Silver is for Secrets (8 page)

“So was there anything missing?”

She shakes her head and grabs another pickle.

“Okay,” I say, racking my brain for something else to ask. If it wasn‟t for my nightmares, for the cold vibrations that came over me when I touched her hand, I probably wouldn‟t even bother. I mean, if I didn‟t know better, I‟d say she‟s completely just looking for attention.

“Was the door unlocked?” I persist. “Did you notice if any of the windows were left open?”

“Wel , yeah, I always leave a few windows open to let the air in.”

“The ones on the first floor?”

She nods. “There only
is
one floor.”

“Right.” I bite the inside of my cheek.

“I know it sounds al funky,” she says. “But if you knew me, you‟d know that I‟m an extreme neat-freak.”

“You, too?” PJ asks, accidental y dribbling pickle juice on the table. He attempts to wipe it up with his hand and then licks his fingers.

Clara eyes the dribble and continues to explain: “I have this thing about putting things in just the right spot. I‟m one of those people who has a place for everything and puts everything in its place—notebooks, top left drawer of my desk; tissue box, top of my desk on the right; gum, in the ceramic seashell bowl on the dresser; white socks, at the front of my sock drawer; blue socks—”

“I keep an impressive stash of chewy things myself.” PJ looks at her, taking a giant, purposeful bite of pickle. “Care to sample the inventory, my little kosher dil ?” I ignore PJ and keep focused on Clara, on how she‟s chewing on her thumb now.

“You‟re real y bothered by this.”

She nods.

“And you‟re sure you didn‟t maybe just have a bad day and put stuff away in the wrong place?”

“No,” she sighs. “You don‟t understand.” She takes a deep breath to calm herself down. “My mother is blind. Her whole life is about order, about putting things in just the right spot. If she didn‟t, she‟d never be able to find anything. So I‟ve sort of become the same way.”

“I‟m sorry,” I say. “I didn‟t know.”

“How could you have? I mean, you‟re not psychic.” I pause at the comment, at the sheer irony of it, but choose not to respond.

Sometimes I think my grandmother‟s secret to getting the answers was to keep her mouth shut—being comfortable with the silence, knowing how to listen to people, how to keep a firm bite on the tongue, and just let people babble the answers out for themselves.

“I‟m real y scared, Stacey. Especial y after everything you said earlier.”

“What did you say?” PJ turns to me.

“She said I was in trouble,” Clara blurts. “She said something bad is going to happen to me.”

Clara slumps into PJ‟s arms, and he mouths me an enthusiastic “thank you,” like I plotted this whole thing for the sake of his lackluster love life.

The door whips open a second later. It‟s Amber. Her eyes lock on PJ and Clara.

“What‟s going on?”

“It‟s what we were talking about earlier,” I say. “About Clara.” But it seems Clara‟s welfare is the last thing on Amber‟s mind. Amber folds her arms in front, her jaw locking into stress mode.

“Is everything okay?” I ask her.

“Perfect,” she says, eyeing PJ and Clara, clutched together as though for dear life.

“Hi, Amber,” Clara says, resting her head on PJ‟s shoulder.

“Hi,” Amber says, her face completely deadpan.

“Hey there, Miss Thing,” PJ beams. He wipes the mayodribble from the corner of Clara‟s mouth and cuddles her against his chest. “Something bothering you?” Amber shakes her head and retreats into our room, which
almost
surprises me.

It‟s just that after al the time PJ has spent trying to win her back after their break up, not to mention al the boys she‟s dated in the meantime—probably more than there are pickles in the jar they‟re snacking from—I forget how territorial she can be with him.

“Is she okay?” Clara asks.

“Just perfect,” PJ says, a huge grin married to his face.

“We need to focus,” I say, grabbing at the sudden ache in my head. “Where were we?”

“Something bad‟s gonna happen to me.” Clara huffs.

I rub my temples, trying to gain mindfulness, trying to concentrate despite the chaos going on all around me. Regardless of how bland her story might sound—a few random items misplaced in her room, especially while her mother is away visiting friends—Clara‟s life is truly in danger. I need to do my best to listen to her, to help her, and to stop the danger before it happens.

“You said that in your nightmare I was whispering something,” Clara continues.

