White Is for Magic

  “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

  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.

  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 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.

  “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.

  “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.

  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.

  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 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.

  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.

  I descend the steps and approach it slowly. I know it’s for me and I know what it is. And I’m right. It’s a jump rope—just like the one in my dream. Except this one’s tied into a noose.

  The jump-rope-turned-noose hangs from a branch just overhead, the two plastic handles dangling down in front of my eyes. I take a couple steps away from it and cover my mouth, shaking my head like this isn’t real, like it can’t be true. A whistlelike sound sputters from my mouth. My name is written in thick black marker down each of the handles, so there’s no doubting that it’s for me—that someone wants to kill me.

  “Stacey?” says a voice from behind me. A male voice, one I don’t recognize right away.

  I feel my shoulders stiffen, my jaw lock.

  “It’s me,” he says.

  I turn to look. It’s Jacob, partially concealed in shadows.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, taking a step forward. He looks up at the noose and then makes his way toward it. “What’s that?” he asks.

  “What are you doing here?” I tighten my grip on the laundry bag, feeling the ample weight at the bottom. If I need to I can use it to fight.

  He pulls the rope from the branch and runs his thumbs over the handles, maybe trying to sense something from my name.

  “I said, what are you doing here?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “We were supposed to meet.”

  “In the laundry room,” I say. “On the other side of campus.”

  “I know,” he says. “I just didn’t think you should be walking around by yourself at night.”

  “How thoughtful,” I say, looking at the noose in his hands, wondering if he’s the one who left it for me.

  “As soon as I hung up the phone with you, I sprinted over here so I wouldn’t miss you,” he says, now trying to sense something from the rope fibers. “Do you have any idea who could have put this here?”

  “Maybe you could tell me,” I say, taking note that he’s fully dressed, that his hair looks slightly wet, as though from gel—like maybe he wasn’t in bed at all.

  “Hmm—” he says, pausing at the knotted part, ignoring my remark.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Do you mind if I take this? I might be able to use it. I might be able to find out who put it here.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, grabbing the noose from him. I feel over the handles as well, the tips of my fingers still tingling from getting pricked and splintered in my dream. I check them over for cuts, but there aren’t any. And I can’t seem to sense anything but my own fear.

  “We should talk,” he says. “But not here. Do you still want to go to the laundry room?”

  I shake my head. All I really want to do is go back inside, beneath the haven of my covers, and start this night all over again. I tighten my grip on the rope, hoping to squeeze any sign, any clue, any anything out. But it’s like my hand is numb, unfeeling.

  “How about in the boiler room of your dorm?” he asks. “I know the way in.”

  As though I could forget. “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “Then where?” he asks.

  For just a second I think about telling him to leave, that we have nothing to say to one another. But, all considered, I know I should hear him out. My dreams and the letter are telling me that I have less than a week to figure this out. Less than a week—which could be just a couple days away. Or closer. For all I know, it could be tomorrow. Or tonight.

  I look over at the benches
on the lawn, the heavy spotlights shining over them. “There,” I say. Before Jacob can answer, I clasp my hand over the crystal cluster rock in my pocket and start walking over to the spot.

  “You know, we could get caught here. It’s way after curfew.”

  “I don’t really care,” I say. “I don’t even know why we had to meet. Why couldn’t we have just talked on the phone?”

  “I can sense more about you when we’re together,” he replies.

  “And what are you sensing now?” I ask.

  “That you’re in serious danger.”

  I stop to look at him. “Is that why you were trying to call me tonight?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he says. “Why did you call me?”

  I take a seat on the bench. “Because I thought we needed to talk.”

  Jacob sits down next to me. He’s nodding, his stare so penetrating, like he can see right inside me, into that faraway corner of myself, the place that I never reveal—not even to Chad. Chad. I look away and try to zap him into my mind—to remind myself that he’s the one I love, the one I care about. And yet our relationship has been such a complete and utter mess, after months and months of near perfection.

  “I had another nightmare about you tonight,” Jacob says, zapping me back in place.

  I venture a look at his face, noticing for the first time the mole under his bottom lip. “About what?”

  “About you getting sick.”

  “Sick how?”

  “Like sick to your stomach. Like hangover-sick—with vomiting.”

  “You probably just dreamed that because puking has become a sort of spectator sport for me lately. I think people have dubbed me the exorcist chick.”

  He settles back into the bench and looks away, like there’s something else on his mind, something he’s not telling me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “Not nothing.”

  “It’s just I think there’s more to it, that’s all.”

  “Like what? What else did you dream about?”

  “Hands,” he says, looking back at me.