White is for Magic (16 page)

"So," Amber begins, "did this Jacob guy admit to sending you these letters?"

"No," I say. "It was weird. He seemed to know about the stuff I was getting, but then when I asked if it was from him, he just shook his head."

"So, if it isn't him," Drea says, "then it could be anyone."

"Freakin' brilliant, Sherlock," Amber says.

"No, I mean, it could be
anyone.
Even a girl. We were originally thinking it was a guy, right?

Because of the breakin. Because Stacey heard a male voice and saw a male figure that night in the boiler room. But if that was Jacob, and if it was Jacob who sent the e-mail, then we have no other evidence that it's a guy who's after her, right?"

"Tell me, O wise one," Amber intones, "if you were a crazy stalker, would you really admit to your target that you were the one who was sending her all this psycho threatening stuff?"

"If I was a crazy stalker," Drea says, "I wouldn't even admit to
knowing
about the psycho threatening stuff."

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A good point. Which is why I believed Jacob when he said the messages and the cassette weren't from him.

"You think a girl sent these letters?" Amber asks, running the spool of black thread through the incense smoke.

"It's possible," Drea says. "I mean, it doesn't necessarily have to be a guy."

"No way," Amber says. "These letters are so Y-chromo- some. A girl's death threats would have way more style."

"There's a brilliant theory." Drea cuts up the last of the letters and drops the tiny paper squares into a bowl. "We really shouldn't rule anyone out."

'And we won't," I say, pouring the bowl of melted yellow wax into a ceramic dish. I drip the melted baby-blue wax onto it and then swirl the two colors together with the back end of a mixing spoon--yellow for clarity and blue to represent Jacob.

After the wax has had ample time to cool, I grab it up in my fingers and sculpt it into the shape of a body.

"What is that?" Amber asks.

'An effigy," I say, rubbing the warm and buttery wax between my fingertips.

'A what-a-gy?" Amber asks.

'An effigy," I repeat. 'A wax figure, basically"

"Like voodoo?" Drea asks.

"Sort of," I say. "It will help make things more clear." I unravel several feet of thread from the spool and wrap it around the effigy's waist as many times as I think is necessary, until I feel in my heart I've gained full control of it. Then I continue to work the thread around the figure-- over the shoulders, through the legs, and around the

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ankles, concentrating on the idea of harnessing my confusion and overcoming it.

"Do you think he likes that?" Amber asks.

"Do I think
who
likes
what?"
I ask.

"Effy," she says, giving my wax figure a name. "Do you think he enjoys being tied up like that?

You know, like a turn-on?"

"Someone get her some help," Drea sighs.

I can't help but giggle in response.

After a few more cycles of thread, I feel truly empowered, like I'll finally be able to make sense of my questions. I lay the wax figure on a charged cotton handkerchief and take one last, long look at the body--sort of a greenish color now, a blending of clarity and mystery, now bridled by my mindfulness. I sprinkle the cut-up letters over it.

"So he won't get cold?" Amber asks.

"So the pieces will unite in my dreams," I correct. "When you have a better handle on things, the pieces tend to come together more completely."

"Uh, yeah, that's what I always say."

I smile at Amber's sarcasm and carefully roll the effigy up in the handkerchief. I place it under my pillow, confident that I will have insightful dreams tonight.

177

tw-enty~nirx

I'm walking down a long, narrow corridor in the basement of the O'Brian building. It's dark except for the few yellowy light bulbs lined up overhead and quiet save for some dripping pipes along the ceiling--the sound of water hitting against the cement floor.

I fold my arms to soften the chill and make my way toward the end of the hallway, the floor littered with paint cans and other custodial supplies. There are doors lining 178

the walls. I press my ear against one of them, but don't hear anything. I try the knob. Locked.

There's a sound coming from the door at the end. A rhythmic, slapping sound, followed by the thumping of feet against the pavement. Like someone's jumping rope.

"Hello?" I call, my voice echoing off the concrete walls.

But no one answers.

"Maura? Is that you?"

