Deadly Little Lies by Laurie Faria Stolarz Read Free Book Online

because, let’s face it, the girl and I had nothing in common, what with her Gap attire and all—”
    “Sort of like mine?”
    “The point is that I may have forgotten seeing the article, but obviously my subconscious mind didn’t, because for whatever reason I dreamed about her. The fact that I saw her later—now, that was a coincidence.”
    “Well I’m done calling what’s been happening a coincidence. Plus, I heard Ben’s voice in my basement,” I remind her. “How do you explain that?”
    “Insanity?”
    “I’m being serious here. I mean, even you said the whole incident in sculpture class was like what happened when I sculpted my house key.”
    “Well, I honestly think you’re asking the wrong person,” she says. “You really need to talk to Ben again. If anyone would know about all this seeing-the-future stuff it would be him.”
    “Maybe you’re right.”
    “And maybe it’s catching.”
    “Psychometric powers?”
    “You never know,” she says, rubbing my leg, hoping some power will rub off on her. “I’d kill to know who I’ll be taking to the prom.”
    “I can’t think that far ahead.”
    “Because of the note?” She pulls it from under the chip bag.
    “I just don’t want to do this again,” I whisper, feeling a knot form in my gut. “Do you think it’s a joke?”
    “That’s my vote. I mean, just think about all the pranks that went on last semester. Someone obviously saw you go into the bathroom and thought it’d be funny to harass you. Do you remember anyone specific in the hallway?”
    “John Kenneally.”
    Her face freezes, midchew. “I really doubt it’d be him.”
    I roll my eyes, wondering why she continues to defend him. All last September, John was completely obnoxious to Ben, harassing him whenever he had the chance. Somehow, despite all that obnoxiousness, Kimmie still found John attractive, telling me on a fairly regular basis how hot she thought he was.
    “And you don’t think there’s any chance it could be Matt?” I ask, pointing out the similar lettering on the note.
    “Are you serious?”
    “Do I look like I’m joking?” I can feel the flush of my face.
    “There’s a restraining order against Matt.”
    “Talk about a joke.”
    “Matt wouldn’t be that stupid.”
    “Then what about the similar lettering?”
    “So the person used a red marker and wrote in capital letters, big deal. If I were writing a stalker note, I’d probably write in all caps too.”
    “Oh would you now?” I manage a smirk.
    “Actually, I’d probably type it instead. I’d also wear gloves, so that no one could trace my fingerprints. And I’d make all my stalker calls from random phone booths.”
    “Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out.”
    “Honey, I’ve got more plans than Wes has ugly shoes.”
    “And that’s a lot.” I laugh.
    “It sure is,” she says with a sigh.

 11 
    February 7, 1984
    Dear Diary,
    Yesterday in art class, Mrs. Trigger made me rip up my painting and throw the pieces away in the garbage. It was a portrait of me with bright red streaks running from both my wrists. At least that’s what I told Mrs. Trigger: bright red streaks from a bottle of spilled nail polish, instead of trickles of blood.
    Mrs. Trigger said the streaks, nail polish or not, looked too scary and that girls my age should be painting pretty things like ponies and fields full of wildflowers.
    But that’s just not me.
    I use art as a way to get things out. Though just about everything I draw or paint seems to come out anyway. I mean, it comes true, which is one of the reasons I think maybe I should stop doing art altogether. Except knowing what happens before anyone else makes me feel sort of special, when I have nothing else to feel special about.
    Love,
Alexia

12

    After Kimmie leaves, and after my dad and I have taken a trip to Taco Bell to fill up on nonraw food goodness, I lie awake in bed wondering if I should take Kimmie’s advice and give Ben a