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Authors: Laurie Faria Stolarz

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BOOK: White is for Magic
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"Really?" She scrunches up her lips. "Kind of hard to study when you're washing windows."

I look down at the paper towel in my hand, splotched with red, and crumple it up so she doesn't see the stain. "You're right. I couldn't sleep." Not a total lie, after all.

33

"Oh?" Her face crinkles up in confusion. "I thought that maybe you might be out here talking to Chad."

'And what if I was?"

"Nothing," she says, twirling a lock of blond around her French-manicured fingernail. "I just had a homework question to ask him. No big deal."

I nod, even though I know she's completely lying. "After my not-so-tickled reaction to his visit last night," I say, "I'm pretty sure it'll be a while before he makes another unannounced appearance."

"He isn't mad at you, is he?" Drea asks, probing further.

I shrug, even though I noticed he was definitely distant with me today. It was just after hockey practice when I saw him and he was still with his teammates. But he was all, "Hey, what's up? I'll talk to you later." Like he was talking to any other girl. And I'm
not
just any other girl. I'm the girlfriend.

"I need to study," I say, choosing not to discuss this with Drea, of all people.

She takes the hint and turns on a bare heel to go back into the room. Meanwhile, I fill the kettle with water from the tap and set it on the stove for a cup of tea. Maybe a dose of caffeine will help me focus better, help me to get some studying done once and for all.

I flop back into the lazy chair and make an effort to read over the stuff I've highlighted, but I'm so completely tired. I lay my head back against the cushion and close my eyes, imagining thick and velvety rose petals lying over my eyelids, imagining myself slipping into a steamy-hot bath 34

sprinkled with chamomile petals while lavender incense smokes and the sound of rain comes down from outside.

The door to the hallway bathroom slams shut, snapping me back to reality. I wonder who else is up at this hour. I peek toward the hallway, at the rooms on the opposite side of the common area, but the doors are closed.

 

I shake away the urge to snooze and resume my reading, trying to predict which questions Mr.

Milano will ask during his discussion, wondering if he'll give us another pop quiz. I hear the shower valves squeak on. I turn a page to peruse the review questions at the end of the chapter, and then I hear something else. A loud cracking sound coming from the bathroom, followed by a giant thud.

The hum of the water hitting against the shower floor continues. I reposition myself in the chair and make an effort to resume my work, but I can't concentrate, not until I know for sure everything's okay. I flip my book closed and creep across the wooden floor toward the bathroom.

The bathroom light doesn't even look like it's on. The crack at the bottom of the door is dark.

I press my ear up to the door, but I don't hear anything-- just the water as it showers down from the nozzle. Concentrating on the sound, I notice that the stream of water sounds odd as it hits the tile floor, as though nothing interrupts its path.

As though no one's even in there.

I knock. No response. I knock again. "Hello? Who's in there?"

Still no response.

I try the door. It's locked.

35

I stand there a few moments, trying to figure out what to do. I suppose I could have Amber pick the lock, since she's good at that. Or I could bother Keegan again and ask for help. I knock a few more times, trying to concentrate on the image inside, trying to picture one of the girls brushing her hair or shaving her legs. But I just can't; my mind's eye can't see anyone in there.

I hurry back into the pantry, pull a fondue fork from the utensil drawer, and then stick it into the bathroom lock. I jiggle it back and forth, listening to the prongs as they scratch against the metal interior. The whistle of the teapot screams from the stove. I just need another minute. I continue to maneuver the fork in the lock for several seconds until I'm able to nuzzle the tip into a crevice.

I turn it.
Click.

Shaking now, I place my hand around the knob, turn the light switch on, and push the door wide open.

It's Veronica Leeman.

Veronica Leeman, who died last year.

Her body is sprawled out on the floor, just like it had been the night I found her. Blood, running from her head where Donovan hit her. Her deep, moss-green eyes stare right up at me, disappointed that I couldn't save her.

My breath quickens, puffing out my mouth. Glass breaks in my chest. I don't know if I'm going to cry or be sick. Instead I hear myself scream--a long, piercing squeal that burns out my throat.

