Will you call me first thing tomorrow?”
“I must say, if I knew all this creepy stuff was going to elicit this much attention from you, I’d have gotten myself harassed weeks ago.”
“Adam, I’m serious.
It’s all so confusing.”
“Only to you it is. Wes and I tend to see things a whole lot clearer than you do. And, as luck would have it, he just happens to be here with me, hiding out from his dad. So why don’t you get your confused ass over here, too?”
“Why is he hiding out?”
“Because his dad paid Helga to come onto him.”
“Helga the cleaning lady?”
“Believe it. That woman may be sixty years old and carry her teeth around in a Dixie cup, but apparently she still has game.”
“Heinous.”
“To put it mildly.
Better wash up,” mom says. “We’ll be eating in a few minutes.”
I glance toward her mixing bowl, in which she’s blending something resembling Cat Chow.
Dad grimaces at the sight of it. “What do you say, Camelia?” he says. “Maybe after dinner and I can head over to Flick-tastic to rent a couple videos?”
Translation: Let’s save ourselves from this swill by hitting the drive-through of Taco Bell.
P.S.” Kimmie continues, nodding toward my sculptor of Adam’s lips, the assignment was to sculpt something exotic, not erotic. Are you sure you weren’t so busy wishing me dead that you just didn’t hear right? Plus, if it was eroticism you were going for, how come there’s no tongue wagging out of his mouth?”
“And what’s exotic about your piece?”
“Seriously, it doesn’t get more exotic than leopard, particularly if that leopard is in the form of a swanky pair of kitten heels . . . but I thought I’d start out small.”
“Right,” I say, looking at her oblong ball of clay with what appears to be four legs, a golf-ball-sized head, and a long, skinny tail attached.
“And, from the looks of your sculpture,” she continues, adjusting the lace bandana in her pixie-cut dark hair, “I presume your hankering for a Ben Burger right about now. The question is, will that burger come with a pickle on the side or between the buns?”
“You’re so sick,” I say, failing to mention that my sculptor isn’t of Ben’s mouth at all.
“Seriously? You’re the one who’s wishing me dead whilst fantasizing about your boyfriend’s mouth. Tell me that doesn’t rank high up on the sik-o-meter.”
“I have to go,” I say, throwing a plastic tarp over my work board.
“Should I be worried?”
“About what?”
“Acting manic and chanting about death?”
“I didn’t chant.”
“Are you kidding? For a second there I thought you were singing the jingle to a commercial for roach killer: You deserve to die! You deserve to die! You deserve to die!
He’d wanted to accompany her, but both of them knew it’d be smarter for him to stay home.
In other words, neither of them trusts me.
And who can really blame them?
The last time they both went away together, a stalker broke into our house, our basement turned into a scene out of Fright Night, and I nearly gave my boyfriend a concussion.
I’m serious,” I say. “I don’t want to lose him.”
“Then maybe you should go away for a little bit. After all, absence makes the heart grow horny, right?”
“That’s not exactly how the saying goes.”
“But it should, because you know it’s true. If you go away for a couple of days, Ben won’t know what to do with himself.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, tossing more candy corn into my mouth (therapy in a bag).
“Damn straight, I am. Now, the biggest question: Can I fit into your suitcase? Because I really don’t feel like staying here by myself.
I clear my throat, realizing how little I’ve accomplished during this conversation. “So, everything with you is great?” I say in a final attempt to get some scoop. “No problems? No demons in your closet? Nothing weird going on?”
“What’s up with you?” he asks, double-dipping a fry. “You were like this on the phone the other day, too.”
“Just making conversation.”
“Psycho conversation, maybe.”
“Speaking of psychos,” I half joke. “Anyone in your life I should know about?”
“Just one,” he says, giving me a pointed look.
Wes knocks a couple of times, but Adam doesn’t answer. “Jackpot,” he says, kneeling down to examine the lock. He takes the bundle of wire from his pocket and proceeds to make a key of sorts.
“You’re not going to break in?” I ask.
“Well, um, yeah. Kimmie rolls her eyes, as if the answer’s completely obvious.
Wes sticks his key into the lock and starts to jiggle it back and forth. A moment later, the doorknob turns.
Only, Wes isn’t the one turning it.
Piper then whips the door open. “Oh, my god,” she says, smacking her chest like we’ve scared her, too.
“We were looking for Adam.” I peek past her into the apartment.
“He isn’t here,” she says, glaring up at Wes, no doubt annoyed that he’s attempting to pick the lock.
“Would you believe that I dropped the contact?” he asks, before finally getting up.
“Not likely, since you’re wearing glasses.”
Kimmie bops him on the head with her Tupperware purse.
Piper reminds Adam once again about their study session later, and then, within sixty seconds, all of them are gone.
“Well, that was about as pleasant as having my ass waxed,” Wes says.
Ben stands just behind me, and we begin to wedge out a fresh piece of clay. I try my best to concentrate, to ignore the fact that my heart is beating at five times its normal speed. I watch his arms as he kneads the clay—almost a little too hard—and as the muscles in his forearms flex. “That’s good,” I say, in an effort to stay focused. I dip a sponge into a bowl of water and squeeze the droplets down over his hands to keep things moist.
After several minutes, Ben lets me take the lead. I place my palms over the clay mound and close my eyes. Meanwhile, Ben’s chest grazes my shoulders, and his clay-soaked fingers stroke the length of my arms.
“You’re doing great,” he whispers in my ear.
We continue to sculpt for another hour, working the mound down into a flattened surface—until we have a total of four tiles.
And until I can no longer hold myself back.
I turn around to face him.
“Camelia?” He squints slightly.
I bite my lip, wishing that he could read my mind, and that he would kiss me until my lips ache. “What are you thinking?” I ask, slipping my hand inside the waistband of his jeans and pulling him closer.
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