Blue Is for Nightmares (5 page)

I squat down by the side of the bed and collect the soiled laundry underneath. I've learned that if you're quick to clean up the mess, it doesn't smell as much. But I've already left this stuff too long. You can see a cloudlike outline of golden brown on one of the sheets, and they smell like dirty diapers.

I squish everything inside a pillowcase filled with dirty school-uniform parts, grab the soiled plastic shopping bags

from underneath my night table, and make the five-minute trek across the dorm parking lot to the washroom. I swing the door open, promptly dump the plastic bags into the trash, and flop the sack of dirty laundry onto one of the machines. I begin separating the lights from the colors and darks, the way the mom-looking women do on TV commercials for laundry detergent. That's when I notice a pink bra, stuck between a fold in the sheet and statically clung to Drea's lacy white handkerchief. I know the bra isn't mine, but I hold it up to my chest anyway.
Definitely
not mine. The cups stick out so confidently, it's almost as if they could get a date all by themselves.

I'm just about to deposit the bra into the machine when I feel the bra's vibrations. They come over me all of a sudden, like tiny pins of electrifying heat that charge through my arms and point down my fingers. I move the silky fabric between my fingers and the feeling deepens, like someone has taken hold of my skin, dug their claws right into the flesh.

I hold the bra up to my nose to sniff. It's the smell of fresh air mixed with dirt. The smell of my nightmare. There's no doubting it. Drea's in trouble.

I fling the bra down and boot it as fast as I can back to the dorm, the throb at the bottom of my foot from the glass injury reminding me that I'm probably due for a bandage 0change.

"Drea!" I shout, bursting into our room.

She's standing in front of the window, a chocolate bar in her right hand and a scowl across her face. "Did you take it down?- she asks.

"What?"

"It's totally freezing in here. Why did you take it down?" "Take what down?"

"Chad's hockey jersey!"

It takes me a few moments to put it all together. Her anger. The empty window. The missing jersey. "I didn't," I say, finally.

"Then what happened to it? Nothing just disappears." "What are you saying? That I took it? Why would I do that?"

"You tell me. I saw the way you were looking at him in the cafeteria today. Don't deny it."

"Oh, and it wasn't
you
who went off with Donovan? Don't take it out on me if Chad didn't go running after you. He and I are just friends, Drea. That's it."

Drea studies my eyes, as though trying to decide whether or not to believe me. "I'm a shit, aren't I?"

"Yes," I say. "But I love you anyway" We share a smile and then Drea tears the foil wrapper farther down her candy bar and passes it to me for a bite--for her, a rare and generous offer, which tells me that she
really
feels like a shit. And that just makes me feel worse because I know I was kind of looking at Chad in that way.

"Maybe the jersey just fell outside," I say, changing the subject. I grab the window shade and pull a bit too hard, causing it to snap back and coil up at the top. There's a package outside, sitting on the brick window ledge. It's about the size of a ring box and wrapped in turquoise paper with a tiny red bow on top.

My heart wallops inside my chest. It's really happening, just as the cards predicted.

"A present!" Drea bursts, the anger quickly evaporating from her face. "I wonder if it's from Chad."

Part of me wants to leave it out on the window ledge and pretend like I never saw it. But it's too late now. I have to know if the cards are true.

I reach through the glass and pluck the box from the ledge. "We really need to get this window fixed. I'm not comfortable with people hanging around outside our room. We live on the ground floor, for god's sake; anyone could just break in."

"It wasn't just anyone," Drea corrects. "It was Chad. I'm so sure." She snatches the box out of my fingers and toys with the ribbon.

"Where were you tonight, anyway?" I ask.

"Wouldn't you like to know? You saw me leave the cafeteria with Donovan."

"You were with him all this time?"

"No, but I wanted Chad to think I was. I guess he did." She smiles at the present.

I keep my eyes focused on her fingers, fearful of what might happen. I see she's tempted to pull on the ribbon. "No!" I shout. "Don't!"

"Why?"

"Just don't." If the deathly thing is going to happen to
her,
it's safer if
I
open it. "I want to open it.

I never get presents." I nab the box back and shake it softly. There's a tiny shift inside.

