White is for Magic (18 page)

"I know," Drea says. "That's why he freaked. You can't just take off in the middle of the night, Stacey. Not with everything that's going on."

"So uncool," Amber says, untwisting her legs from the lotus position.

"Which is why Chad's coming over," Drea says. "We were all really worried about you."

"Well, he's not coming now," I say, flopping down on my bed.

"Why? What do you mean?"

I tell her and Amber what happened--how I had another nightmare, which prompted me to meet Jacob; how I found the noose; and how Chad spotted me and Jacob sitting on the bench together and got all jealous about it.

Amber jumps up and nabs the noose from me. She sticks a leg into the loop part and pulls it up like some sort of string bikini. "Maybe you and witch-boy were planning something kinky."

197

"It's a freaking noose, Amber," I shout.

"I've heard of weirder fetishes," she says.

"So what
did
Chad see exactly?" Drea asks.

"He just saw us talking," I say.

"Oh, please," Amber says. "I can tell when you're lying, Stacey--your lips get all puckery It totally had to be more than just that! Dish, please."

"What?" I say, looking away. "Fine--he may have thought we were gonna kiss."

"You
kissed
witch-boy?" Amber says. "Details, please."

"I didn't kiss anyone," I say. "Can we please get back to my life being at stake here?"

"Was it magically delicious?" Amber persists.

I slump back on my bed and bury my face in a pillow. If it weren't a Saturday I think I just might resort to taking a trip to the school shrink today.
That's
how desperate I feel.

"So," Amber begins in an effort to redeem herself, "Jacob said he had a nightmare about you being throttled to death--hands clamping around your neck, thumbs digging into your throat, blocking off all the air, sending you to the land of complete and utter oblivion."

"Thanks for the thorough recap," I say.

"So, obviously that's why someone left you a noose," she says. "For choking."

I look up at her. She's got the loop part of the noose crowning her head now, the handles dangling over her shoulders like braids. "It isn't a toy," I say.

'Actually," she says, "it is."

Drea gives Amber the evil-eye blink and then focuses back on me. "Why a jump rope?" she asks.

198

"I don't know," I say, sitting back up, "but in my nightmare, Maura was jumping rope."

"So it's a clue," Drea says. 'About what's going to happen."

"Either that," Amber says, "or someone can see into your dreams and therefore knows Maura's jumping rope in them. A witch-boy perhaps." She arches her eyebrows up and down.

"Don't you think that's a little obvious?" I ask. "Why would someone tell me he can see into my dreams and then leave me a key prop from one of them? It's a dead giveaway."

"Nice choice of words," Amber says.

"I saw the origami snake in my nightmare," I say.

"Did it say anything?" Drea asks.

"When was the last time a paper snake spoke to you?" Amber asks.

"No," Drea says, rolling her eyes. "I mean, did she unfold it? Was there a message inside?"

I shake my head. "I was too busy looking for Maura. But there was lots of origami--like a whole collection."

"So what you're telling me," Amber begins, "is that this psycho stalker folds pretty squares of colored paper in his spare time?"

"I don't know."

"That's so random."

"But it does tell us something," Drea says. 'At least now we can eliminate people as suspects. I mean, how many origami artists do we know?"

199

"What if he's a closet origami artist?" Amber asks. She folds her history quiz up into a paper airplane and shoots it at Drea's head.

"I saw the letter M, too," I say. "Maura drew it on the ground in red crayon. She used to do that from time to time--color on the pavement with crayons and then wait for the wax to melt in the sun, so it would get all blurry."

"It's like she's trying to tell you something," Drea says.

"But what?" I ask.

"I think we should call campus police," Drea says.

'Are you kidding?" I gasp. "Do you have any idea how much they hate me? Do you know how many times I've called them this year? Between stupid prank notes tacked up on our door, to all those bogus phone calls, to the time someone left that cardboard knife on my desk during English?"

"Let's not forget the ketchup-blood mural someone so lovingly painted in your honor," Amber says.

"Or those funeral-supply catalogs you started getting in the mail," Drea says.