I take a few more steps, doing my best to make out any movement at the end of the hallway. But it's just so dim, the light bulbs overhead too sparse and dull to allow much more than shadows. I can see a shadow against the wall, just to the right of the door at the end
of
the hallway--a looplike shadow that rotates around and around.

I continue to walk toward the movement, toward the sound, and then I hear a voice--Maura's voice--singing:

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black. She has a knife, knife, knife,
stuck in her back, back, back. She cannot breathe, breathe, breathe. She cannot cry, cry, cry.

That's why she begs, begs, begs. She begs to die, die, die.

A chill runs down the back of my neck. My heart starts pumping hard in my chest. I take another step and then stop. The shadow of her figure, jumping rope, is just a few yards away now.

"Maura?"

She hears me. I've startled her, I think. The singing stops. The shadow pauses mid-rope-rotation, and the jump rope falls to the ground.

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"It's Stacey" I say.

Her shadow squats down on the ground, as though to hide. And then I see the shadow of arm movement; she's drawing something on the ground--the letter M in dark red crayon.

"Maura?" I ask. "Your name? Is that what the M stands for?"

But instead of answering, she runs away--her shadow scampers along the wall, out of sight.

Leaving me alone.

I move to the right to follow her, but stop, noticing the jump rope on the ground--not just the shadow but the real thing. I pick it up and sniff it. It smells like strawberry candy and buttered popcorn. Like her. The way I remember her.

"Maura?" I call.

I can hear her--the faint sound of her whimpering. It's coming from behind the door. I place my ear up against the door crack and can hear her clearly; she's crying, muttering my name between sobs, begging me to get her out.

I try the knob, but it's locked. I pull at it, kick it, place a foot up on the wall for better leverage, and yank the knob with all my might. But it's no use; the door won't budge.

"Maura--" I shout. "Can you help me? Can you open the door and let me in?" I jam my fingers into the door crack and do my best to pry it open that way. But I can't seem to wedge my fingers in deep enough. They keep slipping out, a couple all bloody from splinters.

Maura's crying louder now, almost screaming--a scared, horrible, and hopeless cry. I place my hands over my ears, and I hear myself cry out, too.

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i8o

"Stacey--" she calls out between sobs.

"I'm here!" I yell into the door crack. "I'm not going to leave you."

I hear her body slide down against the door. Her crying is at knee-level now. I squat down to be closer to her. "Can you hear me?" I ask.

But the crying stops altogether.

"Maura?" I stand back up and pound on the door. 'Are you still there? Are you okay?"

"I'm still here, Stacey," answers a male voice, one I don't readily recognize.

"Where's Maura?" I cry.

"Welcome back," he says.

"Where is she?" I kick and beat at the door with every ounce of energy left in me.

"Looking forward to our meeting?" he asks. "I've been waiting a long time."

"Who are you?" I take a step away from the door, awaiting some response, but there isn't any.

After several seconds, I begin assessing the door--the hinges, the crack at the bottom, the knob.

That's when I notice the keyhole. I run my fingers over the top of the door frame and find it-- a rusty key with green paint splotches. I stick it into the lock and try the knob. This time it turns.

I take a step inside. It's even darker in here, the smell a mix of must and dampness. I move my hands to feel around the walls for a switch, but can't find one. Something sharp on the wall pricks an already bleeding finger. I stick my finger in my mouth and open the door up wider to let in some light from the hallway.

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It appears as though this is a shed of some sort. There are tools hanging on the wall, a workbench to my right, and metal shelving to the left. I take a step closer, focusing on the pieces of folded paper lined up on the metal shelves--dozens upon dozens of origami pieces--birds of all types, cats, rabbits, frogs, snakes . . .

"Maura," I call. 'Are you in here?" I move farther inside and the door shuts, a heavy slam. I feel my breath quicken, my heart pump inside my chest. It's completely dark now.

There's a shifting sound in the corner.

"Maura?" I whisper.

I can hear her coughing, getting sick. Like she might be choking on something.

