to find out.
Except that I have no idea what to
do
.
Ultimately, I decide that my best bet is to go for a repeat of last night. I reach my hand down, planning to look in my pocket, but before I get there, my fingers close around something slim and round.
“Oh, shit!” I exclaim in surprise, dropping it. The pencil bounces to the floor between our feet. I didn’t expect it to be that easy. I kind of hate that it was that easy.
“I got it,” Benson whispers, bending deftly.
He holds the pencil between two fingers, studying it. He glances at me, then grabs a note card from his backpack and writes his name before setting the pencil back on the floor, the note card beside it.
An entirely new kind of tension fills the air.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Four minutes pass and my fingertips are white from pressing so hard against my thighs. Then, with no warning, the pencil is gone.
And Benson’s name on the note card with it.
“Well,” Benson says in a voice that would sound casual if it weren’t for the brittle, glass-sharp edge, “now we know why your ChapStick was working so poorly.”
Hadn’t I commented that it seemed like I had to reapply every five minutes? But how could I have even considered guessing that it was
literally
disappearing?
“Do it again,” Benson says in a whisper, his jaw flexed so hard my own teeth ache.
“No,” I whisper back. I can’t. I just
can’t
. This whole thing is terrifying and I just want it to go away.
He looks like he’s about to say something, then he turns abruptly and grabs the candy bowl, unwraps a Milky Way, and shoves it into his mouth, starting on another wrapper before he’s even begun chewing. Some people are emotional eaters; apparently Benson is a thinking eater.
As if abruptly remembering that I’m there, he holds the bowl out to me and I grab three. For a few minutes we both munch in silence and I suspect the sweet candy is helping to center him as much as it is me. The silence is deceptively companionable with nothing but the crackle of wrappers to mar it.
Benson leans forward on his elbows, fingers laced, staring at me with hard eyes until I have to suppress the urge to squirm. I wish he would hold my hands. Maybe run his fingers up my legs again. Something to remind me that he’s here.
But he just sits, silent and separate.
“Surely it all fits together somehow,” Benson says after a while, and I nod. But it’s like trying to put a puzzle together without half the pieces.
And without the picture on the box.
Not to mention a death threat hanging over you if you don’t solve it fast enough.
“I just don’t see how it could,” I admit.
“Well, you can make stuff. Surely if anyone found out, they’d want to use you, right?” He swallows and then pushes a half-eaten candy bar away from him like he’s lost his appetite.
I, on the other hand, have found mine again. I start unwrapping another Kit Kat.
“Maybe they’re hiding you from people like that.”
“What, so I can make a big stack of diamonds that will disappear in five minutes?” I say through a chocolaty mouthful.
Benson shrugs. “Maybe with some kind of—I don’t know, training?—it wouldn’t disappear.”
“That might make sense,” I say, sifting through the bowl for another Snickers. “But if so, why wouldn’t they tell me?”
“Stress, recovery,” Benson says, spreading his long arms out to the side. “It sounds like at least Reese
wants
to tell you.”
“Maybe.” I don’t want him to turn them into good guys. If he does, who will I have to be mad at—to pour my frustration into?
“What about Quinn?” Benson asks softly, and the awkwardness is back.
“What about him?” I say, feigning disinterest as I try to keep from squishing my candy bar. It’s not fair; Benson deserves a straight answer. But if I
had
a straight answer, I’d be giving it to myself.
Benson hesitates, then looks up and meets my eyes. “He’s got to know something. Reese
Except that I have no idea what to
do
.
Ultimately, I decide that my best bet is to go for a repeat of last night. I reach my hand down, planning to look in my pocket, but before I get there, my fingers close around something slim and round.
“Oh, shit!” I exclaim in surprise, dropping it. The pencil bounces to the floor between our feet. I didn’t expect it to be that easy. I kind of hate that it was that easy.
“I got it,” Benson whispers, bending deftly.
He holds the pencil between two fingers, studying it. He glances at me, then grabs a note card from his backpack and writes his name before setting the pencil back on the floor, the note card beside it.
An entirely new kind of tension fills the air.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Four minutes pass and my fingertips are white from pressing so hard against my thighs. Then, with no warning, the pencil is gone.
And Benson’s name on the note card with it.
“Well,” Benson says in a voice that would sound casual if it weren’t for the brittle, glass-sharp edge, “now we know why your ChapStick was working so poorly.”
Hadn’t I commented that it seemed like I had to reapply every five minutes? But how could I have even considered guessing that it was
literally
disappearing?
“Do it again,” Benson says in a whisper, his jaw flexed so hard my own teeth ache.
“No,” I whisper back. I can’t. I just
can’t
. This whole thing is terrifying and I just want it to go away.
He looks like he’s about to say something, then he turns abruptly and grabs the candy bowl, unwraps a Milky Way, and shoves it into his mouth, starting on another wrapper before he’s even begun chewing. Some people are emotional eaters; apparently Benson is a thinking eater.
As if abruptly remembering that I’m there, he holds the bowl out to me and I grab three. For a few minutes we both munch in silence and I suspect the sweet candy is helping to center him as much as it is me. The silence is deceptively companionable with nothing but the crackle of wrappers to mar it.
Benson leans forward on his elbows, fingers laced, staring at me with hard eyes until I have to suppress the urge to squirm. I wish he would hold my hands. Maybe run his fingers up my legs again. Something to remind me that he’s here.
But he just sits, silent and separate.
“Surely it all fits together somehow,” Benson says after a while, and I nod. But it’s like trying to put a puzzle together without half the pieces.
And without the picture on the box.
Not to mention a death threat hanging over you if you don’t solve it fast enough.
“I just don’t see how it could,” I admit.
“Well, you can make stuff. Surely if anyone found out, they’d want to use you, right?” He swallows and then pushes a half-eaten candy bar away from him like he’s lost his appetite.
I, on the other hand, have found mine again. I start unwrapping another Kit Kat.
“Maybe they’re hiding you from people like that.”
“What, so I can make a big stack of diamonds that will disappear in five minutes?” I say through a chocolaty mouthful.
Benson shrugs. “Maybe with some kind of—I don’t know, training?—it wouldn’t disappear.”
“That might make sense,” I say, sifting through the bowl for another Snickers. “But if so, why wouldn’t they tell me?”
“Stress, recovery,” Benson says, spreading his long arms out to the side. “It sounds like at least Reese
wants
to tell you.”
“Maybe.” I don’t want him to turn them into good guys. If he does, who will I have to be mad at—to pour my frustration into?
“What about Quinn?” Benson asks softly, and the awkwardness is back.
“What about him?” I say, feigning disinterest as I try to keep from squishing my candy bar. It’s not fair; Benson deserves a straight answer. But if I
had
a straight answer, I’d be giving it to myself.
Benson hesitates, then looks up and meets my eyes. “He’s got to know something. Reese
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