03 - Silver Is For Secrets

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

“Red?”

  I nod. “Like blood. Like she’s bleeding.”

  “Are you sure it was her?”

  “I know it was her. It was her voice. She told me not to tell.” I feel weird just saying the words, like the words themselves are a secret.

  “She told you not to tell what?” Jacob asks.

  I shake my head, remembering how she also told me that if I said anything she’d make me pay. But pay how? “It was a premonition,” I say. “I know it was. Something’s going to happen to her.”

  “And the nosebleeds are a clue?”

  I nod and glance down at the bloodstained shirt, having to remind myself of how well Jacob knows me. I mean, it just never ceases to amaze me—how much we can sense about each other.

  “I felt it, too,” I say. “When I shook her hand earlier, I sensed right away that she was danger.”

  “So we’ll deal with it. We’ll figure it out.”

  “It’s starting again,” I whisper.

  Jacob squeezes my hand, his silvery-blue eyes zooming right into me, turning my insides to mush, making my heart do that pitter-patter thing you read about in one of those glossy pink romance books. I look away to keep focused.

  “We’ll deal with it,” he repeats.

  “I know. It’s just—I thought this was going to be a relaxing summer.”

  He pulls something from the pocket of his shorts and places it into my palm. Right away I know what it is. I can tell from the weight, the smooth, rounded edges, and the sheer familiarity of it. My insides start to mush again, my heart swelling up inside my chest. I open my hand to look. The chunky rocklike crystal fits just perfectly in my palm.

  “You left it in my room the other night,” he says. “I sensed you might need it right about now.”

  “Sensed?”

  Jacob nods and looks away. That’s when it hits me, when I sense it too—he’s obviously having nightmares as well. I wait for him to tell me about them, but he just keeps silent.

  “How did you know I might need the crystal?” I ask.

  “Easy,” he says. “Because I know you.”

  “You’re having them too, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Nightmares.”

  He wipes away the stray strand of dark hair that has fallen over his eye. “No,” he says, looking away.

  But I know he isn’t telling the truth. Jacob and I have a connection that’s stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced. In fact, we couldn’t be more alike. We’ve both been brought up with folk magic, and we both experience premonitions. They’re actually what brought us together.

  Last year, Jacob was having nightmares that someone was going to kill me. Only he didn’t even know who I was. He just knew he was having premonitions about some girl who was going to die. After doing some research and honing in on his senses, he ended up transferring schools to find me, practically three thousand miles away. The next thing I knew, here was this guy, this stranger, trying to save my life. Except he never quite felt like a stranger. Sometimes I feel like I can look at him and know exactly what he’s thinking. Like right now.

  “I don’t know why you’re not being honest with me,” I say.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking,” he says.

  “You’re not having nightmares?”

  “Not about Clara.”

  “Then what?” I ask. “Tell me.”

  “Not now,” he says. “Right now, we should focus on your nightmares. Mine are nothing I can’t handle.” He takes my hand and sandwiches it between his palms. “Trust me.”

  “I do.”

  “Good.” He kisses my cheek and brings his lips up to my ear. “I love you,” he whispers.

  I smile and look away, wanting to tell him that I love him too. But I can’t. I just can’t seem to get those three little words out, even though I feel them in my heart. And I don’t know why. I mean, I have said it before—to friends, to family—just not to him. With him it’s different; it’s true love—the real thing, the till-death-do-us-part kind. And for some reason, even though I try to show him I love him all the time, the actual words get stuck in my throat.

  “Say something,” he says.

  “Like what?”

  “Like what you’re thinking.”

  “The same thing you are,” I say coyly.

  Jacob smiles and bites his lower lip, staring down at my mouth, making my cheeks feel all warm and flushed. I know he must notice that I don’t say it.

  “Maybe we should talk about something else,” I say.

  “Right,” he says, straightening up. “We should talk about your nightmares more.”

