Deadly Little Voices by Laurie Faria Stolarz

“But you have to admit, none of that stuff has happened to you. You haven’t been on any creeptastic photo shoots lately, nor have you been harassed in the girls’ locker room.”

    “And no one’s called you ugly, stupid, or worthless,” Kimmie adds.

    “Not yet.”

    “So, there’s still hope,” Wes says, still trying to be funny.

    I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Wes and Kimmie just don’t get it. The voices, the visions, the instances of zoning out: they’re all part of a premonition.

    They simply have to be.

    “I’ve had premonitions before,” I remind them. “Why would now be any different? Plus, maybe this stuff won’t ever concern or happen to me, but maybe it’s happening to someone else—someone who needs my help.”

    Wes reaches out to touch my hand, clearly sensing how fragile I feel. “We’re just playing devil’s advocate. You know we’re on your side, right?”

    “Have you called that doctor?” Kimmie asks.

    “I actually went to see Dr. Tylyn this morning. And the good news is that she doesn’t think I’m schizophrenic.”

    “Did you tell her about what happens when you sculpt stuff?” Kimmie asks.

    “Or when you just dream about sculpting stuff?” Wes adds.

    “There wasn’t enough time. She mostly just asked me a bunch of questions: if I have trouble keeping friends, if I think my friends might be conspiring against me, and if I’ve stopped caring about my appearance.”

    “And you answered yes to all three, I presume,” Wes says, giving my corduroy jeans a curious look.

    I fake a laugh.

    “So, this is good news,” Kimmie says. She clinks her seltzer bottle against my container of flax-infused hemp milk (more of Mom’s warped idea of lunch).

    “It’s very good,” I say, proceeding to fill them in on the artwork that Aunt Alexia showed me last night.

    “And you hadn’t told your aunt about the hallucination you had in sculpture class?”
    Kimmie asks. “Or about the dream in which someone was taking your photo?”

    I shake my head. “Plus, my aunt had obviously painted the picture of the camera long before I’d dreamt about it. I mean, that dream only happened last night.”

    “So how did she know?” Wes asks. “Just by touching the stuff around your room, or by being in your presence?”

    “I guess the same way she knew about the ‘there are two’ phrase,” I say, not even sure what that answer means.

    “So, what happens now?” Wes asks.

    “I don’t know, but there’s no point in my giving up pottery. I mean, if what I’m sensing comes through anyway…” I look away, remembering what Aunt Alexia said about ignoring my artistic impulses—how it only makes the voices louder. “You know what’s really weird?”

    “As if all of this hasn’t been weird enough?” he says.

    “I sort of remember a flash of light in the hallucination I had while in sculpture class,” I continue. “The episode that took place in the locker room.”

    “Like a camera flash?” Kimmie asks.

    “So the camera is definitely significant,” Wes says.

    “And any guesses about the sea glass or the whole skating theme?”

    “Not a one,” I tell them.

    “I just don’t get it,” Kimmie says, folding her arms. “I mean, I thought things were getting back to normal.”

    “Do we know any skaters?” Wes asks. “Does this town even have a skating club?”

    “We have a rink,” I say. “And I should probably pay it a visit.”

    “Any chance that the camera might be significant because of Matt?” Wes asks, referring to the time my stalker ex-boyfriend was taking candid snapshots of me last fall. “Let’s also not forget about the photo that Piper took,” he says, reminded of Adam’s crazed admirer from earlier this semester; she secretly took a photo of Adam and me kissing, and then sent said photo to Ben.

    “Or the photo of me,” Kimmie adds, seemingly eager to change the subject. She tells us about a photo that was