Part 15 (2/2)
She reluctantly takes it out and turns it over so I can see.
It's another eight-by-ten photograph of me. Only, instead of a bubbly heart surrounding my image, someone's scribbled over my face and then written the words I'M CLOSER THAN YOU THINK I'M CLOSER THAN YOU THINK across my body in bright red marker. across my body in bright red marker.
I grab Kimmie, slam the door closed, and lock both locks. ”Someone's watching me,” I whisper.
”It's going to be okay,” she says, wrapping her arms around me.
I wait for her to explain it all away-to tell me this is another joke, or blame the whole thing on Wes. But instead she remains silent.
32.
Kimmie brings me a cup of my mom's dandelion tea and then sits down beside me on the living room sofa. ”It was the strongest thing I could find.”
”My mom likes to keep a chemical-free home, remember?”
”Right.” She fishes inside her satin-lined clutch for a pad of paper and a pen. ”So, I really think we need to tell your parents.”
I nod, glancing down at the coffee table, where my mom's old family alb.u.m is still opened up to the picture of her and Aunt Alexia. They're twelve and seven, respectively, and they're posing in front of the Christmas tree, candy canes in their hands.
There's a bright smile on Aunt Alexia's face, and so I know my grandmother wasn't the one taking the picture. Aunt Alexia looks way too happy, after all.
I close the alb.u.m, remembering the last time Aunt Alexia was in a mental hospital and how my mom ended up in a hole of depression for over two weeks-two weeks of barely getting out of bed and having to be reminded to eat, sleep, and bathe.
”I don't want to bother my parents with this just yet,” I say finally.
”And you don't think an untimely death will be a bother?”
”Just give me a couple more days,” I insist. ”I want to try and figure things out on my own.”
”Well, you're not not alone.” She slips on her cat-eye gla.s.ses and stares at me from above the rims. ”So, let's review. What do we know for sure?” alone.” She slips on her cat-eye gla.s.ses and stares at me from above the rims. ”So, let's review. What do we know for sure?”
”I'm being followed.”
”Right,” she says, jotting it down.
”Someone's watching me, and he's getting closer.”
”Do you have any idea who this someone might be?”
”Well, I'm a.s.suming it's a guy.”
”Rule number one,” she says, crossing her legs at her faux-tattoo-adorned ankle, where a smiling Betty Boop winks up in my direction. ”Never a.s.sume.”
”But it was a male voice who called me, remember?”
”Male, schmale. Just look at Wes. He can change his voice on cue-and not just guy voices, either. He's an equal-opportunity impersonator.”
”You still think this is Wes?”
”All I'm saying is that we can't rule anyone out. Also, haven't you ever heard of voice-changers? They can make any female sound male and vice versa.”
”But he told me I was pretty.”
”You are are pretty, so what's your point?” I shrug and glance toward the picture window, tempted to pull down the blind. ”We also shouldn't rule out the whole conspiracy theory,” she continues. ”You think this could be more than one person?” pretty, so what's your point?” I shrug and glance toward the picture window, tempted to pull down the blind. ”We also shouldn't rule out the whole conspiracy theory,” she continues. ”You think this could be more than one person?”
”Rule number two: anything's possible. Which brings me to my next question: what did Ben say to you today?”
”That he can see me dead.”
”That's normal.”
”I can explain.”
”Okay, so rule number three,” she says, already annoyed. ”Stop making excuses for Ben.”
”I'm not making excuses,” I say. ”He's psychometric.”
”I know. A total nut job, right?”
”Not psychotic, psychometric psychometric: he can sense things through touch.”
”Excuse me?”
I take a deep breath and explain the whole thing- everything he told me and all that I learned online. ”So, let me get this straight,” she says, taking a sip of my tea. ”The boy touches stuff and can sense the future?”
”Sometimes the future, sometimes the past. Sometimes he sees an image. Other times it's just a feeling.”
”Like a crystal ball,” she says. ”Minus the ball.”
”Okay, so, b.a.l.l.s aside, how can I get him to touch me? I need to know if John Kenneally is going to ask me out.”
”He doesn't like to touch anyone,” I say, to clarify matters.
”Except you,” she smirks.
”Except me,” I whisper, swallowing hard.
”Oh my G.o.d, do you know how hot that is?” She fans herself with her pad of paper. ”I mean, even if it is complete and total BS.”
”You don't believe him?”
”Oh, puh-leeze,” she says, still fanning. ”He's obviously just looking for excuses to feel you up. You got to give the boy credit for creativity, though. I mean, that's some pretty original BS.”
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