  “No,” I say. “I mean, let’s talk about something else entirely.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I say, scrunching my knees in toward my chest, “maybe for five measly minutes I’d just like to be normal.”

  five

  Jacob leaves so I can try and get some sleep, so I can dream and have another nightmare. But as much as I try, even after breaking out brand-new bottles of patchouli and lavender oils, after stuffing a vanilla-bean dream bag under my pillow, it just doesn’t work. I’m so completely awake it’s pathetic.

  Instead of sulking over my lack of sleep, I spend some time meditating on Clara—on her name, her butterscotch scent, and the way my hand felt when she touched it. The rest of my day is spent at the beach with the gang, playing volleyball and eating clam chowder from bread bowls. Every so often I remind myself of Clara. I even cap my night off by inking a giant capital C on my hand to encourage Clara-specific dreams. All of this makes me think that when I wake up in the morning I’ll have enough insightful info so she’ll simply have to believe me.

  But, once again, I barely sleep at all. I end up tossing and turning in bed all night, even waking up Amber and Drea a couple times.

  As soon as I feel myself start to nod off, the tightness in my chest, like piano wire, reminds me how stressed I am, how much there is at stake. I mean, if I don’t figure all of this out, Clara could seriously die—just like Veronica Lee-man, almost two years ago now; just like Maura, three years before that. The premonitions I’d had involving them had been telling but, in Maura’s case, I ignored the nightmares and they came true. In Veronica’s case, I wasn’t able to figure everything out in time. The result—two girls dead, and me scared to death that another might die.

  I press my eyes closed and roll over in bed, thinking how this is just like what happened to Jacob last year, how he was having premonitions about a stranger—me—but he still felt compelled to put his life to the side and help. And what if he hadn’t? Would I even be here right now?

  I have to help Clara; there’s really no other choice.

  As a result, I’ve decided to start early this morning. I grab a few spell supplies and head out for a walk. I just need to be alone right now, though the throngs of people starting to fill up the beach despite the early hour, dragging their towels, beach chairs, and coolers full of soda onto the sand, is making that a bit difficult. Still, I keep close to the water, trudging along through the wet sand as it tugs at my feet, trying to concentrate on the lapping of the water and not the voices of the tourists all around me.

  I keep hearing that other voice, though. Clara’s voice, warning me not to tell. But tell who? Or what?

  The icy feeling returns to my fingers just thinking about Clara. I do my best to shake it off, but it just won’t let me go. The chill travels up my arm and over my shoulder, hugging around the right side of my neck. It must be at least eighty-five degrees out here, but still I pull my sweater tightly around me in fear of icing over completely.

  When I feel I’ve gotten far enough away from the clusters of people, I sink down into the wet sand and breathe the salt air in, doing my best to calm this nervous feeling inside me. I look up toward the sun, knowing that if I focus enough on its energy, I’ll be able to concentrate on what’s important.

  Clara. I repeat her name over and over again an
d then write it out in the thick, wet sand with my finger. I picture the sun’s rays beaming down over her name and over me, opening up the channels of clear thought. And it works, to a point—my hand, arm, and neck are a little less tingly, less cold.

  From the pocket of my sweater I grab the few spell supplies I’ve brought along—an old perfume bottle I’ve been saving, a purple pen, and a slip of paper. The bottle has been bathed in the moonlight, left on my windowsill for two complete moon cycles. I remove its cork and position it on the sand before me, imagining the warm ocean air filtering in through the mouth; the heat of the sun, like fire, washing over the glass. I uncap the purple pen and, on the slip of paper, write the words DON’T TELL ANYONE, hoping the purple color will help promote psychic awareness.

