Silver is for Secrets (9 page)

“We‟re hardly talking about
your
ex-beaus,” Drea says.

Amber ignores the comment and stuffs Jacob‟s boxers back into an already crammed drawer. She goes to close it back up but it‟s just too packed.

“Here,” I say, grabbing the drawer handles, “let me do it.” Amber steps out of the way and I press both palms down on the heap of clothes.

Still no go. I start rearranging his stuff, trying to get it as pancake-flat as possible, and that‟s when I spot it. His journal.

“Jackpot,” Amber squeals.

“No,” I say. “This is Jacob‟s; it‟s private.”

“Are you freaking serious? Let ‟er rip. Don‟t you want to know what he says about you?”

I press the journal between both palms, almost tempted to have a peek, to see what he‟s been hiding from me, what he‟s been dreaming about. I look at Drea, now busying herself by glancing over Chad‟s belongings.

“Did you even know he kept a journal?” Amber asks.

I want to tell her that I
did
know—that I know that he writes in it every morning upon waking up and that he sometimes reads me passages from it. But instead I opt for the truth and shake my head.

“See what I mean?” Amber says, tapping her teeth in thought. “A closet journalkeeper.

Just when you think you know someone.”

“Oh-so-scandalous,” Drea mocks, her head buried in Chad‟s sock drawer. “Be serious. It doesn‟t mean anything.
I
keep a journal.”

“Does Chad know about it?” I ask.

“Wel , yeah, but so what?”

“So why didn‟t Jacob tel Stacey?” Amber asks.

“Listen,” Drea says, “just because
your
love life is less than nonexistent these days doesn‟t mean you have to try and cause rifts in everybody else‟s. Stacey‟s a little more secure than that.”

“Unlike you,” Amber says, eyeing Drea on her fishing expedition.

“I‟m not snooping,” Drea says. “I‟m just helping Chad reorganize.”

“Wel , then can we start reorganizing under the mattress?” Amber asks.

“Because I‟m thinking that‟s where the interesting stuff is going to be.”

“I give up,” I sigh, stuffing Jacob‟s journal back inside the drawer beneath a heap of Tshirts to avoid further temptation.

“Don‟t give it a second thought,” Drea says to me. “Al you need to do is bring up the subject of journals with him. Then I‟m sure he‟l tel you al about it. It probably just never came up.”

“You‟re right,” I say. But maybe the journal is a secret, too.

Drea reaches for something at the back of Chad‟s drawer and pul s out a box of some sort. Her face falls. She turns the box over, the front side facing Amber and me. There‟s a picture of some hairy-faced guy, his thumb and index finger doing that chin-scratch thing like he‟s in deep thought.

“What is it?” Amber asks.

But the answer is actually staring right at us in blue and gold lettering—“Nifty Over Fifty Moustache and Beard Darkener.”

“Maybe it isn‟t his,” Drea says.

“Right,” Amber smirks. “I mean, just because it was in
his
drawer, with
his
stuff, on
his
side of the room . . .”

Drea opens the box and takes out the plastic applicator gloves. “I don‟t think Chad can even grow a beard.”

“So maybe that‟s why he needs it,” Amber says. “Maybe he plans to paint his face with it.” She grabs the box, kisses the picture of Grizzly Adams on the cover, and then reads the color code in the corner: “ „Dark Bravado Blonde, Number 143.‟

The name alone makes my loins al aquiver.”

“Okay,” Drea says. “I think I‟ve seen enough.” She snatches the box back, stuffs the gloves inside, and crams everything back in the drawer.

Meanwhile, my head is spinning. I peer back over at the dream box on Jacob‟s bed and body-shove the dresser drawer closed. “Maybe we‟ve
all
seen enough.”

“Are you okay?” Amber asks.

Instead of answering, I just exit the room, slamming the door behind me maybe a little too hard. The noise practically rattles through the house. I go back into our room and make an effort to close the door behind me, but Drea intercepts.

“Stacey,” she says, taking a seat beside me on the bed. “What is it?”

“I‟m just feeling real y stressed.”

“Wel , yeah, that part‟s pretty obvious. Is it about the journal?”

“It‟s about everything.”

“Not
everything,”
Amber interrupts. She comes and butts herself (quite literally) into the middle of our conversation, plopping down between us on the bed. “It‟s about the nightmares. I mean,
obviously
—waking up in a face full of blood is enough to stress anybody out.
That
and having to listen to a teary-eyed hula girl while she hangs al over PJ.”