"Exactly," I say. "A jump-rope-turned-noose is just another thing campus police can add to their list about me. A list that's probably entitled 'the top hundred-and-two reasons why Stacey Brown should have transferred schools last year.'" I click the phone back on and try Chad's number again, but he's still not answering.

"He must be really upset," Drea says.

"I know," I say.

"Nothing that a little schnookie won't cure," Amber says, puckering up.

200

"I don't know," Drea says. "It really hurts when someone you care about betrays you like that."

"I didn't betray him."

Drea reaches into the fridge for a bar of chocolate. She takes a bite and looks away. I know she must be thinking otherwise. And maybe she's right. I mean, who am I really kidding here? I just don't know what's wrong with me. First I betray my best friend, and now I'm betraying my boyfriend. And all the while what I should really be focusing on is the fact that my life is at stake and that I have less than a week before I could wind up dead.

201

thirty-two

Completely riddled with guilt, I try calling Chad a bunch more times but he never picks up. So I end up waiting it out untilseven, when all us prisoners are allowed to walk freely about campus and actually visit other dorms. But when I get to Chad's, he isn't there. I check the hockey rink, the gym, the pool, the cafeteria, and every last corner of the library. No luck.

202

My last resort--the Hangman. I peel the door open, a sudden gust of mochaccino fumes hitting me in the face, and look around at the individual tables. The place is pretty packed--kids opting for cafe fare over the cafeteria's scrambled egg surprise--but Chad is nowhere in sight.

I decide to try and swallow a bit of my guilt with a cheese danish. I order myself one, along with a cup of Colombian brew, and take a seat in the corner of the stage section. This might actually be the perfect spot for me this morning--a place where I can be by myself and think, where I don't have to worry about bumping into anyone important.

That's when I notice Trish and Emma coming out of the bathroom. They take a seat with Cory, sitting in the back of the audience section, typing away on a laptop. I can't believe I didn't notice him before. I scoot my chair back against the stage curtain, hoping they don't see me. But they do. First Trish, who graciously waves in my direction, and then the others. They point, talk amongst themselves, and then start laughing, like this is middle school.

Cory closes up his laptop and makes his way over to my table. He takes a seat across from me.

"So, come here often?" He's giggling at his lame little line, the gap between his two front teeth stuffed up with what looks like lemon jelly.

"Hysterical," I say.

"Thanks." He glances back at Trish and Emma, staring at us over mugs of frothy Java drinks.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"What?" he says. "I can't just come over here and wish you a pleasant day?"

203

I ignore him by taking a bite of pastry and reading the little jingle printed on the side of my coffee cup--something about morning perks in Central Park.

"How long do you think you'll be able to keep that down?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know? Before you purge the splurge? Toss the caloric cookies? Don't think I haven't heard about your little vomit attacks. You know they have eating disorder clinics for stuff like that."

"Go away," I say.

"Actually," he leans in closer, "Veronica Leeman doesn't want me to. She tells me I should stick pretty close to you, keep an eye on you."

"Is this from your so-called seance?"

"I prefer to call it a communion with souls. Care to attend our communion tomorrow night?

Veronica's been asking for you."

"Don't you have some tables to wipe?" I ask.

"Why?" He gets up from the table, the jam between his two front teeth bulging out even further now, like a giant booger. "I don't work here."

"What do you mean? You worked here a couple days ago."

"Nope." He smiles. "I wouldn't work in a place like this. Sort of creepy, don't you think? Haunted with old souls . . . You know, legend has it some girl hung herself in here."

"Haven't we been through this before?"

"Really, Stacey," he says, "you must have me confused with someone else."

204

He gets up and leaves, and I feel even more confused and irritated than ever. I look over at his table as he makes his way back there, and I almost can't believe what I'm seeing--Donna Tillings is sitting with them.

I feel my mouth drop open. I can just imagine how they must be using her, how they must be so completely salivating over her past connection with Veronica Leeman.

