Brick and Shell have been assigned to walk the rows, scoping out the trades so they can report back to the group about the deals of the day. Clay follows several yards behind them, well out of earshot.
"What's he doing?" Shell asks Brick.
Brick shrugs. "Mason probably ordered him to keep an eye on us. So we don't get into trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"I don't know." He shrugs again. "So we don't run off or do anything weird, probably." Shell looks back in Clay's direction. It appears as though Clay has slowed his pace a bit, giving them space.
"Just ignore him," Brick says. "That's what I try to do." Shell nods, taking the advice. They turn down one of the longer rows, impressed the array of tradeables. This is Shell's second time at a trading field, Brick's umpteenth, and both marvel at the abundance of choices--palm and card readings, offers for manicures and hair dyeing, handmade
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quilts, wooden bowls, exotic seashells, and food staples of all types. They pass by a group of young girls attaching sparkly white angel wings to each other's backs. Are your wings broken?" one of the girls calls out to Shell. Shell stops a moment, then approaches her, noticing how each set of wings is unique, all set apart by their shape--some pointed, some bubbly, others wavy, a few with diamond-shaped cutouts. "I don't think so," he says, finally. He looks back at Clay, who watches them from a few tables away.
"May I?" She whirls him around to inspect his back, running her hand across his shoulders. "What happened to you?" she asks, turning him back around. Shell's face drops, confused.
"Your wings aren't just broken." She gasps. "They've collapsed." The other girls shake their heads with compassion. "Sometimes wings can break like that," she continues, "but it's usually only after something terrible happens--a lost love, a near death, a sudden illness--were you sick?"
"I believe so," She'll says.
The girl nods, unsurprised. "Well, you're still going to need some temporary wings until yours heal over. I think I have a pair that will be perfect." She turns to fish through a trunk behind her, pulling forth a simple, straight-lined, no-frills pair from the bottom of the heap. "These will be perfect," she says, holding them up to She'll. 'And what have you got to trade?"
"Maybe I'll come back later," She'll says, looking to Brick for backup, though Brick remains expressionless.
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"Well, don't wait too long," the girl says. "It's dangerous out there without your wings." Shell nods and he and Brick leave, Clay following several paces behind. Are you sure you don't want a pair?" Brick asks.
Are you serious?" He checks Brick's expression to see if he's joking, but he remains as straight-faced as ever.
"Why not?" Brick explains. "Maybe she can see something about your past. Don't you believe some people have a sixth sense?"
Shell bites his bottom lip, knowing that he must believe it. Why else, in the car earlier, would he wonder if Lily could sense he was wearing the woolen scarf under his coat?
"Can you sense things?"
Brick shrugs. "I try to."
"What do you mean?"
Brick glances back to check for Clay, who's suddenly stopped. He's talking to some people at one of the tables.
"Can you keep a secret?" Brick asks.
Shell nods.
"On the way over here," he whispers, "when Clay said he didn't take that platinum necklace, I sensed he was lying."
"Seriously?"
"Forget it," Brick says. "I've spoken out of turn. Please . . . forgive me."
"Sure," Shell says, his mind scrambling with questions.
"I've been working on developing my senses," Brick continues, "through meditation and spells and stuff. But sometimes it backfires and I just imagine things. I shouldn't have 94
said anything. Clay's a good person. Please, don't repeat any of this. Do you promise?" Shell nods, growing more confused by the moment. They continue their walk back toward the group's trading spot, farther away from Clay, who's still talking away at the cheese-trading table.
When they get just a few yards shy of their group, Shell pulls Brick aside. "Do you really think there's a chance that girl might have been sensing something about my past?"
"Maybe," Brick says. "If your past is as awful as Mason says . . . maybe she picked up on it. Sometimes I feel like people can sense stuff about me, too."
"Like who?"
