Blue Is for Nightmares (11 page)

"He
is
an artist," Amber says. "I just love artists." "You just love everyone," Drea says.

"Do I sense a note of jealousy?" Amber juts her bosom forward. "The boy
is
fair game. Maybe I'll let him sculpt

55

me.

"I don't think he's into abstracts." Drea kisses the protection bottle and shoves it back into her skirt. "Come on, let's go to the library before I change my mind."

We creep around the side of the building, and even though everything feels as if it's been changed in some way--who we can trust, what we can say, where we can say it--the library appears just as it has on any other day, like a giant brick harmonica dropped down from outer space. The constancy of it comforts me.

We round the corner by the tennis court and there it is. In full view. The pay phone. But it isn't the actual phone we stand there gawking at; it's the person using it.

Chad.

"Oh my god," Drea says. "He's calling home, right? Tell me he's calling his home."

-Right," I say. "Home."

"Right," Amber repeats. "Even though he has a perfectly good phone in his dorm room with an economical calling plan."

"Seriously," I say, "what are the odds that whoever called us would still be on the phone? It could be anybody" I glance around at the swarm of navy-blue-and-green-plaided bodies sitting, stretching, and standing in the quad area.

"Yeah, and maybe if we didn't stop to flirt with Donovan," Drea evil-eyes Amber, "we could have gotten here a lot faster."

"Hey" Amber says, "don't complain. I was just trying to do you a favor."

"Well, don't try so hard next time, okay?"

We continue toward the phone, toward Chad, our eyes burning blisters into his back. He doesn't look like he's talking to anyone, just listening, or waiting for somebody to pick up.

"Chad," Drea says, when we're close enough. "What do you think you're doing?"

He turns and clunks the receiver back down on its cradle. "Oh, hi, guys. What's up?"

"Who were you talking to?" Drea asks.

"Nobody"

"Well, I guess you just hung up on nobody then."

"What
are
you, my mother?" He flips his notebook shut and stacks it atop the heap of books on the shelf.

"I guess I just don't think it's polite to hang up on someone. That's all."

"Well, not that it's any of your business, but I wasn't talking to anyone. They weren't home."

"Who's 'they'?" Amber asks.

Chad ignores her and looks at me, and I feel my cheeks turn into fireballs. "What's up, Stacer

"Not much," I say, watching his eyes linger at my hips, move past my wobbly knees, and land on my clunky black shoes. Why did I wear socks instead of tights today? I wonder if he notices that the left sock is yanked up at least six inches higher than the right. I cross my legs at the ankle, hoping it offsets how stylistically challenged I am, and glance at Drea. She shoots me a quick dose of the evil eye and then looks away.

"Well," Amber says. "Maybe we should get going." She yawns in Chad's direction. "We were just heading off to the library to study."

"Study?" Chad arches his eyebrows.

"Yeah," Amber says. "You know, that thing you do with books."

"Really?" He folds his arms at us. "How come I don't believe you? What are you guys really up to?"

"Women,
asshole," Amber says. "Not guys. Not girls.
Women."

"Don't think for a minute that I don't know what you
women
are doing here."

"What are you talking about?" I say.

A smile curls up his perfectly kissable cheek. "You came for the Olympics of the Mind meeting, right?" He points to a bright orange flyer taped to the wall, calling all first-time brain athletes into the library basement for a meeting.

"Oh, yeah, right," Amber says. "My brain gets enough of a workout in school. The last thing I want to do is use it
after
school."

"That explains a lot," Drea says.

I glance at the iron clock in the middle of the quad. It's just after four o'clock, only twenty minutes after the phone call in our room. "When did you get here?"

'About five minutes ago."

"Did you see anyone using the phone before you?" "No, why? What's up?"

"Nothing," I say. "I was just supposed to meet someone here. That's all."

"Really?" Chad's eyes narrow on me. 'Anyone I should know about?"

"Yeah," Drea bursts out, before I can speak. "Our little Stacey here was just
waiting for
someone.
Get the picture?"

"Now get out of the picture," Amber says, fake-smoking her Hello Kitty pencil.

