Despite Amber’s hemming and hawing about going to the party with her and Tim the flirt, I end up convincing her that I need to spend some serious time studying if I want to stay here beyond two weeks.
She really can’t argue, which is why she finally leaves, pouting her way out the door. The only problem: I’m anything but tired. I decide to nab myself a shower, hoping the steamy water coupled with droplets of chamomile and lavender oil will help relax me.
And it does. I step out of the shower stall and wrap myself up in my terry robe, feeling much more centered . . . more balanced, like I might actually be able to fall asleep. But no sooner do I get back to the room than my nerves start rattling again.
There’s a “do not disturb” sign hanging on the doorknob —a picture of a giant set of curly lashed eyes, one of them winking at me. I know it’s not Amber’s—she definitely would have showed me something like this. I rap lightly a couple times on the door, but there’s no response. Maybe it’s just a joke. “Hello?” I call. “Amber?”
A moment later, I see that Sage girl exit her room. She’s got a backpack slung over her shoulder, like she’s going off to study or going out to do a spell maybe. She’s dressed in a long velvety black dress with a purple corduroy coat that has one of those big and fluffy faux-fur collars à la Amber. She peers over her shoulder, catching me looking in her direction, and waves. I wave back, but it’s too late; she’s already turned away, down the exit stairwell.
And I’m still standing here in my robe. I let out a sigh, fish my key out of my basket full of bathing stuff, and open the door only to find Janie. In bed. With her boy toy.
She’s straddling him, wearing a sorry excuse for a bra (two tiny swatches of fabric joined together with a string) and a pair of matching stringy undies. The guy is barely clothed as well—just a pair of boxers and lots of glossy sweat.
My mouth drops open just as Miss Smiley Sticker herself pauses a moment from licking down the length of his face.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, my eyes practically popping out of my head.
“Didn’t you see the sign?” she shouts. “We’re a little busy in here.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I was in the shower.”
“Come back in a couple minutes,” her boyfriend tells me.
Janie frowns at him. “Make that an hour.”
While they resume their activity, I avert my eyes, grab my book bag, pluck some clothes from the foot of my bed—including Amber’s knee-high sheepskin boots—and head back to the bathroom to change. The worse part in this whole scenario—aside from the fact that Little Miss Sticker is getting stuck in our room, making me have to evacuate the premises—is that not only do I have to go to the library for real now (since that’s the only place I can think of to go), but I also have to wear the ridiculous outfit Amber picked out for me, baby tee and all. I cannot believe these are the clothes I picked up. Thank god I also managed to scoop up my sweatshirt with the broken zipper.
So while Amber spends her Friday evening at some off-campus kegger, I spend mine dressed like a prostitute in a study carrel, raving it up with subjects like lipids, proteins, and narrative essays. The one saving grace—my holistic health class. I know I’m technically already failing it, but I’m thinking it’s going to be one of my better courses since I already know a lot of this stuff. I mean, it’s actually interesting —Ayurvedic principles of earth, fire, water, air, and space; Tibetan herbal teas laced with yak butter; and Chinese healing rituals.
It’s actually quite motivational, which is why I end up pulling an all-nighter. That and because when I call the room to check if Janie and her boy toy are finally done, she tells me that they aren’t, but I’m welcome to sleep in our room anyway since it’s “really no big deal.”
Needless to say, it’s a less-than-tempting offer—one I don’t even need to think twice about. So Saturday morning, in lieu of heading straight back to the room for a shower and some sleep, I forget that I’m still dressed like a prostitute and hop on the bus that will take me into town to pick up my prescription.
When I get back to the room, Janie’s in bed—alone, this time. So is Amber. I pop a pill, change into my flannel pj’s, and set my dream box down on the pillow beside me. It’s a small wooden box I bought at a flea market last year. Made of smooth golden pinewood with a chrome hinge and a matching clasp, I open it up so that it can catch my dreams. Jacob taught me all about dream boxes. He’d been keeping one since his freshman year of high school and found that when left open before bed, it enabled one to remember what they dreamed about, so they didn’t end up forgetting as soon as they woke up.
Concentrating on Jacob—on the time we painted henna on each other; on the night we did the spell to banish secrets, and how he held me right after; how we physically declared our love for one another—I lie back in bed and close my eyes, the blissful memories lulling me to sleep.
I wake up with a start, several hours later. There’s a knocking at the door. I look down at my dream box. It’s still open, still sitting beside me on the pillow. But I don’t remember a thing.
I take a deep breath, wondering who’s at our door. Amber and Janie are still in their beds, seemingly unaffected by the banging. So maybe I should ignore it, too. I roll over in bed, dragging a pillow over my ear to block out the noise.
That’s when I hear Amber moan her annoyance. She gets up and staggers over to the door. “It’s only ten-freaking-thirty in the morning,” she whines. “Unless you’re packing a serious bag of Skittles and looking for a good time, I don’t want any.” The next thing I know, the door creaks open and I hear Amber shout, “Tell me I’m having a nightmare!”