“What did I miss?” Drea asks.

“Clara,” I say. “She was here earlier.”

“Is it me,” Drea asks, “or does anyone else think she‟s absolute bargainbasement material?”

“Because she cal ed Chad cute?” I smile.

“Because she‟s an absolute skank,” Amber clarifies.

“She says someone‟s been going through her stuff,” I say.

“Do you believe her?” Drea asks me.

I nod and tell them everything—everything that Clara said about her misplaced items and her self-proclaimed neatness.

“So what now?” Drea asks.

“I had another nightmare about her.”

“Did you actual y
see
her this time?” Drea grabs a nail file from the top of her dresser.

“I saw her shadow—I know it was her. I heard her voice.”

“So what did she say in the dream?” Drea takes my hand and begins filing away at my stubby nails. “What did she do?”

“She said more of the same—that I‟m not supposed to tel , that if I do, she‟l know and she‟l make me pay.”

“Anything else?” Amber tosses a bottle of nail polish to Drea.

I nod, noticing the neon-green color. “She said that if I tel , she‟l make me bleed.”

“Are you bleeding in the dream?” Drea asks.

“That‟s just it. I don‟t think I am. There‟s blood, but I think it‟s hers and that it‟s dripping on me. It‟s just weird, you know, to have someone‟s blood on me—on my hands—like I‟m responsible if something bad happens.”

“Don‟t think like that,” Drea says.

“How can I not? I mean, I
will
be responsible. I‟m the one who‟s having premonitions about her. I‟m the one who‟s supposed to stop the danger.”

“You do the best you can,” Drea says. “You can‟t save the world.”

“Easy for you to say now, seeing that Stacey saved your ass two years ago.” Amber turns toward me. “But she‟s right, you know. You can‟t save the world—no matter how hard you try.”

And I can‟t bring Maura and Veronica back. I glance down at my hands, picturing the imaginary stains of blood.

“Are you okay?” Drea asks.

“I wil be.”

“So obviously that‟s why your nose has been bleeding,” Amber says. “Because of the blood in your dreams.”

“I guess, but I don‟t know. That seems a little
too
obvious.”

“Al I know is that it‟s so freaking heinous,” Amber says. “I mean, what do you do if you‟re making out and it slides down your throat and gets on your tongue and Jacob ends up with vampire-mouth?”

“Only you would think of that,” Drea says, rol ing her eyes.

“There‟s more.” I swal ow hard, trying to relax, to focus on the nail file as Drea attempts to square off my nail stubs. “Donovan was in my dream.” Drea stops filing to look up at me, her face completely frozen.

I nod. “At least I think it was him. I‟m not sure. There was this guy coming toward me, and he was carrying a bouquet of lilies, just like in the nightmare I had about you.”

“Death lilies,” Drea says, covering her mouth.

“But you didn‟t see for sure that it was him,” Amber says. “I mean, maybe it‟s just the lilies that you need to concentrate on. Maybe it was some other guy.”

“Maybe,” I say, looking back at Drea, at the plum-purple haze that surrounds her head. Maybe I shouldn‟t have said anything.

“Donovan stil has another few years in juvie,” Amber says.

“You‟re right,” I say, nodding to reassure myself that he couldn‟t possibly have gotten out early.

“And, plus,” she continues, “why would he ever come after Clara? That total y doesn‟t make sense. If anything, he‟d come after Drea again. Or
you.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Drea drops the nail file and buries her head in her hands.

“It‟l be okay,” I tel her, shooting a nasty look at Amber.

“Total y,” Amber says, completely oblivious. She plucks the nail file from the bed and files away at her thumbnail.

“It‟s not Donovan we need to focus on right now. It‟s death.”
Right,
I think to myself.
Death.
As though the revelation in itself is supposed to be a good thing.

Amber and Drea agree to help me do a de-stressing spel . I‟m just so completely frazzled lately that I can‟t quite get a handle on things. I mean, yes, it goes without saying that the fact that Clara‟s life is on the line has got me a bit on edge. But I feel like there‟s something more. Something that‟s been causing my palms to get al sweaty, my chest to tighten up with each breath, and my head to feel all spinny, like I need to sit down. Maybe it‟s Jacob. Maybe it‟s because there‟s been this block in our relationship—he won‟t completely open up, and I can‟t completely tel him how I feel.

Or maybe it‟s just pure anger. I wanted this to be a normal summer—one last opportunity for all of us to be together before separating and going off to college.