  I slip the paper into the bottle and top it off with elements of earth and water—a palmful of saltwater from the ocean and a sprinkling of sand from the beach. I cork the bottle and hold it out to the wind. “O Spirit, Spirit, I beg of thee to help me see with clarity. I offer you earth, wind, and sea, and pray that you will answer me.” I kiss the bottle and then throw it out into the ocean as far as my strength will allow. It collides with a wave and gets swallowed up for a couple seconds, but then it bobs its way back up to the surface. The incoming tide pushes the bottle toward my feet. I throw it out again, harder this time, but it comes back just the same. Instead of plucking it out of the water, I decide to just let the bottle swim along with the incoming tide. Maybe instead of relying so heavily upon my spells, I should trust my instincts more. Right now my instincts are telling me that I need to find Clara.

  six

  I distinctly remember Clara mentioning that her place is a few houses down from ours—to the left, I think.

  There’s a cottage to the left that looks pretty tame—beach chairs stacked neatly on the porch, a portable grill tucked away in the corner, seashell-shaped wind chimes hanging down over the stairs. I’m thinking this is the place since I also remember her saying that she’s here with her parents and not a flock of beer-guzzling fraternity boys. It appears as though the frat guys have taken up at least three or four of the houses to the right of us.

  I climb the stairs and knock on the door. It creaks open slightly from the impact, like it wasn’t quite closed. I hold it shut and try knocking again.

  Still no response.

  “Hello?” I call into the door crack. The seashell wind chimes jingle just behind me, forcing me to remember that I heard the same sound in my nightmare. “Clara?” I call, edging the door open a bit wider.

  I close my eyes a moment and concentrate on the jingling. But then I hear something else. It’s coming from inside—a high-pitched, beeping sound. I push the door open farther. “Clara? Are you in here?”

  It’s dark in the living room; all the shades are pulled down. There’s a clamoring noise coming from one of the rooms, like someone’s struggling with something. I open the door even wider and take a step inside, noticing that the layout of this cottage is exactly like ours. The living room and kitchen are connected, like one big open area. I move toward the short, narrow hallway and the bedrooms that branch off it.

  But now it’s just quiet. And dark—the only light available is what’s coming in through the door I entered, and the farther I get away from it, the darker it gets. I peer over my shoulder at the door, thinking how maybe I should go and get help, but all I can focus on are those stupid wind chimes—and the thought that Clara might be in trouble. I call her name yet again.

  Still no response.

  I move toward the bedroom to the right and place my ear up to the door. But it’s just quiet, all except for my heart; it’s pounding hard inside my chest. I place my hand over the doorknob, half thinking that it’s going to be locked, but instead it turns. And I go in.

  It’s even darker in here—too dark to see. I feel over the walls for a light switch, but can’t seem to find one. I move toward the center of the room, my arms outstretched, and end up tripping over something hard, a footstool maybe.

  A loud cracking sound comes from out in the living room, like the front door has been shut. But maybe it’s just the wind. I bite the inside of my cheek and tell myself this is so, that the breezy ocean air drew the door closed, that no one’s here, that in a few seconds I can just sneak back out.

  But then I hear footsteps, the sound of floorboards creaking in this direction. I stand behind the door and hold my breath to keep from gasping out.

  “Hello?” whispers a male voice, one I don’t recognize.

  I close my eyes and try to picture myself someplace else.

  “Come on out,” he sings. “I don’t bite.”

  I clench my teeth and ball myself up in the corner just as the light in the room flicks on, making everything red. I look up toward the ceiling at the red light bulb that shines down over what is obviously a darkroom. There’s a clothesline hung at the back of the room with pictures attached to it, a large workstation set up with bins for solutions, and racks lining the walls.

  I can hear him breathing from the other side of the door. Clutching the crystal and willing Jacob’s strength to assist me, I close my eyes and silently count to twenty, praying that he won’t come all the way in, that he’ll close the door back up and go. I peer around the room for a window. There’s one in the far corner, but it looks as though it’s been boarded up.

  The light flicks off a few seconds later and he leaves, just like that, drawing the door closed behind him. I wait a few seconds, listening at the wall as his footsteps travel down the hallway and into the living room. And then I hear the front door slam closed as though he’s left.

