Blue Is for Nightmares by Laurie Faria Stolarz Page B

close my eyes and slide my thumb and index finger down the length of the stem to feel the smoothness. I can tell it was soaked in water for some time, at least a couple days, and that the end was cut with a delicate hand. I move my fingers upward to feel a leaf. I stop, press it between my fingers and feel at the veins to be sure. The veins travel straight up to the tip, but then taper off into tiny Vs that run east and west. "I feel a shelter of some sort."
    "What kind of a shelter?" Drea asks.
    I shake my head, frustrated that I can't tell more. I lift the petal to my nose. "Dirt," I nod. "It smells like dirt."
    "Well, they did come from a florist," Amber says. "They do, like, have dirt there."
    "No," I say, sniffing again. "Dirt. It's all around me." I drop the lily to my lap and sniff my fingers. The earthy

    scent is everywhere--on my hands, in my clothes, tangled up in my hair.
    I close my eyes and try to concentrate on the scent. I picture the powdery brown mass being turned, and overturned, and then turned again, the color alternating at points--from golden and hazel to dark chestnut, almost black. I press my fingers up to my nostrils and inhale the pinky skin, breathing in every grain of the earthy spirit. I can picture the dirt forming a tall pile of some sort. Cone shaped, like a tepee. "Someone's digging something."
    "Like what?" Amber asks.
    I open my eyes and shake my head. "I don't know" "Well, leave it to me to attract some psycho dirt-eater," Drea says.
    "Dirt-digger," Amber corrects.
    I'm almost surprised they're making jokes about it, especially Drea. But it's like that's the only way she can swallow the news and keep it down.
    "When did you learn to do that?" Amber asks.
    "What?"
    "Read things like that?"
    "It's weird," I say. "But I think I've always had it, like it was always there, even when I wasn't old enough to accept or understand it. I would touch something and get these mental pictures from it, these intense feelings. It didn't happen all the time; it still doesn't. I used to practice around the house--my mom's keys, a neighbor's watch--and feel nothing. Then I'd be out somewhere, like at a friend's house, and pick up a dishtowel and sense divorce."
    "I wouldn't want to know things like that," Drea says.
    TOO
    "I used to feel that way. But I'm trying to think of it as a gift--you know, a way to help people."
    "My parents are going to get a divorce," Drea says. "You don't have to go towel-touching to tell me."
    "Hey, Stace, can you use that psychic stuff to tell me if Brantley Witherall is going to ask me to prom this year?" Amber grabs her lunchbox-purse and opens it. She takes out her florescent-green cell phone, decorated with tiny ladybug stickers, and the matching phone charger.
    "Brantley Witherall, Mr. Tlove-to-flip-my-eyelids-insideout-for-my-own-amusement'?" Drea says. "A girl can only dream."
    "Maybe I'll just ask Donovan to prom instead. He did smile at me in the cafeteria yesterday.-

    Amber gives a little self-satisfied smirk as she plugs in the phone charger. Even though Drea has absolutely zero interest in Donovan, she still thinks she owns his affection.
    "Why do you even need a cell phone?" Drea asks. "You're with us all day long. Who calls you on it?" "PJ."
    "You two should just go back out," Drea says. "He so wants to."
    "Wouldn't you just love that?" Amber says.
    "What's that supposed to mean?"
    "Maybe you're looking to eliminate the competition." "Please," Drea says. "I hardly think we're playing in the same division."
    "Can you guys just stop?" I pull the remaining petals from their stems and mix my fingers through their whiteness. "We're supposed to be working together."

IOI
    The phone rings, poking a hole in our conversation.
    "I'll get it." Amber reaches for the receiver. "Hello? Hell000?"
    She waits a couple seconds before clicking the phone
    off.
    'Another prank?" I ask.
    Amber shrugs. "Probably PJ. He won't take no for an answer.
    "It wasn't PJ," I say. "Was it,