“I guess,” I say, fully understanding Drea’s need to try and make light of the situation.
“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. 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?
When I arrive at Mrs. Halligan’s office, she tells me to take a seat on the notorious happy sofa. Of course she doesn’t actually call it that. She’s dubbed it “the lounge”—an overstuffed, green-and-yellow plaid number with wooden trim and worn-out arms. Anything but loungelike, but it’s still the place she expects I’m going to spill it about everything that’s going wrong in my life. Though I feel like that could take days.
“So,” she begins, “your roommates tell me you had a bad dream this morning. Anything you want to talk about?”
She’s sitting on a leather swivel chair, completely focused toward the tip of my nose from behind a pair of giant round eyeglasses. Big silver curls frame her face.
“Not really,” I say.
She studies me a few seconds, legs crossed, old-lady shoe bobbing back and forth at me, hands folded neatly in her lap. “It’s okay, Stacey,” she says. “It’s normal to experience nightmares after there’s been some kind of trauma in your life. It’s just your mind’s way of dealing with the situation after the fact. We’re coming up on a year now since last year’s tragic events. That must be very hard for you.”
This woman’s a genius.
“Maybe this is just your body’s way of exploring the experience,” she continues. “Sometimes when something major or traumatic happens, our mind and body don’t have time to ask questions.”
“Ask questions?”
“Precisely,” she nods, happy that I’m participating.
“Great!” I beam. “So I just need to let my mind and body ask the questions, find the answers, and then everything will go back to normal?” I tilt my head and nod to effect the degree of chipperness I’m going for.
“I know it might sound easier than it actually is, Stacey, but think about it. The next time you have a nightmare, ask yourself what you think your mind is trying to figure out. I think you’ll be surprised with the result.” She smiles at me and gives a slight nod of the head, confident in a job well done.
Once she gets me to promise to stop by later in the week—even though I know that won’t happen—I’m free to go to D-block computers. Mr. Lecklider’s got us all broken up into groups working on these huge, all-encompassing projects. While he sits at the back of the room playing round after round of Free Cell, my group—comprised of me and Amber and Cory and Emma (a couple of Hillcrest’s newest recruits)—is working on a new Web site for the school.
“I wonder if we should scan in a picture of the cafeteria pizza,” Amber says. “You know, so kids can see what kind of food we eat here.”
To this, Emma blows her nose extra loud, as though enthused by the suggestion.
“Are you kidding?” Cory asks. “We actually want kids to come here.”
“Then how about we scan in a picture of my ass?” Amber says.
“I repeat,” he says. “We actually want kids to come here.”
“I think the cafeteria pizza is good,” Emma snorts between nose-blows.
“It is good.” Amber hands Emma a fresh tissue from the box, replacing the tiny ball Emma has been recycling for the past ten minutes. “It’s actually the only yummy food that comes out of the cafeteria.”
“Forget it,” Cory says. “We have enough pics.”
Lucky for us, Cory is a major computer geek. He elected to take this class only for the easy A. So, while he packs the Web site with everything from course descriptions to postcard-worthy pictures of the campus pond during sunset, I can browse the free e-cards on greetings4you.com. Since I was in major bitch mode the other morning with Chad, and since I won’t get to see him until the last block of the day, I figure this is the quickest, most convenient way to say “I’m sorry.”
I click through the array of sentiments—mice squeaking “I love you,” cows mooing “I miss you,” lovesick kissing fish, forget-me-not flowers, “you’re my fuzzy-wuzzy” slippers, and numerous “I’m sweet on you” candies. I decide on one that’s corny but cute: two pigs holding up a sign that says “hogs and kisses” while a peppy version of Louis Armstrong’s “A Kiss to Build a Dream On” plays in the background.
I quickly turn the volume down on my computer, glance over my shoulder to make sure I haven’t attracted Mr. Lecklider’s attention—I haven’t—and begin typing my message:
Dear Chad,
Just a little note to tell you I’m sorry
I freaked the other day. I’m glad you surprised me. Call me later. Hogs and kisses!
Luv,
Me
I click on the Send icon, feeling a smidgen better. I close the window and go into my e-mail account. There are five messages—two opportunities to work from home and make five thousand dollars per month, an offer to enlarge the body parts of my choice, this month’s online issue of TeenReads, and a message from Silversorcerer198 marked “Stacey, we need to talk.” I’m tempted t
o trash it, since I know no Silversorcerers whatsoever, but since I’m curious, I click it open.
