Silver is for Secrets (11 page)

“Can we please get through this story, like, today?” Amber groans. “My face feels like it‟s fizzling.” She grabs a paper plate and uses it as a fan.

“So anyway,” Clara continues, “we went into my room and—” She‟s wel ing up al over again. “Someone went through my drawers.”

“How do you know?” Jacob asks.

“Because they were open.”

“At least one of them was.” PJ snickers.

“Which one?” I lean in toward Clara and take one of her fluttering hands, the cold, biting sensation returning to my own hand, running up my arm and wrapping around the back of my neck.

“My underwear drawer.” She blushes.

“
What?”
Drea gasps.

“Did they find anything interesting?” Amber plucks a tissue from the front of her bathing suit and hands it to a sniffling Clara.

“I don‟t know
what
they found.” Clara pauses a moment to grimace at the tissue offering. “But they went through my things.”

“How can you be sure?” Jacob asks.

“The tel tale sign,” PJ says. “Lace trim hanging out the sides. Straps thrown askew. Undies left in a tizzy. Like the skivvies themselves decided to party it up while the mistress was out. You know the saying, while the kitty‟s away . . .”

“You‟re so freaking weird.” Amber bal s up her tissue and throws it at him.

“For later, O queen of kink.” PJ sniffs the tissue bal and then stuffs it into his pocket.

“So what you‟re saying is that you got panty raided?” I hand Clara a napkin, and she gratefully takes it.

“And you‟re sure you didn‟t just get ready extra fast this morning and leave your stuff like that?” Drea says.

“That‟s what the cops asked me.”

“You cal ed the police?” I feel my eyes widen.

Clara nods. “They even came over. But they weren‟t real y surprised or mad about it or anything.”

“Because the doors and windows weren‟t locked,” PJ clarifies.

“They made a report and said that it was probably some boys playing a prank.”

“Or maybe a fraternity pledge stunt,” Drea says.

“The police suggested that, too.”

“Hel-looooo,”
Amber says, snapping her fingers. “Who pledges a fraternity in the summer?”

“So the police are gonna check it out,” Clara says. “You know, go and talk to the frat boys who live next door.”

“I‟m tel ing you,” Amber says, “it‟s not them. Casey and Sully are way too sweet and sensitive for stuff like that.”

I look at Amber, completely funkified by her logic. I mean,
sweet
and
sensitive?

Am I totally missing something here?

“There are probably a lot of guys living in those frat houses,” Drea says. “I saw a couple of them watching me on the beach earlier.”

“I know.” Clara shudders. “Some of them are so gross. They just openly gawk at .

. .
anybody.”

Amber gasps in response while Drea‟s mouth drops open in sheer loathing.

“Anyway,” I say, wrapping an arm around Drea, literally holding her back from bopping Clara on the head. “Clara, you‟re obviously going to stay with us tonight.”

“If it‟s okay,” Clara says, blotting her eyes and nose with the napkin. “I cal ed my parents. They were willing to drive back tonight, but it‟s like four-and-a-half hours from their friends‟ place, and it‟s already kind of late. They‟re coming back tomorrow, though; they‟re leaving first thing.”

“Of course,” I say, nodding. “We insist you stay here.”

“That‟s what I told her you guys would say.” PJ drapes his arm around Clara, smooshing her against his chest.

“Great,” Amber says, dabbing at her mask of mud and bringing a fingerful up to her lips for a taste. “Just freakin‟ dandy.”

Before bed, we offer to shuffle up our sleeping arrangements to make Clara more comfortable. When PJ‟s attempt to coerce Clara into his bed doesn‟t work, I offer to sleep out on the couch while Clara takes my place. Except Amber refuses to sleep in the same room with someone she doesn‟t know—a first for her—and Jacob isn‟t comfortable offering up his bed (probably because he has stuff to hide, like journals and dream boxes). Top that off with Drea‟s loathing for Clara, PJ‟s bed being too stinky for anyone else but him, Chad not really caring
where
he sleeps, but Clara completely weirded out at the idea of sleeping in the same room with guys. The end result is Clara sleeping out on the living room sofa, alone.

Before settling myself down to snooze, I punch my pillow a couple times for the optimum level of fluffage and glance over at the de-stressing jar on my bedside table. It‟s actual y helping me quite a bit. I feel much calmer than I did earlier, almost restored, which is why the whole sleeping arrangement chaos doesn‟t drive me to grab my pillow and camp out on the sand—probably something I would have resorted to under normal circumstances.