If tearing someone's acrylic nails off, glue and all, and cramming them down her throat didn't look so unattractive, I would probably do just that to Drea right now. She
II5

knows exactly what she's doing--burning away any bridge of possibility that exists between me and Chad.

"Three's company" Drea says, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "So we need to split too, right Amb?" Amber nods.

"I can take a hint." Chad collects his books and leaves, without even one last minuscule peek in my direction. Drea elbows me in the ribs when he's gone. "That totally worked. He so believed you were waiting for someone." "Great," I say.

"So now what?" Amber says. "You don't seriously think it's Chad, do you?"

"He knows something," Drea whispers.

"You don't know that." I watch him as he walks away, until his figure has blended into the sea of matching blue blazers. The last thing I want to believe is that he has anything to do with this.

"What are you staring at?" Drea asks. "Picture will last longer."

"I thought I saw PJ," I say.

"Yeah, right," Drea says. "I don't know why you bother; Chad can be such a jerk. I'm so glad I refused to give him my homework."

"Refused or forgot?" Amber asks. "You were kind of preoccupied this morning."

Drea ignores the question. She glances at the phone and smiles. "Let's see who Chad was really talking to. Can you redial on a pay phone?"

"Negative," Amber says. "But we
could
call the operator and tell them to dial back the last number. We can just say

that it's an emergency and we can't remember the last digit or something."

"It'll never work," Drea says. "But let's try it."

Amber picks up the receiver, dials a zero, and waits a few seconds. "Hello? Why aren't you picking up?" She finger- punches the zero a bunch more times before hanging up. "Oh my god, what if this was, like, an emergency or something?"

The phone rings. We look at each other, unsure of what to do, if we should get it. Two rings.

Three. Amber's mouth quivers, as though she's about to say something, but instead she picks up the receiver. "Hello? Yes." She covers her free ear to hear better. "What?" She lifts the receiver from her ear, but instead of hanging it up, she passes it to Drea. "It's for you."

Drea crinkles her eyebrows, confused. She takes the phone, and Amber and I huddle in close to listen. "Hello?" Drea says.

There's a long pause before a static-filled voice--his voice--speaks to us. "Sorry I couldn't stick around to chat, Drea. But I'll be sure to call you later when it's more private and we can talk about more intimate things, like your bra."

"My bra?"

"Pink. Lace trim around the cups. Size 34B."

Oh! My! God! I press my eyes shut, jar my mouth, and let a long, audible huff of air spew out my mouth.
He
has my laundry.

Drea dangles the phone in between two fingers and starts to hyperventilate. I take the receiver from her and the voice continues in my ear: "Tell your friends it isn't nice to
I17

eavesdrop on other people's phone calls. I don't want to talk to
them,
Drea. I want to talk to you. I want to
be
with you. And soon, that will happen."

The phone clicks on the other end. I drop the receiver so that it dangles inches from the ground.

Amber snatches a notebook out of some freshman's hand and starts fanning Drea's face with it.

-Just breathe," Amber says. "Try and catch your breath."

"I can't do this anymore," Drea mumbles between puffs. -I can't...." Her voice trails off in a series of desperate gasps.

"I know" I take her hands and help her to sit down on the cement curbing. "I think maybe you should go home for a week or so, until this is over."

-You should, Drea," Amber says.

Drea shakes her head and swats Amber's notebook- fanning away. "I'll be okay" she says, regaining her breath.

'Are you sure?" I ask. -Do you want to go lie down?"

-I'm fine."

The dial tone plays from the receiver like a horrible reminder that he's still with us somehow.

"He's screwing with us," Amber says.

Drea straightens up a bit. "How did he know we were going to come here? How does he know about my bra?"

Yikes. I didn't want to tell her about the bra or the hanky in the first place, because I didn't want to admit about the pee-stained laundry I just wanted to put the whole incident behind me and hope it didn't come back.

"How did he know we'd be together?" Drea looks at Amber and me for answers, as if we have them.

"Because he's screwing with us," Amber says. "Whoever is behind this knows all of us pretty well. He knows that I have the pay phone numbers listed in my address book and that's why he didn't block the call."

And he knew we'd come running out here to find him," I finish.

"I bet he can see us," Amber says, peering around the quad. "He's probably watching us right now. Probably has a cell phone."