“Dear Stacey,” it reads. “Didn’t mean to scare you the other morning in the boiler room. We need to talk. Meet me tonight at 11:30 at the Hangman Café.”
A horrible, sticky feeling bubbles up in my throat.
“Stacey?” Amber says. “Why do you look as pale as my butt cheeks?”
I gesture to my computer screen. Amber rolls her chair beside me to look. “Holy Miss Molly,” she says. “Do you think it’s the same guy?”
“What else am I supposed to think?”
“What’s up?” Cory asks. He leans in toward us, his shaggy, mud-brown hair hanging down the sides of his face.
“Girl stuff.” Amber covers the screen with her hands, two big Porky Pig stickers stuck to her wrists.
“Show me,” he says.
“I don’t think so,” Amber says.
“Well, then I don’t think you guys will be receiving credit on this project,” Cory says. “I have done all the work.”
Emma inhales her concern.
“Fine,” I say. “Look.” I turn the monitor in his direction.
“You know the Hangman closes at eleven, don’t you?” he says.
I feel the corners of my mouth sag down even further. I had forgotten the café’s hours since we hardly ever hang out here.
“So, what does that mean?” Amber asks. “This guy wants to meet you after hours?”
“Maybe it’s Donovan’s successor.” Cory stabs at the air with an invisible knife. “Maybe he wants to take revenge.”
“And maybe you’re, like, so immature,” Amber says to him.
“You just don’t want to admit the inevitable,” Cory says. “I think this campus is cursed.”
“Really?” Amber says.
“Think about it. The Hangman Café alone . . .”
“What about it?” Amber asks.
“You know that’s not really the name, don’t you? So, why do you think people call it that?”
“We know how the legend goes,” Amber says. “We’re not newbloods here, remember?”
“It’s because some girl hung herself in there, right?” Emma blots at her nose with the tissue.
“Exactly,” Cory says. His eyes are wide with excitement and his lips are practically frothing over from the sheer delight of this conversation. “Fifty years ago. When she didn’t get the starring role in the school play. And then everything that happened last year with Veronica, splattered on the French room floor—”
“Shut up,” I say, fighting the urge to block my ears.
“Tell me,” he says. “Is it true that when you found Drea, she was tied up in a porta-potty?”
“Shut the hell up, geek boy,” Amber hisses.
“I think there’s more to come,” he says. “And when it does, I just hope I’m around to see it.”
Amber plucks the power cable from his computer, zapping away all the pretty pics.
“You little witch,” he says. “Lucky for you I save my work every three minutes.”
At that, Mr. Lecklider makes his way toward us, the heels of his shoes clicking against the linoleum floor. “Can I see what you’re working on?”
“Amber just pulled the plug,” Cory says.
“Well, that’s a zero for all of you for today,” Mr. Lecklider says. “And I’ll see you all back here at 2:30 to continue your work.”
“Oinkers,” Amber says when Lecklider’s out of earshot.
Cory plugs the cable back in and resumes our project in silence. Even though the guy is an ultimate jerk, his comments about the whole Hillcrest hysteria are hardly out of the ordinary. After Veronica’s death, gobs of kids were pulled out of here by their parents. In return, we got a major transfusion of newbloods, kids like Cory—“ghost groupies” as Amber likes to call them—intrigued by all the negative press our school was getting, utterly delighted over the idea that the school might be haunted. And then some parents saw the major bailing of students as an opportunity for their beloved underachievers to get accepted.
It’s almost as if everyone’s just waiting for something to happen.
Everyone, including me.
When I get to the cafeteria, Drea, Amber, and PJ are already sitting in our usual spot by the soda machines. I set my tray on the table and peel open the spout of my chocolate milk. “So, what’s up?”
“Up?” Amber points toward the ceiling with her chopsticks.
“Yeah,” I say. “What are you guys talking about?”
She plucks a chunk of potato from her salad and pokes it into her mouth. “You,” she manages between chews.
“What about me?”
“The e-mail,” Amber says. “Are you going tonight?”
I glance at Drea, who’s focusing down at her plate of macaroni.
“I say go,” PJ says, pointing with a cheese doodle for emphasis. “We’ll all be there to back you up.”
“Definitely,” Amber says.
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this now.” I gesture to Drea, hoping they get the picture.
“What’s with the silent treatment, Dray?” PJ asks. “You’ve been comatose-quiet since we got here.”