I crumple the remainder of my pastry up into a napkin, completely devoid of appetite, and get up to leave. But instead of succeeding with my getaway I'm shocked back into place. The door swings open and PJ shimmies in. He makes his way over to Cory and his clones.

It appears as though he's joining them all for breakfast, which completely surprises me, seeing that he doesn't even hang out with them. Seeing that yesterday, in the library, Cory and that Tobias guy came so close to showing PJ first hand where he could shoot his water pistol.

PJ nabs a doughnut from Emma's plate as soon as she looks away and stuffs the entire thing in his mouth. And then, mouth full, he attempts to talk to Donna, even though he and Donna have absolutely nothing in common, even though last year they seemed so repelled by one another that they couldn't even be in the same room together, let alone eat breakfast at the same table.

I watch PJ swallow hard and turn to Cory. They start gabbing away like old best friends. Like yesterday's confrontation in the library was just as staged as this stupid cafe.

I feel the tiny hairs at the back of my neck popping up like some cartoonish rendition of anger.

Cory directs PJ's

205

attention toward me. PJ waves, but I don't wave back. Instead I bolt down the stage steps, nearly colliding with Tobias on the way. He passes in front of me dressed in cafe garb--a long red apron over a T-shirt with a pair of theatrical masks silkscreened to the front--and holding a tray of sticky bun samples.

"What's the rush?" he says, checking the tray for spillage. He takes a wide stance in the aisle, blocking my path to the exit door.

"Unless you want to be wearing those sticky buns," I say, "you better get out of my way."

"Jeez, Stacey, you don't look too good. Rough night last night? Did you not get enough sleep?"

My jaw locks. It's all I can do to hold myself back from shoving the tray of sticky buns right into that stupid, self-satisfied smirk on his face, at the nervous twitch of his eye. At least now I know how Cory got in here that night, when he told campus police he was closing up shop. I push my way past Tobias and head for the exit door, but PJ intercepts me.

"Wait!" PJ says.

"I don't have time."

He pulls me to the side and lowers his voice. "This isn't what it looks like."

'And what
does
it look like?" I whisper back.

"It looks like I'm getting all jammy with Computer Cory and the Caged-Bird Clonesters."

"What?"

He grazes his palm over the tips of his plum-purple hair spikes. "You know those ghost groupies aren't my style."

206

"It doesn't look that way to me."

"Precisely, my dear Wordsworth," he says, with a wink. "Precisely."

"You're not making any sense."

"Trust me," he says, "I'd make a lot more sense if you were to treat me to a couple cinnamon scones and indulge me in a bit of morning chatter."

"Forget it," I say, going for the door.

"Forget me not," he says, grabbing my arm and holding me in place. "We need to dish, little girl.

And
tout de suite.
I've got the scoop on you, the old Chadster, and some unidentified mystery man. I think you have some explaining to do."

Obviously he's talked to Chad, which is probably the only reason I do end up indulging him in conversation instead of rushing back to the dorm to nurse the throbbing in my head.
That
and the fact that I want to know what he's up to with Cory and the others.

PJ apologizes to them about having to leave so abruptly, and we take off right after, despite PJ's squawks about not eating breakfast.

"So what's going on?" I ask, as soon as we get outside. "Since when do you hang out with Cory and Donna and them?"

"First answer my question, sweet pea," he says. "What's this I hear about you and some mystery boy sexing it up under the stars? I want the lowdown. Better yet, I want the Polaroids."

We take a seat on one of the benches in the quad area. "Is that what Chad said happened?"

207

"It's what I heard, O feisty one," PJ says.

"Well, you heard wrong."

PJ shrugs. 'According to you."

"So, he's mad?"

"As a hornet. Wouldn't you be, my little bumblebee? All sting-y?" He buzzes for effect, making me feel like a complete and utter idiot for even attempting to get the details from him.

"So now answer my question," I say. "What's with you and your new friends?"

"I'm only hanging out with them for you, love bug," he says.

"What do you mean?"

He bustles up the front of his coat and pulls a pair of fingerless gloves from his pocket. "Just call me double-o- seven."