Red is for Remembrance (2 page)

The footsteps stop just a couple feet away. He wonders if he closed the door, if he locked it back up to avoid suspicion. He's almost sure he didn't. The lamp clicks on in the room. He can see the man's feet as he walks out in front of

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11 the table; he can see the baseball bat, resting by the man's ankle.

"Who's there?" the man calls out, a voice peppered by age and interrupted sleep.

Shell doesn't answer. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping out loud.

"I know you're here." The man moves toward the door, checking the lock, probably noticing that it's open.

Shell wonders if he returned the key to its spot under the mat. Or did he leave it on the table?

"Come out now," the old man says, his voice turning away, toward the dining room. He obviously doesn't know where Shell is hiding.

A woman's voice calls from the hallway. "John?"

Shell thinks it must be Candace.

"Stay in the bedroom," the old man tells her. He moves into the dining room, turning a corner, noticing perhaps that the silverware box has been tampered with. Shell hears the baseball bat clunk to the floor, followed by a gasp. "Candace, call 9-1-1!"

Shell scrambles out from under the table, diving for the door. He goes to turn the knob, but it's locked. The old man must've done it. He hears footsteps running toward him, but Shell doesn't look back.

"Stop!" the man shouts.

Shell turns the lock, yanks the door open, and runs as fast as he can down the porch steps, slipping on a patch of ice and landing smack against his back.

The old man charges toward him. Out of the corner of his eye, Shell sees the baseball bat.

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"John!" Candace shouts from the door.

Shell struggles to his feet, remembering what Clay said about keeping his head down so that no one would see his face. He heads toward the woods, hearing the old man slip on the steps as well; his body makes a loud thud against the wood. Shell stops. His first instinct is to help the man, to check that he's okay. He hears the man cry out in pain.

Shell tries to block out the cries, shaking his head, knowing in his heart how wrong this is, how wrong it feels. He moves toward the woods, knowing that the darkness of the forest will hide him, but also knowing that he's going to have a hard time finding his way back to the car.

Police sirens begin in the distance. He'll have hell to pay if he doesn't hurry up. But, then again, he'll have hell to pay anyway-- once Clay finds him empty-handed.

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I roll over in bed and peek at the clock. It's a little after 11. At first I think it's eleven at night, like I completely slept through most of the evening, but then I notice the sun. It paints a thick bright stripe across the scuffed wooden floor of our dorm room. So where did the night go? Did I really sleep that long and soundly? Did I dream anything? I close my eyes a few seconds to try and remember, but it's just black and fuzzy inside my head.

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There's a sandwich wrapped up in wax paper and a bag of ripple chips by my bed. Amber must have left them for me. Last I remember, she and Janie were heading off to dinner. I'm assuming they must have gone off to class now. I should probably go, too.

Except I'm still so tired. I reach over and grab my backpack from the side of my bed. I unzip the main compartment, where I've tucked my schedule, and look down at the array of classes--

places I'm supposed to be, subjects I'm supposed to learn, people I'm supposed to meet. It all seems so overwhelming.

Maybe I should just go back to bed, especially since it seems as though I've already missed two classes-- Life Science and English. I'm almost surprised Amber didn't try to wake me up for them. The girl has been such a mother to me these past four months. What other friend would postpone college a semester so she could look after me? While Chad, Drea, and PJ went off to school, Amber elected to stay with me at the cottage-- in the same unit we'd all chipped in and rented last summer.

I just couldn't leave the place. Even now, all I really want to do is turn back. I just want to go back there and sit on the sand. I want to look out at the ocean and wait for Jacob to walk up the beach-- to come and greet me with a kiss.

But instead I'm here. I'm here because I made a promise to my mother that I would only take one semester off. I'm here because my therapist told me that if I ever wanted to get over Jacob's death, I'd have to start living again. I'm here because the school offered me a full scholarship after I turned

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down their admission this past September. Because Amber was enrolled here as well and we could be roommates-- at least then one thing in my life could remain constant.

