White Is for Magic Read online

  “Oh,” she says. “Then what?”

  I scoot toward the edge of my bed. “I just feel like there’s been some weird energy between us lately.”

  “I’m not one of your failed spells, Stacey.”

  “I never said you were.” I gulp down what’s left of my tea. “It’s just that today in the cafeteria when Chad came by, even the other morning when he came to visit, I felt that you were sort of . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I guess sort of upset or something.”

  “I’m not jealous about Chad, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I mean, I’m glad. Because I think if it were me, I might be jealous.” I catch myself squeezing and resqueezing the lime wedges into my empty mug for no apparent reason. “I was trying to imagine how it would be, you know, to have a best friend date your ex.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” she says, twisting a strand of blond hair around her finger. “Me and Chad were over ages ago.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Drea lowers her eyes to look at me finally, and, for just a second, I think she might cry, but instead she nods—a slight, less-than-believable up-and-down shake to the head. Our eyes stay locked on one another until we’re interrupted by Amber.

  She slams the door shut behind her. “You’ll never believe what just happened to me.” She’s liplinered two pink ghosts to her cheeks with big Xs over them.

  “What?” Drea lets out a relieved sigh, perhaps grateful for the interruption.

  “Well,” Amber begins, “I was on my way back from the mailboxes and this guy who I’ve never even seen before, probably some transfer dork—one of the ghost groupies—crashes right into me, making me drop all my mail. So, then, as he’s helping me pick it back up, he tells me to have a happy anniversary and asks me how I’ll be celebrating.”

  I lock eyes with Drea, catching sight of her trembling lip. She bites it and looks away again.

  “So, what did you say?” I ask.

  “I asked him what he was talking about,” Amber says. “I mean, I know it’s the anniversary, I just wasn’t thinking . . . and then he tells me that he and his friend are going to try and break into O’Brian and perform some séance or something.”

  O’Brian is the academic building where Veronica was killed. It happened in Madame Lenore’s French room, on the first floor. The administration ended up boarding up the room and closing off that part of the building right after it happened. But kids, convinced the place was haunted, refused to take classes anywhere near the building. And so for a while it just sort of sat there, like a constant reminder of what happened. But now, with much monetary support from rich parents and other donors, it’s being renovated—new paint, new floors, a new computer facility—like a million-dollar makeover will wipe away the horrific events of the past and make the parents happy.

  “I hate this school,” Drea says. “I should have transferred when I had the chance.”

  I stand up and go to drape my arm around Drea’s shoulder, but she tugs away slightly.

  “Here’s your mail.” Amber extracts a thick wad from her stack and hands it to me.

  “Why do you have my mail?”

  “Why?” Amber snaps her blueberry gum. “Because I picked it up. Why else?”

  Even though I trust Amber, I hate the idea of anyone going through my stuff. I snatch the stack from her clutches, purposely neglecting to thank her for the gesture.

  “You’re welcome,” she says anyway, as though reading my mind.

  I thumb through the individual pieces—a telephone bill, a spell-supply catalog, this month’s issue of Teen People, and a letter. The letter is in a business-sized envelope, with no return address. It just has my name and the school address typed in the middle.

  My fingers tremble. I turn the letter over and press along the creases of the glued flap. The negative vibrations move down my palms and ice over my skin, like static of some sort. I try to swallow, but my mouth feels like it’s full of paste, like I can’t breathe, like I’m going to be sick. The letter drops from my fingertips.

  “Stacey—” Amber reaches out to me. “What is it?”

  I shake my head.

  Amber motions to pick the letter up.

  “No!” I shout.

  “Why?” she asks. “What is it?”

  But I can’t say it, don’t want to admit it, what I’m sensing.

  I grab the bowl of dried lavender from beside my bed and press my fingertips against the pellets. I breathe the soothing scent in, doing my best to remind myself of inner strength.

  Amber comes and sits beside me on the bed, which prompts Drea to join me as well.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” Drea says, pushing the hair back from my face.

  But I’m not so sure.

  Still, with the lavender and their friendship combined, I’m able to take a deep breath, to swallow normally, and pick the letter up. I hold it in both hands, focusing down on my name, so black against the paper’s creamy whiteness.

  I slip my finger under the corner flap and tear across the top.

  “Are you sure?” Amber asks.

  I nod, carefully dipping my fingers into the envelope to pull the letter out. Drea grips around my shoulders extra tight as I unfold it.

  WILL YOU KEEP YOUR PROMISE?

  Amber reads the typed words aloud. “What does it mean? What promise?”

  I shake my head because I don’t know either. Because the same words were spoken aloud in my nightmare. And I have no idea what to do about it.

  I sit on the edge of the bed shaking, like a cold chill has come and blanketed itself over my neck and back. Amber nestles the comforter over my shoulders, and Drea sets a second mug of water into the microwave for some tea. I just want to put this all away—to go to sleep and have blank, unimpressionable dreams. But I know that just won’t happen.

