Deadly Little Voices (8 page)

But did you also notice my efforts? My unwavering concern for your well-being? And my scrupulous attention to detail?

The napkin note, for example: I didn’t merely write it on the spot. You’ll be flattered to know that I’d actually written that note way ahead of time (the night before), because I wanted to ensure that things played out perfectly.

When I brought it up to the counter, it looked like you’d been expecting me. I remember you were wearing eye shadow and a bold shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth. In some way you reminded me of a little girl playing dress-up, but your attempts were a positive sign.

I ordered a cookie, but you got me a brownie instead. Also positive: I made you nervous.

I could tell that you really liked me.

I slipped you my note, making direct physical contact by sliding my finger along your thumb. It startled you-I saw your shoulders tense and your lips stiffen-but you didn’t try to pull away. Also good: you cared more about my feelings than you did your own.

I left the shop once your manager came around, but you’ll be happy to know that I lingered outside, hidden in the darkness, because I didn’t want to leave you just yet.

…

Dear Jack:

After a while you stopped hanging around the coffee shop as much. But then one day you walked in, scribbled something down on a napkin, and passed it to me as I wrapped up your brownie to go. Once again, your finger grazed my thumb, nearly knocking me off balance.

Carl saw it. The note, that is. But he didn’t say anything, because of the brownie purchase (it was our most expensive kind and not a huge mover).

The napkin pressed in my hand, I could feel it wilting in the sweat of my palm, but I didn’t want to open it until you were gone, in case it was a note revealing that I’d been the butt of some joke. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but I’m sure you already know that.

“What’s with that guy?” Carl asked, watching as you collected your books.

I was excited that Carl noticed your attention, that it hadn’t just been a figment of my imagination. “He seems pretty nice,” I said.

Carl gawked at me, his face as wilted as my napkin note. “You need your head checked.”

Carl, in case you were wondering, is twenty-nine years old and in graduate school, working full-time days while taking acting classes at night. He says he wants to be the next Jim Carrey, but I’ve honestly never seen that side of him. He always looks like his dog just died (especially when you come around).

Before I could ask him to elaborate, a loud clunk came from the back pantry. Carl headed in that direction, while you bolted out the door.

I remember how my fingers shook as I struggled to open your note. TONIGHT, 9PM, it read. CAN WE TALK? I-M ME AT [email protected].

I wonder if you saw me rush to the front window, if you were watching as I gazed out into the parking lot. I remember spotting someone getting into a dark car, but I couldn’t quite tell if it was you. The driver didn’t wave, nor did he pull out of the space. Still, I pressed the napkin-note against my chest, hoping that it wasn’t part of a dream, or, if it was, that I’d never wake up.

…

MY MOM’S IN AUNT ALEXIA’S ROOM. The door is open a crack, and I can hear them speaking in hushed tones. Standing in the middle of the hall, I do my best to listen in, but I can’t make out much more than “I’m not hungry” and “I’m just so tired.”

Mom continues to ask Aunt Alexia questions—now it’s something about her art—but a floorboard creaks beneath my feet, and I know I’m caught.

I retreat toward the kitchen, but it’s already too late.

“Hey, there,” Mom says, poking her head out into the hallway. She closes Aunt Alexia’s door behind her and points me toward the kitchen, where I find a spread of vegan delights set up on the island—from peanut butter cups to flaxseed chips with faux nacho dip.

“What’s the special occasion?” I ask, noticing that some of the food looks surprisingly edible.

“Aunt Alexia says she prefers her food cooked.”

“Go figure,” I say, taking one of the peanut butter cups.

Mom tucks a corkscrewlike strand of her auburn hair back into her bun. “How’s school going? No more panic attacks, I hope.”

“I take it Dad filled you in.”

“Dad, Ms. Beady, your art teacher, the mailman…” She counts them off on her fingers.

“Okay, well, not the mailman.” She smirks. “But you get the point. It would’ve been nice to have heard the news from you.”

“How long have you known?”

“A couple days.” She grabs a knife to chop some carrots. “Your dad told me, and then I got a voice message from Ms. Beady. I kept waiting for you to say something.…”
Chop, chop,
chop.

“I was
going
to tell you,” I say, disappointed that it took her so long to ask me. “I mean, it’s not like it was some secret.”

“I don’t want to lecture you, Camelia. I know that I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately.”

Chop, chop.

I look back at her array of snacks, trying to put myself in her shoes—having her sister here and still blaming herself for her sister’s suicidal tendencies, while dealing with the stress I cause her.

When they were growing up, their mother (my grandmother) believed that Aunt Alexia’s birth was the reason her husband left them. And so, Aunt Alexia was constantly punished for simply having been born, while my mother was often doted on, making Aunt Alexia feel even more unwanted.

“You’ve been fine,” I tell her, deciding to cut her some slack.

“Yes, but school for you hasn’t been, so why not fill me in? Before the mailman does, that is.” She smiles.

I smile back, glad to be able to share some of the lighter details. And so I give her the complete lowdown on Ben. “He looked so happy with that Alejandra girl today.”

“But you said you wanted time to yourself, right?”

