Silver Is for Secrets

  “That’s, like, so dumb.” Drea huffs.

  “It happens all the time,” Amber says. “Don’t you watch Lifetime?”

  “You’re obviously referring to yourself,” Drea says,

  “what’s the little jealousy thing you’ve got going with PJ and Clara?”

  “I’m hardly jealous,” Amber says. “And her name is Skank, not Clara.”

  “Hey, what’s this?” I ask, picking a couple photos from the floor.

  “What are they of?” Drea asks.

  “Kind of hard to tell.”

  Amber takes and rotates them to get a better angle. “This one kind of looks like part of somebody’s arm.” She tilts her head for perspective. “And this one could be a forehead . . . but maybe it’s a butt cheek.”

  “Photo duds.” Drea sighs. “So what are we supposed to do now? Wait until Clara comes and finds this for herself?”

  “I say we check the trash,” Amber says, looking around the room for a wastebasket. “That’s where all the dirt is.”

  “Literally,” Drea says.

  “No, seriously, that’s where they find all the good clues on TV cop shows.” Amber moves to the mirror to wipe away what’s left of the aloe goo.

  “I refuse to go trash-picking,” Drea says, waving her thirty-dollar manicure at us.

  “Fine,” Amber says. “Let’s just bug out of here then. We can wait for Clara to notice this on her own. No sense tying our asses to this mess.”

  “My ass already is tied to this mess,” I say. “Have you forgotten about my nightmares . . . that something bad is going to happen to her? We need to find her. We need to stop thinking about ourselves for five minutes.”

  Drea nods. “Stacey’s right . . . even if she is a cow.”

  “Fine,” Amber says. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

  Amber returns the photo duds to the floor, beside the bed, while I set the vase back down on the night table and shut off the lights. It’s better if the police see things exactly as they were left, which is why we also neglect to lock the door behind us.

  We head back to our cottage, telling ourselves that Clara is going to be back there, that if she isn’t we’ll go straight to the police and tell them everything. We swing the door to the cottage open and, sitting on the couch, on top of the fitted sheet but under the knitted blanket that Drea lent her, is Clara, and she’s got herself a little company.

  She and Chad are facing one another, knee-to-knee, with actual kneecap touchage.

  Chad looks at Drea and scoots back at least one full foot. “Hey, what are you guys doing? I thought you were in your room.”

  Clara giggles for no apparent reason and moves to cover her legs with the blanket. “Yeah,” she says, “what are you guys doing up? Where did you go?”

  “We should ask you the same thing,” Drea says, folding her arms in front.

  “Why?” Clara cocks her head, feigning confusion.

  “I just came out to get some water,” Chad says. He gestures to the coffee table, as though there’s supposed to be a glass of water on it.

  “Looks like you made a detour,” Drea says.

  “He saw I was a Bruins fan.” Clara sticks her chest out, proudly displaying the team’s white, black, and gold colors. “They’re my lucky PJs.”

  “Where were you a little while ago?” I ask, interrupting her stupid giggle.

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “I came out here and you were gone.”

  More head-cocking. “Oh,” she says, as though it just dawned on her. “I was in the bathroom for a while.”

  “Was it PJ’s cooking?” Amber asks.

  “No,” she giggles. “I was washing my hair in the sink. I didn’t want to take a full shower because I was afraid that would wake you guys up.”

  I nod, remembering how in my nightmare I went to the bathroom in search of Clara, how from just outside the door it sounded as though the sink faucet was running.

  “That reminds me,” Clara continues. “Drea, I brought you some Bumble & Bumble.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bumble & Bumble . . . the hair conditioner . . . I thought it might be good for your split ends.”

  “I don’t have split ends,” Drea snaps. She grabs at a lock of hair, fanning out the individual strands for show.

  “You don’t?” Clara cocks her head for the umpteenth time. “Oops.” She smiles. “Sorry, I guess it just kind of looks that way.”

  “Alrighty then,” Amber interrupts. “Maybe we should all go back to bed before we wake up PJ and Jacob.”