We perch ourselves on the end of the bed and inspect the package for a name tag. Only we can't find one.

"I don't understand it," Drea says. "Chad always attaches a card."

"Maybehe just forgot," I say. "Or maybe it's inside."

Drea ccntinues to comb her fingers over the tiny package--unchr the bow, in the creases, and under the bottom flap.

"Maybe he doesn't want you to know it's from him," I say. But I how that isn't the truth either.

This package isn't from Chac. This is the package I predicted in the card reading, and ir some way it's linked with my nightmares.

"Fine," ;he says, giving up. "Go ahead."

I stare cown at the package for several seconds, wondering if novvis the right time to tell Drea the truth about the card readiig.

"That'sit!" she shouts. "This is ridiculous. I've waited long enotgh." She snatches it out of my fingers and tears off the toi layer of paper.

"Wain say, finally. "I lied!"

But it'stoo late. Drea has already ripped off the wrapping and bw.

"No!" I>hout, tearing it out of her hands. "Don't!" I fling the packale to the floor and stomp on it.

Nothing happens. I kick it aginst the wall. Still nothing. I don't know whether to sing orbe sick, but I'm completely overwhelmed with this enornous feeling of relief.

"What s wrong with you?" Drea asks. "Have you gone completer crazy?"

I look z her, at the droop of her mouth, the confusion on her fac.

"I thinlyou killed it," she says.

I pick ip the crushed box, take in a long, deep breath, and with lightly jittery hands remove the cover. We look

down at the contents. Tiny crumbs of tan mixed with chocolate brown. Drea dips her fingers into the box and tastes one of the pieces. "Chocolate chip cookie. Or at least it was one." She flicks the bits of cookie to the sides of the box, and underneath, finds a note the size of a fortune cookie message: "Be a smart cookie," she reads. "Join the culinary arts club."

She sticks her head out the window and looks to the left. "There's one on everybody's window ledge. Cute idea, huh?"

Maybe I
am
going crazy.

"You need to relax," she says. "Do you think one of them stole Chad's hockey jersey? Because if they did, I'm going to report them to campus police first thing in the morning." She takes another bite of her chocolate bar. "Hey, what did you say before about lying?"

"Nothing. I'm just tired." I pocket the cookie message and look out the broken window at the velvety night sky. There, in the peaceful whirring of the wind, I can almost hear my grandmother's voice, telling me to trust my insight, telling me that it's when we don't that tragedy occurs.

I know firsthand that's true.

I fold back onto the bed, close my eyes, and conjure up my warmest memory of Maura. It was all warm and balmy out that day, as though at any minute the cloud lining would unzip and rain would sprinkle down in feathers. Maura and I were sitting on the wooden porch swing at her house and I was showing her a magic trick. I shuffled the deck of cards and held them out in a fan. "Pick a card. Any card." Maura giggled and picked from the middle. "Now look at it, remember it, but don't tell me which one it is."

She nodded and smiled, her tongue peeking through the gap between her top and bottom teeth, red Kool-Aid stains around her mouth.

"Now put it back, wherever you want."

Maura placed the card to the left of the fan. I swallowed it up in the other cards and shuffled. "0

magic, magic, do your trick," I said for her amusement. "Tell me true which card to pick." I flipped the cards, one by one, faceup on the swing, and tried to guess which card was hers. I slapped the Queen of Diamonds down and paused. I looked up at her and she giggled.

"Nope," she said.

I wiped the strawberry-tinted bangs from her eyes and flipped a few more cards. I stopped on the Ace of Hearts. "Is this the one?"

Maura started clapping. She wrapped her arms around my neck. The smell of her clothes, like popcorn and red licorice, reminded me that I had been way too lenient about afternoon snacks.

"Can you teach me?" she asked.

"Sure I can teach you. But first you need to wash your face for dinner."

"Can I tell you a secret first?"

"Sure."

"I wish you were my sister."

"Me too," I said, squeezing her extra tight.

I open my eyes and glance over at Drea, brushing her hair in the mirror, getting in all one hundred strokes. And all I can think is how I never got that chance to show Maura how the trick worked.

