Part 19 (1/2)
Wes sips thoughtfully and takes another look, trying to figure it out.
”Has Snell been out here?” I ask.
”Princ.i.p.al Smell Smell,” he says, ”has yet to make an appearance.”
”But I'm sure he's c.r.a.pping himself as we speak,” Kimmie says. ”Rumor has it a reporter for the Tribune Tribune was here earlier. Apparently they already nabbed a photo op. Prepare to see it on the front page tomorrow.” was here earlier. Apparently they already nabbed a photo op. Prepare to see it on the front page tomorrow.”
”With a bunch of cheesy freshman posing in front of it,” Wes says.
”Speaking of freshmen,” I say, ”I spoke to that Debbie girl.”
”The one who's supposedly on Ben's butcher list?” Wes asks.
I nod reluctantly and then fill them in on what she said, including about the note.
”Just a note?” Kimmie asks. ”No creepy snapshots of her hanging around the school?”
”No pj's left on her windowsill?” Wes adds.
”The note didn't look anything like the ones I got,” I say. ”It actually looked more like the one on Ben's locker. They were both written on sc.r.a.ps of paper in regular black ink.”
”So, what does that prove?” Wes asks.
”Maybe hers is a joke, but mine isn't.” I shrug.
”I don't know,” Wes says. ”It seems pretty weird that Ben's been hanging around you both.”
”And randomly shows up at both of your houses when you least expect it,” Kimmie adds.
”Not to mention the notes, the stares, the way he's always touching you,” Wes says.
”But he doesn't touch her her,” I pipe up, as though that's supposed to defend him.
”Oh my G.o.d!” Kimmie squeals, spotting John Kenneally in the crowd. She straightens out the hem of her poofy skirt. ”Is he coming over here? How do I look?”
”How can you even be interested in him?” I ask.
”Are you blind?”
”Are you you? Did you not see the way he acted in the cafeteria the other day-how he dumped a bowl of soup over Ben's head?”
”Okay, no comment.” She exchanges a look with Wes-complete with bulging eyes and raised eyebrows.
”Right,” Wes says. ”Let's talk about something a bit safer, shall we?”
”Forget it,” I say, getting up from the table.
”Camelia!” Kimmie squawks. ”Don't be like that.”
”Like what?” I snap. ”How can you be attracted to someone so openly cruel?”
”And how can you you can be attracted to someone so completely creepy?” can be attracted to someone so completely creepy?”
I look away, not knowing what to say, deciding not to tell them about my mirror, the shredded pj's, or my night out with Ben.
”Seriously,” she continues, ”you can't honestly tell me this Sour Patch Kids mood of yours is all because I happen to think John's hot.”
I shrug, suspecting she's right-that it has more to do with who I can trust. I glance back in the direction of the sign and, as if by fate, Ben's motorcycle comes pulling into the parking lot.
”s.h.i.+t, meet fan,” Wes says, somewhat under his breath.
Ben parks his bike and then sees the sign. Meanwhile, everyone is staring right at him, waiting for his response.
I clench my teeth, hoping he won't let it bother him, that he'll take the proverbial high road and let it roll right off his back. But instead he takes his helmet and whips it at the sign, then hops back on his bike and revs up the engine so loud I feel my insides explode.
He peels out of the parking lot, and it's quiet for several moments-there's just the hum of his engine as it continues down the street.
38.
The day is a complete and total bust, one I never should have gotten out of bed for. Ben doesn't come back to school. Kimmie and I don't really talk much. The princ.i.p.al calls for an impromptu a.s.sembly, where he lectures about the Polly Piranha vandalism, the havoc wreaked since the very first day of school, and the way the reputation of our high school has been seriously damaged (the real impetus for the a.s.sembly). Top all of that off with the Sweat-man's brilliant idea of throwing a near-impossible pop quiz, and I'm an emotional wreck.
And so, in spite of how weird things got between Spencer and me in school the other day, I head to work early, hoping that the sensation of sticky red clay against my cold and clammy fingertips will help me relax and put things in perspective. The good thing is that Spencer isn't even there when I arrive. I've got the entire studio to myself.
I line up all my tools, grab my board, and unwrap the piece I started, removing the plastic tarp and damp paper towels-essentials that keep the clay from hardening. With my eyes closed, I spend several moments just breathing into the clay, trying to block out any stray thoughts, to focus instead on my fingers as they smooth over b.u.mps and glide across cracks.
After several minutes, I feel the clay begin to take shape beneath my fingertips. My eyes still closed, I prod a little further, creating what feels like a sharp angle extending up from a boxlike base. I open my eyes to see what it looks like.
Spencer's there. He's standing just a few feet away.
I let out a gasp and take a step back, knocking a stack of cups off the shelf behind me.
”I didn't mean to startle you,” he says. ”You just looked so inspired. I didn't want to interrupt.”
”Where did you come from?” I ask, looking toward the door, knowing I would have heard the bells jingle if he'd just come in.
”I was downstairs pulling molds.” He takes a step closer to view my piece. ”What are you working on?”
”Something with a pulse, I hope.”
Spencer smiles and runs a hand through his dark hair. ”I had a feeling you were bothered by that.”
I shrug and look down at my piece, anxious to see what's become of it. There's a rectangular form at the bottom, with a smaller version of the same on top-sort of like a car, minus the wheels.
”I only said that to push you deeper,” he says. ”You have a lot of talent, but sometimes I think you take the easy way out. You don't take the time to examine the guts.”
The guts?