  Chad stands up from the sofa and heads for the kitchen like nothing even happened.

  “So that’s it?” Drea asks him. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

  “What am I supposed to say?” He pulls a jug of water from the fridge. “The Bruins are my favorite team.”

  “It’s my fault,” Clara offers. She pulls her fingers through her dampened hair. “I just felt kind of chatty and wanted company. Chad was nice enough to chat with me. Hey, wait,” she beams. “Get it? Chad . . . chat?”

  “Are you drunk?” Amber asks her.

  “Well, you can chat with Chad all night for all I care,” Drea says.

  “Don’t do this,” Chad says. “You’re completely overreacting.”

  But despite Chad’s pleas, Drea shoots him a dirty look, darts off into our room, and slams the door behind her.

  “She isn’t mad, is she?” Clara asks, her voice rising up for sincerity.

  “No,” Amber says. “She’s pissed. Of course, I can’t say I didn’t tell her this would happen.” Amber follows after Drea, leaving me to have to tell Clara about her room by myself. I look at Chad and he looks away, pretending to be thoroughly engrossed in guzzling water from the jug.

  “Clara,” I say, “we seriously need to have a talk.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, burying her face in her hands. “I didn’t mean anything. I was only trying to be friendly.”

  Chad sticks his tail between his legs and, jug of water in hand, goes back to his room like he’s not even hearing this.

  I take a deep breath and glance at the clock. It’s a little after three. Maybe a few more hours of sleep will make all the difference, will help us all be able to get our priorities straight and put things into perspective. “You’re staying till morning, right?” I ask. “I mean, at least until nine or ten?”

  “Of course,” she says, wiping invisible tears. “Where would I go?”

  “Good. I’ll go and talk to them and then we’ll discuss everything in the morning.”

  “Wait,” she says. “Where did you guys go?”

  “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

  She nods, somewhat reluctantly, I think. I’m reluctant too. I almost can’t believe I’m leaving things like this. But maybe, for now, it’s for the best.

  eighteen

  I go back into our room and, just as expected, Amber and Drea are hardly in sleep mode. They’re sitting on Amber’s bed, amidst feather-fringed pillows and leopard-print linens, dishing about what a quote-unquote “skank” Clara is.

  “They’re my lucky PJs,” Amber mocks. She giggles extra loud, cocks her head to the side, and pulls at the front of her T-shirt, making it look like she’s got cones for boobs.

  “Shhh,” I say. “You’re going to wake everybody up.”

  “I hate her,” Drea says, lowering her voice. “I mean, I hate her.”

  “Tell us how you really feel,” I joke.

  “I just can’t believe her gall,” Drea huffs. “After we allow her to sleep on our sofa.”

  “And eat our food,” Amber hisses. “I spied her chowing a cannoli right before bed.”

  “May it go straight to her cow hips,” Drea says.

  “Why do you think she hides them under those stupid skirt-things she wears?”

  “I hate her,” Drea repeats. “And I hate Chad too.” She plunges headfirst into one of Amber’s p
illows.

  “I know,” I whisper, sitting down opposite them on my bed. “The whole thing’s heinous . . . but I still feel like we need to help her.”

  Drea recovers from her nosedive to look at me, her mouth hanging open in complete dismay. “Um, are you kidding? I’m not helping that house-wrecker.”

  “Don’t you think you might be overreacting just a little?”

  “Don’t give me that Chad-speak,” she says. “I saw what I saw. Plus, did you hear what she said about my hair?”

  “I agree,” Amber whispers. “We don’t even know this girl.”

  “I know, but I really don’t see where we have another choice. I mean, yeah, she’s totally obnoxious and personally I think if I have to listen to her giggle one more time I just might snap, but we’re talking about her life here. We have to help her.”

  “We?” Drea asks.

  “Fine,” I say, feeling my teeth clench.

  “Don’t be mad, Stacey,” Amber says, “but you have to admit, it’s not exactly easy to help someone who openly goes after your man.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Are we talking about PJ right now or Chad?”