"I don't know, but I feel like I have a guardian angel out there somewhere." Shell nods, somehow knowing exactly what Brick means. He looks back in the direction of the angel-wing booth, suddenly more than eager to go back and talk to that girl, to ask her about his past. But he can't seem to spot her or her booth now amidst all the other traders, and how could he explain it to Clay? He continues to look anxiously about, in all directions, finally catching the eyes of Lily, Daisy, and Mason. They wave him and Brick over to the camp's trading spot--precisely where they belong. 95
Stacey
I roll over in bed, reaching for the crystal cluster rock beneath my pillow. A few seconds later, the phone rings. Since I can't sleep anyway, I snatch the receiver from my night table, hoping that it's Drea on the other end. "Hello?"
"Stacey?" asks a female voice.
"Yes. Who's this?" I sit up in bed and click on the reading lamp, noticing that I'm alone, that Amber and Janie's beds are empty. The window on Janie's side of the room is open 96
partway causing the window shade to knock against the ledge.
"Hello?" I repeat, still waiting for an answer. I can hear her breathe on the other end of the line. I sit up farther in bed and glance at the clock--it's 3 AM. "Who is this?" I repeat. The shade continues to knock against the ledge, the frigid January air pushing its way into the room, giving me chills.
"I know you're alone," she whispers.
"Janie?" I ask, wondering if this is her, if she's playing some sort of prank because she was so ticked earlier about my restoration clay spell.
"You are alone, aren't you, Stacey?"
I scan the room, confident that the only view in is through the window--when the wind pushes the shade away
"I'm waiting . ." she says.
"Tell me who this is, or I'm hanging up."
"You wouldn't do that," she whispers.
But that's exactly what I do. I slam the receiver down on its cradle, my heart pumping hard. I take a deep breath and chew at my bottom lip, wondering where Amber is, looking toward her bed for a note.
A few seconds later, the phone rings again.
I ignore it as best I can and climb out of bed to check the door. It's locked. I turn toward the window. The shade flaps into the room, making me jump. I take small steps toward it, wondering if someone's out there, if they can see me.
With trembling fingers, I reach for the window to pull it down, but it seems to be stuck. Using both hands, I anchor
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myself in place and press downward as hard as I can. Still, it won't budge. So I try the window shade. I try yanking it down even farther, but the shade slips from my fingertips and rolls up to the top, revealing a girl's face. She stares right back at me. I gasp and jump back before realizing that the reflection is mine.
"I know you're alone," a male voice whispers from just behind me. I steel myself in place, my heart pounding hard. I strain my eyes, trying to see something else in the reflection, but there's only me. After several seconds, I peek over my shoulder into the room. No one's there. But the closet door is open a crack. The phone continues to ring. I pick up the receiver and hold it up to my ear, wondering if the voice was just my imagination, if maybe I'm just overtired. Surely the closet door could have been open like that all along.
But I'm almost positive that it wasn't.
"I know you're alone," the male voice whispers from the receiver.
"Who is this?" I demand.
No one answers.
I drop the receiver and move back to the door to leave. I unlock it and go to turn the knob. No go. I pul
l at the knob and try kicking at the door crack, but it's no use. Someone's locked me in from the outside.
I grab the dangling receiver and go to call campus police. I press at the numbers but nothing happens. I can't get a dial tone--it's just dead on the other end. I hang up and 98
move to the window, hoping I can crawl out, but there's not enough space. My arms shake, trying to pry the window open wider. But it's stuck in place. I whirl around, hearing a whimper escape out my mouth. The closet door appears to be open even wider now. Slowly, I approach it, grabbing the tweezers off Amber's dresser and gripping them for protection.
In one quick motion, I wrap my hand around the knob and whip the door open. There, scribbled in red across the wall, are the words I KNOW YOU'RE ALONE. There are splotches of blood all around it, trailing down the wall. My jaw quivers. My breath stops. I feel myself taking steps backwards, my hand clamped over my mouth. The phone rings again a second later, making me jump. I move quickly to my night table to answer it. "Hello?"
"Stacey Brown?" says a female voice.
"Who's this?"
"This is Ms. McNeal from President Wallace's office."
