White is for Magic (11 page)

amount of stress lately--even if he does believe it's posttraumatic. So,why can't he just put grudges aside and call me like any other good friend would?

After two phone calls to his room with no luck, I end up giving him until exactly 9:15 before I decide to go out. At 9:19,1 stuff the crystal cluster rock into my pocket, fill my backpack with a handful of spell ingredients, and make my way out into the night. I think what I really need right now is a little bit of energy cleansing and some definite answers, and I can't think of a better place to find both than outside, under the frost moon--especially since the thought of going down to my altar in the boiler room is so far from appealing right now.

Since the entire campus is surrounded by acres of forest, it isn't difficult to find the ideal space.

Despite what happened last year, I still love the forest, especially at night, under the moon and a spattering of stars. The whole atmosphere helps center me, helps me reconnect with the natural spirit and put things into perspective.

Using my small flashlight as a guide, I end up walking around the side of our dorm, across the lawn, and entering the forest by the path that everyone uses when they want to go drinking. I turn to the left and find myself a peaceful spot on the edge--just deep enough to be concealed but not too deep that I can't see the waxing gibbous moon right above me. It's absolutely perfect, just a day from fullness-- so amazing that I almost can't believe I spent so long cooped up in my room.

I sit on a patch of grass and do my best to breathe the moon's energy in, to swallow it up and allow the light to

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soak into my skin. After a few peaceful minutes, I take the crystal from my pocket and place it on the ground in front of me. It can't be a mere coincidence that someone dropped it right outside my study-room door. I know that someone left it for me. I just need to figure out who that someone is before it's too late.

I prop my flashlight up against a rock and begin emptying the spell ingredients from my bag.

With a pair of scissors, I start with my hair. I grab one of the longer layers at the side, trim off about four full inches, and then knot the shorn tress at the top to avoid unnecessary frayage. The lock of hair looks weird in my hand, almost surreal, like it isn't really mine. I deposit it into the metal mixing bowl I sometimes use for away-from-home spells and then pour a few droplets of clove oil on top--the normally pale orange liquid now a deep walnut color in such darkness. I move on to my fingernails next. Using a pair of regular nail clippers, I cut them down to the nubs over the bowl, making sure the individual shards drop inside. Then I pour in a few more droplets of the oil, the heavy scent filling the air around me.

I touch the side of my hair where I cut. Despite my careful attempt, I can feel where the chunk is missing, just below my ear. Hopefully the remaining strand is long enough to tie back. If not, I'll just have to do my best at blending. I glance down at my nails, all stubby now; a couple have even started to bleed. I stuff them into my mouth to clot the blood and then plunge them into the mixing bowl. Using my fingers, I mix my hair and bone up in the clove oil, concentrating on the mixture's ability to increase

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my psychic awareness of self. "Skin and blood, oil and bone," I whisper. "Oh, Moon, I beg thee: Let the truth be known."

I pluck a potato, courtesy of the cafeteria lady on duty this morning, and a black ballpoint pen from the side pocket of my bag. Into the raw potato skin I carve my questions: WILL I KEEP

MY PROMISE? and WHAT MIGHT MY PROMISE BE?

I place the potato into the mixing bowl and pour the remainder of the clove oil over it, approximately two tablespoons. I roll the potato in the mixture, making sure it gets moistened, that the carved letters fill up with my spirit.

After several moments of mixing and concentrating, I spread a large sheet of wax paper out on the ground and then pour the mixture onto it, the carved questions facing up toward the moon. I sprinkle some dirt on top, in the form of the letter M, and then roll everything up in the wax paper, securing it with a thick rubber band.

"I offer you, Moon, pieces of myself--my body, my bone--wrapped in love and spirit, and ask thee in return to help me see more clearly, to increase my natural awareness."

Using a spoon, I dig a hole about six inches deep into the patch of soil in front of me, my fingers aching as I struggle to break through the near-frozen earth. I deposit the gift inside, pack the soil back up, and then place the crystal cluster rock over the spot. "Blessed be," I whisper, looking up toward the moon.