  “What is it with you and PJ?” Drea asks her.

  “It’s quite simple,” Amber whispers. “He sweats me; I reject him; everybody’s happy.”

  “Except PJ,” Drea says, checking her hair for split ends.

  “I’m going to bed.” I turn away to crawl beneath the covers.

  “Jacob’s next,” Amber says to me. “Just you watch. First she ruined things between Casey and his girlfriend; then she starts flirting with PJ; then Chad . . . you gotta know he’s next.”

  “I have a little bit more faith in Jacob than that,” I snap.

  “And maybe I thought I could have a little faith in the two of you.” I lie back against my pillow and turn away, thinking about the de-stressing spell we did yesterday, how they promised me I could rely on their friendship. I pull the covers up over my head. A couple seconds later, Drea comes and pulls them back down.

  “You’re not gonna just block us out,” she says.

  “Why not? That’s what you’re doing to me.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? But Amber’s right; it’s hard to feel sorry for someone who flirts with your boyfriend.”

  “And makes fun of your hair,” Amber adds.

  “So does that mean we’re supposed to just let her die?” I sit back up.

  Drea purses her lips and looks away. “No one said anything about dying.”

  “No,” I say, “because I’m not going to let that happen—with or without your help.”

  “All right, already,” Amber sighs. “We’ll help the skank.”

  Drea nods in agreement, and I can’t help but smile, even though a part of me still wants to be angry.

  I spend the next several minutes telling them, in hushed tones, about the nightmare I had during the wee hours of this morning. We go over and over all the details, from Clara calling out to me to finding her body on the beach.

  “That’s so weird,” Drea whispers. “Why would you dream about Clara having the bottle you threw out to sea?”

  “Easy,” Amber says. “It obviously means Clara’s connected to the bottle, to the message inside.”

  “Yeah, but the message was different in my nightmare,” I remind them.

  “But the words weren’t,” Amber says. “I mean, you did say her voice said ‘don’t tell anyone’ and ‘if you tell I’ll make you pay.’”

  I nod. “But that’s the part that bugs me. On the wall in her room, it just said ‘I’ll make you pay’. There was nothing about a secret.” I grab the amulet from around my neck, noting how I should probably replenish the lavender oil inside.

  “I wonder if it’s somebody else’s secret,” Drea says. “I mean, maybe she knows something she shouldn’t and somebody’s threatening her about it.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” I say. “But it doesn’t make sense. If someone’s threatening her over a secret, then why did he—”

  “Or she—” Amber reminds us.

  “Right,” I say. “Why did whoever go through her underwear drawer?”

  “Um, do I need to draw you a picture?” Amber asks.

  “You went through Jacob’s underwear drawer . . .” Drea offers.

  “Yeah,” I say, “but that was by accident. I never would have done that normally.”

  “Maybe I should draw you a picture,” Amber says.

  “Be serious,” I say.

  “Why do you think you’re getting cold in your nightmares?” Drea asks.

  “The loss of blood maybe.”

  “Yeah, but why is Clara bleeding? Is it a wound or something?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I can’t tell, but it seems like in each nightmare I have, the blood is more intense, like she’s getting closer to death.”

  “Which means that your nosebleeds might get more intense, too,” Drea points out.

  I nod and glance down at my sheets. There’s a tiny patch of dried blood from earlier this morning.

  “You need iron,” Amber pipes up. “And a multi-vitamin.”

  “A definite,” I nod.

  “Yeah,” Drea says. “I mean, the last thing you’d want is to lose so much blood you start to get dizzy and stuff.”

  I nod in agreement, adding a trip to the drugstore for some vitamin supplements to my mental to-do list.

  “What does Jacob say about all this?” Drea asks.

  I shrug. “Just that he’s here for me, that he wants to help me, that he knows I can do this.”

  “He’s right,” Drea says. “You can do this.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . he’s having nightmares, too.”

  “About what?” Amber asks.

