Silver is for Secrets (19 page)

I look at the clock. It‟s just after nine. I know Jacob wil probably come walking through the outside door any second now, that he‟l probably want to see me. But maybe I‟m sick of being so accessible to him. Maybe he‟s the one who should have to wait.

“How are you doing?” I ask, pul ing the bed sheet up to my waist.

“I‟m doing,” she says, continuing to scribble away in her diary, probably massacring Chad in cold, hard ink.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“He thinks he can fix all his screw-ups with chocolate. This is the third box in two weeks.”

“Why not hint at flowers next time? They‟re much easier on the teeth.”

“Not to mention the waistline.” Drea holds the heartshaped box out to me as an offering.

That‟s when I notice. It‟s the same box of chocolates I saw in my last nightmare about Clara. I clench my teeth and shake my head, wondering if she should even be eating them, assuring myself that they‟re from Chad, that he would never hurt her.

“Good night,” she says, clicking off her lamp.

I click off my lamp as well and slide down into the bliss of cool cotton sheets, tel ing myself that it‟s just a random case of déjà-vu.

The next morning, I‟m the first person up. It‟s 10:30, which completely surprises me since my body isn‟t chemical y wired to sleep in past nine. I slip into my fuzzy slippers, realizing that I don‟t remember what I dreamt last night—or if I dreamt at all. I look over at my dream box, positioned on my night table with the lid closed. So maybe my body‟s just tel ing me that I needed some extra rest, which is probably why my nose is stil dry, why I‟m not scrambling for a tissue.

I move into the kitchen to percolate some coffee, grab a box of Rice Krispies, and sit down at the table to enjoy the sound of solitude. Of course, no sooner do my Krispies start snap-crackle-popping than my solitude turns into an ice storm.

Drea and Chad exit their rooms at practically the same time. Drea evil-eyes Chad before going into the bathroom, caddy of bathing products in tow, and slamming the door shut behind her.

“She hates me,” Chad says, grabbing a box of powdered donuts from the top of the fridge.

Amber joins us a few seconds later, still yawning as she plunks herself down at the table. “What‟s for breakfast?”

I slide the box of Krispies her way.

“No way.” She gets up, fishes through the cabinets for jars of peanut butter and jam, and then grabs a spoon to dig in like pudding. “So what are we talking about?” she asks, propping her frog-slippered feet up on the table.

“Drea hates me,” Chad repeats.

“I wonder why.” Amber purposeful y licks her spoon.

“It wasn‟t my fault,” he says. “Clara total y went after me.”

“And your lips just happened to lose the fight?” Amber rol s her eyes. “How many times have I heard
that
excuse before?”

“She was upset,” he continues, “about some dol that was left in her room.”

“A dol ?” I say, snapping to attention.

“Yeah, some whacked-up doll with pins stuck through the heart. She was convinced the dol was supposed to look like her.”

“How did it get in her room if her parents are home?” I ask.

“I don‟t know. I guess her bedroom window was left open or something like that.

The girl doesn‟t think.”

“Which is why she kissed
you,”
Amber says.

Chad ignores Amber to continue his groveling at me. “I was trying to calm her down, you know. But I could tel she had another agenda.”

“And jamming her tongue down your throat was the first item on it?” Amber asks.

“She real y
doesn’t
think.”

“I‟m serious,” he continues. “She kept staring at my mouth and getting closer until she was practical y sitting in my lap.”

“So why didn‟t you just get up?” I ask him.

“I don‟t know; I didn‟t want to be rude.”

“Wow,” Amber gasps. “That would have to be the worst excuse
ever
.” He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “I know. I messed up.”

“Big time.” I push my cereal bowl away and glance back up at the clock, thinking how I should probably go ask Clara about the dol , how I probably won‟t have much alone time with her later since we‟l be on that stupid cruise amidst a hundred drunken frat boys. “I should go check on Clara.”

“Do you want me to come?” Amber asks.

I shake my head, hoping that Clara might confide more if we‟re alone.

“Good luck to you,” Chad says, with a raise of the eyebrows.

“You‟re the one who needs luck,” Amber says to him. “You think you‟re in trouble with the police? Wait til Drea gets through with you.”

“What are you talking about? Why am I in trouble with the police?”

