Blue Is for Nightmares (22 page)

Of course, none of what I say--not one single syllable does she deem notebook-worthy. And this alone makes me want to rip the damn notebook out of her prettily paraffined hands and chuck it in the trash.

-Do you still have any of the notes that Drea received?" she asks.

I shake my head, remembering how Drea burned the notes over one of my candles. But then I remember. "We did find a note in Veronica's jewelry box."

"What did it say?

'Mind your own business."

"Hmm . . sounds like maybe someone was angry at Veronica."

"Obviously" I say.

"Listen, Stacey," she says with a big sigh, then leans forward, resting her elbows on the table.

-Let's say that Drea
did
receive those things. It's hard to follow a lead like that without any evidence."

"Isn't Veronica Leeman's body evidence enough?"

"Let's talk about that. Amber told me you girls went to the school last night to get a book you left in one of the rooms."

"She did? When did you talk to
her?"

Officer Tate clears her throat, ignoring the question. "From what you just told me, that obviously isn't true."

I consider compromising the truth in some way. Some way to support all the information I just gave her and protect Amber's lie at the same time. I turn to glance at the door, wondering if it's locked, why there aren't any windows in this room. Why it's so freakishly hot.

"No," I say, deciding on the truth.

"Do you know why Amber might have lied?"

I shake my head. Sure, it might have something to do with not getting caught for breaking into somebody's room, being out after curfew, or breaking in and trespassing on school property. But the penalty for those things seems so incredibly minor compared to what's already happened.

Amber doesn't have a right to lie. And neither do I.

"I'll tell you what," she begins, "I'll make a report about your roommate's alleged disappearance and check into it personally. But first, I need you to answer something for me. Have you ever talked to anyone about all these visions you say you have?"

"What do you mean, 'visions I
say
I have'?"

"Well, Stacey, you have to admit, it's not exactly... common."

I stand up from the table, air sucking up into my lungs, sending my voice three octaves higher.

"You
don't believe me?"

"I didn't say that."

"Look, whether you think I'm crazy or not, someone's after Drea." I hold the protection bottle up to my head, where it's begun to ache. "Don't you understand? He's going to kill her, just like he killed Veronica. The cards, the lilies, the notes, my nightmares...

today is Drea's day to die."

Officer Tate stands up from the table, her voice like powdery beach sand. -I think you need to get some more rest. You had a pretty unsettling night last night. That would make anybody a bit...

confused." She presses the stop button on the recorder.

"I'm not confused!"

She pulls a business card from her jacket pocket and holds it out like a lollipop, like she's the nurse and I'm the patient and this is a pediatrician's office.

Like nothing I've said means anything.

"I'll probably need to ask you more questions later," she says. -But call me if you think of anything else."

"So, you're going to look for Drea?" I ask.

'As I said, I'll look into it and get back to you. But don't worry, she probably stayed in someone else's room, especially if you girls were fighting. We see this type of thing all the time." She gestures once more for me to take her card. I slip it into my back pocket.

"Good." She smiles. -Now, let me give you a ride back to campus." She holds the door open wide for me to leave.

That's when I know for sure. If I want to save Drea, I'll have to do it myself.

The trek across the Hillcrest campus to the boys' dorms takes longer than usual. The police have blocked off the entire O'Brian Building, including the parking lot and quad area in front of it, forcing students onto the main walkways. News teams, school administrators, and curious spectators flock to the scene, eager to feast upon any juicy tidbits that aren't being served up on the morning news. Lucky for me the story is still relatively fresh; news reports are still referring to me as "the female student who found the body." Still, I have to wonder if any of them know it's me.

I scurry through packs of students as best I can, dodging suitcases and shifting knapsacks--

people escaping for the weekend. Some senior boys are treating this like a cheesy horror movie, running around, making sick jokes, trying to get people more riled up, if that's even possible.

"Last one off campus is a dead coed," one of them shouts.

Meanwhile, a group of freshman girls stands in a huddle only a few yards away, crying and hugging each other. I lock eyes with one of them--a girl with spiky red hair and a freckly face.

