Free Deadly Little Voices by Laurie Faria Stolarz Page B

says.

    I don’t have the heart to tell him the truth, and so I merely gaze out the window as we pull into the parking lot of Pizza Rita’s.

    We order a large cheese pizza, then chat about the class. Kimmie is beyond excited, telling us how inspiring Dwayne is, and how he said she has an eye for balance and proportion.

    “Dwayne’s a great teacher,” Adam says in agreement. “I’ve learned a lot just from posing—just from listening to the way he instructs his students.”

    “Speaking of posing,” Kimmie says, practically sprouting a pitchfork, tail, and horns,
    “what does it feel like up there…hanging around on the platform? I mean, do you care that people are staring at your junk and stuff?”

    “Well, I’m not exactly hanging around .” He clears his throat. “And I’m not so sure they’re staring.”

    “Trust me,” she says, her eyes as big as fishbowls. “They are.”

    A moment later our food comes, but Kimmie still doesn’t let up: “What does a gig like that even pay?”

    “It’s not such a bad deal,” Adam says, trying to remain aloof. “I mean, aside from today’s incident, it’s relatively painless. Plus, I get to contribute to the world of art.”

    “By showing your schlong?” she asks, completely straight-faced.

    Instead of getting upset, Adam humors her for several more minutes, which reminds me just how generous he is.

    And how much I really like him.

    We continue to talk, eat, and laugh for another full hour, pausing only once while I call home to give my dad an update. Kimmie seems much happier than when she was in her previous
    “anti-D” state. And I have to admit I’m feeling pretty human again, too. She even jokes that the D on her hand should really stand for ditz .

    “Because, let’s face it,” she says, “this baby ain’t coming off for weeks.”

    “Yeah, but it looks pretty cool,” Adam says. “Plus, I’m sure you’ll be able to dress around it.”

    “So right,” Kimmie says. “I can also change what the D stands for according to my mood.”

    “One day, anti-Drama,” I suggest. “The next day, anti-Dad.”

    “The following day, anti-Dolls,” she says with a wink. “Especially creepy ones with eyes that open and close.”

    “We should probably get going,” I say, unwilling to get into my own drama in front of Adam.

    Adam agrees, and he drops Kimmie off first. She steps out of the car, but then pokes her head into the passenger-side window to give me a pleading look. “Call me if anything good happens, okay?”

    “Will do.” I smile, able to read her corrupt and suspicious mind.

    Adam drives me home, filling the silence with small talk about his midterm exams and a project he’s working on involving the redesign of an elementary-school playground. He asks me questions about my classes as well, but I’m feeling far too nervous for chitchat.

Finally, we pull up in front of my house. Adam puts the car in park and turns to me. “I want to see you again,” he says, before I have a chance to say good night. “Can I call you?”

    “That’d be nice.”

    “Really?” he says, seemingly surprised by my response. “So I can take you out sometime?”

    “Sure,” I say, gazing at the scar on his lower lip. “But just as friends, okay?”

    “No sweat.” He smiles.

    I smile, too, reminded of how happy Adam always makes me and how easy it is to be with him compared to Ben. For a change, that feels really nice.

    LATER, IN MY ROOM, I do all my homework and then settle into bed, grateful for the routine and for the fact that things are starting to feel somewhat normal again.

    I grab a comb and make an attempt to work it through the kinks in my hair. But the truth is that I’ve been all kinks lately, because I haven’t been pursuing my pottery—not really, anyway.

    Part of me wonders if I should be pursuing it—if I should be using my pottery to figure out the story behind the voices. But another part of me is terrified