Deadly Little Games Read Free Page B

GLANCE BACK AT BEN a couple of times in chemistry, waiting for him to look at me. Finally, he meets my eye, but it’s only for a second.
    Our teacher, Mr. Swenson, aka the Sweat-man, for obvious reasons, has got us pretty preoccupied today making snowflakes, using borax and pipe cleaners.
    “These will have to sit overnight,” the Sweat- man explains, “and then we can hang them in the windows.”
    “Doesn’t he have enough flakes of his own?” Tate, my lab partner, nods toward the bits of dandruff sprinkled about the Sweat-man’s shoulders and back.
    But I’m too tense to laugh. As soon as Ben gets up to set his snowflake jar on one of the shelves in the back of the room, I follow suit, purposely crossing his path.
    “We need to talk,” I tell him.
    He nods like he knows it’s true.
    I take a step closer, able to feel the sheer electricity between us. “How’s your back, by the way?”
    “Apparently a lot harder than the gym floor.” He smiles slightly.
    “So, everything’s okay?” I ask, completely aware that the question is fully loaded.
    “I don’t know.” His dark eyes soften. “Is it?”
    I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, knowing his question is loaded, too. But instead of unloading either of our questions, we make a plan to go to the Press & Grind after school.
    Ben picks me up on his motorcycle, and I get on right behind him, holding him close, hugging his waist and wishing the ride could go on forever. But we’re at the café in four minutes flat.
    Ben orders a mocha latte for me and a large black coffee for himself, and then we sit in two cushy chairs toward the back—ironically, the same place where Adam and I sat on one of our dates.
    Ben stirs his coffee, even though there’s nothing in it, as if, maybe, he’s every bit as nervous as me. “So, you have something you wanted to talk to me about?”
    “I’m sure you already know. You were able to sense it, weren’t you?”
    “Just tell me,” he insists, still focused on his stirring.
    There’s a good three minutes of silence before I can finally conjure up the nerve to tell him. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Adam,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
    “What about him?” He looks unfazed.
    “You don’t want to hear it. Just trust me when I say that it’s you I want to be with.”
    “I do want to hear it.” He looks up finally, making telling him the truth even harder for me.
    I loosen my coat, but my face still feels hot. “I guess I’ve mostly been thinking about the way he looked,” I venture.
    “And about kissing him?” he asks, having obviously sensed the detail.
    I look away, trying to avoid the question, remembering a kiss that Adam and I did once share. It was tiny and quick and happened sort of unexpectedly over a pizza and a pitcher of root beer.
    “Camelia?” Ben says.
    “I think he might be in trouble,” I say, feeling a tunneling sensation inside my heart. I proceed to tell him about my sculptures and about how the words you deserve to die kept repeating in my mind.
    “I guess we’ve never really talked too much about your power,” he says.
    “It’s different from yours. It’s like my mind locks on an idea, and I just start sculpting it. There’s not even much creativity involved. It’s as if I have no other choice but to get it out—the image fixed inside my head—whether I like it or not.”
    “And do you always hear voices when that happens?”
    “Not always, but definitely sometimes, and I’m not the only one this happens to.” I tell him about a blog I found a few weeks back. It was called Psychometrically Suzy, and the woman who wrote it talked about how one day, when she touched her father’s old hat, she was able to hear his voice, even though he had long since passed away. “There are also people who are able to smell scents or experience certain tastes—all relevant to whatever they’re touching,” I continue.
    “Sounds complicated.”
    “It is,” I