"Drea," I say, "I lied to you about your card reading. And it's time you knew the truth."

"What do you mean, you
lied?"
Drea smacks her hairbrush down on the vanity table and swivels around in her seat to face me.

"I mean I wasn't completely honest about the outcome of your card reading. I'm sorry. It was stupid. I just didn't know how to tell you the truth."

"What
is
the truth?"

"Everything I said about Chad making a date with you and then breaking it is true, but the other stuff--

The phone rings, interrupting me. Drea gets up to answer it. "Hello?" she says. "Yes, thanks for getting back to me. This is the second time I've had to call about our broken window. When can I expect someone to fix it?"

When I hear her mention Chad's jersey being missing, I turn away, figuring she's talking to campus police. "I can't blame her for getting all huffy at me for lying--I'd be huffy too. I just hope it doesn't jeopardize her trust in me later on.

I lean back on my bed and take in a deep breath. And then I remember. My laundry. In the washroom. The pee- stained sheets. I consider walking back over there, but after the cards and lying and that stupid cookie gift, I decide my heart has absorbed enough shock for one night. I will set my alarm to vibration mode for 5 A.M. tomorrow morning, stash it under my pillow, and run over to the washroom before anyone is even awake.

Drea clicks the phone off, but then starts dialing again. Calling Chad, I presume.

Instead of dwelling over it, I decide to be productive. I get up and fish into the back of my closet for the family scrapbook. Heavy and cumbersome, it has torn and yellowing mismatched pages and burn marks in the corners. It's packed with all sorts of passed-down materials--home remedies, spells, bits of favorite poetry, even secret recipes, like my fifth cousin's coffee braids.

My grandmother gave the book to me two weeks before she passed away, and every time I use it I picture women, ages ago, in long apron-dresses, doing spells or reading magical poetry by candlelight. When I asked my gram how

she got it, she told me that her great-aunt Ena gave it to her, and that I should pass it along to someone else one day, someone like me who has the gift.

I peel the book open to a half-crumpled page signed by my great-great-great aunt Ena. It's a home remedy to help cure night-blindness: raw fish liver for dinner. Gross, but it probably beats the cafeteria food. I page through the book a bit more. I want to do a dream spell tonight, one that waxes my nightmares to fullness instead of waning them away.

I don't use the book often, especially because Gram always said it wasn't good to rely on it, that spells or remedies come from within, and that we are the ones who give them meaning. But whenever I do use it, I love to look at the handwriting--places where the pen skipped and caused a tiny splash, or places where the ink bled. Those who had a tendency to slant the letters versus those who wrote all bubbly. I can almost imagine the personalities of these women just by looking at their names, the way they wrote them, and what they chose to contribute. It always leaves me with a magical sense of connection to my family, even to those I never met.

I have never performed this type of spell before, but if I want to change the future and save Drea, I need more clues.

I light a stick of lemongrass incense. Then I gather up the tools I need and lay them on my bed: a branch of rosemary, an empty pencil case, a bottle of lavender oil, and a yellow wax crayon. The pencil case is the baglike kind, lined inside, with a zipper at the top. Like my gram, I always keep potential spell items on hand. Even if I never

55

find a use for some of the stuff, even if she always pledged that the most essential spell ingredients are in the heart, it's just one more way I can feel connected to her.

I reach inside the drawer for a candle, pausing at the blue one I used last night, Drea's initials the half-burned O, the
E,
and the
S--stare
up at me. Her initials stand for Drea Olivia Eleanor Sutton, and have been the butt of jokes ever since I've known her. Guys say stuff like "Drea DOES it best" and "Drea DOES anything, anytime." At first I thought she was asking to get harassed. She has the initials stitched to practically everything she owns, for god's sake--her towels, stationery sweaters, even on her school backpack. But then I realized, who were we to tell her to change?

Drea's defiance is just one of the things I love about her.

"Shit," she says, slamming the phone down. "Chad isn't in his room. What am I supposed to think now?" She joins me on the bed and glances down at her chipped, French- manicured toes.

"I'm sorry for lying about the cards," I say. "But it was only because I was scared."

"Whatever, I'm too depressed to care about that now" She looks over the spell ingredients sitting between us.