“Nothing,” she says.
“If it’s nothing then why do you look as happy as a fried clam?” PJ asks.
“Maybe I’m just sick of listening to you guys act like this is some stupid Sega game,” she says.
“It’s not a game,” Amber says. “It’s a quest.”
“A quest for a killer.” PJ cackles. “And who his next victim will be.”
“Who says it’s a he?” Amber raises an eyebrow.
“So true, my little sly one.” PJ clinks his fork against Amber’s chopsticks, toastlike.
“What is wrong with you?” Drea pushes her tray away. “Was last year so long ago that you don’t remember everything I went through?”
“We all went through it,” Amber corrects.
“Okay, stop,” I say, for Drea’s sake. “That e-mail I got could just be some jerk trying to scare me after last year.”
“He went through a lot of trouble,” Amber says, “showing up in the boiler room and all. Writing ‘M for Murder’ on the window.”
“I didn’t say M was for murder.” I look at Drea. She’s got both hands pressed up against her forehead in headache mode.
“Um, yes you did,” Amber corrects.
“Wasn’t it you who thought all of that was a joke? A coincidence? The result of my being, quote unquote, ‘funkified’?”
“I still think you’re funkified,” Amber says. “But you have to admit, after that e-mail you got, this has ghost groupie written all over it. I’ll bet you anything it’s one of them, just dying for some cheap thrill. No pun intended.”
“I’ll take some cheap thrill,” PJ says, raising his hand.
“All I know,” I say, “is that I’m dreaming about people who are already dead. If you ask me, that’s a lot safer than dreaming about people who are going to die.”
“I guess,” Drea admits. She pulls her tray back and takes a bite of macaroni.
I wish Amber had the common sense not to go blabbing about my business. Drea isn’t ready to hear about weird e-mail messages, not on top of boiler room break-ins, weird graffiti, and recurring nightmares. Which is why I haven’t said anything about the puking. Because I’m thinking the puking isn’t just merely coincidental. I think it’s my body’s way of trying to tell me something. Like last year—when wetting the bed turned out to be my body’s way of leading me to where I’d find Drea, tied up in a porta-john.
I glance over at Donna Tillings, sitting alone at the end of our table. Her once auburn-highlighted hair is now pulled back in a rubber
band, the color faded to a cheerless brown—like one of the “before” pictures in a magazine. It’s weird; she never would have ventured a lipstick within a ten-foot radius of us last year, and now she’s sitting at our table, with a face probably as blanched as mine.
Donna Tillings was Veronica Leeman’s best friend—a class gossip to the core, the kind of girl only other bullies could stomach. After Veronica’s death, she ended up shutting herself off from all her lemming friends. She took a couple weeks off to grieve, and instead of resuming old friendships when she returned, she tried to make new ones, tried to earn herself a fresh start. Only everyone who knew her knew they didn’t like her. And for some reason, the influx of new students this year hasn’t helped the situation any.
I blink my stare away and instead attempt to eat some of today’s cafeteria fare—gluey clumps of mac and cheese with a dusting of readymade breadcrumbs on top. I’m just about to scoop a forkful into my mouth when a couple hands land across my eyes from behind.
It’s Chad. I can smell him right away—the musky scent of his cologne mixed with the apple-butter soap I bought him as a just-because gift last month.
“What are you doing here?” I can hear the excitement in my voice.
Chad moves his hands away and scoots into the seat beside me. “I got your e-mail.”
“You did?”
He nods. “Thank you.”
“I shouldn’t have freaked,” I say.
“No,” he argues, “I should have told you I was coming instead of just showing up like that.”
“Aren’t they the cutest?” Amber coos, referring to me and Chad. She tilts her head, all dreamylike.
The interruption of her voice reminds me of where I am and who’s here. I can feel Drea’s eyes watching us, watching Chad tickling my side.
“Hey Drea,” he says, sensing my discomfort, I think.
“Hi,” she mumbles, really sticking it to that macaroni.
“I should probably get back to Spanish.” He flashes me the obscene wooden bathroom pass in his pocket—a giant phallus-shaped key that Señora Sullivan insists is supposed to look like a bean burrito—and then peers over his shoulder to make sure Mrs. Amsler, the cafeteria warden, hasn’t noticed him. “I’ll call you tonight after the hockey game.” He gives me a tiny peck on the cheek before sneaking out the side exit door.