Silver is for Secrets (13 page)

“And makes fun of your hair,” Amber adds.

“So does that mean we‟re supposed to just let her die?” I sit back up.

Drea purses her lips and looks away. “No one said anything about dying.”

“No,” I say, “because I‟m not going to let that happen—with or without your help.”

“Al right, already,” Amber sighs. “We‟l help the skank.” Drea nods in agreement, and I can‟t help but smile, even though a part of me stil wants to be angry.

I spend the next several minutes telling them, in hushed tones, about the nightmare I had during the wee hours of this morning. We go over and over all the details, from Clara calling out to me to finding her body on the beach.

“That‟s so weird,” Drea whispers. “Why would you dream about Clara having the bottle you threw out to sea?”

“Easy,” Amber says. “It obviously means Clara‟s connected to the bottle, to the message inside.”

“Yeah, but the message was different in my nightmare,” I remind them.

“But the words weren‟t,” Amber says. “I mean, you
did
say her voice said „don‟t tel anyone‟ and „if you tel I‟l make you pay.‟” I nod. “But that‟s the part that bugs me. On the wal in her room, it just said „I‟l make you pay‟. There was nothing about a secret.” I grab the amulet from around my neck, noting how I should probably replenish the lavender oil inside.

“I wonder if it‟s somebody else‟s secret,” Drea says. “I mean, maybe she knows something she shouldn‟t and somebody‟s threatening her about it.”

“That‟s what I was thinking,” I say. “But it doesn‟t make sense. If someone‟s threatening her over a secret, then why did he—”

“Or
she—
” Amber reminds us.

“Right,” I say. “Why did
whoever
go through her underwear drawer?”

“Um, do I need to draw you a picture?” Amber asks.

“You
went through Jacob‟s underwear drawer . . .” Drea offers.

“Yeah,” I say, “but that was by accident. I never would have done that normal y.”

“Maybe I
should
draw you a picture,” Amber says.

“Be serious,” I say.

“Why do you think you‟re getting cold in your nightmares?” Drea asks.

“The loss of blood maybe.”

“Yeah, but why is Clara bleeding? Is it a wound or something?” I shake my head. “I don‟t know. I can‟t tel , but it seems like in each nightmare I have, the blood is more intense, like she‟s getting closer to death.”

“Which means that your nosebleeds might get more intense, too,” Drea points out.

I nod and glance down at my sheets. There‟s a tiny patch of dried blood from earlier this morning.

“You need iron,” Amber pipes up. “And a multi-vitamin.”

“A definite,” I nod.

“Yeah,” Drea says. “I mean, the last thing you‟d want is to lose so much blood you start to get dizzy and stuff.”

I nod in agreement, adding a trip to the drugstore for some vitamin supplements to my mental to-do list.

“What does Jacob say about al this?” Drea asks.

I shrug. “Just that he‟s here for me, that he wants to help me, that he knows I can do this.”

“He‟s right,” Drea says. “You
can
do this.”

“I know. It‟s just . . . he‟s having nightmares, too.”

“About what?” Amber asks.

I shake my head. “He won‟t tel me. At first I thought it was about Clara. You know

—like that he could see something in her future that he didn‟t think I could handle.

But now I don‟t know.”

“Why won‟t he tel you?” Drea asks.

“I think it‟s because he thinks I have enough to worry about.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Drea says. “I mean, you have to admit, you have been on edge.”

“An understatement,” Amber coughs out.

“I know,” I say, “but you also have to admit, it‟s not every day I have people‟s lives in my hands.” Quite literal y, I think, looking down at my fingers, picturing the splotches of blood across them from my nightmares.

“No,” Amber says. “It‟s more like every year.”

“Good point,” I sigh. “But I also feel like there‟s more to my stress than Clara‟s life and Jacob‟s secrecy—something that I just can‟t—”

“You should trust him, Stacey,” Drea continues. “Maybe he‟s just not ready to tel you every little thing. I mean, there are things in my past that I haven‟t told Chad.”

“Do tel .” Amber rubs her palms together for the dish.

“I don‟t know,” Drea says. “Stupid stuff I tried; stuff I‟ve thought about—

embarrassing moments.”

“Vague, vague, vague,” Amber sings.

“The point is,” Drea continues, “that even though I haven‟t told Chad these things, it doesn‟t mean I don‟t love him. Maybe I wil tel him one day, or maybe I won‟t. But I think it would get pretty old if Chad kept hounding me about stuff I wasn‟t ready to share.”