  I clutch the letter in my hands and stare down at the words, typed in caps, dead center of the page. I can almost hear the voice in my nightmare saying these words to me.

  “The letter was postmarked here.” Amber holds the envelope out for me to see, the red postmark ink with the town’s name, Hanover, pressed over the stamp.

  “Maybe it’s just somebody from school,” Drea says. “You know, another prank.”

  “Pranks don’t give off vibes like that,” I say.

  Drea hands me the mug of tea and I sip it down in even gulps, savoring the sweet, orangey flavor.

  “So you have no idea what the letter’s referring to?” Amber asks. “What the promise is?”

  “No,” I say. “But the same question was in my nightmare.”

  “What do you mean?” Drea asks.

  “I mean, in my nightmare, I heard someone’s voice; it asked me if I’d keep my promise. It also said ‘in less than one week.’”

  “In less than what week, what?” Drea asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did the voice sound like?” Amber asks. “Did you recognize it?”

  “It was a male voice, I think. But I don’t remember anything distinct about it. It could have been anyone.”

  “So we obviously need to figure out what this promise is,” Amber says.

  “I know.”

  “Do you have any idea at all?”

  I lean back against the headboard to think. I wonder if it’s something I promised to Maura, to her family, that I’m not remembering. Why else would I be dreaming about her? Or maybe it’s something more recent. Did I promise something last year, after Veronica’s death, that I just let fade from my mind?

  “I just don’t know,” I sigh.

  “Maybe you promised someone you’d help them,” Drea says.

  I stare up a
t a blank ceiling. “This is so completely frustrating.”

  “Maybe you need food,” Amber says. “That usually helps me think.” She grabs the box of Rice Krispies from her desk and holds it out to me as an edible Band-Aid.

  “No thanks.”

  “We’ll figure this out,” she says, plopping down beside me and pouring a handful of Krispies into her palm.

  “There’s only one way.” I sit back up.

  “What are you talking about?” Drea nibbles at her acrylic fingernails.

  “I have to go tonight.”

  “Where?” Drea asks.

  “The Hangman,” I say, feeling my chest tighten.

  “To meet whoever sent that e-mail. To see what he—or she—wants.”

  “Are you sure?” Amber asks.

  I nod. “He obviously has something to tell me.”

  “Well, you’re not going alone.” Amber rests a hand on my shoulder.

  “Thanks,” I say, managing a smile.

  “You’ll come too, right, Dray?” Amber asks.

  But Drea is looking away. “I don’t know if I can,” she says, in a voice as tiny as the snap, crackle, and popping going on in Amber’s mouth right now.

  “No,” I say, turning to Drea. “I don’t expect you to go. As a matter of fact, I think it’s best if you stay here. Just in case something happens . . . we know we can reach you.”

  “And you’ll know where we’ve gone,” Amber adds. “Just in case we don’t come back.”

  “Stop it,” I say. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Drea asks.

  “Definitely.”

  Drea smiles and I smile back, like maybe the tension of the situation has helped alleviate some of the weird energy between us.

  “What time did the e-mail say again?” Amber asks.

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “You still have a couple hours,” Drea says.

  “So what should we do?” Amber asks.

  “Do you want to call Chad to go with you guys?” Drea asks. “Or maybe we should call campus police to give them the heads up.”

  “I think I just need some time to myself.” The letter still in my hand, I grab an afghan from my bed and a handful of dried orange peels from the jar in my spell drawer. I make my way out to the sofa in the common room. I need complete silence to concentrate, to pour my energy into the letter and hope that it comes back to me per the law of three—Gram used to always remind me that whatever energy I cast out into the universe would come back at me three times.

  I lay the letter open on the coffee table in front of me and drop the orange peels on it. I arrange the peels in the shape of the sun—one circular piece in the center with twisted, narrow spokes that radiate from it for rays. I concentrate on the idea of the sun, on the sun’s energy and its ability to awaken the senses. My grandmother used to say that I would always do my best studying outside because the sun’s energy would enliven me. And that, in times when the sun is down, I should bring it back up with something symbolic that reminds me of its power and energy.

  I rub each individual peel between the tips of my fingers, thinking how the sun implanted its energy into the peel to bring about the orangey color, to give birth to the fruit inside. Then I close my eyes, collect the peels into my lap, and run my fingers over the letter, transferring the sun’s energy from my skin to the grain of the paper. I feel the individual creases, the way the letter was folded up in three. For some reason it urges me to fold it up even more. I go with the feeling, folding the letter up into a palm-sized square, tucking and untucking flaps until I end up with that MASH game I used to play in grade school.

  “Let me guess.” A much-uninvited Trish Cabone comes and plops herself down on the sofa beside me. “Stacey Brown will marry Chad McCaffrey, they’ll have three children, live in a mansion, and have chimpanzees for pets.”

  I feign a polite giggle. “You’re obviously familiar with MASH.”

