to see my side. Not that that’s a bad thing. She’s really excited about her internship, and just as excited by the idea that her best friend may have a fantabulous opportunity lined up, too.

“I’m sure Sumner will still be amazing,” she says. “Almost as amazing as five years from now, when the three of us will be sharing a loft in Manhattan. You, with your art exhibits at some of the trendiest galleries in town”—she smiles at me—“Wes, as a photographer, and me designing dresses for rock stars and tragic rebels.”

I manage a nod, unable to break it to her that I haven’t so much as thought about my future as a potter in weeks. It’s like she sees us moving together in one distinct direction, whereas I feel like we’re growing apart.