White is for Magic (19 page)

"Why?"

"Because I'm a spy." He squints his eyes for drama. "You know, a double agent."

'A little reality, please."

"You're no fun." He slips the gloves on and blows at his fingers for warmth. "Can I tell you how hungry I am? No wonder I'm so cold."

"Can you please tell me what you're talking about?"

"Food? You know? My need for some."

"PJ ..." I sigh.

"Fine," he says, rolling his eyes. "Cory stopped by my room last night and we had this long and dishy powwow, and, well, he wants me to help out at the seance."

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'Are you kidding me? Why would he ever ask you to join the seance?"

"Isn't it obvious?" PJ asks. "I'm oozing with spiritual energy."

"Seriously," I say.

"Okay, seriously, it's because me and Veronica had a past. He's hoping that past will help fuel the of spiritual fire-- you know, ignite the cosmic forces of the seventh sign."

"You have no idea what you're even talking about."

"Oh contraire," he says. "I know all about cosmetological forces."

"That's
cosmological
forces," I say, rolling my eyes. 'And that has nothing to do with channeling spirits. Bottom line--you and Veronica had no past; you hated each other. So why would she want to talk to you in the afterlife?"

"She only hated me because she wasn't able to get over me. Poor thing--I wouldn't give the damsel the time of day." He breathes on his fist and then rubs it across his chest, bravado-style.

"You're so full of crap," I say.

"Details, schmetails," PJ says. "Bottom line, as you so slinkily put it, the ghost groupies need my mind; they need my impassioned energy, my unadulterated aura."

'And what do you get out of it?"

"Whatever do you mean, my little jar of jelly?"

"You must be getting something. You wouldn't just do this for nothing."

"I'm doing it for you."

"Tell me!" I demand.

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"I'm insulted."

"And I'm leaving." I get up from the bench.

"So, does this mean you're
not
going to treat me to breakfast?"

I feel my teeth clench.

"Okay," he says. "Would it make you feel better if I told you they may have thrown in a couple homework assignments to sweeten the deal?"

"Homework assignments?"

"And maybe a couple term papers. But that's absolutely it. I think you should be grateful."

"Grateful?"

"Yeah, at first I thought it was a total dish of dung, but then I got to thinking and figured, hey, this might be my little way of helping out my good friend Stacey. You know? Like, get you some valuable scoop on what's going jiggy with all of them. They've got Donna in on it too."

"Why would Donna ever agree to help them?"

"Oh, please," PJ says. "Donna's a total dweeboid this year. And what do dweeboids look for, I ask you?"

"You tell me."

He sighs like it's obvious. "Fellow dweeboids to fill their time."

"That's obviously why you're doing it."

"Touche, mademoiselle,"
he says. "Aren't you Miss Sharpie with that tongue of yours?"

"I have to go," I say.

"Not so fast, my little jack rabbit. The groupies have asked me if I can try and strong-arm your little behind into

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joining us in the next communion with souls. How's that for fancy titles?"

"I think I have a better title for you," I say.

'And what's that?"

"Idiot."

I leave him there on the bench, buzzing away, as I make my way across the lawn. Between him and the whole fiasco at the Hangman, I think I've wasted enough time for one day. I need to get back to the room and work the gigantic jigsaw pieces of my life back into place--before it's too late.

211

thirty-thr^c.

When I get back to the room, Drea has already left--but replacing her, sitting on my bed, is the last person I want to see right now.

My mother.

She looks up at me, a broad and beaming smile stretched across her face, like she couldn't be happier to see me.

"Hi, honey," she says.

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It looks like Amber has been keeping her thoroughly entertained. She's got her shoebox full of memorabilia dumped out on the bed, showing my mother all her sentimental trinkets.

My mother gets up and wraps her arms around me. "It's so good to see you."

"What are you doing here?" I ask, hugging her back. I look over my mother's shoulder at Amber, who shakes her head like she doesn't know either.

"I thought we could use a chat," she says, breaking the embrace.