Her lips part when she spots me, and I wonder if that's suspicion crawling across her face. I look away and keep on going.

When I feel it's somewhat safe, I stop to look closer at the scene. The O'Brian Building looks so different from last night, so violated, with its yellow police tape and swarm of photographers.

My eyes wander around the individual faces--crying, shaking, gesturing toward the open window where we entered.

I'm just about to turn away when I see Veronica. She's standing beyond the yellow tape, her face positioned toward me, resting over the shoulder of a much older man, in an embrace.

I blink a few times in confusion, with excitement, thinking for just a moment that somehow, in some way, this has all been a huge mistake.

But then I see it's not Veronica at all.

The woman breaks the embrace, but keeps her arm tucked into the man's side as she continues to sob into the collar of his jacket. Her hair hangs down to the tops of her shoulders, curly and brownish, the color of nutmeg. But it's her eyes that startle me the most. Unmistakable, doelike and mossy green. Veronica's eyes. Veronica's mother.

The sight of her makes my knees tremble, my heart squelch. I felt terrible before. Horrible.

Guilty Responsible. But seeing Veronica as someone's lost daughter makes it so much worse.

I continue across campus, tunneling my vision, trying not to focus on any one person or thing.

The ironic part of this whole police / security scene is that when I get to the boys' dorm, there's no one working the front desk, just fleets of boys filtering through the exit doors, not even signing out for the weekend. I thread my way past them and climb up the stairs to the second floor. I need to find the one person who I think can solve this riddle.

PJ.

"Yeah," he says, peeking through the door crack.

"PJ?" It's so dark in his room I can barely make out his face. "Is that you?"

"Who else would it be?" He ekes the door open a bit wider, enabling me to see that he's dyed his hair yet again. This time, jet black.

"What's with the dark room?" I push him out of the way and step inside.

"Helps me think. I like to do that from time to time." He closes the door behind me. "Pretty crazy out there. A little too real for me."

"Unreal," I whisper. I look toward the window at the shade, drawn down, and wonder why he insists on keeping us in the dark. "I almost didn't recognize you with your hair that color.-

-Might you have mistaken me for this month's cover of GQ?- He palms the tips of his hair spikes, but it isn't with his usual flair. He isn't smiling, isn't bursting with confidence. And he isn't even really looking at me.

"Mightn't," I say, flipping the light switch up.

He squints. -To what do I owe such joyance?-We

need to talk.-

"Sounds cereal."

-It is. I need you to tell me exactly what happened last night when you picked Drea and Amber up at the hospital.-

"What do you mean? I picked them up and dropped them off."

"You dropped both of them off?"

"Si, Senorita."

'Amber told me she walked Drea into the lobby and then went back to your car to talk.-

-Yeah, right. She wanted to be alone with me. Who could blame her? Little vixen.-

"You two weren't fighting?"

-Fighting? Quite the contrary. Unless you call love bites injurious."

"No," I argue. -You two were fighting. You were mad at her. About Donovan. About how she was hanging all over him. Ignoring you.-

"You're speaking a totally different language here. I don't know what you're talking about.

Amber can PB-and-jam

with whomever she wants, including me when she cares to. Last night in point."

My head starts spinning. I throw my hands up over my face to try and stop it. "I need to sit down."

PJ gestures to his bed, littered with dirty laundry and old pizza boxes. I navigate a clear spot and plunk down. "You want some
agua?"
He reaches into his mini-fridge and passes me a gallon jug, the spout christened with chocolate mouth stains. I take a sip anyway. "What's going on with you?" he asks. "Is it Veronica?"

I nod. 'And, like that isn't bad enough, Drea's missing. She never made it back to the room after you dropped her off last night."

"That's impossible. Maybe she just went out before you got up this morning."

I can't bear to listen to any more plausible explanations for Drea's whereabouts. I wrestle myself up from the hovel of his bed. "Can you just answer me one more question?"

"What?"

"How long was Amber in the lobby with Drea before she came back to your car?"

