White Is for Magic

  That was Veronica Leeman.

  • • •

  Despite Amber’s efforts to convince me that the incident down in the boiler room was just another prank, I call Keegan anyway and tell her everything that happened, including the part about the window being open a crack but minus the part about the spell. She tells me that she’ll check it out and get back to me. I know there’s a chance that Amber might be right, but I honestly don’t feel that she is. Why else would I be feeling this enormous sense of déjà vu?

  I rub the aloe gel into the burn and, with my other hand, assess the damage to my knee. It’s not as bad as it feels. I can see the splinter piece through the skin on my kneecap—a good sign. I grip the part sticking out and pull, watching the splinter move its way toward the puncture spot.

  Amber grabs her wallet off the night table and hands it to me. “Here, gnaw down on Scooby. That’s what I do when I have to pluck my eyebrows.” She feeds the wallet into my mouth before I can object.

  “From what I can see,” Drea runs a finger over one of Amber’s eyebrows, “it looks like Scooby hasn’t been nibbled in a while.”

  “Maybe not,” Amber says, feeling between her eyebrows for fuzz. “But at least he gets some tongue action.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If the nun habit fits . . .” Amber flops down atop my bed, knees bent, feet facing in toward one another, making the Porky Pigs of her slippers kiss.

  I ignore them as best I can and resume my splinter plucking, trying to keep my hand steady so it comes out in one piece. Despite excess drool, the wallet actually helps, and, with only a few grunts, I’m able to pull the splinter out.

  Except there’s still some dirt left under my skin. I pull a fresh lemon from my spell drawer and cut it in half with a plastic knife. Like my grandmother, who basically taught me everything I know about the art of kitchen witchery, I always keep a healthy supply of spell items on hand. You just never know when you’ll need them. Like last week when Drea asked me to help her make a luck sachet for an English exam. Or the week before that when I whipped up a batch of moon soap for Amber’s PMS.

  My grandmother always used lemons for cuts. She would squeeze the fruit of its juice, allowing the juice to drain into a bowl, add a teaspoon of vanilla extract, mix it up, and then apply the mixture to the wound. I make an attempt to do the same, but it seems I’ve run out of vanilla. Weird—I could have sworn I still had a full bottle. I dip a rag into the lemon juice anyway and apply it to the wound, hoping it will suffice.

  The phone rings a few minutes later. It’s Keegan. She tells me she checked out the boiler room and aside from the open window—which she has since closed and locked—everything looks clear, except, she adds, for a broken pot of some sort and a weird candle left behind. I thank her and hang up, feeling somewhat relieved but still uneasy.

  “Keegan said everything looks okay,” I say.

  “What were you even doing down there?” Drea asks.

  But I don’t feel like explaining my Maura spell. “I just thought I heard something.”

  I hate having to lie to them, especially after everything they’ve been through with me. But I just don’t want to say anything yet. I have no idea why Maura is, once again, haunting my nightmares. I thought I had closed the book on that. I thought I forgave myself for everything that happened. But maybe I haven’t. Maybe somewhere deep inside me there’s this rotting place of guilt. Maybe that’s why I’ve been throwing up.

  While Amber and Drea fall back asleep, I lie awake and stare up at the ceiling. There’s really no point in sleeping since I didn’t get to finish my spell. No point in having to wake up again to a mouth full of puke. Especially since I only have another few hours before I’d get up anyway.

  Instead, I try my hardest to focus on Maura, the little girl I used to babysit. I try to figure out why I’m dreaming about her again, why my subconscious mind is stirring up old ghosts.

  When I feel my mind begin to wander and my eyes start to get heavy, I turn to glance at the clock by my bed. It’s almost six. I think about calling Chad, but I know he’d still be asleep. And I honestly don’t know what I’d say to him, if I’d even tell him about tonight. I feel bad I didn’t call him back last night, like I was supposed to. But lately I feel as though I’ve been pushing him away. I think it’s because of Drea. I mean, I love Drea like a sister, and I’m so glad she decided to come back to Hillcrest for our senior year. But it’s just so weird, me dating her ex-boyfriend and all.

