Deadly Little Lessons by Laurie Faria Stolarz Read Free Book Online

go down it again—to be reminded that it’s not too late for me. Not yet, at least. “I guess that’s why I called you.”
    “And I’m so glad that you did.”
    I manage a polite smile suddenly remembering that I didn’t call Wes or Adam back last night; they’ve been great resources, too. “I still feel betrayed, though,” I continue. “It’s like I can’t get over this anger.”
    “Why do you think you’re angry?”
    “Because I count on my dad to be honest with me. Because both of them said they were going to tell me the truth when I turned twelve, and then when I turned sixteen, but now I’m seventeen, and they still kept it a secret. I had to find out by accident.”
    “Nothing is accidental, Camelia. It was the right time for you to know.” She takes another sip of tea. “But one thing I think we should explore—you seem very concerned about age: how old you currently are versus how old your parents said you needed to be in order for them to tell you, for example.”
    “I just don’t get why they kept it a secret at all. Some kids are told right from the get-go that they’re adopted. There isn’t some big unveiling.”
    “And some kids don’t know until much later,” she explains. “The point is that there’s no steadfast rule. Your parents had a choice, too. And, whether or not you agree with that choice, you have to accept that they made it. It’s done. No one can go back and change it.”
    “So, then, what do I do with this anger?”
    “Talk to them. Spend some time trying to understand why they made the choices they did. And then ask yourself if you’re truly angry at them or instead just fearful of the fact that Alexia’s your maternal mother.”
    “Thank you,” I say, grateful for her help, but also anxious to get some air. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
    “Of course.” She winks at me over her mug of tea. “That’s what I’m here for.”

A FTER MY SESSION WITH DR. TYLYN , I head to Knead in lieu of going home. Spencer seems happy to see me—or at least, happy for the diversion. Now that he’s finished sculpting his life-size ballerina—which is currently displayed in the front store window instead of in the Met in New York; I mean, the thing is a museumworthy masterpiece—he’s decided to switch gears (and media) to sculpt a bust.
    Of himself.
    “I’m not trying to be narcissistic or anything,” he says of the mirror propped up against the wall, “but I need a demo for the class I’ll be teaching this summer.”
    “So it has nothing to do with the fact that you enjoy looking at yourself in the mirror?”
    “That’s just an added perk.” He pushes back his Fabio-like hair. “So, what brings you here on this bright, sunny morning?”
    “Same as you. I’m here to work.” I lift the tarp off my work-in-progress: a vaselike bowl. I started it around the time that Ben and I broke up, and I’ve been toiling away at it ever since.
    When I first began the bowl, I imagined entwined limbs; sides that curved inward like the small of a woman’s back; and a curvy base. I even took a figure-drawing class, in view of all the “body” in my bowl—to try to get the piece where it needed to be. But now that Ben’s gone—or perhaps because he is—it seems I’ve lost my inspiration.
    “Still stuck?” Spencer asks.
    “It’s so weird,” I tell him. “I mean, I started this project to get over Ben, but now that he’s gone, it’s like I need him back to finish.”
    “Basically, a clear-cut case of out of sight, out of mind.”
    “ Basically , or literally?”
    “But, then again, Ben hasn’t exactly left your mind, has he?”
    “Am I that transparent?”
    “I have eyes,” he says, adding a bit of squint to the eyes of his sculpture. “And I’m also an artist. We artists can smell love loss from a mile away.”
    “Are you sure you aren’t merely smelling your own body odor?” I joke, peeking at the sweat stains under the arms of his