  I shake my head. “He won’t tell me. At first I thought it was about Clara. You know—like that he could see something in her future that he didn’t think I could handle. But now I don’t know.”

  “Why won’t he tell you?” Drea asks.

  “I think it’s because he thinks I have enough to worry about.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Drea says. “I mean, you have to admit, you have been on edge.”

  “An understatement,” Amber coughs out.

  “I know,” I say, “but you also have to admit, it’s not every day I have people’s lives in my hands.” Quite literally, I think, looking down at my fingers, picturing the splotches of blood across them from my nightmares.

  “No,” Amber says. “It’s more like every year.”

  “Good point,” I sigh. “But I also feel like there’s more to my stress than Clara’s life and Jacob’s secrecy—something that I just can’t—”

  “You should trust him, Stacey,” Drea continues. “Maybe he’s just not ready to tell you every little thing. I mean, there are things in my past that I haven’t told Chad.”

  “Do tell.” Amber rubs her palms together for the dish.

  “I don’t know,” Drea says. “Stupid stuff I tried; stuff I’ve thought about—embarrassing moments.”

  “Vague, vague, vague,” Amber sings.

  “The point is,” Drea continues, “that even though I haven’t told Chad these things, it doesn’t mean I don’t love him. Maybe I will tell him one day, or maybe I won’t. But I think it would get pretty old if Chad kept hounding me about stuff I wasn’t ready to share.”

  “Point taken,” I say.

  “Good, because I’ll never admit to saying this, but don’t think I haven’t wished Chad felt for me a smidgen of what Jacob feels for you.” Drea looks down at her hands, at her pink-and-white manicure and the bite marks she’s made on one thumbnail.

  I take her hand and squeeze it. “Chad loves you; I know he does.”

  “Yeah, he loves me, but it’s different, you know? It’s not the same as what you have with Jacob.”

  “At least you guys have boys to bitch about,” Amber interrupts. “The last guy I dated was Superman over there.” Sh
e gestures to her blow-up doll, suspiciously placed in the corner of the room beside her pleather belts and faux-fur boas. She gets up to fish inside the mini-fridge and pulls out not one but two containers of Ben & Jerry’s. “To feed our funk,” she says, handing us each a spoon.

  We sit in a row on my bed, passing the containers of comfort back and forth, eating away at our gloom.

  nineteen

  After devouring all the ice cream left in our cottage, Amber, Drea, and I end up falling asleep for a couple more hours. When I get up, in lieu of taking a shower, I pull a halfway-clean T-shirt and a pair of shorts off the floor and head into the living room to talk to Clara. Once again, she isn’t there.

  Chad and Amber are sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast and discussing the fraternity fundraiser cruise tomorrow night—basically, who should room with whom with respect to finances, significant others, and loud and obnoxious snoring.

  “Are you going?” Chad asks me.

  “Doubt it,” I say, glancing toward the closed bathroom door and wondering if Clara’s in there.

  “Yeah, that’s what Jacob said, too,” Chad says.

  “Really?”

  He nods, licking what appears to be Danish goo from his fingers.

  “Good,” I say. “I’m glad we’re on the same wavelength.” Though a part of me wonders why Jacob didn’t ask me himself. I chew the thought over with a bite of dry cereal straight out of the box, and then take another peek at the empty sofa. “Who’s in the bathroom?”

  “You need to ask?” Amber looks up at me, her face still red from the mud mask. “Who else takes over an hour to blow-dry her hair?”

  “So where’s Clara?”

  “Who cares?” Amber moans. “I think my face is sizzling.” She grabs a package of Popsicles and applies it to her cheek.

  “The only thing that’s going to make your face any less burnt is time, real aloe, and this.” I grab a couple eggs from the fridge and crack them into a bowl, separating the yolks from the white parts.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she says.

  “Hardly. Egg whites are famous in my family for treating burns and, since I didn’t bring my aloe plant with me on vacation, it’ll have to do.” I direct Amber to tilt her head back.