I roll back over to face the door just as PJ, Amber’s ex, busts his way in. “Hey there, sweet thing,” he says, kissing both her cheeks, French style. “Guess who arrived to light up your life? And don’t say Debby Boone.”
“Who?” Amber asks.
“Leave it to you not to know a real musical artiste when you hear one. Now, I don’t have Skittles, but I’m always looking for a good time. Will peanut M&M’s suffice?” He flashes the yellow package inside his pocket. “Saved all the green ones for you, Trisket.”
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her mouth hanging open in a gawk.
Except for his hair color, which he tends to change at least twice a semester and which, at present, oddly appears to be a mainstream shade of honey brown (to contrast his usual shades of plum purple and melon orange), he looks exactly the same—tall, thin, with dark gray eyes and short, spiky hair.
“And you thought you could slip your little self away from me so easily.”
“PJ!” I say, leaping out of bed. I wrap my arms around him, even surprising myself. I mean, PJ and I have never been close; it’s just, after everything, it’s refreshing to see a familiar face—especially one that knows what I’m going through, who was there when I lost Jacob.
“Hey there, Miss B,” he says, hugging me back. “I meant to call you once or a hundred times, but you know how it goes for a swanker like me—”
“Too busy harassing girls?” Amber asks.
“No way, my jealous jar of jelly. The only girl I’d ever think of harassing is you.” He winks at her and then focuses back on me. “So how are you feeling?” Instead of answering, I squeeze him tighter. “Better watch out, teacup,” he says to Amber, “you might have a little competition on your hands.”
“It’s good to see you,” I say, breaking the embrace.
“Au natural, my little witchy one.”
“What’s going on?” Janie asks, sitting up in bed.
“Chips ahoy,” PJ says, stepping over a pile of clothes to greet her. He extends his hand for a shake, but ends up kissing the back of her hand instead, his lips landing on a sticker of a happy bunch of grapes. “I’m PJ; maybe you’ve heard of me?”
“Yeah,” Janie says. “You must be Amber’s ex-boyfriend.”
“So she has talked about me.” PJ taps a finger over his lips in thought.
“Just a little,” Janie says, picking a matching grape sticker off her face.
“Do tell. I suppose she told you all about our fits of passion, how she couldn’t keep her hands off me . . . the little schoolboy outfits she had me wear. Such a kinkoid, that one.” He growls.
“Maybe in your dreams,” Amber says.
“As a matter of fact, I have been known to wake up in the middle of the night—sweaty, jammers torn askew, screaming out your name . . . feisty little one.” He winks at her.
“Help!” Amber moans.
“Don’t let her negativity fool you,” he continues to Janie. “She’s just bitter because I broke it off with her. See that Spider-Man doll over there? She closes her eyes at night and imagines it’s me.”
“Oh my god, you’re so cute,” Janie says, hopping up and down on her bed.
“Finally, a lady with taste,” he says.
“Do you go here?” Janie asks.
PJ turns to Amber. “I do now.”
“Um . . . what?” Amber’s mouth hangs open.
PJ’s completely beaming now. “Guess who Beacon University’s newest transfer student happens to be?”
“Tell me you didn’t.”
“Gotta love a straight-A first semester at community college, late registration here, and a hefty donation from Dad to sweeten the deal.”
“Oh my god,” Amber says, taking a seat on her bed. “This isn’t happening. Tell me this isn’t happening.”
“Au contraire, my thorny little bush.” PJ pounces down next to her, planting not one, not two, but three mushy kisses on her cheek. “Believe it or not, there is a splash of bad news amidst all this loveliness.”
“There’s more?” Amber groans.
“I’m homeless.”
“How’s that possible?” I ask.
“The dorms are all filled, that’s how. I’m staying at the Shady 8 Motel and Smoke Shop down the road. So,” he swivels back toward Amber, “unless you’re craving something a little bad-girl-and-broomsticks-with-soundproof-padding-stapled-to-the-back-of-the-bed, we’ll have to conduct our love-fests here.”
Amber pulls Spider-Man over her as a shield, flopping backward in bed, though it’s doubtful that even Spidey can save her. It looks like PJ is here to stay, which, from the way things currently stand, is more than I can say about myself.
PJ gives us all his contact info—including his motel room address and phone number, his cell phone number, and his new campus e-mail address. He makes us promise to call him later. We agree; it’s either that or he won’t leave.
Amber is beyond stressed. She’s resorted to pulling a Drea—gnawing away at a chocolate bar in an effort to eat her funk. “He’s going to hang all over me,” she whines. “It’s going to be just like high school—him hanging around all the time, making it look like we’re a couple, ruining my game.”
I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to remind her how jealous she got this past summer when PJ showed interest in someone else.
“He’s such a cutie,” Janie says. “I can’t believe you don’t like him.”
“Coming from someone who was shacked up with an egghead last night,” Amber says, “that doesn’t mean a whole heck of a lot.”
“I take it you walked in on them, too?” I ask.
“Unfortunately,” Amber says with a shudder. “G-strings and smelly fruit stickers—I’m still trying to block it out.”
“It’s not like we did anything wrong,” Janie whines. “We didn’t go all the way, if that’s what you’re thinking. I do have my limits.”
