Blue Is for Nightmares by Laurie Faria Stolarz Read Free Book Online
Authors: Laurie Faria Stolarz
didn't know how to tell you the truth."
"What is the truth?"
"Everything I said about Chad making a date with you and then breaking it is true, but the other stuff--
The phone rings, interrupting me. Drea gets up to answer it. "Hello?" she says. "Yes, thanks for getting back to me. This is the second time I've had to call about our broken window. When can I expect someone to fix it?"
When I hear her mention Chad's jersey being missing, I turn away, figuring she's talking to campus police. "I can't blame her for getting all huffy at me for lying--I'd be huffy too. I just hope it doesn't jeopardize her trust in me later on.
I lean back on my bed and take in a deep breath. And then I remember. My laundry. In the washroom. The pee- stained sheets. I consider walking back over there, but after the cards and lying and that stupid cookie gift, I decide my heart has absorbed enough shock for one night. I will set my alarm to vibration mode for 5 A.M. tomorrow morning, stash it under my pillow, and run over to the washroom before anyone is even awake.
Drea clicks the phone off, but then starts dialing again. Calling Chad, I presume.
Instead of dwelling over it, I decide to be productive. I get up and fish into the back of my closet for the family scrapbook. Heavy and cumbersome, it has torn and yellowing mismatched pages and burn marks in the corners. It's packed with all sorts of passed-down materials--home remedies, spells, bits of favorite poetry, even secret recipes, like my fifth cousin's coffee braids.
My grandmother gave the book to me two weeks before she passed away, and every time I use it I picture women, ages ago, in long apron-dresses, doing spells or reading magical poetry by candlelight. When I asked my gram how
she got it, she told me that her great-aunt Ena gave it to her, and that I should pass it along to someone else one day, someone like me who has the gift.
I peel the book open to a half-crumpled page signed by my great-great-great aunt Ena. It's a home remedy to help cure night-blindness: raw fish liver for dinner. Gross, but it probably beats the cafeteria food. I page through the book a bit more. I want to do a dream spell tonight, one that waxes my nightmares to fullness instead of waning them away.
I don't use the book often, especially because Gram always said it wasn't good to rely on it, that spells or remedies come from within, and that we are the ones who give them meaning. But whenever I do use it, I love to look at the handwriting--places where the pen skipped and caused a tiny splash, or places where the ink bled. Those who had a tendency to slant the letters versus those who wrote all bubbly. I can almost imagine the personalities of these women just by looking at their names, the way they wrote them, and what they chose to contribute. It always leaves me with a magical sense of connection to my family, even to those I never met.
I have never performed this type of spell before, but if I want to change the future and save Drea, I need more clues.
I light a stick of lemongrass incense. Then I gather up the tools I need and lay them on my bed: a branch of rosemary, an empty pencil case, a bottle of lavender oil, and a yellow wax crayon. The pencil case is the baglike kind, lined inside, with a zipper at the top. Like my gram, I always keep potential spell items on hand. Even if I never
55
find a use for some of the stuff, even if she always pledged that the most essential spell ingredients are in the heart, it's just one more way I can feel connected to her.
I reach inside the drawer for a candle, pausing at the blue one I used last night, Drea's initials the half-burned O, the E, and the S--stare up at me. Her initials stand for Drea Olivia Eleanor Sutton, and have been the butt of jokes ever since I've known her. Guys say stuff like "Drea DOES it best" and "Drea DOES anything, anytime." At first I thought she was asking to get harassed. She has the initials stitched to practically
"What is the truth?"
"Everything I said about Chad making a date with you and then breaking it is true, but the other stuff--
The phone rings, interrupting me. Drea gets up to answer it. "Hello?" she says. "Yes, thanks for getting back to me. This is the second time I've had to call about our broken window. When can I expect someone to fix it?"
When I hear her mention Chad's jersey being missing, I turn away, figuring she's talking to campus police. "I can't blame her for getting all huffy at me for lying--I'd be huffy too. I just hope it doesn't jeopardize her trust in me later on.
I lean back on my bed and take in a deep breath. And then I remember. My laundry. In the washroom. The pee- stained sheets. I consider walking back over there, but after the cards and lying and that stupid cookie gift, I decide my heart has absorbed enough shock for one night. I will set my alarm to vibration mode for 5 A.M. tomorrow morning, stash it under my pillow, and run over to the washroom before anyone is even awake.
Drea clicks the phone off, but then starts dialing again. Calling Chad, I presume.
Instead of dwelling over it, I decide to be productive. I get up and fish into the back of my closet for the family scrapbook. Heavy and cumbersome, it has torn and yellowing mismatched pages and burn marks in the corners. It's packed with all sorts of passed-down materials--home remedies, spells, bits of favorite poetry, even secret recipes, like my fifth cousin's coffee braids.
My grandmother gave the book to me two weeks before she passed away, and every time I use it I picture women, ages ago, in long apron-dresses, doing spells or reading magical poetry by candlelight. When I asked my gram how
she got it, she told me that her great-aunt Ena gave it to her, and that I should pass it along to someone else one day, someone like me who has the gift.
I peel the book open to a half-crumpled page signed by my great-great-great aunt Ena. It's a home remedy to help cure night-blindness: raw fish liver for dinner. Gross, but it probably beats the cafeteria food. I page through the book a bit more. I want to do a dream spell tonight, one that waxes my nightmares to fullness instead of waning them away.
I don't use the book often, especially because Gram always said it wasn't good to rely on it, that spells or remedies come from within, and that we are the ones who give them meaning. But whenever I do use it, I love to look at the handwriting--places where the pen skipped and caused a tiny splash, or places where the ink bled. Those who had a tendency to slant the letters versus those who wrote all bubbly. I can almost imagine the personalities of these women just by looking at their names, the way they wrote them, and what they chose to contribute. It always leaves me with a magical sense of connection to my family, even to those I never met.
I have never performed this type of spell before, but if I want to change the future and save Drea, I need more clues.
I light a stick of lemongrass incense. Then I gather up the tools I need and lay them on my bed: a branch of rosemary, an empty pencil case, a bottle of lavender oil, and a yellow wax crayon. The pencil case is the baglike kind, lined inside, with a zipper at the top. Like my gram, I always keep potential spell items on hand. Even if I never
55
find a use for some of the stuff, even if she always pledged that the most essential spell ingredients are in the heart, it's just one more way I can feel connected to her.
I reach inside the drawer for a candle, pausing at the blue one I used last night, Drea's initials the half-burned O, the E, and the S--stare up at me. Her initials stand for Drea Olivia Eleanor Sutton, and have been the butt of jokes ever since I've known her. Guys say stuff like "Drea DOES it best" and "Drea DOES anything, anytime." At first I thought she was asking to get harassed. She has the initials stitched to practically
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