Read Online White is for Magic by Laurie Faria Stolarz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurie Faria Stolarz
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popping going on in Amber's mouth right now.
"No," I say, turning to Drea. "I don't expect you to go. As a matter of fact, I think it's best if you stay here. Just in case something happens . . . we know we can reach you."
'And you'll know where we've gone," Amber adds. "Just in case we don't come back."
"Stop it," I say. "We'll be fine."
'Are you sure?" Drea asks.
"Definitely."
Drea smiles and I smile back, like maybe the tension of the situation has helped alleviate some of the weird energy between us.
"What time did the e-mail say again?" Amber asks.
"Eleven-thirty."
"You still have a couple hours," Drea says.
"So what should we do?" Amber asks.
"Do you want to call Chad to go with you guys?" Drea asks. "Or maybe we should call campus police to give them the heads up."
"I think I just need some time to myself." The letter still in my hand, I grab an afghan from my bed and a handful of dried orange peels from the jar in my spell drawer. I make my way out to the sofa in the common room. I need complete silence to concentrate, to pour my energy into the letter and hope that it comes back to me per the law of three--Gram used to always remind me that whatever en
79
ergy I cast out into the universe would come back at me three times.
I lay the letter open on the coffee table in front of me and drop the orange peels on it. I arrange the peels in the shape of the sun--one circular piece in the center with twisted, narrow spokes that radiate from it for rays. I concentrate on the idea of the sun, on the sun's energy and its ability to awaken the senses. My grandmother used to say that I would always do my best studying outside because the sun's energy would enliven me. And that, in times when the sun is down, I should bring it back up with something symbolic that reminds me of its power and energy.
I rub each individual peel between the tips of my fingers, thinking how the sun implanted its energy into the peel to bring about the orangey color, to give birth to the fruit inside. Then I close my eyes, collect the peels into my lap, and run my fingers over the letter, transferring the sun's energy from my skin to the grain of the paper. I feel the individual creases, the way the letter was folded up in three. For some reason it urges me to fold it up even more. I go with the feeling, folding the letter up into a palm-sized square, tucking and untucking flaps until I end up with that MASH game I used to play in grade school.
"Let me guess." A much-uninvited Trish Cabone comes and plops herself down on the sofa beside me. "Stacey Brown will marry Chad McCaffrey, they'll have three children, live in a mansion, and have chimpanzees for pets."
I feign a polite giggle. "You're obviously familiar with MASH."
80
8o
"Totally." She pulls at the clump of curlicues atop her head--tight black ringlets with just a hint of midnight blue--and props her elephant-slippered feet up on the table. "MASH fortunes were the most fun. Of course, that was when I was twelve."
"Right," I say, pocketing the letter and my orange peels. I have no idea what prompted me to fold the letter up that way. "I guess I was just seeing if I remembered how to play."
"You and Chad are pretty serious, aren't you? So maybe you guys will get married."
I shrug.
She yanks at the wad of watermelon-pink gum in her mouth and nods her head emphatically, like my silent shrugging is so profound.
"I better go study. History test tomorrow."
"Wait," she says, her eyes all big and round, thick black rings of liner outlining the lids. "I wanted to ask you, what was up with the other night? You know . . . when you started screaming out here?"
"Just a bad nightmare," I say, getting up.
"About last year?" She stands up as well. 'A lot of kids have been talking about it, you know?"
I nod.
"Was your nightmare like one of the ones you were having last year? About Drea?"
"No," I manage. "It was different than that."
"Different how?" She's pulling at her
"No," I say, turning to Drea. "I don't expect you to go. As a matter of fact, I think it's best if you stay here. Just in case something happens . . . we know we can reach you."
'And you'll know where we've gone," Amber adds. "Just in case we don't come back."
"Stop it," I say. "We'll be fine."
'Are you sure?" Drea asks.
"Definitely."
Drea smiles and I smile back, like maybe the tension of the situation has helped alleviate some of the weird energy between us.
"What time did the e-mail say again?" Amber asks.
"Eleven-thirty."
"You still have a couple hours," Drea says.
"So what should we do?" Amber asks.
"Do you want to call Chad to go with you guys?" Drea asks. "Or maybe we should call campus police to give them the heads up."
"I think I just need some time to myself." The letter still in my hand, I grab an afghan from my bed and a handful of dried orange peels from the jar in my spell drawer. I make my way out to the sofa in the common room. I need complete silence to concentrate, to pour my energy into the letter and hope that it comes back to me per the law of three--Gram used to always remind me that whatever en
79
ergy I cast out into the universe would come back at me three times.
I lay the letter open on the coffee table in front of me and drop the orange peels on it. I arrange the peels in the shape of the sun--one circular piece in the center with twisted, narrow spokes that radiate from it for rays. I concentrate on the idea of the sun, on the sun's energy and its ability to awaken the senses. My grandmother used to say that I would always do my best studying outside because the sun's energy would enliven me. And that, in times when the sun is down, I should bring it back up with something symbolic that reminds me of its power and energy.
I rub each individual peel between the tips of my fingers, thinking how the sun implanted its energy into the peel to bring about the orangey color, to give birth to the fruit inside. Then I close my eyes, collect the peels into my lap, and run my fingers over the letter, transferring the sun's energy from my skin to the grain of the paper. I feel the individual creases, the way the letter was folded up in three. For some reason it urges me to fold it up even more. I go with the feeling, folding the letter up into a palm-sized square, tucking and untucking flaps until I end up with that MASH game I used to play in grade school.
"Let me guess." A much-uninvited Trish Cabone comes and plops herself down on the sofa beside me. "Stacey Brown will marry Chad McCaffrey, they'll have three children, live in a mansion, and have chimpanzees for pets."
I feign a polite giggle. "You're obviously familiar with MASH."
80
8o
"Totally." She pulls at the clump of curlicues atop her head--tight black ringlets with just a hint of midnight blue--and props her elephant-slippered feet up on the table. "MASH fortunes were the most fun. Of course, that was when I was twelve."
"Right," I say, pocketing the letter and my orange peels. I have no idea what prompted me to fold the letter up that way. "I guess I was just seeing if I remembered how to play."
"You and Chad are pretty serious, aren't you? So maybe you guys will get married."
I shrug.
She yanks at the wad of watermelon-pink gum in her mouth and nods her head emphatically, like my silent shrugging is so profound.
"I better go study. History test tomorrow."
"Wait," she says, her eyes all big and round, thick black rings of liner outlining the lids. "I wanted to ask you, what was up with the other night? You know . . . when you started screaming out here?"
"Just a bad nightmare," I say, getting up.
"About last year?" She stands up as well. 'A lot of kids have been talking about it, you know?"
I nod.
"Was your nightmare like one of the ones you were having last year? About Drea?"
"No," I manage. "It was different than that."
"Different how?" She's pulling at her
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