"Then why would he use the pay phone?" Drea asks, the color returning to her cheeks.

"To throw us off track," Amber says. "That's what I'd do." "He's always a step ahead," Drea says.

I draw up on Drea's sweater, pluck the protection bottle from her waist, and place it in her hands.

"He may be a step ahead now," I say. "But he won't be for long."

fift-c-en

It's just past ten o'clock and Drea and I have each taken our stations in bed. Me trying to work through a bunch of word problems for trig, Drea mapping out a Chaucer essay. I tried taking a snooze right after dinner, but I think insomnia has kicked in. I'm hoping the word problems will help do the trick.

It's dead quiet between us. I guess it's an understatement to say we haven't exactly been getting along lately. But it's

also an understatement to say we've both had our reasons to go into bitch mode. I almost wish Amber were around to chisel through the ice wall between our beds, but she ended up studying with PJ tonight. It's true what Drea says about the two of them--they really should go out again.

But Amber is from the school of "My parents were high school sweethearts and still make out like crazy so I refuse to be in a relationship that isn't as perfect as theirs." I guess we all have our hang-ups.

Personally, I don't know what I'm thinking half the time, flirting with Chad, right in front of Drea. But sometimes I just can't help myself, can't bridle the raging hormones I feel beating through my bones, stirring up my blood.

Sort of a shiny friend-thing to do, I know. But I also know I've been blaming my sour-grapes routine on a serious lack of sleep, when I think it's more like a serious lack of self-confidence.

I glance up at Maura's watercolor picture of us sitting on the porch swing, playing cards. I take a deep breath and stifle the self-pity I feel tearing up in my eyes. Maybe what I need is a good dose of Mom. I grab the phone and call her, but unfortunately she isn't home or isn't picking up, so I leave her a message to call me back.

"Drea," I say, flipping my trig book shut, "do you want to talk?"

'Actually, I do." She comes and sits across from me on the bed. "Look, I know I've been a major bitch lately. Earlier, with Chad, during the whole protection bottle thing, the hockey jersey...

I'm just totally flipping out here, Stacey, and I don't know what to do."

"I feel like
I've
been the bitch," I say.

"Oh, please," she says, "a little respect here for the Queen B."

Drea and I end up staying up, doing something we haven't done in a very long time: acting normal. We paint our toenails watermelon pink, give each other banana facials, and yogurt-condition each other's hair. We top off all our beautifying with what else but food our own version of Rice Krispie treats with what's left in the room: cornflakes and peanut butter.

The night is deliciously normal, taking us away for a spell from the horrible reality that sits above us like a black cloud, waiting to pour. But once the food is washed away and the last Krispie treat eaten, the downpour begins and I feel compelled to ask Drea about the guy who's been calling and her relationship with him.

"I just thought it was a wrong number gone right." Drea lays across the end of my bed, her cheek pressed against her paisley pillow, staring off at the wall.

"How often did you talk to him?"

"Not that often. I don't know, maybe five or six times." "What do you know about him?"

"Not much. Like I said, he didn't want to exchange names. We mostly just talked about situations--you know, like how each other felt about certain things."

"Like what?"

"Like dating stuff.- She laughs--a nervous giggle--and rolls over onto her back.

"What kind of dating stuff?"

"You know, the kind of stuff you do on dates."

"You mean s-e-x stuff?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, not all the time, but sometimes." he holds a leg up midair to peek at her watermelon-pink toenails, annoyance growing in her voice. "It wasn't what you're thinking, Stacey. I mean, he was really nice at first. It diidn't bother me. It needs to bother the person for it to be considered harassment or something."

Is she crazy? I want to ask her that, want to slap her silly.

.mean, what is she thinking? How could she just go on tallking to some perv like that, some guy she doesn't even lc-now?

But instead of pointing out every single red flag in their screwed-up little relationship, I listen, trying my best not to juKige, biting my tongue at all the serious deviations in corninton sense: questions about petting versus grinding, about wihat each of them was wearing at the time of the conversaition. And my own personal favorite: him starting to refer to them as a couple, getting all jealous when Drea wasn't anound to answer his calls, and Drea going along with it.