Deadly Little Lessons Read Free Page A

it.
    “Are you sure ?” Wes asks. “It’d probably make his decade to have a pretty girl take a peek.”
    “Well, if that’s the truth, your dad has serious issues.”
    “And apparently, so do you, my little ledge-jumper. So, let’s hear it: what’s your motivation for taking the plunge?”
    “Would you believe that I’m just PMS-ing?”
    “If you’d believe that I’m the sexiest stud in Freetown.”
    “I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”
    “Don’t tease me, Camelia,” he growls.
    “I’ll call you later.” I hang up before he can argue and gaze out my bedroom window, thinking about my ex-boyfriend, Ben, of how he used to be able to sense what I was feeling without my ever having to say it. Right now, that would be a blessing.
    Like me, Ben has the power of psychometry—the ability to sense the past or future through touch. Ben’s power works best when he touches people—when there’s skin-to-skin contact. But my power works differently, sort of like what happens when my aunt does her finger painting. When I do my pottery, images come rushing through my mind. I sculpt the images in hopes they’ll make sense. And over the past year, since this power emerged, some of the images have indeed made sense—at least they have eventually. With Ben’s help, I’ve been able to save a couple of lives, including my own.
    But my power doesn’t work the same way every time. Sometimes when I’m sculpting, I’ll envision something significant. Other times, I won’t envision anything at all. And still other times, the premonition will be so intense that I’ll hear actual voices pertaining to whatever it is I’m sculpting.
    “Camelia?” Dad calls from the other room.
    Instead of answering, I pocket my cell phone, pull on some shoes, and open my window wide. I know that I should probably call Wes back. He probably suspects there’s something seriously wrong. But right now, I just need to get away. And so I climb out the window and run as fast as I can.

I TURN ONTO A STREET that leads to Regino’s, the restaurant I went to on one of my very first dates with Adam. We sat at a table in the back, and I remember at one point during dinner looking out the window just as a tree branch broke outside, exposing two limbs that stretched out at sharp angles. The image reminded me of Ben—of the scar that runs along his forearm.
    I push the door open, surprised to discover that it’s no longer an Italian restaurant. A sign above the front counter says, WELCOME TO HALEY’S TV DINER .
    I turn back to gaze at the entrance to see if the exterior has changed as well. Maybe I was too distracted to notice it.
    “You can take a seat anywhere,” a waitress tells me.
    “Thanks,” I say, looking around. The interior is decorated with posters of new and old TV shows— I Love Lucy , Happy Days , Seinfeld , and Family Guy —and there are flat-screen TVs throughout the place, though only one is currently on. It hangs down over the front counter. A group of older people sit huddled below it.
    The waitress hands me a menu; it’s made up to look like a TV Guide with a caricature of Steve Carell on the front. “Is this your first time at TV Diner?”
    “Sort of,” I say, noticing that the rest of the place is pretty empty, that the old photographs of Florence, Rome, and Milan are gone, along with the red-and-white-checkered tablecloths.
    Despite these changes, the table at the back is still there. I head toward it, as if cosmically (and perhaps pathetically) drawn to the infamous tree branch outside the window. But the leaves are at their peak now—lush, vibrant, green—and so I can barely see it.
    I wonder where Ben is right now and what he might be doing. After coming to my rescue a few months ago, he decided to go away for a while. He joined a homeschooling group, with the principal’s approval, only he hasn’t been home in months.
    I slide into the booth, suddenly feeling stupid for coming here. Why didn’t