Deadly Little Voices Read Free Page A

of her: basically, that she and Adam had a secret relationship going on. And so he touched her harder, eager to know more. Julie got spooked and started to back away. That was when she fell backward off the cliff and died almost instantly.

    “Might you and Adam ever make things official?” Wes asks.

    “We’re officially friends,” I say, hearing the irritation in my own voice.

    “Yes, but are you officially putting your tongue down his throat?” He checks his profile in his pocket mirror, giving a stroke to his Elvis sideburns.

    “I haven’t seen Adam in a couple of weeks.”

    “And did that encounter involve an exchange of saliva?” he persists.

    “I think I’m done with this inquisition,” I say.

    But it’s not that I don’t deserve it.

    Adam and I started getting close a couple of months ago, when I thought his life was in danger. It’s worth pointing out that my power of psychometry works a bit differently than Ben’s.
    He’s able to picture images from the past or future through his sense of touch. Meanwhile, my love of pottery allows me to sculpt prophetic clues—clues that have some sort of relevance to the future. And sometimes, though this may sound nuts, I hear voices when that happens.

    In the case involving Adam, my senses proved right. He was in danger. Luckily, with Ben’s help—and after Ben saved my life for the fourth time, nearly getting himself killed in the process—things ended up safely for Adam.

    But as Adam and I were working together to keep him out of harm’s way, he admitted to some pretty shady things—things he seemed completely transformed by and at the same time remorseful for.

    Things that were pretty amazing to hear.

    Adam was being so open and honest about his past. Meanwhile, I felt as if the secrets between Ben and me just kept getting bigger. And in the end, those secrets—that lack of trust—were basically what tore us apart, more than any kiss between Adam and me ever could have.

    It’s been exactly six weeks since Ben and I decided to “take a break.” Six weeks of watching Ben’s superhero popularity grow, especially among the female population at our high school. And six weeks of Adam’s coming around on occasion, wanting to spend time with me.

    “Well, at least you haven’t heard any voices or sculpted anything psycho lately,” Kimmie says.

    Part of me feels guilty for not telling them about last night. But I’m not quite ready to hear them draw parallels between my aunt Alexia and me.

    My aunt Alexia, who’s been labeled by doctors as mentally disturbed, with suicidal tendencies.

    Who’s been in and out of mental hospitals for as long as I’ve known her.

    And who claims to hear voices, too.

    Aunt Alexia has been staying with us for a couple of weeks, but last night was the first time she ventured out of the guest room for more than five minutes. My parents assure me that giving her space is the right thing to do, that someone with a past like hers needs time to adapt to her new surroundings.

    But my theory—and one I’ve only ever shared with Ben—is that Aunt Alexia is psychometric, like me. That she’s able to predict the future with her art. And that if I don’t come to terms with my own psychic ability soon, I may one day end up like her.

    THE FOLLOWING DAY IN SCULPTURE class, I try my best to concentrate on Ms.
    Mazur’s lecture about avoiding excess water in our works-in-progress, but I really just want to sculpt.

    “By adding grog, your pieces will have less of a chance of shrinking as they dry out,” Ms.
    Mazur explains.

    “It’s all about the shrinkage prevention,” Kimmie jokes, waving a sad little wand of clay at me.

    I ignore her comment and make an effort to refocus on what Ms. Mazur is saying. She’s in the middle of explaining something about plasticity now. I gaze down at my ball of clay, imagining what I might sculpt.

    After a few moments spent spacing out, I notice that Ms. Mazur is no