Deadly Little Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B

breakfast.”
    “That’s sick,” Kimmie says.
    “But tasty.” He thieves a handful of my corn chips.
    “Speaking of sick,” I say, “what was up with the photo you left in my mailbox?”
    “Photo?”
    I nod. “The one of me . . . in front of the school . . . with a heart around it.”
    He tilts his head, visibly confused. “ Qué ?”
    “Don’t be a dick,” Kimmie says. “Fess up. It was you. Just like it was you with that Teletubby stunt.”
    “Honestly,” he says, “dicks and Teletubbies aside, I have absolutely no idea what you’re even talking about.”
    “Hold up,” I say. “You didn’t leave a photo of me in my mailbox?”
    Wes shakes his head.
    “Aren’t you taking photography this year?” I ask.
    “And so, what does that prove—that I’m suddenly taking random pictures of people and leaving them in their mailboxes?”
    “I wouldn’t worry about it.” Kimmie spits her fireball into her palm. “It’s probably just some lame-o’s idea of a joke.” She shoots Wes an evil look.
    “Hey, don’t look at this lame-o,” he says, pointing out the front of his T-shirt, where the words Innocent Until Proven Guilty are printed across the chest.

 12 
    I’ve been seeing her a lot lately, making it a point to be wherever she is.
    I wonder if she can feel my eyes watching her—crawling over her skin, memorizing the zigzag part of her hair and the way her hips sway from side to side when she walks.
    There’s so much I want to ask her about, like if she sleeps on the left side of the bed or the right, and what color her toothbrush is.
    And if she liked the picture I left in her mailbox. I wish I’d been there when she opened the envelope. I’d love to have seen her expression—if she bit her bottom lip like she does when she gets nervous. If she hugged the photo against her chest, imagining someone like me. Or if her lips curled up into a smile worthy of a magazine cover.
    I took that picture from across the street, standing at the side of the telephone building. I had my camera set to zoom as I waited for the perfect angle.
    She looked so nervous. She kept fidgeting with her bag strap and twisting her fingers through her long blond hair.
    But who am I to talk? I get nervous, too. Whenever I see her, I can barely think straight. I try to calm myself down— to remind myself to be patient, to not be too anxious, that I’ll soon have everything I want.
    Inside my head, I chant, “calm, calm, calm.”

13

    It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m sitting in chemistry class, doing my best to focus, to take Kimmie’s advice about chalking the whole mysterious photo issue up to some lame-o’s idea of a joke, since, after all, she’s probably right.
    It’s the first lab session of the year, and Ben and I have a handful of test tubes set up in front of us, along with a graduated cylinder and a couple of teaspoons. The goal: to perform, discuss, and record the reactions that occur based on the mixture of a few choice chemicals.
    I’m trying my hardest to concentrate, to tell myself that combining distilled water with sodium bicarbonate is the most important thing in the world right now, even though Ben is watching and recording my every move.
    My hand shakes slightly as I add in a couple of teaspoons of phenolphthalein, which according to the Sweat-man, was formerly used in over-the-counter laxatives. I glance over at Missy and Chrissy Tompkin, otherwise known as the Laxative Twins, wondering if they’re going to try and pocket a stash for later.
    “Thirsty?” I ask Ben, holding the mixture up like a drink. The addition of the laxative stuff has made the solution resemble fruit punch.
    But he doesn’t think it’s funny. “Add in two grams of calcium chloride,” he says, keeping things all clinical-like.
    “Don’t forget,” Sweat-man announces. “This lab isn’t just about your visual senses here. What does the test-tube glass feel like with each added substance? Does it get heavier in