“Haven‟t you heard? When Drea and I talked to the police yesterday, they were extra quizzy about you.”

“Why?”

Amber shrugs. “They made it seem like you‟re a suspect.”

“Me?”

She nods. “It almost seemed like they thought you and Clara have something scandalous going.”

“Are you kidding me?” His eyes are completely bulging now.

“Imagine that,” she says, licking the spoon again.

“You should probably go and talk to the police,” I tel him. “Set them straight.

Maybe Clara got the wrong idea about something.”

“How?”

“How?”
Amber gasps. “Are you for real?”

“Just tel the police the truth,” I say. “You have nothing to hide.”

“Are you kidding?” he says. “I know that dril . I go talk to them; they start asking al these tricky questions; the next thing I know I‟m their number-one suspect.” I can understand his reluctance, to a point. When Drea was being stalked junior year, Chad, after agreeing to tell the police his side of the story, ended up as one of the police‟s prime suspects. “I stil think you should go and talk to them. I mean, if you don‟t have anything to hide.”

“I don‟t know,” he says. “Maybe I
should
have something to hide. Maybe they‟l twist this whole thing into something it isn‟t. That‟s obviously what Clara‟s done.”

“I have to go,” I say, looking toward the guys‟ room door. “Is Jacob stil in bed?”

“Yup.” Chad grins. “You had him up pretty late last night.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He didn‟t get in til after three.”

“He didn‟t?”

Chad‟s face fal s, realizing maybe that he just screwed up. “Oh,” he says. “Forget I said anything. I was probably just dreaming.”

“Thanks a lot.” I bite down hard on my teeth and turn on my heel, suddenly realizing perhaps who my real friends are, suddenly more than anxious to lose myself in someone else‟s problems.

thirty-one

I head over to Clara‟s cottage. It‟s completely sweltering outside, the sun beating down on the crown of my head, sending trickles of sweat along the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades.

I climb the steps and ring the doorbell, the sound of her bamboo wind chimes, bonging just behind me, making my head ache. Several seconds pass—still no one has come to the door. I move to peer over the side of the deck, toward the driveway, but I don‟t see a car either. Did she go out again with her parents?

I knock. Stil no response. I try the door and, this time, it‟s locked. Perfect. I walk around to the front of the cottage. There‟s a car parked out front; the license plate says New York, even though I could have sworn Clara said she was from Connecticut. Stil , the back is packed up with luggage, so I‟m assuming it‟s her parents‟ car, back from their friend‟s place, final y. I begin toward the steps, but the trashcans catch my eye. Amber‟s always talking about how on cop shows they find the good clues by sifting through the trash.

The two aluminum cans are sitting on the curb between Clara‟s neighbor‟s cottage and hers. I study the sides, looking for a last name or number to indicate whom they belong to, but only find dents. I casually glance around to see if anybody‟s looking and lift one of the lids. Sheer grossness—spaghetti mixed with soggy paper towels and coffee grounds. I try the other lid—paper goods, quite doable. I pick through coupon flyers, old newspaper ads, and a bunch of chocolatebar wrappers until I get to the bottom.

There‟s a smal can of paint sitting there. It‟s tipped onto its side, the bright cherry redness spil ing onto a wad of orange peels. I look closer, noting how there‟s a smudge of red on the cap as wel , wondering if it‟s the same shade as the paint used to graffiti Clara‟s bedroom wal .

So who threw it away here? I look to her neighbor‟s house, wondering who lives there, if these trashcans belong to them. Or maybe whoever graffitied Clara‟s wal s threw it away on their way out—to get rid of the evidence. But that doesn‟t make sense either. Why would someone choose to throw away evidence at the scene of the crime?

Instead of trying to figure it all out right here and now, I reach in, grab the paint can, and make my way up Clara‟s front steps. I ring the doorbel once more just to be sure there‟s stil no one home—there isn‟t—and try the doorknob. It turns.

“Hel o?” I cal , edging the door open. “Clara?”

There are a couple suitcases lined up in the entryway, but it doesn‟t appear as though anyone‟s home. So why, then, do I feel like I‟m not alone?

I move slowly down the hal way toward Clara‟s room, noticing how her bedroom door is open a crack. “Clara?” I cal , before going in. The graffiti is stil there on the wall. I go to compare it with the can of paint, but the sight of the doll makes me jump.