I nod, thinking about it a moment, about my nightmares and what I saw in them exactly. And then it hits me. In the nightmare I just had, when I struggled my way on hands and knees from the beach to the cottage, when I crawled inside the door and looked around, I saw that everything in the cottage had been moved around, rearranged.

Just like Clara was saying.

“Um, Mars to Stacey,” PJ says, snapping his fingers to get my attention.

“Wait,” I say, leaning forward to focus on Clara. “I need you to start over; tel me everything that happened again.”

“Again?” She cocks her head.

I nod and she obliges, reiterating every detail about her journal, her bathrobe, and her hairbrush. “Oh,” she lights up. “And my letter opener. Normal y it‟s in my desk drawer, but instead it was on my night table.” My heart jumps, remembering how I saw a letter opener in my dream, how I was using it as a knife for protection. “Is your letter opener shiny silver with a curly handle and a knifelike blade?”

Clara‟s eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, how did you know?”

“Lucky guess.” PJ snickers.

“What matters is that I believe you,” I say. “I believe your stuff was moved around. And I believe that someone besides you moved it.” Clara‟s face fal s and then her hands start to do that fluttering thing again. They tremble midair in front of her eyes, as though she‟s trying to cool herself off—or simply hold it al together. It‟s almost as if my believing her and acknowledging what happened has made it worse, like maybe she could have been talked into believing that she simply mislaid the stuff in her mother‟s absence.

“You told me something bad was going to happen,” she says.

“Not with me around.” PJ goes to crack his knuckles, but his fingers are as loud as he is helpful.

“So what now?” Clara asks. “Should I cal the police or something?” I shake my head. “There‟s no evidence. They‟l just think you put your things back in the wrong place and label you temporarily insane.”

“Yeah, but you can tel them about your nightmares, about how you dreamed about me.”

“And then they‟l label
me
temporarily insane.”

“We need to be crafty,” PJ says, rubbing his palms together.

“I need you to be super aware of where you put stuff for the next few days,” I say. “If someone went through your stuff once, I‟m sure they‟l do it again. Until that time, keep your doors and your windows closed and locked.”

“So I‟m just supposed to sit around until someone breaks in and goes through my stuff again? What if I‟m home when they do it? What if they want to hurt me?”

“I won‟t let them,” I say, but even as I do I remember the blood in my dream and how I saw the death lilies. How there was some guy carrying a whole bouquet of them following after me.

I tel Clara that she‟s welcome to stay at our place but she declines, even when I insist. PJ agrees to accompany her back, a bright and cheery smile across his sunblock-white lips.

“I think I should come, too,” I say. “Maybe I‟l be able to sense something.”

“No,” Clara says. “I mean, not right now. I‟m not sure I could take it if you were able to sense something else.”

“Then when?”

“Don‟t give it another thought, Stacey-bee.” PJ drapes his arm around Clara, accidental y elbowing her ear in the process. “With me around, Clara wil be as safe as a ten-dollar bill slipped down the front of a spinster‟s bustier.”

“Do spinsters even wear bustiers?” Clara cocks her head in thought.

“Just ask Stacey,” he says, winking at me.

“Maybe you could come over later,” Clara says to me. “Right now, I think I‟d just like to make sure everything is secure and in place.”

“You should probably cal your parents, too,” I suggest.

“Maybe they‟l come back early.”

Clara looks away, like maybe she‟s not so sure. Or maybe she doesn‟t want to tell her parents yet.

I see them to the door—PJ, with his arm draped around Clara‟s shoulders, and Clara, leaning into PJ just enough to show interest. The sight of them together like that reminds me that I should go and talk to Jacob. I turn toward his room, but then remember Amber coming in and how upset she seemed.

I knock on the door before going in. Amber is lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, the empty plate that formerly held the Mallomars sitting beside her, chocolate driblets at the corners of her mouth.

“Did you see them like that?” she gasps. “PJ and Miss Hula Girl . . .” She sits up in bed and folds her arms.

“I know,” I say, plunking down beside her.

“I thought she was supposed to be after that Casey guy,” she continues.

“Amber, I had no idea. I mean, maybe a little, but—”

“What?” Her cheeks puff up in anger. “About Casey?”

“No,” I say. “I had no idea that you were stil interested in PJ. I mean, I know you guys flirt, but after all this time of him trying to get you back—”

“Are you dizzy?” she snaps. “I‟m
not
interested in him.”

