Deadly Little Lessons Read Online Free Page B

when I wasn’t looking.
    I remember being charmed by him—so much so that I didn’t object when he offered to take me someplace quiet. I went willingly, hoping that because he was older he’d actually understand someone like me.
    I also remember that Misery had warned me about him—the “creepy-looking” guy seated at the bar. Unfortunately, I hadn’t wanted to listen. I’d been so angry that she’d lied to me about the plan for that evening. She’d told me that we were going to a poetry slam, that there was a special boy she’d wanted me to meet—Tommy was his name—but in actuality it was a glow-stick-friendly party at an abandoned sewing factory, devoid of anything even remotely poetic, and no special boy at all. And so I purposely went over to Creepy Guy at the bar, only he wasn’t creepy at all. I remember thinking how good-looking he was with his smooth tanned skin and dark hair. I half suspected that he might be Tommy after all, that maybe Misery had changed her mind about fixing me up because she suddenly wanted him for herself.
    I grab the tape recorder, replaying in my mind what he said he wanted, and curious about why he needs it. Is it so he won’t forget anything I tell him? Or because recording my words helps maintain a distance between us, whereas a conversation might make me seem more real, more human? Or—my biggest fear—is it because he collects the recordings of all his victims, to keep them as souvenirs?

I N MY ROOM , I stare at my reflection in the dresser mirror. I always thought I’d gotten my longish neck from my dad. For years, I’d assumed that the spray of freckles across the bridge of my nose was inherited from him, because he has it, too. I gaze down at my hand, remembering how just months ago, when Aunt Alexia placed her jittery palm against mine, it was a mirror image of my own.
    I grab my phone and text Adam to come pick me up as soon as he gets out of work. And then I sit down at my computer, hoping that I might have gotten an e-mail from Ben. We haven’t called or texted each other since he left. For now it’s only e-mail: a way to keep in touch while still remaining distant.
    I check my in-box, but I don’t see a new message from him, just the one from last week:
Dear Camelia,
    I’m in D.C., just thinking about you. Having a great time, despite having to keep up with my homeschool stuff. I went to a bunch of museums today. There’s nothing like getting the education up close and personal. I’ll be heading north next. I hope things are well with you.
    Love,
    Ben
    I draft an e-mail back, filling him in about everything. My pulse racing, I move the cursor over the send button, but then hit the back arrow instead, deleting the entire message, because sending it would make me vulnerable to him again, and that’s when I get hurt.
    Still, I want to write him back. I make several attempts before giving up and busying myself with the array of news links on my home page. One of them concerns the missing girl from Rhode Island—the story featured on that unsolved-mysteries show—as if I needed another reminder of my panic attack at the diner. But I click on the link anyway, desperate for a diversion.
    A picture of Sasha Beckerman pops up on the screen. In it, Sasha poses in her soccer uniform, red shorts and a yellow T-shirt, with a soccer ball under her arm. According to news reports, all signs, including an already packed bag stashed away in her closet, point to the fact that she ran away. Because Sasha was angry as hell. Because her parents had kept something very significant from her. Oddly enough, it was the very same “something” that my parents had kept from me.
    I continue to read about the case, wondering what else Sasha and I have in common—if, at fifteen, a freshman in high school, I could’ve been so upset by the news about my parents that I’d have behaved like her, that I’d have quit all of my favorite activities, ditched those closest to me, and