  “Totally.” She pulls at the clump of curlicues atop her head—tight black ringlets with just a hint of midnight blue—and props her elephant-slippered feet up on the table. “MASH fortunes were the most fun. Of course, that was when I was twelve.”

  “Right,” I say, pocketing the letter and my orange peels. I have no idea what prompted me to fold the letter up that way. “I guess I was just seeing if I remembered how to play.”

  “You and Chad are pretty serious, aren’t you? So maybe you guys will get married.”

  I shrug.

  She yanks at the wad of watermelon-pink gum in her mouth and nods her head emphatically, like my silent shrugging is so profound.

  “I better go study. History test tomorrow.”

  “Wait,” she says, her eyes all big and round, thick black rings of liner outlining the lids. “I wanted to ask you, what was up with the other night? You know . . . when you started screaming out here?”

  “Just a bad nightmare,” I say, getting up.

  “About last year?” She stands up as well. “A lot of kids have been talking about it, you know?”

  I nod.

  “Was your nightmare like one of the ones you were having last year? About Drea?”

  “No,” I manage. “It was different than that.”

  “Different how?” She’s pulling at her curls again. “Like, different because it felt different? Or different because you weren’t dreaming about Drea this time? Maybe you were dreaming about someone else?”

  “I think I have a headache.” I turn on my heel, making an attempt to beeline it back to my room, but Trish’s prying questions force me to stop.

  “I heard about yoga class,” she says. “Were you dreaming then? About someone jumping rope? About somebody being trapped maybe? Didn’t you scream those things out? Weren’t you chanting some weird verse?” She starts humming the “Miss Mary Mack” tune.

  I turn around to face her and she stops humming.

  “They’re doing some special service in the chapel Thursday night, you know?” she says. “Some people were wondering if you’re gonna go. Are you?”

  Why didn’t I hear about any service? Have I been so out of it these past few days that I’ve failed to pay attention to what’s going on outside my head?

  “We could go together if you want,” she continues. “I mean, I didn’t know Veronica, being new here and all, but I just thought it would be the right thing to do. Is Drea going?”

  Is she serious? Does she really expect me to go with her—an obvious ghost groupie?

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say.

  “Maybe not,” she says. “Maybe your presence might upset some people, you know? It must be hard for you, showing your face around here after letting Veronica just die like that.”

  “I didn’t let her die.”

  “You didn’t try so hard to save her either.”

  A direct hit. Before she can crawl any deeper under my skin, I turn around, walk into my room, and close the door.

  Before we head over to the Hangman, I’ve asked Amber to help me remember the words to the “Miss Mary Mack” song I was singing in yoga class. We’re sitting on my bed with a notebook between us, a giant letter M written in red at the top of the page, and the words to the song in the middle.

  Drea is doing her best to block us out. She’s got her foot propped up on a pre-calc book while she reads CosmoGirl, French-manicures her toenails, and hums along to the tunes pumping through her Discman.

  “Totally creepy,” Amber says, reading over the lines of the song. “I can just imagine what people are thinking.”

  “I already know what they’re thinking,” I say. “That I’m Linda Blair possessed by the devil.”

  “Linda Blair?”

  “Yeah, you know, The Exorcist . . . the girl
who pukes up green gunk and then her head spins around?”

  “So right.” Amber giggles. She grabs her square black glasses and sets the notebook down in her lap. “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack,” she sings. “All dressed in black, black, black. She has a knife, knife, knife, stuck in her back, back, back. She cannot breathe, breathe, breathe. She cannot cry, cry, cry. That’s why she begs, begs, begs. She begs to die, die, die.”

  “I wonder what it means.”

  “‘A knife stuck in her back’?” Amber questions. “I wonder if it means betrayal of some sort, you know? Like, watch your back.”

  I shrug. “Why can’t she breathe or cry?”

  “Maybe she’s being gagged or suffocated in some way.”

  “And that’s why she begs to die.” I swallow hard and focus down on the letter M, wondering if it does indeed stand for murder.

  “I don’t know,” Amber says. “Maybe we’re taking the song too literally, you know? Like, one time I had this dream that I was being chased by tiny baby corn.”

  “And?”

  “And I obviously didn’t think that that was going to happen. I mean, I don’t even like baby corn.”

  “Maybe that’s why it was chasing you,” I joke.

  “Exactly,” she says, lowering the glasses to the tip of her nose, staring at me over the frames. “I think it was my brain’s way of saying I should try baby corn, you know? Be more adventurous with my veggie intake.”

  “Does this phallic little dream of yours have a point?”

  “The point is that sometimes a baby corn is just a baby corn.”

  “Translation, please.”

  Amber rolls her eyes. “Why read so far into it? I mean, maybe this is just your brain’s way of telling you that you’re scared. Just about every scary movie has at least someone getting a knife shoved in their back—most often a clumsy bottle blond with lots of cleavage—but still, it’s scary.”

  “I do know that I’m scared.” I wipe the corner of my eye and look away.

  “I know.” She pulls a tissue from the front of her shirt and holds it out as an offering.