White Is for Magic

  When Amber and I get to computer class this morning, Mr. Lecklider gives us this long-winded lecture about skipping his detention, finally rewarding us with an even bigger sentence: computer room duty—complete with Windex, wet rags, and mop carts—every day after school next week. Instead of trying to dispute it, I take a seat next to Cory and Emma to resume what feels like our endless group project.

  “Wow, that really blows,” Emma says, in response to our punishment. She snorts extra hard into her tissue to show her sympathy—a kindly gesture, I suppose.

  “Thanks,” I say, catching a glance of the designs she’s got on her notebook—stupid little hearts with Cory’s name in the center, middle-school style.

  “Yeah,” Cory says, interrupting my bewilderment. “You guys should have come yesterday. Lecklider only kept us for ten minutes.”

  As if I meant for this to happen. “I forgot,” I say.

  Cory shrugs and continues to click away at the Web site “we’ve” developed for class, acting like last night never happened.

  Meanwhile, Amber is working Lecklider, trying to get him to buy the excuse that I wasn’t feeling well and she was doing her best to nurse me to health. But, judging from Lecklider’s posture—completely hunched over in his seat, his back turned so far toward her it almost looks as if she’s having a conversation with his butt—it doesn’t appear as though she’s having any luck.

  In an effort to feign group participation, I reach into my backpack and pull out the computer text for the first time this year—even the spine lets out a tiny creaking sound when I open it up to the middle. But what I really want is to get some information out of Cory.

  I scoot in extra close, pretending to take interest in the graphics he’s working on. “That looks really great,” I say, looking down into my book, searching for some keyword that might help me sound even remotely Web literate. “Will we be adding any SQL to this?”

  “Huh?”

  “SQL? System Query Language?”

  Cory’s face screws up and so does mine—I can feel it, desperately reading over the bold-faced word in my text, making sure I’m saying it right. Cory turns back to the computer and I end up shutting my book; I was stupid to think it would help me anyway. Instead, I go for the more direct approach: “I hear they’re thinking about putting a few computers in the Hangman. Sort of like a cybercafé.”

  He shrugs and offers up a wry smile, probably detecting the obviousness of that segue.

  “How long have you been working there?” I ask.

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  He nods, like he already knows why I’m asking. Like he can read my thoughts and knows my suspicions. “It’s actually a pretty new gig.”

  “Was it busy last night?”

  He shrugs, that stupid, knowing smile still high on his face.

  “So . . . were you working by yourself? Or was someone with you?” I try to sound natural.

  He replies by laughing at me—full-blown, belly-jiggling laughter, like he’s completely aware of why I’m asking him all these questions, like my efforts at subtlety are just as wasted as his efforts to be normal.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask. “Was someone working with you or not?”

  But he just continues laughing, his tongue pushed forward into the space between his front teeth. And since I’m hardly desperate enough to serve as his entertainment box for even one more second, I wheel my chair away and look to see what Emma’s working on—more hearts.

  I take a deep breath and silently count to five. It’s obviously a waste of time to try and get anything out of Cory. Maybe I’ll just have to start hanging around the Hangman more often to see if anything strikes me—to see if that guy comes back. Or maybe Chad’s right. Maybe the e-mail message is just part of some joke. Maybe it’s the letter that I need to focus on right now. I look up at Amber, who has apparently scored herself a sentence of having to sit beside Lecklider for the remainder of the period and read from a computer manual. Maybe computer room detail isn’t so bad after all.

  I end up spending the rest of the class finishing up my next period’s homework—the Candide essay I was supposed to have corrected last night. If I don’t start to seriously crack down in my studies, I know I’ll end up college-less, which is why, after school, after Lecklider’s detention, I end up going straight to the library in lieu of yoga class—actually not such a supreme sacrifice, considering my recent contribution to Savasana.

  I ask the librarian for one of the private study rooms in the back, the kind with a door that closes, so I won’t be interrupted. And this is where I sit for the next couple hours, slaving away over my list of assignments, skimming through chapters I should have read weeks ago. I even break out my pink and yellow highlighters to mark stuff that sounds important. But that’s also the point where I start drawing my own hearts—big and pink and bubbly—hearts that put Emma’s to shame.

  I wonder what Chad’s doing right now. I wonder if he’s angry at me after last night’s phone call. Maybe he’s getting a little sick of all the baggage I seem to carry around.

  I flip a page in my lab notes to refocus. That’s when I hear a knock at the door. I look up toward the pane of shatterproof glass that runs vertically beside the door, but there isn’t anyone there, just a row of empty study carrels in the distance. A few seconds later the knock comes again.

  “Who is it?” I get up from the table and move toward the window, doing my best to try and angle myself so I can see the front of the door. There’s another knock. I take a step closer and can just make out the area to the right of the doorknob.

  “I’m busy in here,” I call through the glass.

  But whoever it is knocks again.

  “Amber?” I grab the doorknob and whisk the door open. No one. I take a few steps out, into the study area. There are some kids working on a project at one of the round tables to the left, a couple boys working on laptops to the right, and a smattering of other students, lounging in comfy chairs, reading textbook-type stuff.