The spell complete, I feel completely refreshed, as though suddenly more awake, more attuned with myself and nature. I lean back on my elbows and notice the pine 116

tree just to the side of me. I love pine needles--the way they smell, the smooth and brittle texture when I roll them between my fingers, their ability to protect and dispel negativity. I pick up a couple branches from the ground for later use. That's when I hear a rustling sound coming from a few yards behind me.

I toss the branches into my bag, along with my spell supplies, and grab the crystal. It's probably just some kids looking to booze it up before bedtime. I wait a few seconds for more noise, but I don't hear anything. I switch off my flashlight and stand up. Now I can hear it, the snapping sound of kindling, like someone's made a campfire.

I click my flashlight back on, but keep the beam low, and take a couple steps toward the sound. I can see the bright orangey glow in the distance, the tiny sparks that jump up into the wind. But I don't hear anything else. No voices or laughing. No sounds of beer cans opening or bottles being broken.

The crystal pressed into my palm, I approach the campfire, just a few yards away. I can see a male figure, sitting in a partial clearing laden with rocks, the left side of his body illuminated by the campfire flame. He reaches into his knapsack and begins gathering whatever lies inside into the crook of his arm. He gets up and spreads the objects out around the perimeter of the fire.

Rocks, I think. I do my best to try and keep track of how many he's setting down, to see if he's marking all eight directions, north to west. But I can't be sure. He sits back down, pokes at the fire a couple times with a stick, and then pulls something from the side 117

pocket of his knapsack. Ajar. He shakes the contents up a few times and then holds the jar up to view. There's a powdery, brownish substance inside, like beach sand, highlighted by the lapping flames. He unscrews the top and then pours something into it from a tiny container. A liquidy substance. He mixes it all up with a stick from the ground, dips his fingers inside, and then rubs the mixture down the side of his face and at the back of his neck.

The whole picture of it, of someone else aside from myself performing some sort of moonlight ritual, completely weirds me out. It's not because I think I'm the only person on the planet who does stuff like this; it's just that, aside from my grandmother and some make-believe witches on TV, I've never actually seen anybody else do stuff like this. And yet, aside from that weirded-out part, there's another part that's intrigued, curious . . . almost hopeful, and I'm not even sure why. I squeeze the crystal, noticing how warm it feels in my hand, how I can't stop shaking.

As curious as I am and as much as I'd like to watch him more, I suddenly feel guilty, as though I'm invading his sacred space, as though the moon is watching me do it. I step backward and point the flashlight beam toward the ground to navigate my way out. There's a group of bushes in front of me. I suck my gut in, hold the slack of my coat, and slip through as cleanly as possible to avoid making any noise. But, on my second step through, I hear a loud, cracking noise. I stop.

Look down. It came from the ground. A long, dry branch, cracked in half, my faux Doc Marten pressed down on the broken pieces.

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My heart starts beating so hard I think he must hear that too. I click my flashlight off and do my best to hold my breath.

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I close my eyes and squat as far down into the bushes as my knees will allow.

"Who's there?" he calls, taking a step.

I'm breathing so hard I can barely think straight. I scrunch myself up even further, burrowing my head into my knees, waiting for him to turn around like he's made some mistake.

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¦ ¦

I can hear him moving toward me, his body shifting through the brush, his footsteps snapping fallen twigs--just a few feet away now.

Still, I don't move. I envision myself as part of these bushes, blending into them, imagining my arms like thick branches, my back like a stump.

He takes another step. And then another. I peek out through my fingers, but I can't see much from this angle; there's just brush, scratching against my face.

"I know you're there," he says, just inches from me now; I can hear the closeness of his voice.

I take a deep breath, muster up the courage of the moon, and straighten up. He's standing right in front of me. I click my flashlight on and shine it toward him. He does the same.

"Stacey?" he says. "What are you doing here?" He stares at me hard, his eyes wide, almost glinting. The color is visible in my flashlight beam, caught somewhere between gray and the lightest blue.

