Deadly Little Lessons by Laurie Faria Stolarz Page B

friends, abandoned her studies, and went to places she normally wouldn’t have—and with people we didn’t know. Her father and I understand that anger, and we will have to live with the choices we made on her behalf.”
    I wonder if she thinks that Sasha’s already gone—if that’s why she speaks about her in the past tense. I grab a Twinkie from my stash in the drawer, flashing back to what Dr. Tylyn said earlier: that there’s no steadfast rule for when to tell your child that he or she’s been adopted.
    But does there ever come a point when it’s too late to tell them—when the truth is a legitimate betrayal?
    I spend the next hour eating junk food and learning more about Sasha, until she almost feels like a friend…or at least someone I already know. I read about the night that she disappeared. The people she was with claim to have been drinking. Supposedly, they don’t remember if she’d left the party with anyone, or what the guy she’d been talking to looked like. Why aren’t more people talking about him? Why is everyone just assuming that she ran off on her own?
    As if in reply, the answer pops up in a small-town newspaper article, the writer of which interviewed the two friends that Sasha went to the party with, both of whom agree that Sasha had been threatening to run away for weeks and had even boasted about having a bag packed. The suitcase the investigators found in her bedroom closet contained a couple of sweaters, some old books, a few pairs of sweats, and a handful of travel products.
    But if she really ran away, then why didn’t she take that suitcase?
    I play Mrs. Beckerman’s video again, muted this time, because I don’t want to be influenced by her words, by the cracking of her voice, or by the part at the end where she gets so emotional that her speech becomes almost too muddled to understand.
    Mrs. Beckerman’s face is creased with worry. There are times when she can’t even look at the camera—like she’s hiding something, or ashamed. By the end of the video, her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s huddling forward, curled up on the chair. She looks more like a little girl than like a parent.
    I glance at the clock again, startled to find that I’ve been researching Sasha’s case for more than two hours now. Clearly, what started out as a harmless distraction has turned into a time-sucking obsession, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to know more.
    I decide to head down to my studio in the basement, hopeful that I might have a Sasha-infused premonition. I know it’s a long shot. I know I’d probably need to go to her house and be among her surroundings to actually sense something significant. But still, I have to give my power a try.

I ’ M ABOUT TO GO down to the basement when my phone rings. It’s Adam. “Hey,” I say, picking up right away.
    “Hey, stranger,” he answers back.
    “It’s good to hear your voice.”
    “Well, I’ve missed yours.”
    “I know. I’m sorry for not calling you last night, but I’m a total train wreck, complete with lack of sleep and junk-food binges.”
    “Just wait until your mom finds out,” he says.
    My mom is a hater of any food that hasn’t been picked from a tree, vine, or the earth. She’s therefore made it her mission in life to rid the world of junk food, one whoopie pie at a time. During freshman year, she started a petition at my school against the cafeteria’s serving of any foods that contained artificial additives, preservatives, sweeteners, or food colorings, or that were bleached, overly processed (according to her standards), or genetically modified. The petition stated that those who signed would be more than happy to pay extra (up to double) for lunch in exchange for “whole food.” The idea was a flop; she got only seventeen signatures.
    “Are you going to tell her about my stash of Oreos?” I ask him.
    “Only if you aren’t nice to me.”
    “Okay, but don’t feel too excluded, because I