Free Deadly Little Games by Laurie Faria Stolarz

inside my gut.
    Ben hesitates, as if fully aware that I’m thoroughly freaked. “It’s something I scribbled down late last night, after I left your house…when I couldn’t fall asleep. Those words just wouldn’t get out of my head, and so I wrote them down in case they were relevant.”
    “They wouldn’t get out of your head?”
    “Sort of like what happened to you in pottery class,” he says. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me more than you know.”
    “I don’t understand,” I say, touching my head where there’s now a dull ache.
    “The phrase popped into my head as soon as I touched you yesterday,” he explains. “At the airport. I assumed it was a message for me—that maybe I needed to watch my back—but then I remembered your aunt’s outburst. Were there any other choice phrases she happened to mention during your trip?”
    “Not that I can remember.”
    “So, maybe it’s just the result of my needing more than four hours of sleep at night.” He wedges the notebook between a couple of books, so no one can see it. “All I need is for someone to accuse me of walking around flashing harassing messages.”
    I’m tempted to ask more about the message—to see if, once again, he’s being intentionally cryptic—but it’s already 8:11, and he’s saved by the proverbial bell. At least for now.

I T’S AFTER SCHOOL , and Kimmie, Wes, and I are sitting in Wes’s car outside the sandwich shop where Adam’s insisted I meet him. “I thought he said coffee,” Kimmie says, peeking out at the shop’s logo of a rat eating a meatball sub.
    “He did, but apparently this place has really great food.”
    “Or so the rats think,” she says, lowering her cat’s-eye sunglasses to get a better look at the place.
    Wes squirts two jets of breath freshener onto his tongue, the peppermint smell of which reminds me of an old lady’s purse. “Are you planning to tell him about all your funky touch stuff?” he asks, followed by a couple of obnoxious exhalations.
    I shake my head and lean back to avoid the peppermint fumes. “Nor am I going to tell him about how my aunt painted his portrait.”
    “Not ready to come out of the touch-and-tell closet, eh?” He points to the heart-shaped decal on his dashboard, the center of which reads: LOVE IS THE ANSWER. GIVE DIVERSITY A CHANCE.
    “It’s not like he’d believe all this touchy stuff anyway,” Kimmie says. “And who would ? Does Adam even know about Ben’s powers?”
    “No,” I remind her. “No one really knows about that except us. And let’s keep it that way.”
    “So, then, how are you going to convince him that his ass is grass, that his dude is dead, that his crust is dust?” Wes asks.
    “I’m just going to fish around,” I tell them. “I’ll take mental notes, ask lots of questions, and see if anything seems off.”
    “Sounds like a stellar time to me,” he says mockingly. “I’m sure Adam will be thrilled.”
    “This isn’t about stellar times,” I say. “It’s about making sure that he’s okay—that nothing bad is going to happen to him.”
    “I repeat,” Wes yawns, “I’m sure it’ll be stellar.”
    I ignore him and open the car door. Wes waits until I enter the shop before pulling away from the curb.
    Adam is already inside.
    “Hey,” he says, standing up from one of the back tables.
    He looks good—even better than I remembered. His wavy brown hair is a bit shaggier than the last time I saw him, and his shoulders seem broader, too.
    I make my way toward him, noticing how small the place is inside, set up sort of bistro-style, with checked tablecloths and cityscape posters on the walls. A giant chalkboard menu hangs behind the counter, and cooks prepare the food in full view of the customers.
    “Hungry?” Adam asks, gesturing for me to sit.
    At the same moment, one of the cooks rings a bell for what turns out to be Adam’s order—a brimming bowl of curly fries with tartar sauce on the side. “I took the liberty