“Right.” I sigh, following up with a halfhearted bite of a peanut butter cup. To my surprise, it tastes like heaven inside my mouth. “Are you kidding me with these?” I snatch another.

“Glad you like them.” She stops chopping to push the plate closer. “Edible therapy, wouldn’t you say? And, speaking of which, your dad made an appointment for you to see that therapist, but it’s not until next week.” She eats her worried expression along with a dehydrated flaxseed chip. “Your dad and I think it’s good that you’ll be talking to someone.”

“I guess,” I say, not convinced, because, aside from Dad, everyone in this household is seeing a shrink, but no one seems any better off for it.

“It’s healthy to have someone outside your network of friends and family to talk to,” she continues. “Someone with a different perspective.”

I nod reluctantly, thinking how it wasn’t so long ago that she insisted I tell her everything. I glance past her at the bottle of pills on the counter. She used to keep it stashed behind the jar of almond butter, but now it’s out in the open beside the salt and pepper shakers, like they’re suddenly just as common. “How’s Aunt Alexia doing?” I ask, curious to know what all the whispering was about.

“She’s been asking about you, too.” She fakes a smile. “She’s doing okay, but she still needs some time. Coming here is a big adjustment.”

“To say the least.” I nod in agreement while taking a bite of faux nacho dip and wishing I’d stopped at the peanut butter cups.

Later, Mom drops me off at Hayden for my art class. With sketch pad and pencils in hand, I hurry down the hallway, noticing that a bunch of the rooms on both sides of the corridor have the letters
PSY
before the number.

I slow down to scan the names on the doors. Finally I find Dr. Tylyn’s office, sandwiched between a water fountain and a supply closet. The light’s on, and the door is wide open, but no one’s inside.

I lean forward for a closer look. At the same moment, someone grabs my shoulder from behind, completely startling me.

It’s Kimmie.

“Okay, what are you even doing here?” I slap my hand over my chest. “Besides trying to give me a heart attack, that is?”

“For your information, I’m trying to ward off depression.” She flashes her palm at me.

There’s a dark brown capital
D
, with a slash mark through it, stamped in the center. “It’s henna,”

she explains. “In other words, temporary. And, before you ask, the
D
stands for ‘depression.’”

I’m tempted to ask her if it might instead stand for
dumb
, but I bite my tongue.

“It was Wes’s suggestion,” she continues, “and Weed, the tattoo artist who did it, said it was sure to do the trick—that even when I’m not thinking about the tattoo, my subconscious will be well aware of its presence, thus ridding my mind of depressive thoughts.”

“What happened?” I ask, already suspecting the truth. Kimmie was supposed to be dining with her dad tonight.

“He said he needed to reschedule,” she says, her eyes welling up. “He said he had to work late, but it was all a bogus lie. I went by his place and his car was there. Tammy’s was there, too.”

“What can I do?” I ask, giving her a hug.

“Just be with me. I don’t want to be alone, okay?”

“Do you want me to ditch my class?”

She shakes her head and tries to regroup, taking a step back and wiping her eyes with a coordinating scarf (there’s a crossed-out
D
at the hem). “Can I come and sketch naked people with you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Before you object, I know how much this art class means to you. I know that Spencer went out of his way to get you in, and so I promise not to laugh at any impending floppiness.”

“Well, in that case,” I say, hooking elbows with her, “how could I possibly say no?”

ON THE WAY into the art studio, Kimmie explains that she isn’t crashing the course for antidepressive purposes only. “If I’m going to have my own design business one day, I need to start becoming more aware of the body.”

“Especially if that body is tall, dark, and ripped?” I ask, suspecting an ulterior motive.

Dwayne, the art professor, spots us right away. “Welcome to my lair,” he says, in a voice as big as he is. Standing at least six feet seven, he has Einstein-like hair and tortoiseshell glasses with round frames.

Kimmie introduces herself as an aspiring designer, and Dwayne eats up every word, telling her about his obsession with designers like Giorgio Armani and Oscar de la Renta. “Fine tailoring, fine artists,” he tells her. “It’s all about line, contour, and proportion.”

“Amen to that,” she says, evidently inspired.

“And you must be Camelia.” Dwayne turns to shake my hand. “Spencer told me all about those troublesome bowls of yours.” He tsk-tsks.

“Troublesome?”

“As you embark upon your sketches,” he replies, “I want you to consider things like form, texture, and size.”

“Because size is definitely key,” Kimmie whispers, grinning at me. “Especially when sketching naked people.”

I yank her away so that we can find seats. The easels are arranged in a circle, with space in the middle where the model stands. There are about twelve students in total, including us—a mixture of early-twenty-somethings and people who look to be my parents’ age.

“I wonder if we’ll ever bump into Adam on campus,” Kimmie says.

I shrug, having wondered the same, especially since I’ll be coming here for the next several weeks.

A moment later, I notice that our model has come into the studio. With his back to me, he stands in the center, dressed only in a robe and flip-flops.

“Passengers, prepare for takeoff,” Kimmie says, as he drops his robe to the floor.

I clench my teeth, trying my best to focus—to ignore the fact that there’s a naked guy standing right in front of me now. A naked guy with sculpted legs, a muscular back, and perfectly chiseled arms.

“Holy buttocks,” Kimmie says under her breath.