I feel sick as well; my stomach is gurgling, clenching up like a fist. Arms outstretched, I move toward the corner where I think she might be hiding. But there's something blocking me from getting to her. I can't get past it--can't go around or climb over it. A heavy machine of some sort.

My hands and neck are sweating. My mouth is dry, a thick, pasty film coating over my tongue.

There's a ringing sound from somewhere behind me. A phone, on the workbench, I think. It's Jacob. He has some information for me, something he has to tell me. I just know it.

I hold my stomach and turn around to find the phone. But instead I find tools. My jittery hands paw over them--a hammer, a wrench, some rusty nails, a fire extinguisher. Stuff I could use to get out of here--to break the door down.

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Maura is still getting sick in the corner. The only way for me to help her is to find the phone, to find out what Jacob has to tell me. But the queasiness in my stomach is holding me in place.

"Stacey," a voice yells out. "Will you please just pick up the phone? It's closest to you!"

It's Amber's voice.

"Stacey?"

I wake up with a gasp--and sit up in bed. The phone is ringing from my night table.

Amber sits up in bed as well. "Do you want me to get it?" she asks.

I shake my head and pick up the phone, my heart still thrashing around in my chest, my face still sweating. "Hello? Jacob?"

"No, Stacey. It's Mom. Who's Jacob?"

"Hi, Mom," I say, noting the sour, sticky taste in my mouth. If Amber hadn't woken me up, I'd probably be covered in yack right about now. I give Amber the okay sign and she responds by flopping back in bed. She rolls over and draws the covers up over her head.

I look at the clock. It's after midnight. 'Are you okay?" I ask my mother.

"I just couldn't sleep," she says. "I'm sorry it's so late. I've just been worried about you. Who's Jacob?"

"Just some guy," I say. "A friend. Wait--why are you worried?"

"Because of what you said--about having nightmares."

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I really don't want to go through this again with her.

Not now. Right

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now I want to call Jacob. The dream just felt so real. Like he really has something to tell me, something I need to know.

"I think maybe you should try to preoccupy yourself with some hobby," she says.

"What?"

"A hobby," she repeats, her voice wavering over the word.

'Are you
serious?"

"Get
involved in a club at school, maybe--something artistic." She continues after a pause, "Or try a sport. Maybe socializing with kids with different interests might help relax you a bit. I've been doing a lot of online research about nightmares and it seems people who experience them do so because they have no other outlets for stress."

A hobby? Something artistic? It's almost twelve-freaking- thirty in the morning. Is she out of her mind?

"Can we talk about this later?" I ask.

"Sure, honey. I just wanted to call and tell you that. And to tell you that I'm thinking about you.

And I love you."

"I know you do, Mom."

"Okay, honey."

There's silence between us for several seconds. It's almost like she has something else to tell me, some other agenda. But we just remain quiet, listening to each other breathe. Part of me wants to tell her that I love her back, but I'm too annoyed. And I know that's probably selfish, that she obviously really does care about me to call at this late hour, to feel so plagued about it. But there's another part inside me that feels bitter, resentful that she doesn't take me more seriously.

Especially after everything I've been through.

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We hang up shortly after. The slip of paper Jacob gave me with his phone number scribbled across it is sitting on my nightstand. I dial his number.

"Stacey?" he answers.

"Yeah," I whisper. "How did you know?"

"I tried calling but your line was busy. I figured you'd call."

"We need to talk," I say.

"Yeah," he agrees. "We do. Can you meet me tonight?"

My heart starts pumping even harder. Because I'm scared. Because he's so urgent. Because it's him and I don't know what to expect. I glance over at Amber and Drea, asleep in their bunks.

"Okay," I say. "Where?"

We arrange to meet in the laundry room by the underclasswoman dorms. I stuff a wad of clothes into a pillowcase to make it look legit, cram my feet into a pair of sneakers, and grab my coat and flashlight. I make my way quietly through the lobby and out the front door, noticing right away that the front door isn't locked. But I don't have time to dwell on it, because just in front of me, looped around the branch of the cypress tree in front of our dorm, is a rope of some sort. The overhead spotlights shine right over it, swinging in the breeze.