It‟s in her bed, tucked beneath the covers—rosy-cheeked with auburn hair and sea glass-green eyes. Just like Clara. A shiver runs down my back. I look over my shoulder toward the door, wondering if I‟m alone.

Or if someone might be watching me.

I pick the doll up, noticing right away the pins stuck through the belly. I run my fingers along the back, trying to sense something, accidentally pricking my finger with one of the pins. With a gasp I drop the doll, my heart strumming hard inside my chest. I poke my thumb into my mouth to stop the bleeding. It‟s a tiny puncture wound, like the kind you get at the doctor‟s. I pick the dol up once more and concentrate on the eyes, the way they fal closed when she‟s positioned vertical y—

like she‟s dead.

I peek once again over my shoulder and then continue to feel the rubbery skin. I glide my fingers up the arms, along the neck, and over the cheeks, but all I can sense is sadness—a sadness so thick and heavy I can feel it in my lungs, making my breath heavy.

The sound of running water starts from behind the wall. I look up, suddenly realizing that what I thought was Clara‟s closet door must real y be the door to her adjoining bathroom.

“Clara?” I cal . I move around the bed to the door and place my ear up against the panel to listen. The water fal s down in a heavy stream, like it‟s coming from a tub faucet. I knock and hear a shuffling inside, like someone‟s struggling to put stuff away. “Clara?”

I go to turn the knob. At the same moment, the door pulls open, causing both of us to jump. Clara stumbles back, and I drop the doll once again.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, pushing her hair back off her face. She looks a mess. Her eyes are raw, like she‟s been crying, and there are dark circles beneath them.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” She tries to fake a smile, but it just fal s flat. “You scared me. How did you get in?”

“The front door was open. I tried to knock, but no one answered. Didn‟t you hear

—”

“What‟s that?” she shrieks, referring to the paint can. She looks up at the graffiti and takes a step away, as though to close the door on me.

“No, Clara—wait. I found this in the trash outside. Who lives next door to you?”

“Huh?”

“Are those your trashcans out front?”

Her face twists up. “Yeah.”

“Wel , then, I think whoever painted the graffiti on your wall threw the paint can in the trash on their way out. We need to take it to the police. Maybe they can use it as evidence.”

“I gotta go,” she says, taking another step back.

“Look, Clara,” I say. “I‟m sorry I scared you, but you have to believe me.” I take a deep breath, thinking how unbelievably unconvincing I must sound to her—after having broken into her house not once but
twice
now.

She nods and studies me, the rims of her eyes extra puffy and red.

“We‟re on the same team here,” I continue.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Why wouldn‟t I be?”

She shrugs and looks away. “Because of what happened yesterday . . . with Chad.”

My hands clench into fists just thinking about how hurt Drea was—how hurt she stil is. “I stil need to help you.”

“You weren‟t there, Stacey,” she says. “You don‟t know how it happened.”

“I was there long enough.”

“We didn‟t plan for it to happen . . . it just did.” I close my eyes in an effort to block out the mental images of Clara and Chad liplocked.

“He real y cares about me,” she continues. “And I care about him, too.”

“He
has
a girlfriend.”

“That didn‟t stop
you
. He told me how you went after him two years ago even though he and Drea were stil kind of together.”

My mouth drops open. “That‟s not true.”

“How else would I know?”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from exploding. “That isn‟t how it happened, but it doesn‟t even matter.

You‟re in danger, and we need to talk about it.”

“Who cares? It‟s not like everybody I meet doesn‟t end up hating me after five minutes.”

“You‟re exaggerating,” I say, stretching the truth out like taffy. I peer past her into the bathroom—a stark white cube with matching porcelain fixtures and terrycloth towels. “Your tub water‟s stil running.”

She shrugs and then nods, as though just remembering. “He moved some of my stuff around again—the guy who‟s doing al this.” She glances over her shoulder at the letter opener positioned on the vanity. “I know I put it back in my desk.”

“He?”
I ask.

She shrugs. “I think so. He left me something, too.” She moves to her night table and opens the drawer, taking out a shiny gold heartshaped box of chocolates. “I found it first thing this morning, wedged into my window, between the screen and the sil . Weird,” she says, glancing at the window. “I could have sworn I locked it.”