I stand there nodding, wanting to say something considerate, since she's just driven three whole hours to see me, but blanking on all the considerate words in my immediate vocabulary. "You could have called," I say, cringing at the sound of my own bitchiness. It's just that with everything that's going on and my mother's obvious desire to live in La La Land and see that I start some meaningless hobby like macrame or needlepoint, it's not a good time.

"I was going to call you after we hung up last night," my mother says, "but it was so late, and I couldn't go back to sleep, so I just started driving. I'm staying at a hotel downtown."

"You're
staying?"

"Just for the day. I wasn't so sure I'd be up for the drive back tonight."

I nod, looking to Amber for a diversion. She's puckering up to a disco-garbed Ken doll, complete with gold lame pants and dangling medallion. She kisses him so hard his head pops off and rolls to the floor.

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'Aren't you glad to see me?" my mother asks.

"Of course I am." I hug her again. She smells like home, like lily-of-the-valley perfume mixed in grape-scented hair spray. I kick Ken's head toward Amber's feet, but she's so into her snuggle down memory lane with him she doesn't even notice his recent decapitation.

"So, shall we go to brunch?" my mother asks. She turns to Amber. "Amber, will you join us?

And Drea, too. Is she around?"

Amber shakes her head. "Drea took off with Chad."

"Where?" I ask.

Amber shrugs. "He came by. Probably to see you. But you'd already left."

So freaking fabulous. I sink down into my bed and burrow my face into my hands. All I want to do right now is talk to Chad, to tell him I'm sorry, to try my hardest to fix everything, to grab my pillow and scream into it at the top of my lungs in frustration.

"Stacey, are you okay?" my mother asks, like it isn't already obvious.

I lift my head from my hands and fake a smile.

"Don't mind her," Amber says, "Stacey's just been a little constipated lately."

My mother clears her throat in response, and I can't help but giggle.

"So," my mother turns to Amber, "will you join us for breakfast?"

"I don't think so," Amber says. "I sort of already have something started here." She gazes down at her nostalgia trinkets--a Silly Putty egg, a box of Sweethearts, a couple 214

¦

friendship bracelets, and a wide array of Ken clothes, from swim shorts to hiking boots. She presses a headless Ken into her bosom.

"I'm not gonna ask," I say.

"That's probably best," Amber says, retrieving Ken's head from the floor.

I grab a handful of pine needles from the vase, hoping the smell of pine mixed with the healing quality of the needles will help dispel the negativity I feel bubbling up in my stomach.

It's pretty quiet between my mother and me as we drive into town. I roll the pine needles between the tips of my fingers and remind myself that my mother's surprise visit is a loving gesture. She's obviously really concerned about me, obviously thinks that whisking me away from campus is exactly what I need right now. And maybe she's right. Except, with each street that passes, I feel this giant, burning pit form just below my ribs--a pit that seems to deepen with each breath, reminding me that I don't have time to waste.

"Is everything okay?" my mother asks.

It's amazing how different she looks, even after just a couple months. Her hair is shorter and darker, like she just had it done, the sides a bit less fluffy than usual, curled behind her ears in a sort of tucked bob. She smiles at me, her lips paler than normal, a few shades off from the burgundy color I'm used to her wearing.

I nod as best I can, but I know I'm not fooling her. There's a different air about her today--more aware than usual, less detached.

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We arrive at the Egg and I, a fifties-style diner complete with jukebox, black and white checkerboard floor, and old Elvis records nailed to the wall. We take a seat in the corner booth by the windows.

"What looks yummy?" she asks, peeling open her vinyl menu.

I choose the peanut butter pancakes since it's the first thing on the menu I see--a giant, colorful picture, complete with syrup and melting butter, taking up a large portion of the right side of the menu.

"Sounds good," she says. "I think I'll have the same."