  When Chad and I first started going out, just after Donovan’s murder trial ended and Donovan was sent away, it was easier. Drea wasn’t around. She ended up going home for the remainder of our junior year to try to put the pieces of her life back together. And it’s not as though I wish she’d stayed away. It was just easier before she came back. I mean, I know she gave us her blessing; I know she says it doesn’t bother her, but I can’t help feeling that she’s still in love with him. And even if she isn’t, I feel like I’m breaking some sort of unwritten rule about not dating your best friend’s ex.

  The cut on my knee is stinging. I wonder if it’s because I didn’t have that vanilla extract. I consider searching the common-room pantry; maybe there’s a bottle stashed away in one of the cupboards. But then I remember my own stash—in the overnight bag my mother bought me four years ago, when I first got accepted to Hillcrest. I sometimes toss various spell supplies in there, usually stuff that doesn’t get used that much— random trinkets and ingredients I come across that I think I might use later, like that container of onion powder I bought on sale or the leaf-shaped seashell I found on the beach one summer.

  I pull the bag from the back of my closet, unzip it, and stare down at the contents. Lying practically on top is the full bottle of vanilla extract I knew I had. The onion powder and seashell are still in there as well. And so is the thick white candle my grandmother gave me on my twelfth birthday, just a couple months before she passed away. I had completely forgotten about it.

  It’s one of the hand-poured kinds, about ten inches tall and as thick as my fist. I still remember my grandmother giving it to me. It was nighttime, after my friends had left, after all the other birthday presents had been put away. Gram and I sat on her back porch under the blanket of the dark sky, just the swollen moon above us. She set the shimmery silver package on my lap. “Open it with care,” she said.

  I remember unwinding the crinkly paper and marveling at the brightness of the candle wax against my skin. A virgin candle, never used, with a clean, white wick.

  “A white one?” I smiled.

  “White is for magic,” she explained. “You should only use white candles for the most magical of occasions and you should only light this one when you feel the time is right.”

  “When will that be?” I asked, sniffing at the wax, hoping for the scent of coconut or vanilla bean.

  “When you feel in your heart the truest, most meaningful aspect of magic.”

  “What is the truest, most meaningful aspect of magic?” I asked, disappointed in the candle’s lack of scent.

  She smiled, her cheeks pinkening over. “It isn’t my place to tell you. One day you’ll know. You’ll feel it.”

  “Can’t you just tell me, Gram?” I moaned.

  She shook her head. “If I told you, you’d only know it in your mind, not in your heart. There’s a big difference.”

  Of course, at twelve years old, I had absolutely no idea what she meant. I still don’t. But, even though I obviously never did light this white candle, I have used white candles before—whenever I’ve wanted to cause magical things to happen, whenever I felt a spell or remedy needed that extra magical touch.

  The problem is I know such occasions are not what she was referring to. I grip the candle in my palm and hold it up to my cheek, remembering my grandmother’s soft, smooth s
kin, the way her voice got all whispery when she told me all this.

  Instead of returning the candle to the bag, I decide to keep it out. I set it atop my night table, concoct a fresh batch of the lemon–vanilla-extract mixture, and apply the ointment to my wound. Already it feels better.

  Now what?

  Since I don’t have one of those book-light things, I grab the phone and my English reader and make my way out to the common room, where I know I won’t wake anyone up. Maybe I’ll wait until seven and then give Chad a call. I plunk myself down in the lime-green easy chair in the corner, in lieu of one of the straight-back, studious ones—a major mistake since I’m itching for sleep. The soft, velvety corduroy cushions cuddle me up like a favorite sweater. I click the lamp on and flip open to the Raymond Carver story I’m supposed to have read by B-block today.