“Okay.”

“It just total y bugs me out when I hear about some hula girl breaking up relationships and then coming over here and hanging all over a friend of mine. I mean, I don‟t have to be in freaking
love
with PJ to care about him. You of all people should understand that.”

Instead of telling her that she‟s had ample opportunity with PJ—stomping on his heart every chance she gets—instead of pointing out that she doesn‟t even know Casey (never mind the details of what happened between him and his girlfriend), and instead of reminding her that I do indeed know a thing or two about caring for a friend—sometimes caring so much that I nearly get myself killed in the process—I take the dirty Mallomar plate for an emergency refill.

“Stacey—wait.”

I turn around.

“Don‟t go. I‟m just PMSing big time.” She lets out a giant sigh. “I went next door, you know, to see if Sully wanted to go for a swim, and he totally dissed me. Can you believe that? He only asked me if I had my deposit money for the cruise Thursday night. By the way, are you going?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Wel , then, can I borrow twenty bucks?”

I bite my tongue, taking an example from my grandmother‟s silence, thinking to myself how with a self-absorbed, PMSish attitude like that, it‟s no wonder she got dissed.

“Sul y said he had some errands to do,” she continues.

“So maybe he did.”

“He had a freaking
bodyboard
in his hand, Stacey. What, am I not cute enough or something?”

“Of course you are.”

“Then what?” she whines.

There‟s a knock on the door. Drea‟s standing there. “Can I get in on this conversation?”

“I don‟t want to hear it.” Amber fal s back on her bed.

“Trouble in paradise?” Drea asks.

“My love life doesn‟t have a paradise,” Amber moans. “On second thought, my love life doesn‟t even have a life.”

“Hold that thought,” I say, remembering Jacob next door. I head to his room to try and salvage what‟s left of
my
paradise. I knock on the door but there‟s no response. “Jacob?” I eek the door open, but no one‟s even in there.

Just boy-mess everywhere—pizza cartons stacked at the foot of PJ‟s bed, dirty laundry littered about the floor, and half-drunken Gatorades lined up on Chad‟s night table. Aside from the different taste in snacks—chocolate over pizza and Diet Cokes in place of Gatorades, their room is not unlike ours.

I go to Jacob‟s bed, noticing the dream box on his pil ow. It‟s sort of like mine—

smallish with chrome hinges, only instead of pine, his is made from a knotted hickory. I pick it up, wanting more than ever to know what he‟s dreaming about, wondering why he won‟t just tel me.

I close my eyes and do my best to concentrate on the box, feeling the knots of wood beneath my fingertips, hoping to gain the answer. But the only vibrations I feel in my fingers are the ones I got from Clara—that cold, tingling sensation.

“What are you doing in here?” Drea asks, completely startling me. The dream box tumbles from my grip.

“You scared me,” I say.

She‟s standing in the doorway, arms folded like this is
her
room and not theirs.

“Didn‟t mean to scare you,” she says, “but what
are
you doing in here?”

“What does it look like?”

Amber peeks over Drea‟s shoulder and pushes past her into the room. “It looks like you‟re snooping through the guys‟ stuff without letting us in on the action. Let‟s see,” she continues, looking around, “if I were a piece of something scandalous—”

“You already are,” Drea interrupts.

“So true.” Amber smiles at the unintended compliment. She moves over to Jacob‟s dresser and starts rummaging through the top drawer.

“I don‟t think so.” I hop from the bed and jump in front of her, doing my best to keep her back.

“What‟s with the schoolmarm attitude? Afraid of finding something interesting?” Amber reaches around me and snags a pair of boxers from the drawer—gray with thin black stripes. “On second thought,” she says, inspecting the merchandise,

“looks like
his
stuff might be just as snoreful as yours.”

“Not that it‟s any of your business,” Drea adds.

“You just don‟t want me to start fishing through Chad‟s stuff.”

“No,” Drea says, folding her arms in front. “I don‟t.” She stands behind Amber, helping me to box her in before she does any real damage.

“Fine, be that way,” Amber squawks. “But don‟t come crying to me when you both find out that your seemingly picture-perfect significant others are really closet exotic dancers at the Shaky Snake.”