Blue is for Nightmares by Laura Faria Stolarz

This is the first in a (sofar) series of four books... Silver is for Secrets, White is for Magic, Red is for Rememberance. I promised yesterday to post a Z~Z and Grimm friendly series, and this is it! The books were pretty fun--mostly about magic. The main character, Stacy, has nightmares that kind of seem to show some sort of impending danger for her or her friends. She uses different spells to help her figure out what is going on and stop the impending doom. I remember there being some romance, but in a PG or PG 13 kind of way. They were fun, easy reads, geared for middle school or early high school, I would assume.

The back of the book says
"'I know your Secret...'
Stacey Brown has lots of secrets--her crush on her best freind Drea's boyfriend, the spells she casts, and the nightmares that come true. Now she's dreaming about Drea and a psycho stalker. Saving Drea will take all the magic and courage Stacy's got. And everyone's secrets will have to come out."

Here is an exerpt I got from amazon.com.
They're always the same. Always at night, in the forest, looking for Drea. The sound of his body lurking somewhere behind me. Branches breaking. Leaves crackling. Wind whirring in my ears, watering my eyes. And the pain in my stomach-sharp, raw, scathing. Real.
My nightmares make me dread sleep.
I pinch the safety end of the razor blade between three fingers to write. Then I grab the virgin candle and carve the initials D. O. E. S. into the rounded side, tiny flakes of sparkling blue wax crumbling from the surface with each incision and every drag of the blade.
They're Drea's initials, but she doesn't suspect a thing, just keeps scribbling away in her diary, like any other night, sitting up in her bed, only a few feet away.
With the last curl of the S, I place the razor to the side and pluck a branch of sage from the drawer. It's perfect for burning, all dried up-the leaves shriveled, twisted and gray. I wind a piece of string around it for a cleaner burn, so it won't be as smoky, so I'll have less chance of getting in trouble. Then I drop it into the orange clay pot by my bed.
"Going to bed?" Drea asks.
"In a few." I unscrew the cap off the bottle of olive oil and pour a few droplets onto my finger.
She nods and yawns, caps her feather-tipped pen, and closes up the diary. "Just do me a favor and don't burn the dorm down. I have a serious history presentation tomorrow."
"All the more reason," I joke.
Drea and I have been roommates for a little over two years, so she's used to rituals like this. She rolls over onto her side and pulls the covers up to her chin. "Better not stay up too late. Don't you have a French test tomorrow morning?"
"Thanks, Mom." I watch as she closes her eyes, as her lips settle for sleep, as the muscles around her forehead loosen and relax. It's sickening. Even after midnight, with no visible trace of makeup, not a smidgen of cover-up, hair knotted up in a rubber band, she still looks perfect-angled cheeks; salmonpink, pouty lips; loopy, golden hair; and cat-shaped eyes with curled, jet-black lashes. It's no wonder why every guy at Hillcrest wants her, why every girl hates her-why Chad keeps coming back, even after three breakups.
I touch the top end of the candle with my oily finger. "As above," I whisper. Then I touch the bottom. "So below." I wet my finger with more of the oil and touch the center surface. I drag my finger upward, return it to the center, and then drag it downward, careful to keep the carved letters pointed in my direction so she won't see.
"Wouldn't it be easier just to wet the whole thing at once?" Drea asks, her eyes, open, watching me.
I turn the candle counterclockwise, blocking the letters with my palm, and continue moistening the circumference in the same fashion. "Probably, but that would confuse the energies."
"Of course," she says, rolling over. "How ignorant of me."
When the candle is fully anointed, I light it with a long, wooden match and place it on the silver holder my grandmother gave me before she passed away. It's my favorite holder because it was hers and it's sort of dishlike, with a curly handle that winds around the base.
I close my eyes and concentrate on the waning moon outside, how it's an opportune night to make things go away, how the sage and the engraved candle will help. I light the branch and watch it burn; the leaves curl up and dance in the orangy-yellow flame, then turn black and disappear, the way I pray my nightmares will.
When the sage is no more than ashes, I carry the clay pot over to the corner sink and fill it with water, watching the blue-gray smoke rise to the ceiling in long and curly swirls. I return to my bed and position the candle on the night table, Drea's initials facing toward me. Then I grab a black pen from the drawer and draw a capital G across my palm- G for grandmother, so I will dream of her tonight, so I will dream of nothing else.
I crawl inside the covers and watch the candle burn the letters away, the capital D in Drea's initials already half gone.
Then I close my eyes and brace myself for sleep.