Deadly Little Games Read Online Free PDF Page A

struggles with her illness. Though I’d be willing to bet it’s more of a struggle with psychometry.
    “Anyway, I’ll let you know when I make the arrangements,” Mom continues.
    “Sounds good.”
    As soon as Mom says good night and leaves my room, I call Kimmie to give her the scoop about Adam.
    “See, I told you,” she says. “Don’t you feel better now? You know he’s okay.”
    “I guess.”
    “And so, maybe now that you two have talked, he’ll stop occupying your thoughts, and you’ll stop sculpting and chanting creepy things.”
    “Hopefully.”
    “And hopefully my dad will come to his senses and move back home.”
    “It’s just a separation,” I remind her. “Temporary.”
    “Tell him that. You should see his apartment in the city: lava lamps, beaded drapes, purple lights…and don’t even get me started on his new karaoke machine. He made me listen to him sing ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ by the Beatles more times than I’d like to remember. I’m still feeling a bit traumatized.”
    “Speaking of trauma, how’s your mom?”
    “A zombie, for the most part. But her good friends Jack and Daniel have been helping out.”
    “Seriously?”
    “Not quite, but it’s getting there. They partied last night at dinner.”
    “Define ‘partied.’”
    “She downed a glass before the Easy Mac was even on her plate.”
    “A glass doesn’t exactly make a party.”
    “Unless that glass is more like a giant SpongeBob tumbler with a really long straw. She just keeps saying that my dad was the love of her life, that the two of them danced under the sea together at their high school prom, and that she can’t imagine a life without him in it, blah, blah, blah. I really hate him for hurting her this way.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say, for lack of better words.
    “I know. It sucks. But life goes on, right?”
    “Well, you know you can call or come over whenever you want.”
    “And I will ,” she says, perking up slightly. “You’re my only friend with TiVo.”
    “And don’t you forget it,” I say, grateful that, though I can’t bring her dad home, I can, hopefully, help cheer her up.

A FULL WEEK GOES BY without another thought about Adam. Until today.
    It’s after school, and I’m at Knead, the pottery shop where I work, showing Svetlana, my boss Spencer’s new hire, how to make a pinch pot. The goal is for her to be able to help out in some of the children’s classes, because she hasn’t exactly been successful with any of the other responsibilities at the studio, as evidenced by all the broken greenware pieces, the constant shortages of the cash register, and the messy back room.
    But her looks make up for or it, or so Spencer would insist, which I suspect is why he hired her in the first place. Standing at least six feet tall, Svetlana has long and flowing golden-brown hair, violet eyes, and boobs the size of boccie balls.
    “Good?” she asks, holding out her sad little glob of clay, the shape of which reminds me of a toasted marshmallow.
    There’s a proud smile across her naturally pouting lips.
    “Great,” I lie, unable to burst her proverbial bubble.
    “I make another one?” she asks, her Russian accent just as cute as she is.
    “If you want,” I say, feeling my own pinch pot begin to fold within my grip. I squeeze it into a ball and then wedge it out on my work board to get all the air pockets out. “Practice makes perfect, right?”
    Svetlana nods and resumes her pinch-potting.
    Meanwhile, I close my eyes, trying to will my Adam thoughts away. But they just keep on coming.
    I roll out my clay ball, able to picture his shy little smile, the crinkles around his eyes, and the way he always used to hook his thumbs into his belt loops. I think back to the first time I met him, when he accidentally surprised me here at Knead. Weeks later, he told me how much he cared about me. And then he asked me to show him the wheel.
    I remember how awkward it felt when he sat behind me on the