“And what’s your limit?” Amber asks. “Getting jiggy in front of the entire floor, as opposed to just your roommates?”
“Don’t talk about me that way.” Janie folds her arms and crosses her legs, bobbing her Strawberry Shortcake slipper back and forth. “For your information, I’m saving myself for marriage.”
“Are you sure?” Amber asks, arching her eyebrows. “Because it didn’t look like you were saving that much.”
“You’re one to talk,” Janie says. “You and that blow-up toy of yours.”
“His name happens to be Spider-Man and, from the looks of things last night, he’s probably a lot more useful in the sack than that egghead of yours.”
“Excuse me,” I say, interrupting them, “but speaking as someone who didn’t get any sleep last night, shouldn’t we discuss more important matters?”
“Totally,” Amber says, arching her eyebrows up and down. “Let’s hear it—the who, the where, and the how many times.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” I sigh. “But I spent the night at the library.”
“Do tell,” Amber says. “The stacks can be so hot.”
“I studied.”
“Ho hum.” She passes me her chocolate bar for a bite. “You know that Tim guy really likes you.”
“He’s a flirt,” I explain. “It’s his job to like everybody.”
“Puh-leeze,” Amber says, rolling her eyes. “The poor boy salivates at the mere sound of your name.”
“I doubt it.”
“You know what’s weird, though?” she says, ignoring me. “He thinks you have a boyfriend.” She gives me a pointed look.
I shrug and look away.
“Don’t worry,” she continues. “I set him straight. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Thanks a lot.” I sigh again. “Can we talk about the sleeping arrangements now?”
“Now that’s more like it,” Amber says, rubbing her palms together.
“That’s not what I mean.” I turn to Janie. “It’s not fair that I have to spend the entire night at the library,” I say.
“No one said you had to,” Janie says. “You were welcome to come back here.”
“With you and boy toy playing tongue hockey? No, thank you.”
“I live here, too,” Janie says. “It’s not exactly fair that I get stuck living with a Satan worshipper.”
“Please,” I say, holding my hand up to shut her off.
“You please,” she says. “All that witchcraft stuff you
do . . . who knows what you might do to me?”
“Yeah,” Amber says, narrowing her eyes on Janie. “It might not be safe for you. Have you considered finding another room? Maybe Egghead has some space . . . ”
“Witchcraft has nothing to do with Satan,” I say, interrupting them.
“Yeah, that’s what Sage said, too,” Janie snaps. “But then she tried stealing from a gravesite.”
“You have no idea what you’re even talking about,” I continue. “Wicca is a peaceful religion; it has nothing to do with breaking into cemeteries or putting evil hexes on people.”
“It’s against my religion.”
“Is it also against your religion to educate yourself a little?”
“I’m in college, aren’t I?”
“All I’m saying is that if you opened your mind even a smidge, you’d see . . . there’s probably a lot we agree on.”
“Why don’t we just agree to disagree,” she says.
“Fine,” I say, completely frustrated with her narrow little mind. “Let’s get down to some rule-making.”
“Great,” Janie says. “If I’m with a boy, I’ll put the sign on the door.”
“And how often do you plan to do that?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” Janie shrugs. “Not that much. Maybe three or four times a week.”
Amber’s mouth falls open. “Freak!”
“What?” Janie asks, pasting a twinkling star sticker to her chin. “It’s not like you guys can’t do
the same. It’s not like I don’t have to live with a witch.” She glances a moment at the side of my bed—at my chunky cluster rock, my bowl full of lavender pellets, and the clay bowl from my restoration spell.
“Egghead has stamina,” Amber continues.
“For your information, his name happens to be Hayden, and he’s very sweet—we sing in the church choir together.”
“Jesus would be so pleased.” Amber rolls her eyes.
We argue for several more minutes about our sleeping arrangements and my spell schedule. Basically, Janie has kindly agreed to continue living with me, but she doesn’t want to see any of my spells. In exchange, she’s agreed to cut her Egghead time down to one or two rendezvous per week, taking advantage of his room as well, and to give Amber and me a little heads-up time so we can plan accordingly. Meanwhile, we’re all going to post our weekly schedules.
“Wait,” Janie interrupts. “All of this can’t kick in until tomorrow. I already told Hayden that we could be here tonight. It’s only because his roommate’s planned something special with his girlfriend—they’re going to be using his room.”
“Fine,” I say, figuring I’ll be spending the rest of the day in bed, catching up on sleep. “I should probably study anyway.”
“Well, it isn’t fine with me,” Amber balks. “I’m going to a party tonight, but there’s only so long you can chow down at Denny’s afterwards. I’ll probably be back by three.”
“We should be done by then,” Janie chirps.
Perfect.
“Oh, and one last thing,” Janie continues. “I think you and Amber should get your own fridge. I’m tired of you stealing all my stuff. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Amber stifles a laugh and looks away.
“Deal,” I say.
The basic rules in place, I check my phone messages. Both Drea and my mother called me back last night. Instead of returning their calls right away, I slip back down into the sheets and cradle my dream box, eager to dream about Jacob.
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