“Point taken,” I say.

“Good, because I‟l never admit to saying this, but don‟t think I haven‟t wished Chad felt for me a smidgen of what Jacob feels for you.” Drea looks down at her hands, at her pink-and-white manicure and the bite marks she‟s made on one thumbnail.

I take her hand and squeeze it. “Chad loves you; I know he does.”

“Yeah, he loves me, but it‟s different, you know? It‟s not the same as what you have with Jacob.”

“At least you guys have boys to bitch about,” Amber interrupts. “The last guy I dated was Superman over there.” She gestures to her blow-up doll, suspiciously placed in the corner of the room beside her pleather belts and faux-fur boas. She gets up to fish inside the mini-fridge and pulls out not one but two containers of Ben

& Jerry‟s. “To feed our funk,” she says, handing us each a spoon.

We sit in a row on my bed, passing the containers of comfort back and forth, eating away at our gloom.

After devouring all the ice cream left in our cottage, Amber, Drea, and I end up falling asleep for a couple more hours. When I get up, in lieu of taking a shower, I pull a halfway-clean T-shirt and a pair of shorts off the floor and head into the living room to talk to Clara. Once again, she isn‟t there.

Chad and Amber are sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast and discussing the fraternity fundraiser cruise tomorrow night—basically, who should room with whom with respect to finances, significant others, and loud and obnoxious snoring.

“Are you going?” Chad asks me.

“Doubt it,” I say, glancing toward the closed bathroom door and wondering if Clara‟s in there.

“Yeah, that‟s what Jacob said, too,” Chad says.

“Real y?”

He nods, licking what appears to be Danish goo from his fingers.

“Good,” I say. “I‟m glad we‟re on the same wavelength.” Though a part of me wonders why Jacob didn‟t ask me himself. I chew the thought over with a bite of dry cereal straight out of the box, and then take another peek at the empty sofa.

“Who‟s in the bathroom?”

“You need to ask?” Amber looks up at me, her face stil red from the mud mask.

“Who else takes over an hour to blow-dry her hair?”

“So where‟s Clara?”

“Who cares?” Amber moans. “I think my face is sizzling.” She grabs a package of Popsicles and applies it to her cheek.

“The only thing that‟s going to make your face any less burnt is time,
real
aloe, and this.” I grab a couple eggs from the fridge and crack them into a bowl, separating the yolks from the white parts.

“You‟ve got to be kidding,” she says.

“Hardly. Egg whites are famous in my family for treating burns and, since I didn‟t bring my aloe plant with me on vacation, it‟l have to do.” I direct Amber to tilt her head back.

Then I dip my fingers into the egg whites and smear the clear and pulpy mass down her face. The burn actual y isn‟t that bad; it‟s more like a sunburn with a little bit of peeling on one cheek.

“Ahhh!” Amber moans in appreciation. “Who knew slimy rawness could feel this good? Wait,” she pauses. “Let me rephrase.”

“I think I just lost my appetite,” Chad says.

“Then can I have what‟s left of your Danish?” Amber moves to nab it off his plate, but Chad is too quick. He takes a healthy bite and smiles at her as he chews.

“Didn‟t your mother teach you to share?” she asks him.

“Didn‟t
your
mother teach you not to get egg on your face?”

“So hilarious,” she says, rol ing her eyes.

Chad takes another bite, getting a clump of the raspberry goo stuck in his facial scruff.

“What‟s that?” Amber asks. She leans forward and squints toward his face.

“What?” Chad rubs his chin.

“Is that a beard you‟re trying to grow?”

I pinch her in response, hoping she gets the message.

“I don‟t know,” Amber continues. “It kind of looks like one. But maybe it‟s something else—dirt,
hair dye,
maybe.”

Chad‟s mouth fal s open, and I can‟t help but laugh out loud.

“What‟s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“
Ooh la la
,” PJ sings, emerging from his room, saving Amber from having to answer. “A little food fun for breakfast? Whatever it is, count me in.”

“Is Clara with you?” I ask him.

He shakes his head.

“Wel , then where is she?”

“Calm down,” Amber says. “She probably just went out to stand on some street corner.”

“This isn‟t funny.” I move to the bathroom door and knock, just to be sure it isn‟t Clara in there.

“I‟ll be out in a minute,” Drea snaps.

“She‟s been saying that for the past hour,” Chad moans.