  I look around at the individual faces to see if any of them are watching for my reaction. But, aside from a couple freshmen boys who obviously think I’m newsworthy enough to pause from their riveting calculations, no one seems fazed by me.

  I turn around to go back into my study room and feel myself jump. Amber and PJ are standing right behind me.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” PJ says.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I gasp. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Uh, I’d rephrase,” PJ says, running his fingers over the electric-blue tips of his purple hair spikes. “I heard about what happened to you in yoga. I’d be super careful about nonchalanting your bodily functions. People just might take you seriously.”

  “What do you want?” I sigh.

  “Why are you acting all wiggy?” PJ asks. “We just came by to shop some books and saw your lazy ass. We thought we’d give a greeting.”

  “Stacey’s been under a little bit of pressure lately,” Amber explains to him.

  “Dish, please,” PJ says.

  “There is no dish,” I say. “I just don’t appreciate people trying to scare me. Why do I keep having to explain that to everyone?”

  “Um, a little clarity please,” PJ says.

  “The knocking,” I say. “I’m trying to study.”

  “What knocking?” Amber asks.

  “The knocking—you guys were knocking on the door while I was trying to study.”

  “No, we weren’t,” Amber says.

  “Right,” I say.

  “Freaky,” PJ says, his eyes widening for extra drama.

  “I gotta go,” I say.

  “Wait,” Amber says. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want us to stay and wait for you?”

&
nbsp; “I’m fine,” I say, looking around. It’s obvious that there are two groups of demons in my life right now—those who are trying to scare me for their own amusement and those who actually might want to cause harm.

  I suppose I should wait around for the latter.

  “I’ll see you guys at dinner.” I move back toward the study room door and notice a chunky piece of crystal at my feet. I pick it up. A crystal cluster rock—the kind used for protection, to break through negative energy. The individual crystals that make it up have sort of grown together, healing the jagged pieces, making one solid chunk that fits into my palm.

  I squeeze it, concentrating on its energy, feeling a warm surge of vibrations up my arms, over my shoulders, and down my back, practically turning me to putty. It’s like I’ve suddenly been dipped into a bath filled with the silkiest hot-tub water, the bubbling jets pulsating over my skin, massaging my muscles.

  I take a deep breath to regain my composure and then look around to see if anyone has noticed all this, including the heat I’m sure must be visible all over my face. I close the study room door and lean back against it to hold myself up, my heart filled with a weird mix of fear and excitement by the mere idea of finding the crystal.

  After dinner, I come straight back to the room. I pull the crystal cluster rock from my pocket and lay it on the bed in front of me, along with the letter from yesterday. It doesn’t make sense that they’d both be from the same person. I consider the possibility that whoever left the crystal might not have known of its protective qualities. But that doesn’t make sense either. Crystal cluster rocks are hard to come by—someone would definitely have to go looking for one.

  There’s a tiny flicker of hope at the back of my mind that the crystal might actually be from Chad, maybe his way of making up for yesterday. I play the scenario out in my mind—Chad stopping by the New Age store on Greenvale Street, asking the person behind the counter for something special, something protective. Only it’s not Chad’s style to just go leaving something like that at the door. He would definitely have given it to me himself—unless, of course, he thought I was still mad at him.

  I pick up the phone to check my messages, to see if he called. Since he wasn’t in the cafeteria, I’m thinking he and his teammates just practiced right through their dinner break. I dial the number to retrieve my messages. I have one.

  “Hi Stacey,” the recording of my mother’s voice plays. “It’s me. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. Did Drea tell you I called last night? I’d really like to talk to you. Call me when you get in. ’Bye.”

  I click the phone off and slouch down in bed. After a couple minutes of thinking and sulking, I take a deep breath and play my mother’s message again. Her voice sounds sort of insistent, like maybe she really has something to talk about. I click the phone back on and dial the number. Something definitely must be up. Usually when my mother calls and Drea answers, she’s just as happy to talk to Drea since they’re so much alike—since they’re both in love with stuff like Vogue magazine and Joan & David shoes while I’m whipping up protection spells and casting the ashes out to the wind. Though, I have to admit, after everything that happened last year, it has been better between my mother and me. We talk more; we don’t argue as much. And, unlike other years going off to school, this year, when we said our goodbyes, it felt different, harder.

  After a few rings, she picks up. “Hi, Mom,” I say.

  “Stacey, I’m so glad you called.”

  “What’s up?” I ask. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” she says. “Nothing. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “Oh.” I pick Amber’s feather pillow off the floor and begin plucking at the quills. “Nothing much is new,” I lie. “I have a big English paper due next week, and I haven’t even finished the book yet.”

  “But everything’s fine?” she asks. “I mean, you’re okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, a huge question mark looming over my head.

  “That’s good,” she says. “I just wanted to check.”

  “Why? Did Drea say something when you called last night?”

  “No,” she says. “Should she have?”

  “No. Everything’s fine,” I repeat, though I know I’m not fooling anyone. I can hear it in my voice—the wavering in my tone, the guilty squeak of my words.