"You need to help me," I say. "Please--I need help--"
"No," she says. "You need to help."
"What?"
"Porsha needs your help," she explains.
"Who?"
"Porsha, President Wallace's daughter. Her mother wanted me to call you--to tell you that Porsha needs help . . or else that boy will die."
"What boy?"
"Do you have your crystal?" she asks, ignoring the question.
"What?"
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"Your crystal cluster rock . . . the one Jacob gave you for protection." I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. At the same moment, I feel it--someone's breath on my neck.
"I know you're alone," the male voice whispers into my ear. I drop the phone and shake my head, my heart beating faster. I turn to look. At the same moment, a hand reaches around my neck, cutting off my breath. The fingernails cut into my throat.
I go to step back, to kick at his shin, but he grabs tighter, cutting off my breath. A moment later I hear a door slam shut--hard. The sound wakes me up out of sound sleep.
I sit up in bed with a gasp.
Amber is there, at the door. "Hey, you," she says, dropping her bag to the floor. "Hungry for dinner? I hear it's burrito night in the caf."
But I'm still shaking.
"What's up with you?" she asks. "You look like you swallowed a cockroach--maybe you've already been to burrito night."
"I have to go," I say, finally. I scramble from under my covers, pausing a moment to look at the clay bowl by my bed. I take and unfold the piece of paper inside, my question staring at me--WHAT DO I NEED TO DO TO GET ON WITH MY LIFE? At least now I have an answer.
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I throw my coat on over my pajamas, pull on my boots, and slip my crystal cluster rock into my pocket.
"Time out," Amber says, still standing at the door of our room. "What are you doing?
Where are you going?"
"I have to go out," I say, scrambling for a rubber band to tie my hair back. The images of my nightmare are still alive in my head, causing my pulse to race, my heart to beat fast.
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"Where are you going?" Amber repeats.
"I had another nightmare."
About what?"
"Jacob."
"What about him?"
"It's a long story," I say, snatching a rubber band off the dresser, "but I have to get to the president's office before he leaves for the day" I glance at the clock--it's just after four.
"Why? What's going on?"
"I have to help Porsha."
"Who?"
"She's obviously the girl-so-blue from my nightmare, the one I'm supposed to help or the boy will die."
"What?"
"I'll explain later." I pocket my keys and my campus ID card. "I'll call you if I'm going to be out late."
"Wait," Amber says, holding her head. "What does that have to do with Jacob?"
"I don't know, but I have to find out."
"You're not making any sense."
"I know." I give her a quick hug. "I'll call you if I'm going to be late."
"Stacey," she shouts. "You're in your pjs."
"So?"
"Well, can I at least lend you a boa or something?" She nabs a big frilly pink one from beside her bed.
"It might be a little much," I say, eyeing her bright red Mary Jane Doc Martens. But, with her matching fuzzy headband and puffy winter vest, she does look pretty cute. 102
Amber tosses me one of Janie's Snapples from her fridge and stuffs my pockets full of tissues and Jucyfruits, mothering me a little more--but in a good way, a way that feels comforting.
She tells me we need to have a long talk later and then I head out, rushing my way across campus, dodging ice patches and snowdrifts the whole way The entire campus is lit up since the sun starts going down around four. I finally make it to Ketcher Hall and bound up the stairs, two at a time, to find Ms. McNeal still sitting at her desk.
"I need to talk to Dr. Wallace," I say all out of breath.
"I'm sorry but that isn't possible," she says, her squinty eyes narrowing on me, on my flannel pjs sticking out from my coat maybe.
"Please," I say. "It's really important. Don't you remember me? I was here the other day .
. . Stacey Brown. Dr. Wallace wanted to meet with me . ."
"I can leave him a message that you stopped by."
"Please," I insist, motioning to his office door and taking a step in that direction. "It'll only take a couple minutes."