I peek back in our room, even though I know she‟s not there either. I go to the guys‟ room and knock lightly before peering in. Empty. “Where‟s Jacob?” I ask.

Amber shrugs and gets up, her face and hands glossy with egg whites. She looks out the front window and then goes outside, leaving the door wide open. Two minutes later she‟s back. “Found Clara!”

“Where?” I ask.

“Just like I said,” Amber gloats. “Ho ho ho, merry Christmas.”

“Is that supposed to make sense?” PJ asks.

“The skank‟s next door, flirting with Casey,” Amber says. “How‟s that for clarity?”

“Seriously?” Chad asks.

“Boo hoo for you too,” Amber gloats.

“She is not,” PJ says. “You‟re just saying that because you‟re al dry and thorny.”

“Horny, not thorny,” Amber corrects. “But if you don‟t believe me, go have a look for yourself.”

PJ does, and I follow right after him. We move out onto the front walkway and spot Clara right away. Only it looks as though she‟s doing a lot more floundering than flirting. She‟s standing on the frat guys‟ porch with Casey but she looks al distraught, waving her hands around, trying to explain something.

It doesn‟t appear as though Casey is buying the story. He ends up leaving her there, going back inside the cottage to get away.

Clara looks in our direction and spots us, which perks her right up. “Hey there!” she bubbles, trotting her way over. “Anyone up for breakfast?”

“What‟s going on?” PJ asks, completely straight-faced.

“What do you mean?” She cocks her head.

“What were you doing over there?”

“Oh,” she giggles—the noise sending nails-on-a-chalkboard shivers down my spine. “I was just saying hi.”

“It didn‟t look too friendly,” I say. “I thought you two weren‟t speaking.”

“Wel , we aren‟t exactly. I just went to give my deposit money for the cruise. Are you guys going? I‟m
so
excited.”

“That‟s it?” PJ asks, ignoring the question.

“Wel , I also went to smooth things over. I mean, I hate it when people are mad at me, especial y when it isn‟t my fault.”

“So did you?” I ask.

“Oh yeah,” she says, adjusting the ties on her sarong—a candy-cane-striped one this time. “I mean, sort of.”

“Wel ,
we
stil need to talk,” I say.

“Is something wrong?”

I nod.

“Wel , it‟l have to wait, my little Stacey Bee,” PJ says, “because me and Miss Clara Bear have our own smoothing over and chit-chatting to do.”

“Sorry,” I say, linking arms with Clara, feeling a chill, even through her sweatshirt, radiate right down to the tips of my fingers. “My chit-chat takes priority.” We leave PJ and walk down the beach strip toward her cottage.

“He‟s real y cute.” Clara giggles.

“He‟s real y something, al right.”

“So, I need to ask,” she continues, “is Drea stil mad?”

“She‟l get over it.”

“Me and Chad were just talking last night,” she reminds me. “Nothing more.” I nod and bite at my bottom lip, fighting the urge to tel her that I wasn‟t born yesterday.

“So are they serious?” she asks.

“Excuse me?” I stop short and turn to look at her, wondering if I‟m hearing things or if she‟s seriously asking me what I think she is.

“Chad and Drea,” she clarifies. “At the Clam Stripper yesterday, she said they got in a fight. I was just wondering if they made up, if they‟re super serious or just kind of casual.”

“Clara,” I say, “I‟m going to forget you asked that.”

“Why?” Her eyebrows furrow up like she‟s thoroughly confused.

“Why?”
I take a deep breath, swallowing down what I really feel like saying.

“Because you have a lot more to worry about than boys.” Her mouth slides into a frown. “Does this have anything to do with where we‟re going?”

“We‟re going to your place,” I say, guiding her in that direction again.

“Now?” Clara gasps. “What for?”

I nod, ignoring her other question. “Are your parents back yet?” Clara shakes her head. “I doubt it. They said they were leaving around eightish, which means they probably won‟t get here until after noon.”

“That‟s probably a good thing,” I say. “At least for now.”

“Why? What‟s going on? Is it something bad?”

I nod, knowing that I can‟t keep it from her, that in only a matter of minutes she‟l see for herself.

“What is it?” She stops us again to study my face.

I keep my expression securely in check by looking away, focusing toward the shamrock-shaped clouds just ahead of us. I don‟t want to give too much away. I want her to see the words for herself. I need to see her reaction to them—if it might reveal that she knows who‟s after her. “You‟l see,” I say, moving forward again.