The scream wakes me up out of sound sleep. Out of another nightmare.

It takes a few seconds for reality to check in. I'm still in the common room, still sitting in the same lime-green

36

comfy corduroy chair, my biology notebook opened up on my chest, the white candle sitting in my lap.

Doors swing open all around me. Girls on the floor rush from their rooms to see if I'm okay, to see what happened. They're standing all around me, asking me all sorts of questions--their lips moving, cheeks puffing, hands on hips, eyebrows moving up and down.

But I don't hear them. Because I'm still shaking. Still paralyzed by what I saw. It was just so real.

Veronica Leeman's eyes.

One girl--Trish Cabone, I think--goes to the stove and silences the screaming kettle. Keegan kneels down in front of me. She looks at her watch, rubs my forearm, and then mouths some words, but all I can do is look to Drea and Amber, who push their way through everyone. It appears as though Drea is giving some explanation. And then Amber tails it with something funny; I can tell from the way she's getting everyone to laugh.

Drea takes my hand and leads me out through the crowd, back into the room, all the while moving her mouth wide as though shouting out over all their voices. They close the door, and then she and Amber tuck me back into bed, each taking a place beside me while I burrow myself into the covers and picture Veronica's eyes.

37

Jix

I sleep through B-block English--dreamlessly, thankfully. When I wake up, I have to blink a few times to focus, my eyes adjusting to the blurs of navy blue and green plaid atop my bed--Drea and Amber, sitting on each side of me, already suited up in their school uniforms.

'Are you okay?" Drea asks.

"Why aren't you guys in class?" I ask, sitting up.

38

"You're not exactly in class yourself." Amber fluffs the giant purple flower she's got pinned in her hair.

"I called the school counselor and told her you were having a little . . . trauma." Drea clears her throat.

"You did
what?"
I ask.

"It was the only way all three of us could get away with skipping class. We're supposed to be comforting you."

"Yeah," Amber says. "So you better freakin' let us."

'And then you can let Mrs. Halligan," Drea says, squaring the tip of her nail with a file. "She's expecting you on her happy sofa as soon as you can make it."

"Great," I sigh. "I suppose I have nothing better to do than waste time talking to the school shrink."

"So, what's going on?" Drea asks.

I glance toward my night table, noticing the white candle sitting atop my biology textbook. Drea or Amber must have retrieved them for me. "I had a nightmare," I say.

"Yeah," Amber twists a ponytail around her finger, "we sort of had that part figured out. The blood-curdling screams were a dead giveaway. The hard part was trying to explain to everyone that that kind of behavior is normal for you."

"How
did
you explain?"

"No Homework Excuse #105."

"Which is?"

"Serious bout of the hemorrhoids."

"Oh my god," I say. "Tell me you're joking."

"No joke," Amber says. She grabs her pair of square black eyeglasses, scoots them down toward the tip of her nose, and snatches Drea's nail file. She files away at her sparkly purple fingernails.

39

'She's lying," Drea says. "It actually wasn't that hard to explain. I mean, after last year."

"Yeah," Amber says. "It's almost like people expect that kind of psycho behavior from you. I know
I
do."

I wince at the word, at the thought of myself labeled like some Hitchcock movie. But what's worse is that she's right.

"What was your nightmare about?" Drea asks.

 

I take a deep breath and exhale for five full beats. There's really no point in holding off telling them any longer. And so I just say it. "Veronica Leeman." Her name sounds so surreal on my tongue--like some unspoken secret buried deep in the ground where no one can touch it.

"Veronica?" Drea's steel-blue eyes widen. "Why were you dreaming about
her?"

"Because she's dead. And maybe I'm the one responsible."

Drea's mouth quivers into a frown. I'm not sure I should even be talking about any of this with her. Maybe she isn't ready to hear that I'm having nightmares again. I'm barely even ready myself.

"Not this again." Amber stands up and picks a three-finger wedge from her tights. "We tried to save Veronica. We did everything we could have."

"You don't really believe you're responsible, do you?" Drea asks.