"He isn't here," Ms. McNeal says, standing up, as though to stop me. "He had a late afternoon meeting and he isn't coming back to his office. He's a very busy man." I feel my chin shake. I grab the crystal cluster rock in my pocket for strength and inspiration, wondering what I should do. "Do you know Jacob?" I blurt, flashing back to my nightmare, knowing even before the words come out how stupid the question sounds.
"Jacob who?"
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"Forget it," I say, taking a step back, burying my face in my hands.
"Is there something I can do?" Ms. McNeal asks. "Would you like to talk to one of the counselors? You could use my phone to set something up. I'm sure they'd be willing to meet with you tonight, if you'd like."
I shake my head, thinking how the last thing I need right now is to talk to a useless counselor.
"Well, can I get you a glass of water?"
"Is there any way you can call Dr. Wallace at home?" I ask, ignoring her offer. "I know he'd want to talk to me."
Ms. McNeal takes a step back, as though suddenly creepified by my presence. "I think maybe you should be going now," she says. "I'll tell him that you stopped by." I shake my head, feeling a storm of tears form behind my eyes. I move toward the door and, just as I do, she walks right in.
Porsha.
"Is my father here?" she asks Ms. McNeal.
She's dressed, once again, in dark layers--charcoal gray mixed with navy blue and black. The tips of her long blond hair are tinted a deep olive color. They hang in her face, practically covering her eyes.
"Porsha?" I ask, my heart beating fast.
She stares back at me, the corners of her eyes crinkling up in confusion.
"Porsha, dear, why don't you take a seat at my desk." Ms. McNeal ushers Porsha in that direction.
My heart beats fast, knowing that I've gotten her name right--that my nightmare predicted correctly. "Your father
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wanted us to meet," I say. "I'm Stacey. Did he tell you about me?" Porsha shakes her head. "I don't want to talk to her," she whispers to Ms. McNeal. She's biting away at the tips of her fingers, looking around the room--from the wall, to the ceiling, to the floor, and then to me, perhaps waiting for me to leave.
"I think you should leave now, Ms. Brown," Ms. McNeal says. "Now!"
"I'm sorr
y," I say, keeping focused on Porsha. "I only stopped by because your father told me about you . . . about what you've been experiencing. He thinks I can help you."
"I don't want to talk to her," Porsha tells Ms. McNeal again. She shuffles a bit from side to side, as though anxious.
"Do I need to call campus security?" Ms. McNeal asks. She picks up the phone, awaiting my next move.
"I know about your nightmares," I say, ignoring the threat. "I know what it's like to dream about the dead. I dream about it, too."
Porsha breaks her eyelock on the ceiling to study me. Her eyes are red with dark circles under them, like she hasn't slept in days, like maybe she's been forcing herself to stay awake at night--to avoid her nightmares.
Just like I used to do.
"I don't dream about the dead," she says, finally. "I am dead-- dead, dead, dead, dead, dead," she sings, just like the little girl in my nightmare. 105
The whimsical tone of her voice saying that word sends shivers down my back. Porsha ends her song abruptly and screams, "I don't want to talk to her!" Then she plucks a pencil from Ms. McNeal's desk and plunges it deep into her palm, stabbing the tip into her flesh, over and over again, until the pencil snaps in her hands. Ms. McNeal tries to restrain her, to take the pencil away and get her to sit down, but Porsha is slapping the wall with her palm now, leaving splotches of blood, shouting over and over again how she doesn't want to talk to me.
I leave, slamming the door shut behind me so she hears my exit. Maybe all those doctors are right. Maybe she should be put away. Maybe she is crazy. I take a deep breath to shake off her chill, knowing that the real crazy part in all of this is that I know where she's coming from; I know what it's like to feel just inches away from insanity. And I know firsthand what it's like to feel dead.
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Stacey
When I get back to the room, no one's there. I curl up on my bed and silently count to ten, still picturing the bloodstains on the wall from Porsha's palm--just like in my nightmare.
The phone rings a couple seconds later, but I just let it. My heart is racing. My head won't stop spinning. I just can't shake this feeling--like something inside me is about to burst open, like every nerve in my body is about to erupt.