  I’m just about to start skimming over the post-reading section when I hear a clomping sound, like footsteps, coming from out in the lobby. I get up from the chair and walk slowly toward the sound. It’s coming from behind the boiler room door, like someone’s coming up the stairs. I take a deep breath and silently count to ten, telling myself that it’s probably some girl who forgot her key. But then I hear voices—male voices—whispering, talking back and forth.

  I grab an umbrella from the collection by the entrance and position myself next to the boiler room door. I know I’m acting like some paranoid freak, that it’s probably just like Amber said—probably some girl’s boyfriend trying to sneak in after curfew. It’s just that the idea of someone breaking in, of sneaking around at this hour, time-travels me right back to the past. When I had legitimate reasons to be a paranoid freak.

  I raise the umbrella high above my head and watch as the knob turns and the door edges open.

  It’s Chad.

  “What are you doing?” I drop the umbrella and smack my hand over my heart. “How did you get in here?”

  The door swings open completely. PJ’s there, too. He’s holding a twisted-up bobby pin between two fingers.

  “I knew he’d be able to get us in,” Chad says.

  “Hey, Love Dove.” PJ air-kisses me on both cheeks. “Getting into the basement was a piece of cake, but the main door? Forget about it.”

  “So how did you get in? The window downstairs?” I thought Keegan said she locked it.

  “Can’t let the ol’ kitty cat out of the Sak’s bag completely,” PJ says. “These lips are sealed.” He twists his lips locked.

  “You weren’t down there earlier, were you?”

  “Who wants to know?” PJ asks, puckering up at me.

  “We just got here a few minutes ago,” Chad says. “Calm down. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that people shouldn’t be allowed to just break into campus buildings whenever they feel like it. How were you guys even able to make it over here from your dorm? Isn’t campus police doing their job?”

  “Puh-leeze,” PJ says. “When the Dunkies shuts down at midnight, so do they.”

  “Relax.” Chad rubs my back to soothe me. “You’re gonna wake everybody up.”

  “It’s just way too easy for people to sneak into this place. You’d think at a prep school dorm there’d be a lot more . . . safety.”

  “I’ve got some safety right here.” PJ rustles in his jacket pocket.

  “Look,” Chad begins, “I’m sorry we scared you. I wasn’t thinking. Obviously I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to see you.” He pries the umbrella from my fingers and deposits it in the holder by the entrance.

  “I think I’m going crazy,” I say.

  “Crazy for me, I hope.” He smiles and wraps me up in his arms. And he smells so good, like cinnamon mixed in hot apple cider, making it way too difficult to sustain anger. I run my fingers though his sandy-blond hair and burrow my nose into the collar of his jacket.

  “I think I’m gonna puke,” PJ says. “This is way too sweet tart for me. Where’s my squeeze?” PJ thumps his hand over his heart, enabling me to catch a glimpse of the tiny ladybugs he’s got painted across his black-polished fingernails.

  “She’s not exactly your squeeze anymore,” I say, breaking the embrace.

  “Don’t let her snooty, standoffish routine pull the fleece over your eyes, little one. The girl absolutely gummies me.” PJ runs his palm over the three-inch plum-purple spikes of his hair and then saunters off to prey on Amber in our room.

  Meanwhile, Chad and I move into the common area and squeeze into the cushy love seat.

  “You shouldn’t be here, you know,” I say. “We’re gonna get suspended.”

  “Only if we get caught.” He nuzzles his forehead against mine, making me almost forget that Keegan’s door is just down the hall. It’s just that he looks so good. His greeny-blue eyes are framed by wire-rimmed glasses. A cuddly cotton sweatshirt fits snugly across his chest. An off-center smile curls up to the left.

  “What are you even doing up?” I ask.

  “Drea called me.”

  “She did? When?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “A little while ago. It’s no big deal. She was just calling to ask me a question about the pre-calc test we’re having today, and then she told me how you got spooked earlier—something about someone scaring you in the boiler room? . . . Anyway, I thought I’d just come by to check on you—surprise you. Is that okay?”

