November 9

I wake up in the middle of the night believing I am bleeding to death.

The dream, or illusion, lasts only a couple of seconds, but, damn, it is the freakiest couple of seconds of my life.

And I have ended up on the floor again.

I smooth my hand over the carpet, still half expecting to feel it soaked with blood.

I cannot fall asleep after that. So I open my copy of Dr. Loomis's book and reread it until the sun rises.

II

My parents notice my sluggishness at breakfast.

"You're not staying up all night reading, are you?" Dad asks.

"No," I say. I'm not sure if this is a lie.

"Well, guess what? Your ring is finished."

I smile.

"It's at the store now. Do you want to go with me to get it?"

"Sure," I say. Excitement floods in again.

After breakfast, we drive to the store. We're the only ones there; Dad's shop is usually closed on Sundays, though Dad or one of his employees may be there to work on a piece.

Dad inspects the ring this time before he hands it to me. I study it, enamored with my topaz stone all over again.

When we drive back, Mrs. Wallace is waiting in the front of the house.

"Stella, hi," she greets us.

"Hi, Mrs. Wallace," I say politely. Dad echoes my greeting. "Do you need a sitter today."

"Not today. Though I need you to pick her up after school tomorrow. Can you do that?"

I nod.

"I'll get the rakes," Dad says, eyeing Mrs. Wallace warily. He backs away slowly. "Don't forget to put the ring in a safe place."

Mrs. Wallace cranes her neck to observe my fingers. But I'm not wearing it; I have it concealed in a jeweler box in a plastic bag.

"I just wanted to bring you this." Mrs. Wallace hands me a small wrapped package. "It's something I picked up in Winoker. It's a belated birthday present."

"Oh, you didn't have to . . ."

Mrs. Wallace cuts off my protests. "Open it," she urges.

I peel off the wrapping and uncover a used book: Audrey Rose by Frank DeFelitta. The title sounds vaguely familiar, but at the moment I cannot place it.

"Lindsey mentioned that you like old books," Mrs Wallace says.

"Thank you," I say. A few suspicions flare up, but I cannot find any graceful way of declining the gift. Besides, I don't really want to give it up. The book looks intriguing with its ghostly cover illustration.

"Glad you like it," Mrs. Wallace smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I nod as she saunters away, waving her arms as if she were a child balancing on the curb.

Dad emerges from the garage. I tuck the book in the plastic bag.

"Is everything OK?" Dad asks.

"Yeah," I say.

"What did she want?" Dad was wise enough to realize it Mrs. Wallace did not come just to ask me to sit for Lindsey: she would have just phoned like she had the other times.

"We were discussing the pay," I answer. Half-truth.

"She isn't holding out on pay, is she?" Dad queries. Another thing Mrs. Wallace is apt to do, I suppose.

"I've already been paid for this week," I assure him. That is the truth. Mrs. Wallace had given me thirty five dollars when she came home Friday evening. I clutch at the bag that contains my gifts. "I'll run this upstairs."

III

Chelsea calls at around seven.

"Is it censorship if a teacher takes out a play from the curriculum and switches it with another?" she muses aloud.

"Not always," I say cautiously.

Chelsea spills the situation. After finishing up Macbeth, Mrs Randall originally planned to continue the Shakespeare unit with Othello. Because of recent events, she switched to the sonnets. Apparently Mrs. Randall had decided that a play about a man murdering his wife would be too upsetting this soon after the murders on Halloween.

I could understand Mrs. Randall's intentions. Three students at our school were killed. Another had to start her life all over with a new identity. This is a big tragedy, even in places bigger than Haddonfield. We are still in a mourning period, so it would not be too odd if the teachers altered their schedules to tone down the reminders of our recent losses.

"Whether it's done in other places or not means shit," Chelsea reminds me. "A lot of schools ban popular books like Huckleberry Finn, but it doesn't mean that any of those schools have a right to ban it."

"But this is only temporary," I reply hedgingly because I don't really know that Mrs. Randall's change is temporary. Mrs. Randall is not known as a book-banning zealot, but that argument over Macbeth had made her tense. Optimistically, I blunder on. "At most, she'll skip teaching it this year. Next year, when most of her students see Annie's and Lynda's murders as distant memories, she won't be so worried about Othello."

"But is it censorship, even if it's only for a short time?" Chelsea persists. "I've been asking around."

I do not say the real reason she is asking around, because an issue over the curriculum is the closest she'll get to covering the Halloween murders in the school paper. The editor and Principal Garrick vetoed Chelsea's idea of writing about Michael Myers. They did allow a memorial article for Annie and Lynda, but that was it.

Chelsea was too appalled to do the memorial. "It was all bullshit!" she had sputtered. "Remember all the horrible things they all said about Lynda after that incident in cheerleading practice? Now they're writing schmucky phrases like 'Lynda was a bright light of the student body, beloved by all.' What complete hypocritical bullshit. They dump on her when she was alive, and now that she's dead, they're her best friends."

I recognize the veiled attempt to strike back at the administration that denied her article on Michael Myers, but no matter. Chelsea is perfectly capable of handling any potential clashes with them. I have dilemmas of my own.