  My mother doesn’t respond and I’m thinking it’s because she knows what a horrible liar I am. Instead we just sit in awkward phone silence in my bed of lies until I can’t stand it anymore.

  “I’m having nightmares again,” I say.

  “What do you mean again?”

  Is she kidding? When I was having nightmares about Maura four years ago, I told her about them. I told her that I didn’t want to go to sleep anymore, that I was having nightmares every night about the same thing, about the same person; I just never told her who that person was. My mother didn’t ask questions. She only responded with mugs of chamomile tea before bed and told me to try and think about more peaceful things before I went off to sleep, like rainbows and starfish.

  Then, last year, with Drea, there were more nightmares. And though I wasn’t the one to tell my mother about them, when the trial came out, it was pretty much broadcast news. When I was asked at the trial how I knew that Donovan had brought Drea to the forest, I had no other answer but to tell everyone I dreamt it. And so the phone calls began . . . people—strangers—calling me up, asking me if I was having nightmares about them. We ended up having to change our number twice. My mother knows this. Which is why I can’t understand how she can ask me what I’m talking about when I say I’m having nightmares again.

  “Stacey? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, what do you mean you’re having nightmares again?”

  I really don’t feel like going into all of this, playing this stupid game with her when I have no idea why she’s playing it at all. Is she still trying to make me into the happy cheerleader daughter that I’m not and never will be? Is she stuck in some sort of twisted denial about who I am?

  “Actually, Mom, Drea just came in, and she needs to use the phone. Can I talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Sure, honey,” she says. “Give me a call, or I’ll call you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” she repeats. “’Bye.”

  I hang up, feeling even worse than before. Two lies in one night, and nothing but an impending dose of karma to thank me for it.

  After the phone call with my mother, I end up studying in my room for about two hours, trying to convince myself that the structure of a neuron—axon, dendrites, and all—is the most riveting material I could possibly be focusing on at the moment. But I’m also waiting for Chad to call. Since it’s after nine and I still haven’t spoken to him today, I’m wondering if maybe he’s holding a grudge. But even if he is, it’s still no excuse. He knows I’ve been under a tremendous amount of stress lately—even if he does believe it’s post-traumatic. So,why can’t he just put grudges aside and call me like any other good friend would?

  After two phone calls to his room with no luck, I end up giving him until exactly 9:15 before I decide to go out. At 9:19, I stuff the crystal cluster rock into my pocket, fill my backpack with a handful of spell ingredients, and make my way out into the night. I think what I really need right now is a little bit of energy cleansing and some definite answers, and I can’t think of a better place to find both than outside, under the frost moon—especially since the thought of going down to my altar in the boiler room is so far from appealing right now.

  Since the entire campus is surrounded by acres of forest, it isn’t difficult to find the ideal space. Despite what happened last year, I still love the forest, especially at night, under the moon and a spattering of stars. The whole atmosphere helps center me, helps me reconnect with the n
atural spirit and put things into perspective.

  Using my small flashlight as a guide, I end up walking around the side of our dorm, across the lawn, and entering the forest by the path that everyone uses when they want to go drinking. I turn to the left and find myself a peaceful spot on the edge—just deep enough to be concealed but not too deep that I can’t see the waxing gibbous moon right above me. It’s absolutely perfect, just a day from fullness—so amazing that I almost can’t believe I spent so long cooped up in my room.

  I sit on a patch of grass and do my best to breathe the moon’s energy in, to swallow it up and allow the light to soak into my skin. After a few peaceful minutes, I take the crystal from my pocket and place it on the ground in front of me. It can’t be a mere coincidence that someone dropped it right outside my study-room door. I know that someone left it for me. I just need to figure out who that someone is before it’s too late.

  I prop my flashlight up against a rock and begin emptying the spell ingredients from my bag. With a pair of scissors, I start with my hair. I grab one of the longer layers at the side, trim off about four full inches, and then knot the shorn tress at the top to avoid unnecessary frayage. The lock of hair looks weird in my hand, almost surreal, like it isn’t really mine. I deposit it into the metal mixing bowl I sometimes use for away-from-home spells and then pour a few droplets of clove oil on top—the normally pale orange liquid now a deep walnut color in such darkness. I move on to my fingernails next. Using a pair of regular nail clippers, I cut them down to the nubs over the bowl, making sure the individual shards drop inside. Then I pour in a few more droplets of the oil, the heavy scent filling the air around me.

  I touch the side of my hair where I cut. Despite my careful attempt, I can feel where the chunk is missing, just below my ear. Hopefully the remaining strand is long enough to tie back. If not, I’ll just have to do my best at blending. I glance down at my nails, all stubby now; a couple have even started to bleed. I stuff them into my mouth to clot the blood and then plunge them into the mixing bowl. Using my fingers, I mix my hair and bone up in the clove oil, concentrating on the mixture’s ability to increase my psychic awareness of self. “Skin and blood, oil and bone,” I whisper. “Oh, Moon, I beg thee: Let the truth be known.”