Deadly Little Secret by Laurie Faria Stolarz Page B

there, but my mind isn’t.”
    “So, what do you do?” I ask.
    “I try to counter it with stuff, like with meditation and tae kwon do—stuff that helps keep me in the moment— but it’s still hard. And still scary. It’s why I stay away from everybody. It’s why I was so standoffish with you. After what happened with Julie, I didn’t want to know anyone else’s fate or picture anyone else’s secrets.”
    “And so you expected to live a life completely free of touching people.”
    “It was working for me up until a few months ago.”
    “When you touched me.”
    He nods and clenches his teeth. The angles of his face grow sharp. “At first I wanted to ignore what I felt, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. I mean, what if something bad happened to you because I did nothing to stop it?”
    “I guess that explains a lot,” I say, thinking how he’s always late to class—to avoid careening into people in the hallways—and how that first time, when I approached him at his locker, he didn’t want to admit to ever having seen me before. “So, what does all this mean for me?” I ask. “You touch me and sense stuff?”
    He nods and slides his sunglasses back on top of his head to reveal his eyes, all puffy and raw. “That’s how I know you’re in danger.”
    “And so, what’s supposed to happen?”
    He stares at me for several moments, not saying anything, as though memorizing the contours of my face.
    “Just tell me,” I insist, sensing his hesitation.
    “I can see your body,” he whispers, finally.
    “My body? As in my dead body?”
    He nods, and my stomach lurches, like I’m going to be sick.
    “At first I wasn’t sure,” he says. “It was just a feeling. But, then, on our picnic date, when you kissed me . . . that’s when I knew.”
    I take a deep breath, unable to ask him anything more.
    “Are you okay?”
    I shake my head, suddenly needing some air, even though we’re outside. I glance down at my watch, suspecting it’s been way more than fifteen minutes.
    “Please don’t tell anyone about any of this,” he says. “It’s private.”
    “My being in danger is private?”
    “Well, no, not that, but this touch thing with me is. And I’d kind of like to keep it that way—at least for now.”
    “As in our little secret ?”
    “I guess it is.” He nods, and I study his face, searching for some knowing glare or pointed look—something to indicate that he’s the one who left that gift—but I just can’t tell.
    “Can we maybe talk later?” he asks. “Can I call you?”
    “I need to go,” I say, tripping over the words.
    He mutters something about promising to help me— about being determined to get to the bottom of this—but I’m not really listening.
    I get up from the rock, suddenly feeling like I’m being watched. I turn to look over my shoulder and spot Kimmie and Wes, sitting over by the swings, watching me from afar.

 30 
    She just won’t listen. And so I’ve started a plan. I just hope she appreciates all my efforts—all my work to make her happy. Once and for all.

31

    After my talk with Ben, Wes and Kimmie are all twenty-questions-times-a-hundred about what he had to say.
    But I just don’t feel like talking about it.
    Instead, I stare out the window as Wes drives us home, watching the swirl of colors, of houses mixed with buildings and trees, all blending together into one big blur.
    “Come on,” Kimmie begs. “If you’re not going to give us the full story, then how about just the CliffsNotes version?”
    I shake my head, still unnerved by my conversation with Ben, by the image of his girlfriend as she fell over the cliff that day, and the look of horror that must have covered her face when she saw him lunge for her.
    “Paging Camelia Chameleon,” Wes says, cupping his mouth and speaking through his makeshift megaphone.
    “Maybe she needs some water splashed on her face,” Kimmie suggests.
    “All I’ve got is a day-old Big Gulp,” he says,