I close my eyes, thankful that Jacob and I managed to work some things out, and then I do my best to focus on Clara. But, once again, I can‟t sleep. I just keep playing it over and over again in my mind—my dream, her voice, the blood, the idea of someone going through her stuff. But no matter how many times I go over it, there‟s just not enough to point me even remotely close to an answer. I need to have another nightmare; I need to bleed again, to figure out
what
exactly my body is trying to tell me.

I reach for the de-stressing jar, focusing on the sage inside, how the tip has completely blackened over. That‟s when I feel myself start to nod off.

It‟s also when I hear Clara calling me. I sit up in bed and look over at Amber and Drea to see if they can hear Clara cal ing me, as wel . But they‟re stil sleeping, completely unaffected by her voice.

I slide into my slippers and make my way out to the living room to see what she wants. But she isn‟t even out here. The sofa is al made up for sleeping—bed pillows piled high at one end and a blanket draped across lengthwise—but no Clara.

“Stacey,” she cal s. “I need you.”

Her voice is coming from the bathroom. I turn to look; the door to the bathroom is shut, but I can see from the door crack that the light is on.

“Clara?” I rap lightly at the door.

No response.

“Clara?” I knock a little louder.

Still nothing.

I press my ear up against the door. The faucet is running, so maybe she can‟t hear me. Maybe she‟s washing her hair in the sink. I try cal ing her a couple more times and knock even louder, but nothing seems to work.

I wrap my hand around the doorknob and turn it. “Clara?” I say, peeking in.

The faucet is on, steaming water pouring out into the sink, but she‟s not in here. I check the shower stall—empty.

“Stacey,” she cal s again. Her voice is coming from the kitchen now.

I shut off the faucet and move toward her voice. But she‟s not in the kitchen either, nor is she in the living room, our room, or the guys‟ room. And yet I can stil hear her cal ing out to me. I move out onto the back porch. It‟s freezing out here.

My ears sting from the chill. Goosebumps sprout up on my skin.

“Stacey,” she cal s. “I need your help.” It‟s almost as if her voice is part of the wind, howling in my ears.

I look out toward the water, but it‟s dark, the only light coming from the last quarter moon. It paints its reflection across the ocean‟s surface. I move out onto the sand, continuing to follow her voice, but it seems the closer I get to it, the farther away she moves. Her voice is just a whisper now—much weaker than before.

“Clara?” I cal again. There are shadows fol owing behind me. I keep looking over my shoulder to see who‟s there. But I can‟t see much farther than a few yards away.

The ocean tide is coming in fast, just an arm‟s length from my feet. Maybe Clara went for a swim. Or worse—maybe she couldn‟t sleep, went out on the beach for some air, and dozed off in the sand. I feel myself moving faster, almost running now down the length of the beach, using the waning moon as my light. Wind chimes play in the distance. I listen hard for their pitch—to see if they‟re the bamboo kind, a little bit deeper than the normal tinkling of bel s and metal, but I just can‟t tel . Every time I try to concentrate on the sound, it seems Clara‟s voice plays over it. She‟s whimpering my name now, like maybe she‟s hurt.

I look up toward the strip of cottages and, for just a second, I think I see someone watching me from a window. I stop and squint, but it‟s too dark to be sure.

I only know that I feel like I‟m being watched. That someone‟s fol owing behind me.

I walk for several more minutes, farther and farther down the beach. There‟s a street lamp up ahead. It blinks a couple times, casting its light over the cliff side—a jetty of rocks that leads from the ocean up toward the street. I stop a moment, focusing on the figure in the light. It‟s stil several cottage-lengths away, but I can see someone there. The person is standing on a rock slab, and he‟s holding a bouquet. I know they‟re lilies. I can feel it, can feel death. It‟s like it‟s al around me.

My skin turns colder. My fingers numb up. I close my eyes and imagine the sun, its warmth. I wiggle my fingers, checking that I still have the power to move. I do. I open my eyes. The person holding the bouquet is now gone. But instead, lying in the sand, just a few yards away, is a long and narrow mound of some sort. That‟s when I know.

It‟s Clara. Her back faces me, but I recognize the coral-colored sarong. I move closer and see a long line of blood running down her thigh. I go to turn her over, to see where she‟s wounded, but I just find more blood—down her arms and on her bel y. And now it‟s on me, like I‟m already too late.

