Silver is for Secrets Read Free Page B

al ,” I say, noticing how Jacob has left as wel . I hear the shower valve squeak on in the bathroom and assume that‟s where he is. “My friends are just a little eccentric.”
    “Wel , I real y would like to get together some time,” Clara says. “I mean, it‟s hard to meet people up here my own age. It‟s usual y just col ege kids and they don‟t normally want to hang out with a fifteen-year-old.”
    “Wel , we kind of are col ege kids,” I say. “We just graduated from high school and thought it would be fun to rent a place together for a couple weeks this summer
    —our reward for surviving the aches and pains of prep school.”
    “Total y,” Clara giggles.
    “But you don‟t look fifteen,” I add, noticing how she smel s like butterscotch pudding. “I mean, I would have said at least sixteen or seventeen.”
    “Thanks,” Clara beams. “So can I give you my number? Maybe I can give you al a tour later.”
    “Sure.” I hand Clara a napkin and a pen, and she scribbles her number across it
    —circles with smiley faces for the zeroes.
    “So maybe I‟l see you around later,” she says.
    I nod and extend my hand to hers for a shake. And that‟s when I know. When I feel it. It‟s like my skin has iced over inside her palm. Like a mil ion tiny ice-needles have just splintered into my veins.
    Clara is going to die.

three
    Clara tells me she needs to head back to her cottage, and I just stand there, my hand stil tingling, stil frozen from her touch. There‟s a part of me that wants to just blurt it all out—what I‟m sensing, what I feel in my heart is going to happen to her.
    But instead my jaw shakes at the thought of the words—how they would sound in the air, just hanging over the two of us like hail-fil ed clouds. I mean, I don‟t even know this girl. How am I supposed to tell her that I have this gnawing feeling that she‟s going to die?
    She turns to leave, and I can‟t hold myself back. “Are you okay?” I ask her.
    Her face scrunches up. “Yeah, why?”
    “I was just wondering.” A huge gulp gets stuck in my throat. “You‟re here with your parents, you said?”
    Clara nods, her face twisted up in confusion.
    “That‟s good,” I say, feeling somewhat reassured that she‟s not alone.
    “Oh, yeah, right,” she giggles, “vacationing with Mom and Dad . . . let the party begin.”
    “No, it is good.” I nod and focus hard on her, wondering if I should say more. But what if I do and she doesn‟t believe me? Or worse, what if she thinks I‟m crazy and never wants to speak to me again?
    “Wel , I should get going,” she says, taking a step back like I‟ve total y weirded her out.
    This time I let her go, fearful that saying any more at this point would just ruin everything. I know that I‟l have a better chance of sounding convincing if I have more to tel her, if I‟m able to reveal something from a nightmare—something that only she would know.
     
    I need to get some sleep.
    I change the bloodied sheets on my bed and open up all the windows in the room, hoping the balmy beach air and the salty smell of the ocean will help soothe me to sleep. I crawl between the fresh sheets and pull the amulet from around my neck.
    It‟s a tiny emerald-green bottle made out of sea glass and threaded through a silver chain. My mother gave it to me for my birthday. She said it reminded her of me.
    That really meant a lot. I do love it. And the fact that she recognizes my taste—not trying to force her tastes on me by buying me some perfume she adores—tells me that she respects who I am and what I believe.
    I remove the cork from the bottle and spill a few droplets of the lavender oil onto the tip of my finger. The sweet herbal scent helps to center me a bit, helps prepare me for rest. I dab the oil at the pulse points on my neck, at my forehead, chin, and on both cheeks, and then I pull my dream box from my night table.
    It‟s a smal ish wooden box I bought at a flea market at the