But what does all of that mean when there's a giant part of me that can't accept the fact that Jacob's gone? The part that won't ever be able to say goodbye-- that still sleeps with my night-light on, hoping that someway it'll guide him to me?

I glance over at the shell-shaped night-light, still mystified over why Beacon-- my
reach
school--

even accepted me, let alone why they gave me a full ride. I mean, with all the stuff I was dealing with in high school, it's not like my grades were much better than passable. From what I've heard, the kids here were in the top tenth of their high school classes.

I reach into the side pocket of my backpack and pull out my bottle of tranquilizers. If I just take a couple, I might be able to fall back asleep; I could start fresh and new tomorrow morning. I go to pop the top, but the phone rings.

"Hello?" I say, snagging the phone from Janie's stuffed monkey. She's got Curious George's cousin sitting on the receiver, as though waiting for a call.

"Good morning," some woman says. "I'm looking for Stacey Brown."

"Who's calling?" I ask, noting that I don't recognize the voice.

"This is Alice McNeal from the President's Office."

"Who?"

'Alice McNeal. I'm Dr. Wallace's administrative assistant."

"Dr. Wallace?"

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"The president of Beacon University," she clarifies. "Is this Stacey Brown?"

"I overslept," I say.

"Excuse me?"

"It won't happen again."

There's a pause on the other end. "I'm calling," she says, finally, "because Dr. Wallace would like to meet with you."

"What for?"

"Do you have some time today?" she asks, ignoring my question.

I grab my schedule, noticing that I have my Holistic Health class from 2 to 2:50. "How about 3:30?" I ask.

"That should be fine," she says. "His office is in Ketcher Hall. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes," I say, even though I don't.

"Okay, we'll see you then."

I hang up, wondering why the college president wants to meet with me. Is it because I'm here on scholarship? A scholarship that I didn't even ask for?

I whip the fridge door open in search of something sweet, something to help tame this bitter mood, almost expecting to find an arsenal of Diet Cokes and chocolate bars-- snackables a la Drea, my roommate and best friend from prep school. But instead everything inside is labeled: juice boxes, yogurt containers, eggs, pints of strawberry milk, chocolate pudding packs. They've all got Janie's name magic-marked across, marking her edible territory. I slam the door closed and bury my face in my hands, feeling completely lost and more out of place than ever before.

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My insides are shaking. I grab the phone again, eager to talk to my mother. She's only a couple hours away. Maybe she can come and get me. Maybe we can go to dinner tonight and I can tell her that I've made a huge mistake by coming here. I dial the number; I even get to the second-to-last digit, but then I hang up, knowing how disappointed she'd be, how she wouldn't understand.

Not the way Jacob would.

I grab my spell box from underneath my bed and take out a thick red candle. I consecrate it with lemongrass oil, running my finger down the length and around the circumference. As above," I whisper, touching the top end of the candle. "So below," I say, touching the bottom.

The oil smells like him, like all the times I'd press my nose into the collar of his shirt, like every time he'd wrap his arms around me and whisper into my ear, saying that he never wanted to let me go.

I'd do almost anything to sense him right now, to feel him beside me. Those first nights following the accident, I'd have these vivid dreams about him, about us-- doing spells together, holding each other, and the sticky, sweet smell of our love. I'd close my eyes and picture him--

his dark, wavy hair, his strong jawline, and those piercing slate-blue eyes. It was like we were still connected in some way.

Now I barely dream at all.

I look at my reflection in the dresser mirror across from my bed, noting how different I look now that he's gone, like a paler, lifeless version of my old self. I've been wearing my dulled brown hair pulled back in an elastic band for the past four months. My eyes look tired, too. There are pockets of

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fatigue beneath them. Even my cheeks look like hollow bags, like someone's plucked out the roses.

