Deadly Little Lies Read Free Page A

what?” Her eyes narrow.
    “Nothing,” I say, forcing a slight smile.
    “I just think it’s so wonderful that you have your sculpture,” she continues. “It’s important to have an outlet—a way you can express yourself and work through any stress or anxiety. That’s what you did, isn’t it? I thought I heard you retreat down to your studio.”
    “Only for a little while,” I say, as though a short length of time makes a difference—makes the fact that I was up in the middle of the night less alarming.
    “So, how come you’re having trouble sleeping?” She gazes into the mirror at my reflection. Her henna red corkscrew curls are pushed back with a bright blue headband, emphasizing her heart-shaped face.
    I shrug, tempted to tell her about Ben, but I’m not sure how happy she’d be about the possibility of him entering my world again. I mean, yes, it certainly helps that he saved my life—twice now—but still, I’m sure there’s something unsettling to a parent when she hears her daughter is obsessing about a boy who was once tried for murder, regardless of the outcome of that trial.
    “I think I’ll try to go back to sleep,” I lie.
    “Want some chamomile pellets and almond milk first?”
    “No thanks.” I grimace, remembering how the last time she offered me one of her herbal remedies I ended up with a nasty case of hives—and on my ass, no less.
    Mom kisses my forehead and tucks me in, then summons the nighttime fairies to come in through my window and hum a little tune that will lull me to sleep—just like old times.
    I try not to giggle out loud. Instead I close my eyes, but I don’t picture nighttime fairies.
    I picture Ben.
    I turn over in bed and imagine him pulling into our driveway on his motorcycle, knocking on my bedroom window, and leading me outside. In my mind, we ride along the coast, the sea-soaked air tangling the ends of my hair and making my lips taste like salt.
    You’d think this image might relax me, but instead it keeps me up, reminding me of that night, last September, when I couldn’t sleep—when I’d called him just before midnight to come and pick me up. I told him to take us to Knead, the pottery studio where I work, and we ended up kissing for two hours straight, right there on the worktable, the moist and gritty clay lingering on our fingertips and pasted to our skin.
    It still gives me tingles.
    * * *
    As a result of failing to sleep more than two full hours the entire evening, I’m an absolute wreck at school.
    It’s the first block and I’m sitting in pottery class, trying my best to focus on my work—on everything Ms. Mazur’s telling us about the instinct and emotion of a piece—but Kimmie is less than interested, instead lecturing me on my ensemble du jour .
    “I mean, honestly Camelia, a ribbed black turtleneck with a pencil skirt? You’re sixteen, not sixty. I’d have thought you’d choose something with a bit more oomph after four full months of absent longing.”
    “Sorry to disappoint you.”
    “Don’t be sorry for me . It’s you that I’m worried about. That ensemble is more likely to score you a discount at the supermarket on senior citizen’s day than a squeeze from a certain touch boy.”
    “Whatever,” I sigh, refusing to let her get to me.
    “Of course it’s not your fault,” she continues in a hushed tone. “I should have called you this morning to check in about your wardrobe, but my dad had me completely distracted with the shaving of his chest. No joke: he monopolized the bathroom all morning and then had the audacity to leave the floor a hair-infested mess.”
    Kimmie continues to prattle on—something about having to change her tights due to stepping on said hair-infested mess, which then prompted her to change her entire outfit. I nod, trying to keep up, even though I’m much more interested in what Ms. Mazur’s saying. She’s allowing us to sculpt anything we want, so long as it evokes emotion in some conscious