“Clara?” I cal , shaking her a bit, feeling my insides tremble. I position her body closer to me, readying myself to give CPR. That‟s when I notice the bottle sticking out from under her arm. It‟s my old perfume bottle, the one I used for the spell I did at the beach, when I wrote DON‟T TELL ANYONE onto a slip of paper, poked the paper into the bottle‟s mouth, and then threw it out to sea. I pick the bottle up, noticing my note still inside. I remove the cap and the paper slips out just as easily as it went in. I unroll it, my fingers shaking, trying to work right. I read the words, feeling my face funk up in confusion—I‟LL MAKE YOU PAY. I double-check the bottle, making sure it‟s mine. It is.

Clara‟s body flinches a bit, as though from the cold. I call her name out a bunch of times and tap at her face, the way they do on TV to check if someone is conscious. But it doesn‟t seem like she is. Her body is limp. Her skin is pale. I place my ear at her mouth, to see if I can feel her breath against my cheek. But I don‟t. I go to check the pulse from her wrist, but that‟s when I feel myself pul ed back, when I‟m shaken out of sleep.

The light clicks on in our room, making me squint. It appears as though Drea has woken me up. She‟s sitting right beside me in bed, her hand resting on my shoulder.

Amber plops down on the other side of me, her face completely covered in greenish aloe goop to replace the orange facial mask from before.

“You were breathing al weird,” Drea says. “And convulsing, sort of. Your chest started doing this jumping-heaving thing.”

“And not in a good way,” Amber adds.

“Plus,” Drea continues, “you were cal ing Clara‟s name out and that started giving
me
nightmares.”

“Real y?” I say, taking a big breath.

“You don‟t remember?” Drea asks.

“No,” I say, rubbing my temples. “I guess I do remember. I just didn‟t realize I was moving around.” I glance at the clock; it‟s 2:05 AM. “Where
is
Clara?”

“Sofa City, where she belongs,” Drea says.

“No,” I say, sitting up in bed. A trickle of blood rolls down my lip. I go to stop it with my fingers, getting blood all over the front of my hand, just like in my dream, like this is Clara‟s blood and I‟m already too late.

“Heinous!” Amber screeches. She removes her frog slipper and throws it at me.

“How‟s that supposed to help?” Drea asks, handing me a value pack of tissues.

I grab the tissues and hop out of bed, practically trampling over Amber in the process.

“Wait,” Drea cal s out to me. “Where are you going?” I whip open the door of our room and rush into the living room. Just as I dreamt, Clara isn‟t there.

Without a second thought, I dash out of the cottage and run down the beach strip, sure I‟m going to find Clara, remembering how she was cal ing out to me in my nightmare—like she really needed my help.

I scurry through the sand, keeping an eye on the water, using the moon as my light.

But I don‟t see her anywhere.

I‟m thinking that maybe she went back to her cottage. Maybe she forgot something important—a contact lens case, some prescription medicine she might be taking, a favorite teddy bear . . . I remember her saying that her cottage is number 24 on the strip, that there‟s a set of obnoxious wind chimes on her back porch. But it seems like the sound of wind chimes is everywhere around me—deep baritone ones, subtle tinkling ones, and every kind of ping in between.

A wad of tissues still pressed against my nose, I move toward cottage number 24. The porch light is on and, just as Clara said, there‟s a huge set of bamboo wind chimes hanging at the top of the stairs. I stop a second to catch my breath and check my nose. It seems like the bleeding has stopped. I stuff the soiled tissues into the pocket of my pajamas and gaze up at the place. Despite the deck light being on, it doesn‟t appear as though anyone is inside. It‟s completely dark.

I climb the steps anyway, feeling suddenly as though I‟m being watched, as though someone might even be following behind me. I peek over my shoulder and see a couple of shadows cross on the beach. Or maybe it‟s just my imagination.

It‟s dark, the only light coming from the moon and the few cottages that have their deck lights on.

Just imagining someone inside her cottage, that cold, biting chill crawls up my arm and down my spine. I take a deep breath, remembering how in my nightmare I thought I saw someone watching me from one of the cottage windows. I look toward the window of Clara‟s cottage, wondering if this was the place. Or maybe it was at that photographer guy‟s place. I look next door, but it‟s too hard to tel . It‟s too dark and all the cottages look the same.