I shrug. "I'm not sure about anything anymore. I mean, I know I tried my hardest. I know I did my best to read my nightmares, my premonitions. It's just ... I have no other explanation as to why I'm dreaming about old ghosts."

"Wait," Drea says. "What are you talking about?"

40

"I'm having nightmares about Maura too," I say. "I mean, it's only happened a few times, but they're the same nightmares I had right before she was kidnapped. Right before she was killed."

It's weird to be talking about Maura again. When I was able to save Drea from Donovan last year, I felt that in some small way I was putting Maura's memory to rest--like I could finally forgive myself for ignoring the recurring nightmares I had about Maura three years before, for ignoring the premonitions that might have saved her life. But now I'm having my doubts.

I close my eyes and think of that watercolor picture Maura made for me, painted with eight-year-old hands-- the two of us on her porch swing. It's tucked away in my scrapbook, but I suddenly have the urge to go and take it back out; I just miss her so much.

"Wait," Amber says. "Does this have anything to do with last night--the whole 'M for Maura'

business?"

"It could," I say. "I saw the letter M in my nightmare, too. Not on a window. More like pressed behind my eyes."

"So, what does that mean?" Amber asks.

"I honestly don't know."

"Why does it have to mean anything?" Drea asks. "So you dreamt about an M and then saw it in reality. You've dreamt about lots of pointless little details before--like that dream you had about fuzzy yellow socks and then Amber showed up wearing a pair. This could be the same sort of thing. It doesn't mean something bad is going to happen."

"I guess," I say, fully understanding Drea's need to try and make light of the situation.

41

"But then why are you having nightmares about dead people?" Amber asks.

"Your guess is as good as mine." I swallow down a mouthful of self-pity and look away.

"That must be so depressing," Amber says. "Sleeping with a bunch of dead heads."

"It isn't funny," I say. "Obviously my dreams are trying to tell me something."

"I'm not laughing," Amber says. "Why would I be? It seems like every time you have nightmares, someone close to you dies. Maybe I'm next."

"No one's next," I say. "I just need to figure out what everything means."

"I gotta go," Drea says. She grabs a bar of chocolate from her mini-fridge.

'Are you all right?" I ask.

"I don't know," she says. "I don't know if I can take another year of this." She swings her backpack over her shoulder and scoots out the door before I can say anything else.

"I gotta go, too," Amber says. She kicks through the mound of clothes at the foot of her bed. She picks up a peach sweatshirt, sniffs it, makes a "yuck" face, and then tosses it over her shoulder.

"What are you looking for?" I ask.

"Something to wear to yoga after school."

"Do you want to borrow something of mine?" I ask.

"Let's face it, Stace, your style's a bit too housewife for my chic blood."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She grabs the box of Rice Krispies and pours a huge helping into her mouth before beginning the explanation.

42

And all the while she's talking, she's pointing at the big purple flower in her hair, flashing me the matching garter up around her thigh, and then gesturing toward my gray sweatshirt, draped over the chair--obviously trying to explain her laws of fashion. But I have absolutely no clue as to what she's saying because her mouth is completely Rice Krispied.

 

"Huh?" I feel my face twist up in confusion.

She garble-talks even louder, like that will make a difference. When she sees I still don't understand, she lets out a quacklike grunt, fishes a pair of pink stretch pants from the mound on the floor along with a couple tattered Hello Kitty notebooks, and heads out to class.

I, on the other hand, figure I can soak up another full block before heading off to Mrs. Halligan's happy couch. I hug my knees into my chest and glance down at my gingerbread-cookie-man pajamas, feeling a bit redeemed by their obvious cuteness. But then I look at the gaping hole in the knee from my fall up the stairs the other night. I poke my finger through it and take a deep breath.

I'd give anything to talk to Chad right now. I kind of wish I wasn't so hard on him about his surprise visit. I scooch back down in bed, feeling lonelier than I have in a long time. But I can't blame Drea and Amber for getting spooked and deserting me here. Who wants to room with the angel of death?

43

I

j-cve.n

When I arrive at Mrs. Halligan's office, she tells me to take a seat on the notorious happy sofa.

BOOK: White is for Magic
13.91Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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