White Is for Magic

  Somehow I’m able to turn away from it, to grab hold of myself and scurry as fast as I can up the stairs, tripping up a couple steps along the way. I fling the door open, hear it bang against the wall, and I run back to the room, slamming and locking the door shut behind me.

  “What’s going on?” Drea clicks on the light beside her bed.

  “Something’s happening.” My body is trembling all over. I cross my arms in an effort to stop the quake.

  “Stace, you’re as pale as my ass,” Amber says. “What happened?”

  “Downstairs,” I choke. “On the window—the letter M.”

  “What?” Amber asks.

  “M?” Drea sits up and moves to the edge of her bed.

  I nod.

  “M-what?” Amber asks. “What are you talking about?”

  “M,” I say, my voice rising up. “For Maura. For Murder.”

  “What?” Drea gasps.

  “Why were you down in the boiler room again?” Amber asks.

  “Aren’t you listening to me?” I grab at the ache in my head.

  “Wait,” Drea says. She springs from her bed and stands in front of me. “Go slower. Start from the beginning.”

  “Just come down to the boiler room with me. See for yourself.”

  Drea wraps an arm around my shoulder and a whimper escapes from my throat. Amber hops out of bed as well and joins us on our trip downstairs.

  I flick the stairwell light back on—the lights in the downstairs part are still on—and lead Drea and Amber across the cement floor and behind the water tank. And I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing—or not seeing. The M is gone.

  “The window,” I whisper.

  “Yeah?” Amber snaps. “You’re right, there is a window there.”

  “No,” I say, staring at the clear glass.

  Amber runs her hands over the window and checks the lock. “It’s even locked . . . imagine that.” She turns around to face me.

  “No,” I say. “It was there—the letter M. And the window was open a crack.”

  “Are you sure?” Drea asks. She rests her hands on my shoulders, in an effort to calm me, maybe—to look into my eyes and understand.

  I nod, my jaw trembling slightly. It just doesn’t make sense.

  “And so what if it was there?” Amber says. “It’s probably been there for months.”

  “No,” I say, taking a step closer to the window. “I would have noticed it before.”

  “What difference does it make,” she says. “It’s gone now and, in case you’ve forgotten, your name starts with an S.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Well, then, make me understand—because right now I’m starting to think you’re completely funkified.”

  I look to Drea. I can see she wants to believe me, and maybe a part of her already does.

  “Forget it,” I say, maybe as much for my sake as for hers. I’m not sure she could handle what’s been going on inside my head, what I feel in my heart might be happening again—not after last year. “Maybe I just need some sleep.”

  “That’s it?” Amber’s face drops. “What about ‘M for Maura? M for Murder?’ Have you completely wigged on us?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, even though I know the M was there, that it was real. That my nightmare predicted it. I take one last look at the window before turning away to go back

  upstairs.

  My day goes by in an absolute blur. After a night packed with enough chaos and conflict to fill up an entire season of daytime drama, my classes seem almost incidental. I mean, how am I supposed to focus on French and astronomy when everything seems to be crumbling to pieces all around me? And yet, if I don’t start buckling down, the chances of me getting into a halfway-decent college will be slim to none.

  That’s why I’ve decided to make an actual attempt at studying tonight. That and because I’ve managed to find myself sleepless once again. It’s not that I can’t sleep; I just don’t want to. Every time I feel myself nodding off, I get that sour feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I’m going to be sick. So, while Drea and Amber snooze soundly in their beds, I sit out here in the common room, pounding away at my bio notes, hoping the words in bold will somehow cosmically soak into my brain.

  Except I can’t stop thinking about last night.

  My grandmother’s white candle resting in my lap, I close my eyes and picture the letter M—red and splattered—the way it appeared against the window glass. I realize that someone could have been playing yet another stupid prank, or maybe it was meant for someone else—some sort of private joke that has absolutely nothing to do with me. Or, per Amber’s theory, maybe I really was funkified. It’s true I was beyond the point of exhaustion last night—or, should I say, the wee hours of this morning. I could have imagined the whole thing. And I know I sometimes dream about things that have little or no relevance to real life.

  But I know in my heart none of that is true. I know that marking was there—I felt it; I saw it.

  And I know it was meant for me.

  I bring the candle up to my nose and whisper the letter M over and over again, hoping the magical elements of the whiteness will help lead me in the right direction. It feels good just holding the candle, having it close to me—its mystery, its mysticism. Almost as if my coming across it so suddenly was my grandmother’s way of showing or telling me something.

  I reach into my pencil case for a red marker and dip the tip into my mug of water. The red ink begins to filter across the surface in puffy, cloudlike shapes, turning the water a slight pinkish color. I move into the pantry and stand in front of the sink. The window above the faucet is similar to the one downstairs in the boiler room. I draw a giant M across it, trying my best to make it look messy, the way it appeared downstairs. The water helps, causing the bright red lines to bleed down the glass. I stare at it—hard—trying my best to concentrate, hoping the duplication will promote some sort of insight. And still, the words that flash across my mind are the ones I fear the most: “Maura” and “Murder.”

  I feel my chin quiver. I grab a paper towel to wipe up my mess. The marker lifts quite easily, leaving the glass completely clear. All except for a face—reflecting right at me. I gasp and turn around.

  It’s Drea.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

  I let out my breath. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” she says. “What are you doing?”

  “Studying.”

  “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.

  “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 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.

  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 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.

  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.

  “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.

  “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 pic
ks 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?”

  “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.”