"I don't know, like, five minutes. Not enough time to kill anybody"

"Why would you say that?" I snap. "How can you even--?"

"Look, Stace," he says, "you're getting a bit weird here, even for me. You're talking all wiggy.

I'm sure Drea is fine. Probably getting her nails filled at some spa. Why don't you go to the police and dog them about it? There's enough of them crawling around here." He inches the window shade

to peek outside. "I've got my own doo-doo to deal with today"

-Like what?" I ask.

"Like not having an alibi for last night."

"Why would you need one? Where were you?"

"Here. Dyeing my hair. Thought with Amber falling all over Donovan, she'd appreciate my new, sultry look--tall, dark, and dangerously dashing."

"I thought you didn't care who she flirted with." "I don't," he says.

"So why do you need an alibi?"

"Because I hated Veronica Leeman and maybe a part of me wanted her to croak. You know it.

Everybody knows it. And people are starting to talk about it."

"What people?"

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that nobody saw me around the dorm last night and no one was at the desk to check me in."

"Now
you're
the one who's talking wiggy."

"Maybe," he says, opening the door to let me out. "Or maybe I am wiggy."

thirty-one_

Not knowing where to go or what to think, I head back to my room. But before I can even venture a toe inside I'm stopped by the hairy-faced wonder herself: Madame Discharge.

"You missed the assembly" she says.

"I know. I had to go off campus." I stick my key into the lock and avoid eye contact, hoping she gets the picture.

"It wasn't a voluntary assembly. You were marked absent. You had to get special permission from a parent or guardian to miss."

I turn the key.
Click.
I'm in. Now why won't she go away? I look up at her, hoping to pacify her curiosity enough so she'll leave. "I'm sorry. I'll be sure to go and apologize to Principal Pressman first chance I get."

She takes a step closer and I can smell the snacks on her breath--Doritoes mixed with Diet Coke.

She studies my face the way my eyes move, the involuntary puffing of my cheeks. "When they called you absent, some girls said they saw you get into a police car. Is that true?"

I shake my head, slip into my room, and close the door. I hardly have time to worry about Madame Discharge or anyone else who might be spreading stuff about me. It's almost five. Only seven hours left before midnight, when the day is completely over. I plop down on my bed and notice Amber's cell phone sticking out by my feet. I unplug it from its charger and stuff it into my pocket, thinking how Amber lied to me about talking to Officer Tate, how I haven't heard from her since this morning.

It doesn't make sense and I can't think anymore. I pull Officer Tate's card from my back pocket and dial. Maybe she's discovered something about Drea.

"Hello?" I say. "I need to speak to Officer Tate. Tell her it's Stacey Brown."

But Officer Tate isn't in and I don't bother leaving a message. I try calling my mother back as promised, thinking how maybe a little maternal inspiration might do me good right about now, but the phone just rings and rings. Great.

I reach for the family scrapbook. If I can't communicate with the spirit world in my sleep, I'll do it during my waking hours. I flip to the section labeled Channeling Spirits and decide to do the spell written by my great-grandmother.

The spell directions indicate that you're supposed to make the letters of the alphabet by cutting up sheets of paper and writing on them. But there isn't time. I reach up into my closet and pull the dusty Scrabble game from the top shelf. I've had it since my fourth-grade spelling bee and know some of the letters are missing, but it doesn't matter. I'm confident it will do just fine.

I push my bed to the side to make room for a sacred circle, place eight thick, white candles on the floor, marking all the directions north to west, and light them with a long, wooden match. My grandmother always stressed the importance of a solid circle, one that can't be penetrated by unrested spirits looking for an opening.

I sprinkle Kosher salt and sugar around the perimeter of the circle and place stones and crystals around the edges. Into the middle, I set a freshly washed ceramic bowl. And to it, I add a few bits of chocolate from the bar Drea was eating last night (the bits with the tooth-mark impressions), a wad of hair from her brush, and the couple of bitten fingernail shards (still attached to the acrylic) that I'm able to find in the trash.