Bad Dreams (10 page)

“Sorry I woke you,” Andrea whispered. She tiptoed out of the room. “Do you want the door open?”

Maggie was breathing too hard to answer.

“I'll shut it partway,” Andrea said.

After Andrea left, Maggie remained still, staring at the doorway, waiting for her breathing to return to normal.

Andrea crossing the room in the dark. The metallic shimmer of the knife. That was from my dream, she thought.

But how could that be?

Am I really cracking up?

She didn't have long to think about it.

Suddenly the door to her room creaked open.

She heard the thud of soft footsteps. But she couldn't see anyone!

Without warning, Gus's head popped up on the side of the bed, his dark, sad eyes staring at her in the dark. Maggie was so glad to see him, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the nose.

Gus licked her ear. Then he trotted back out the door again. She heard him thump-thumping down the front steps.

“Be sure to get lots of rest.” Maggie suddenly remembered the coach's instructions. She closed her eyes.

I've got to sleep. Got to sleep …

She lay still. It seemed like an eternity—probably only about five minutes. She opened her eyes. This was pointless. She had never been so wide awake in her life.

Okay, Dad, she said to herself. Time to take your advice. Her father had always said that if you couldn't sleep, get out of bed and read until you were sleepy.

She swung her legs out of the bed. The floor felt refreshingly cool. She crossed to her bookshelf and searched for something boring to read.
Moby Dick.
That ought to do the trick. Dad always said it was the most boring great book ever written.

She remembered another piece of advice from her dad on insomnia. He said it helped to leave the bedroom until you felt sleepy.

Mr. Travers had been a real expert on insomnia because he suffered from it. Many late nights, when Maggie would wander downstairs, she'd find him sitting in the kitchen, drinking his favorite remedy—a tall mug of hot cocoa—and reading.

Moby Dick
weighed a ton. Carrying the heavy hardback under one arm, she padded out into the hall. Through the crack under Andrea's door she could see her sister's light still on. She didn't move toward it, but headed through the hall and down the front stairs.

Gus was sleeping by the footstool in the living room, snoring like crazy. No insomnia problem there.

The empty kitchen was as silent as a grave. She opened the fridge, letting the cool air spill out onto her bare legs.

Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked.

She listened, her body instantly tense. Usually, when the house made noises, she told herself it was Gus. But Gus was in the living room, sleeping.

It's just the house settling, she assured herself.

Outside, the wind made a shutter bang.

There was nothing in the fridge she wanted, but she kept the door open anyway, just for the light.

She stood still and listened a moment more. All quiet now. She closed the fridge.

She flicked on the light and sat down at the kitchen table. She didn't even open the novel. There was no way she could concentrate on a whaling story.

Could I get back to the dream? she wondered.

Could I close my eyes and drift back into it? Could I finally see the girl's face, see the attacker? Could I finish it once and for all?

She surprised herself by her eagerness to get to the end of it.

Am I tired enough to sleep now? She closed her eyes. She could feel her exhaustion, just under the surface.

She turned off the kitchen light and climbed the front stairs. She had been in the house for only two weeks, but already she could find her way around in the dark. It had become a little familiar.

Maybe someday it would seem like home.

Back in her room she stopped short. The blankets on the bed had been pulled up.

Strange. Maggie was sure she had left them crumpled up at the foot of the bed, where she had kicked them off.

She crossed to the bed and reached for the covers.

She yanked them down—

And screamed when she saw the knife, its long blade plunged deep into her pillow.

W
ith a shudder, Maggie raised her hands to her face and backed away from the bed.

When she reached the open doorway, she turned and ran.

She felt sick. Her stomach heaved. The blood throbbed at her temples.

Andrea! It had to be Andrea.

Maggie remembered the crack of light under Andrea's door. Andrea was still awake.

Was the dream warning me about Andrea? Maggie asked herself, fighting back her terror, her anger.

Does Andrea hate me
that
much?

At the end of the hall, in the darkness, her mother's door flew open. Mrs. Travers came running out in her nightgown. Maggie lurched toward her.

“Mom—Mom!” She grabbed her mother by the hand and pulled her back into her mother's bedroom.

Mrs. Travers's eyes went wide with worry. “What? What is it, Maggie! What's wrong?”

“Andrea—” Maggie choked out.

“What? What
about
Andrea?”

“The kn-knife.”

“What knife? What, Maggie? Is Andrea okay?”

“Me! Me!”
Maggie screamed frantically.

Clutching both of her mother's hands, she tugged her back down the hall. “Andrea put the knife in my bed!” she cried hoarsely.

“What are you talking about?”

Maggie pushed her mother into her bedroom. “There!” she cried, pointing at her bed.

Mrs. Travers clicked on the ceiling light.

They both stared at Maggie's bed.

The covers were down, just as she had left them.

But the pillowcase was smooth and uncut.

And the knife was gone.

“I
'm not crazy!” Maggie shrieked.

Mrs. Travers drew back, tugging tensely at a tangle of hair, her eyes narrowed at Maggie, studying Maggie.

“I'm not crazy, Mom!” Maggie insisted in a shrill shriek of a voice.

With a furious cry, she pushed past her mother and ran out the door.