"How do you know me?" I ask, the flashlight shaking in my grip.

There's a mark on his face. From the spell, I presume. A thick and shimmering line down his cheek.

"We've met," he says.

My voice cracks. "Where?"

"Don't you remember?"

I tighten my grip on the flashlight to steady the shake and clench down on my jaw, conjuring up the other night in the boiler room. The guy chasing after me, up the stairs, calling out my name.

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"I wouldn't exactly call it
meeting,"
I say through gritted teeth.

"What do you mean?"

"Breaking into the boiler room of a girls' dorm in the middle of the night and scaring me half to death is hardly meeting."

"We met before that. Don't you remember?"

I study his face a moment--tawny skin, I think; darkish hair, sort of longish on the top. I try to recollect the voice from my nightmare, the one behind the weathered gray door in the basement, to decipher whether it's the same. But I just can't tell.

"We bumped into each other," he says. "In September, during orientation."

"I don't think so," I say, stepping back.

"Really," he says, moving forward. "I was coming out of the bursar's office. You were hiking up the stairs, two at a time . . ."

It takes me a couple moments, but then I do begin to remember bumping into someone, some faceless person. The avalanche of textbooks out of my backpack and down the stairs, the spill of pencils and other assorted school supplies. I remember being in such a rush, just scrambling there on the ground, trying to pick everything up and cram it back into my bag. Vaguely, I recall somebody trying his best to help me.

'Are you the one who sent me that e-mail?" I ask, changing the subject.

"We need to talk, Stacey," he says.

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'Are you the one who gave me this?" I hold the crystal 0)ut for show.

"Is that okay?"

"Okay?"

"Yeah," he says. "I wanted you to have it. I was gonna gjive it to you myself, you know, instead of just leaving it trhere at the door. But then I saw your friends coming and didn't feel like a party. It was that way at the Hangman, too. I wanted to talk to you alone."

"So we're alone now," I say. And just as soon as I say it, I w/ant to take it all back. I don't want him to know I'm ajlone. I tighten my hand around the crystal, making a hardened fist, just in case I need to fight.

"I don't want to hurt you, Stacey," he says, as though reeading my mind.

"So, what
do
you want?"

"Just like I said; we need to talk."

"So talk."

"Not now. Not here."

"Then I'm outta here." I turn to leave.

"No, don't." He takes another step toward me, his eyes -widening.

I shine my flashlight toward the campus grass, just a few y^rds away, the tall spotlights beaming over the cement benches in the near distance. If I wanted to, I could yell for hcelp and someone would definitely hear me.

"Don't leave," he says. "I do want to talk to you. I'm just ini the middle of something right now."

I look over his shoulder at the fire, still alive and kindling, a few stray embers floating up from the heat. "What are yC)u doing?"

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"I think you might already have some idea." He looks deeply at me, his slate-blue eyes pouring right into my own, so intense I have to look away. "Can we talk tomorrow?" he asks.

I don't say anything. Because I want to talk to him. Because I want to find out what he has to say.

I just don't want him to know I do.

"We could try meeting at the Hangman again," he says. "After hours. But this time you could come alone?"

"Why so late?" I ask.

"Because what I have to say is private. No one else can be around."

"What is it about?"

"You," he says.

"What about me?"

"The crystal I gave you," he begins. "You know what it means, right?"

But instead of answering I focus on the glistening stripe down his cheek--a mix of sandalwood and dandelion, maybe.

"I'll meet you in the library," I say. "In the same study room. Eight o'clock. We can keep the door closed."

"You promise you'll be there?"

"Promise?" I ask, the word so heavy in my mind. "As in, 'will I keep my promise'?"

"Yeah," he says, looking at me funny. "You promise you'll be there?"

I nod, trying to figure him out, trying to decide if he's the one who sent the letter. "But I won't wait for you. At 8:05, I'm gone."

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A tiny smile forms on his lips, like he's relieved and pleased at the same time. He pauses a moment to smdy my face, my chin, my lips. And then locks eyes with me once more.