  I leave too. I get up, open the door just enough to allow me through, and move down the hallway as quickly and quietly as possible. I go to the living room door, but the knob won’t turn. I twist the lock until it clicks and try the door again. Still locked.

  “Where are you going so soon?” a voice asks from just behind me.

  I turn around. He’s standing just a few feet away, but it’s still so dark. The only light is coming in through the kitchen window.

  “We haven’t even met,” he continues.

  He’s older, maybe thirty or fortyish, with a face full of hair—a thick and wiry honey-colored beard and a moustache that sticks out on both sides.

  “I have to go. I’m so sorry. I’ve made a mistake.” My jaw is shaking.

  “Let me help you.” He stretches his arms and lets out a giant yawn, like he just woke up.

  “I was just looking for someone. I’ve made a mistake,” I repeat.

  “Who?” he asks, taking a step closer toward me. He’s wearing a pair of paint-splattered jeans with an old and ratty T-shirt.

  “No one.” My hands behind my back, I try turning the lock the other way. I pull the knob, but it still doesn’t budge.

  “Trick lock,” he says, smiling at me. He grabs at his facial hair, giving it a good tug. “Stay a while. Let me take your picture.” He moves over to the sofa to grab his camera just as I pull on the knob and turn the lock, remembering how that’s the way the trick lock works at my aunt’s house.

  It works. The doorknob twists, enabling me to open it, to fly out the door and down the steps.

  When I get a safe distance away, I turn to glance back. He’s still standing there, still watching me.

  seven

  I boot it down the beach strip, eager to get away from him—from his stare and the way he made me feel, like a victim waiting to happen.

  My heart is still hammering; all I can think about is what would have happened if I didn’t get out, what he would have done. Needless to say, it probably wasn’t a good idea that I went in there in the first place. It’s just that those wind chimes, the sound of them jingling just behind me on the porch, reminded me so much of my nightmare.

  When I feel I’ve gotten far enough away, I stop to catch my breath, to roll my shoulders back and remind myself that I need to find Clara. I’ve practically walked this entir
e beach strip with the full intention of looking for her, but I haven’t been looking at all.

  I take a deep breath and start to backtrack toward our cottage, keeping focused the whole time. There are tons of people sunning themselves on the beach. But I don’t see Clara anywhere.

  “Hey, sexy girlfriend,” a voice shouts toward me.

  Amber.

  I look up and see her piggybacking one of the frat guys around on their back porch; it looks like her legs could snap off at any moment.

  “I am so glad to see you,” I shout, heading over to join them.

  “Rough morning?” she asks.

  “The roughest.”

  “Details?”

  “Later,” I say, noticing how Frat Boy is hovering, quite literally, over her shoulder.

  “Hey there,” he says, extending a leg toward me as though I’m supposed to shake it. “I’m Sully.”

  “And I’m Stacey,” I say, looking at the scab on his knee, deciding that the last thing I want to do is touch his sweaty skin.

  “That’s Casey over there.” Sully points with his foot to the guy sitting on the ground in the corner, drinking from a cozy and looking off toward the beach. I didn’t even notice him there. Though it doesn’t appear as though he notices me either. He hasn’t looked up from the beach once. I peer in the same direction to see what he’s hawking at. As if I needed to ask.

  It’s Drea. She and Chad have set up camp at the shoreline, complete with beach blanket, cooler, and tilty umbrella. They’re goading each other to jump into the water—Drea in a two-piece, stringy number and Chad in a pair of swim trunks that go down to his knees.

  “So,” Amber says, practically beaming like a kagillion-watt bulb, “notice anything?”

  “What?”

  “Double trouble.”

  “Huh?” I feel my face curl up in cluelessness.

  “Or double the fun—depending how you look at it.”

  “Um, what are you talking about?”

  “Sully and Casey are twins.” She’s practically birthday-party clapping now.