Instead I‟m helping strangers. I tame my bitter mood with a fingerful of maple syrup, reminding myself that if it wasn‟t for people helping strangers—for Jacob helping me last year—I might not even be here right now.

“Stacey,” Amber says, cracking a couple eggs into a ceramic bowl. “You look al fishy. Like you just swal owed a slimy one packed in oil.” We‟re standing around the kitchen island, whipping up a hefty serving of French toast, which in my opinion is the world‟s most perfect food—sugar mixed with thick, syrup-sopping, buttery bread.

“Wel , she does have a lot on her plate right now.” Drea pours a tablespoon of vanilla extract into the bowl.

“No pun intended,” Amber says, holding up a plateful of dunking bread—big fat slices from a bakery-bought loaf.

“So lame,” Drea says in response.

“I agree.” I sprinkle cinnamon into the bowl and top everything off with a cup of milk and a couple teaspoons of apple juice.

“Since when is French toast a spel ?” Amber asks.

“Since we‟re making it with the most important ingredient.” I stir the batter up, concentrating on the apple juice as it blends with the other ingredients, on the apple fruit‟s ability to cleanse and heal.

“We‟re spiking the batter?” Amber perks up.

“No,” I say. “We‟re making it together—as friends.”

“Um, yeah,” Amber says, cutting a couple butter blocks from the stick and dropping them onto the hot skil et. “Are you sure you don‟t want me to add in a little schnapps?”

“I‟m serious,” I say, dunking a piece of bread into the milky batter. “I‟m feeling really alone right now, and I‟m kind of counting on your friendship.”

“Wel , of course you have it,” Drea says. “Whatever we can do to help.”

“Just have some of this with me,” I say, setting a sopping chunk of bread onto the bubbling griddle. “My grandmother used to say that there‟s something truly intimate about sharing food with the people you love.”

“Intimate? Sharing food? People you love?” Amber raises an eyebrow. “Um, no offense, Stace, but it sounds like Gram was into food kink.”

“Hopeless,” Drea sighs.

I giggle my agreement.

We spend the next fifteen minutes or so taking turns dipping the bread, stirring the batter, and flipping the toast until we have a hefty helping of sheer deliciousness sitting high atop a plate. It‟s just what I need, actual y—being with them and talking about normal stuff, like Drea‟s tan-line dilemma and tonight‟s episode of
The O.C.

When none of us can bear to cram another piece of French toast into our bellies, I place a fully charged, moon-bathed jar on the table in the center of us.

“Here‟s where the de-stressing part comes in,” I say.

“Let‟s hear it for Miss Recycle,” Amber says, probably noticing that it‟s an old Smuckers jar I spared from the trash.

I place a box of paperclips on the table, as well as a dried and bound bunch of sage. The sage leaves are twiglike, al brittle and gray. I‟ve wound them with thread for a cleaner burn.

“What‟s with the paperclips?” Amber asks.

“We‟re going to use them to represent things in our lives that bind us up in a negative way. Labeling these negative binds wil help free us from stress.”

“Maybe we should have stopped at Staples,” Amber says, frowning at the shal ow box of clips. “With the day I‟ve had, I‟m thinking I could label a whole crateful.” I unscrew the lid off the jar and set a box of wooden matches down beside it. I light the end of the sage and blow out the flame. It smokes up like incense; long and curly tendrils of smoke make their way toward the ceiling. I walk around the kitchen with the sage, smudging the room with its sweet and spicy scent. “The sage wil help rid us of these negative binds.”

“Yeah, but wil it help rid us of the kagil ion calories we just ingested?” Drea pats her belly.

“I‟ll start.” I set the sage down on a ceramic dish in the center of the table and take one of the paperclips. “This clip represents the stress I feel about helping Clara.” I drop the clip into the jar.

“I‟ll second the Clara stress.” Amber takes a clip and drops it into the jar.

“Why is she stressing
you
out?” Drea asks.

“Because she‟s getting all flirty with PJ and maybe he can‟t afford to have his heart broken.”

“Who says she‟s going to break it?”

“Oh, please,” Amber says. “I know her type—the kind who flirts with anything in pants with no intention of anything serious.”

“Oh, you mean girls like you?” Drea asks. “Is somebody jealous?”

“Hardly. Just don‟t be surprised when Little Miss Hula Girl starts getting al friendly with Chad.” Amber drops another paperclip into the jar. “This is for Sul y and how he doesn‟t know what he‟s missing.”