I look away and grab a razor blade from my bag. Starting at the top of the candle, I carve Jacob's name down the side, tiny bits of dark ruby wax flaking toward the floor. I rotate the candle three times counterclockwise and then carve the word DREAM down the other side, opposite his name. I close my eyes, concentrating on the lemongrass scent, imagining it opening up my senses and increasing my psychic awareness. I've done numerous dream spells like this before but, since Jacob's disappearance, not one of them has worked.

"I pray this day with thoughts so deep," I whisper, "that memories of you will visit my sleep.

From now until forever be, I will keep your lighted flame with me. Blessed be the way." I set the candle down on my pearl-plated dish and light the wick, watching the flame a few moments, imagining Jacob's spirit within it.

I position the lit candle on my night table, away from any debris, and check the clock. It's almost noon; I still have a couple hours before Holistic Health. I glance at my bottle of tranquilizers, deciding against taking one. Instead I curl back into my pillows, hoping to dream, hoping that Jacob will find his way to me again.

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Shell runs as fast as he can through the forest, the sound of police sirens in the near distance. He almost hopes they'll find him. The old man from the cottage is following close behind him, baseball bat in hand.

Shell aims his flashlight beam as he works his way through the woods, swiping branches and brush from in front of his face.

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"I'll get you," the old man calls after him. "I know these woods better than anyone."

It couldn't be any darker or colder. There are patches of ice and snow underfoot. Shell does his best to avoid slipping, but he's only wearing a pair of rubber-soled sneakers and he's already had to catch himself twice.

His eyes are full of tears from the cold, making everything blurry, making him lose his confidence even more. He thought he could get away; he thought, considering the old man's age, it would be easy to outrun him, but he can hear the snapping of twigs just behind him-- the old man is getting closer.

"Might as well stop now," the old man shouts.

But he can't stop. If he stops, the old man will probably kill him. Nobody besides Clay, Lily, and some of the other campers even knows he's here. Would they come forward to report his disappearance? Probably not, since that might give them away as well. It's not like they haven't stolen from private properties before.

Shell continues to run at full speed for several seconds. It's then that he notices the trampling of feet behind him has stopped, as well as the snapping of twigs. He stops too, shining his flashlight around the area, searching for the old man. Did he turn back? Did he fall? Maybe he's hurt.

Shell presses his eyes shut, wondering what to do, if maybe he should try and find the old man.

At the same moment, something falls on his head, making him jump and let out a gasp. The object slips down past his shoulder and he's able to catch it-- a stick. He breathes a sigh of relief, deciding that he needs to get out of here, that the old man can 21

21 fend for himself. He turns to leave, but slips on a patch of ice and lands hard against his backside. His ankle throbs-- a gnawing ache that shoots up his calf.

"I know you're alone," a voice whispers from somewhere behind him.

He turns to look, shining his flashlight in that direction, but there's nothing there-- just a narrow, snow-covered pathway with brush all around it. Shell manages to get himself back up and hobbles away as best he can, searching for an end somewhere-- a way out.

He struggles for several minutes through the woods and thinks he spots something up ahead of him-- a cottage maybe. He heads for it, hoping that someone lives there, hoping that they have a phone.

"I know you're alone," the voice repeats in his ear.

Shell turns around. The old man is there. He clamps his hands around Shell's neck, nearly cutting off his breath.

Shell chokes out a scream.

It's his own voice that wakes him up from the nightmare.

Clay is sitting there, at Shell's bedside, looking down at him.

"What happened?" Shell asks, all out of breath. His ankle is throbbing.

"Time for breakfast," Clay grins. He gets up and exits the room, leaving Shell even more confused than ever.

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At breakfast, Shell makes an effort to shake the lingering chill of his nightmare, but it felt so real that it's got him all jangled up inside. He may have been able to escape the old man after his failed mission last night, but he can't escape the sound of his voice; it plays in his mind's ear over and over again-- the old man wailing out in pain.

Shell looks down at his plateful of rice, knowing that he won't be able to digest it. Instead, he pushes the mound of