For the next twenty minutes or so, we end up maintaining our usual pleasant yet meaningless chitchat. Not even the sugar in the pancakes or the caffeine in our bottomless cups of coffee have succeeded in moving either of us to say anything relevant. I just don't feel well. The pit in my gut feels like it's getting bigger with each chew, forcing me to feign a healthy appetite, i.e., to cut up my pancakes into tiny syrup-saturated pieces, to chase said pieces around the plate with my fork, and to pretend to chew them down like everything's normal. Like the possibility of my being murdered is so far from my thoughts right now.

My mother leans back against the vinyl seat and just stares at me, the mug of coffee pressed up against her bottom lip. "Not feeling well?" she asks.

I shake my head and set my fork down.

"I didn't think so."

"There's just been a lot of stuff going on," I say.

"I know," she says. "Which is why we
really
need to talk."

I pick my fork back up and start raking through the puddle of syrup on my plate.

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'Are you listening to me?" she asks.

I nod, focusing on the prong impressions as I drag my fork through the golden goo. It's not that I don't think she means well. I do. It's just that I don't feel like getting into this with her again, especially since I know she doesn't take my nightmares seriously.

She grabs my wrist and forces me to look up at her. "I'm talking to you," she says.

I straighten up in the booth and wipe my mouth. "I know."

"So I expect you to listen."

"Okay."

She releases her grip on my wrist. "There's something I need to tell you about nightmares."

"Okay?" I say, a question in the reply.

"You need to pay attention to them," she says.

"I do?" I feel my teeth bite down on the inside of my cheek, completely baffled by what she's saying.

"I know you already know that," she says. "I just wanted you to hear it from me."

"Okay," I nod, trying to swallow down the mind-muddling effect of her words.

"I know you've had nightmares before," she continues. "Bad ones. And I also know they've warned you about the future."

"Where is all this coming from?" I ask. "I mean, why are you acknowledging it now?"

She doesn't answer, just focuses on her coffee cup, like it will answer for her.

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"I want you to know that I knew about Maura," she says after a three-sip pause. "I knew you were having nightmares about her. I just didn't want you to know I did." My mother holds her napkin over her mouth, like that will change the meaning of her words, make them seem less harsh.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I wasn't completely honest with you back then, but it's only because I wanted the nightmares to stop. I thought that maybe if you focused on something else, they would."

"They didn't," I say.

"I know," she says, looking up from her coffee mug. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" My voice rises up at least three full octaves. "Do you know what that was like? Maura
died
because I didn't do anything about those nightmares. Because you didn't want to talk about them. Grandma was dead; I had no one else to turn to."

"I'm sorry," she repeats, her eyes filling up.

"Well, I'm sorry, too," I say. "Because that's just not good enough." I slide out from the booth.

"No, Stacey, wait," she says.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not finished yet."

"What else can you say? There's nothing that will make it better. Do you have any idea how alone I felt? The guilt I've had to live with? I loved Maura like a sister."

"I know," she manages, barely able to get the words out. "I know about guilt." She swallows hard and shakes her

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head, like she doesn't want to tell me. "It happened to me, too."

"What did?" I sit back down.

She grabs another napkin from the dispenser and holds it up to her face. "When I was seven, I had nightmares that my cousin Julia was going to die . . . and she did. An accident. She was fifteen years old and she drowned."

"Julia?"

"I might have mentioned her name to you once or twice."

I'm looking at my mother and shaking my head. It's like I have no idea who she really is.

"I saw the whole thing in my dream before it happened," she continues. "I even knew the day.

She came to my house, asked me if I wanted to go to the lake with her. I can still picture it. She was wearing these bright pink sandals that had matching silk flowers on the straps. And she had a pink and green striped towel draped around her neck."

"Did you go?"

She shakes her head. "I was too scared."

My mother blots her eyes with the napkin and proceeds to tell me how she never told anyone about her nightmares--not even Gram--because they scared her too much. Because Gram used to tell her that sometimes what we dream about does indeed come true.

"At least in your case with Maura," my mother says, "someone was arrested and went
to
jail. He had
to
pay for his crime. In my situation, there was no one else to blame but me."