  I feign a nod, even though I hate surprises. Even though it irks me that he hasn’t figured this out yet. And what’s worse is the idea that Drea called him in the first place—that as soon as I step out of the room she decides to go behind my back with some bogus excuse about studying for a test. The girl hasn’t opened a book since before dinner last night, for god’s sake.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “It’s okay,” I say, taking a deep breath, reminding myself that it’s a brand new year.

  Chad leans me into his chest and kisses the top of my head. “You need to relax. It’s safe here. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  “I know,” I say, biting my lower lip.

  “Donovan’s gone. It’s time to let it go.”

  “This has nothing to do with Donovan,” I say, sitting up.

  “I think it might.”

  “And I think you’re missing the point.”

  The door to our room opens. It’s Drea, her paisley-printed pillow clutched under her arm and her comforter trailing out behind her.

  “Oh, sorry,” she says. “Did I interrupt something? I was just gonna sleep out here. Amber and PJ won’t stop arguing.”

  “Sorry we woke you,” Chad says. “PJ and I should probably get going anyway. I just wanted to check on your roommate here—surprise her with a little after-hours visit.”

  “That’s so sweet,” Drea squeals.

  “I thought so,” he says. “Anyway, I don’t want you guys to get in trouble.”

  “No,” Drea says. “It’s fine. I’ll just sleep out in the lobby.” She lets out a long-winded sigh and then makes her way in that direction, her perfect pout matching her even more perfect Victoria’s Secret supermodel legs, making me want to shove her out the door completely. I know she knows what she’s doing. And I also know it’s no mistake that she came out here dressed like that.

  “I’ll call you later.” Chad kisses my cheek granny-style before nabbing PJ from our room.

  “Ciao for now, my little brown cow,” PJ says to me. “And, next time, ix-nay on the scary oovies-may.”

  “Huh?”

  “The scary movies . . .” he clarifies, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Just say no.” He hums a few notes from the theme song to Halloween, blows me a kiss, and then makes his exit with Chad.

  “Well, I guess I can go back to bed now,” Drea says. She smiles at me, making me almost want to pick out her teeth one by one.
But since my fuming is still focused on Chad—and on campus security’s inability to do its job after everything that’s happened at this stupid campus—I decide to spare her and, instead, check out the window in the boiler room for myself.

  The door to the boiler room is open a crack—most likely from Chad and PJ’s visit. I leave it open completely and click on the stairwell light. The sudden burst from the lightbulb, dangling just overhead, stings my eyes and causes my head to start throbbing again. I make my way down the creaky stairs, telling myself that I’m not afraid, that if the window is open, I’ll simply close it and lock it back up.

  I reach the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath. That’s when I sense it, when I feel it. Something isn’t right. I reach for the pull chain overhead and tug it firmly to click on the lights. The long and narrow fluorescent strips glare down from the unfinished ceiling, lighting the entire boiler room.

  The back of my neck turns cold and a chill runs down my shoulders. I look around, in all corners of the room, to be sure I’m alone. There are several desks stacked up against the wall. I move closer, trying to angle my glance to see if someone might be hiding behind them. I ball my hands into fists in an effort to prepare myself for the worst. But it’s just empty behind there—no one. I let out a breath, loosening the binds in my chest, and move toward the water tank—toward the window.

  As I get closer, I can feel a coolness, a subtle breeze that pats along my arms and over my shoulders. It’s the breeze filtering in through the window crack. I move behind the water tank and feel my entire body freeze over. The open window is in full view now. But even more alarming is what’s painted across it—the letter M, crudely splattered against the glass in a dark-red color. Just like in my nightmare.

  I feel the door in my heart slam closed, but quickly realize that it’s really the door upstairs, the one I entered, the one to the boiler room. And that the stairwell light has been clicked off. I steel myself in place and silently count to ten, mentally preparing myself for what comes next. After several seconds I feel myself take a few steps backward, just staring at the M, fearing I know exactly what it means.