And down the hall.

“Don't wake Andrea up!” Mrs. Travers called behind her.

But Maggie shoved her sister's door open and snapped on the light.

Andrea lay facedown on the bed, the covers pulled up over her shoulders.

“Quit acting!” Maggie shrieked. “You're up! I know you're up!”

Andrea groaned and turned over slowly, shielding her eyes. “Wha—?”

Mrs. Travers stormed into the room. “Maggie, leave your sister alone. I'm serious.”

“Leave
her
alone?” Maggie laughed wildly. “Leave
her
alone? She stabbed a knife into my bed, Mother! She—she—she's trying to drive me crazy!”

Maggie's whole body trembled in rage. She lunged forward, grabbed Andrea's shoulders, started to shake them hard.

“Where's the knife, Andrea? Where? Where'd you hide it? Under here?” She let go of Andrea and jerked her pillow off the bed.

“Let go!” Andrea cried sleepily. “What is your problem, Maggie?”

Mrs. Travers grabbed Maggie's shoulders and tried to pull her away from Andrea's bed.

But Maggie whirled around. “Her light was on until two seconds ago!” she cried. “Her light was on. She wasn't asleep, Mom! She's faking! She stuck the knife in my pillow! I swear to you!”

“What knife?” Andrea demanded, pulling her pillow out of Maggie's arms. “Where would I get a knife?” She turned to her mother. “What is Maggie talking about?”

“I'm not sure,” Mrs. Travers replied wearily. “Come with me, Maggie,” she said softly. “Let's talk about it in the morning, okay? When you've calmed down a little.”

“I'll
never
calm down!” Maggie insisted. But she allowed her mother to lead her out of the room.

“You're crazy, Maggie,” she heard Andrea mutter from her bed. “You're totally crazy.”

The whistle blew shrilly. Coach Randall stared down at her watch. “All right, girls, listen up.”

Tuesday afternoon, the end of another long practice. Maggie was clinging to the pool edge, beside her teammates, listening to the coach. She glanced up at Dawn, watching from her usual perch at the top of the bleachers.

Coach Randall paced up and down at the pool's edge. “As you know,” Coach Randall went on, “Friday is the All-State meet, so for those of you who'll be competing, there isn't much time left to get you in tip-top shape. What do you say, everybody? Five more laps?”

There were groans all down the pool. Coach Randall's face twisted into an expression of mock surprise. “Oh, you're disappointed we're doing only five? You're right. We'll make it ten.”

More groans. But Coach Randall clapped her hands. “No fooling. Everyone on the diving blocks. Five laps, freestyle. Maggie—Tiffany—let's see why you guys are swimming the two-hundred IM for us.”

Maggie took the lane between Andrea and Tiffany.

“You're going to lose,” Andrea muttered under her breath as she pulled down her goggles.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Maggie said with a bitter smile. She crouched into her diving stance. Andrea had done her a favor. Andrea's remark reminded Maggie of how much she hated losing.

The whistle blew and Maggie pushed off hard, heading straight off into the cold blue water.

She started strong, but almost immediately her energy flagged. Her body remembered how tired she was, even if her mind had forgotten. Every time she turned her head to breathe, she saw Tiffany match her stroke for stroke.

Maggie stroked harder, faster. But when she turned her head to breathe now, she saw Tiffany's midsection. She was falling behind!

One lap, that's all it was. But it seemed like a mile. Her hand smacked the floats that marked the lane. Stinging pain ran up her arm.

She realized she was veering too close to Andrea. She tried to straighten out, but it cost her more time.

Maggie had already lost once to Tiffany this week. That had been painful enough. But lose to Andrea? She had never lost to her sister in her life.

With a low groan, Maggie picked up the pace, punishing her exhausted muscles.

Tiffany finished first. Maggie and Andrea swam neck and neck.

Maggie could hear Andrea groaning in anger and frustration.

Maggie let out a growl and stretched with every muscle for the wall.

Her fingertips touched the wall.

Then Andrea touched.

Maggie gasped loudly, struggling to catch her breath.

She shook water from her ears, listening as Coach
Randall called off the top three finishers. Tiffany. Maggie. Andrea.

Without turning her head, Maggie could feel Andrea slump against the wall. Then Coach Randall blew her whistle again and ordered everyone to hit the showers.

It took Maggie a few minutes to feel strong enough to drag herself out of the pool. She was the last one out.

“You looked like you were struggling out there,” Coach Randall told her, frowning.

“Did I?” Maggie asked.

“Be sure to get plenty of rest from now till Friday,” the coach told her, slapping her on the back.

Sure thing. Get a lot of rest. Easy to say. Somehow, Maggie doubted that Coach Randall had nightmares about a girl getting stabbed, or found a knife plunged into her pillow.

She trudged into the locker room and wearily dropped down onto the bench in front of her locker. Most of the team were already in the showers, their shouts and laughter spilling out into the dressing area.

A locker door slammed. Maggie knew it was Andrea. Hiding her feelings had never been one of Andrea's strengths.

“Beat you again,” Tiffany called to Maggie. “That's twice in a row. You're slipping, Travers.” Tiffany stood a few lockers down, buttoning up her blouse.