Red is for Rememberance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  "How do you know?" She'll asks, noticing how the interior car light fails to go on despite the open doors--as though someone removed the bulb.

  60

  "I've been watching it." Clay points toward the front of the house. "Check it out--shades drawn down, curtains closed, lights turned off, and a collection of rolled-up newspapers strewn about the stairs. They haven't been around since Monday."

  "Let's go!" Daisy cheers, pulling her ski mask down over her face. The tension suddenly melted, the others follow suit with their masks--all except She'll.

  "Come on," Lily coaxes him. "It'll be fun. We're giving this family an opportunity to share with us. It's beautiful, don't you think?"

  Shell wants to believe her, but it still doesn't make sense to him. Maybe this family doesn't have the resources to give. Maybe they just barely make ends meet.

  "Look at the exterior of the house," Clay says, regarding Shell. "It's mint. The walkway and driveway have been plowed. No paint chipping or peeling to speak of. No rot. Holiday wreath on the door. These people have it good."

  But how can Clay tell all that in the darkness? There's a solitary street lamp, but it's several houses away.

  "I don't think I want to go," Shell says, finally, reminded of his first break-in at the old couple's house--the fear he felt in the pit of his stomach. "Is it okay if I wait here?"

  "No," Clay snaps. "It isn't okay."

  "It was okay before," Shell ventures, more confused.

  "Before, you were willing to try. You went into the house. It wasn't a blind decision. Now, you're refusing to participate before even stepping a foot inside. How are you going 61

  to learn our peaceful ways if you block yourself off from what we're trying to teach you?"

  Shell looks to Brick for reassurance. "You can stick with me," Brick says.

  'And me!" Lily beams. She rests her head on his shoulder and bats her eyes up at him from behind the mask.

  "Okay," Shell says, comforted by the feel of Lily's head against his shoulder. "I'll go."

  "That's all we ask." Clay smiles, clicking the ignition off, and reminds everybody to leave the car doors slightly ajar.

  They sneak around the side of the house to the back, where it's even darker. Using his flashlight, Clay looks around the door for a key, checking under the doormat and running his fingers atop the door ledge.

  "Found it," Daisy whispers, holding the key out for show. Apparently it'd been hidden in the planter at the foot of the stairs.

  Clay plucks it out of her hand, unlocks the door, and the group enters, locking the door back up behind them. "Okay," Clay says. "You know the rules--be quick, be selective, and leave things as you found them. Sometimes these people are so prepared to give, they don't even notice when something's missing."

  While Daisy and Lily scamper off down the hail and Clay remains in the kitchen area, She'll sticks close to Brick. They begin in the family room. Brick unzips his duffel bag and disconnects the family's DVD player, as though he's an old pro. "You don't have to take anything if you don't feel comfortable," Brick whispers. "I'll just say you helped me with this stuff." He checks the drawers, loading his bag with

  62

  a handful of DVDs, a remote control, and a portable CD player.

  A few moments later, Lily enters the room, duffel bag already full. "Come on," she whispers to Shell, dropping her bag, taking his hand, and leading him down the hallway into what appears to be the master bedroom. She pulls him into a walk-in closet, clicks on the light, and closes the door. "They must be super rich," she says, "like movie stars." She pulls off her ski mask and grabs a mink stole from the hanger. She slips it around her shoulders, adding a matching mink hat and a beaded bag with rhinestone detail to enhance the look. "How do I look?"

  Shell has to admit that she couldn't look more beautiful. It isn't the clothes per se; it's the way she wears them and how happy she is.

  Lily snags a man's scarf from a hanger, a charcoal-gray one with black stitching. She pulls off Shell's ski mask, drapes the scarf around his neck and pulls him close, staring into his silvery blue eyes and running her fingers through his short dark hair. "I meant what I said before, you know," she says. "I love you . . . with all my heart." With that, she kisses him--a long, soft kiss that reminds him of warm honey She smells like honey, too, like cinnamon French toast and hot maple syrup. Shell wonders when was the last time he's tasted something so wonderful.

  "We're leaving," Daisy says, knocking on the door.

  Lily breaks the embrace and her smile wilts. "I shouldn't take this stuff, should I?" she says, referring to the clothing. "It would be vain to keep such beautiful things, and I don't have the heart to sell them."

  63

  "I guess," She'll says.

  "But maybe they wouldn't notice . ."

  "How about you just take one thing," Shell suggests, wanting more than anything to see her happy again, to see that glow about her.

  Lily smiles and kisses him once more. "You're such a beautiful soul," she says, "like no one I've ever met." She carefully returns the stole and purse to their hangers, but saves the hat for herself, stuffing it into her pocket. "I want you to have this as well," she says, snagging the wool scarf from around his neck. She crams it into his pocket and the two exit the closet, joining the others out in the kitchen, holding hands and blushing with happiness.

  64

  Stacey

  After my meeting with President Wallace, I come straight back to the dorm and grab my bowlful of lavender petals. I rub the individual bits between the tips of my fingers, the sweet herbal scent rising up, helping to calm me a little.

  But it isn't enough. I unclasp the amulet necklace from around my neck. It's a tiny emerald-green bottle made out of sea glass and threaded through a silver chain. My mother bought it for me on my last birthday. I pop its tiny cork and 65

  spill a few droplets of lavender oil onto my finger. I dab at the pulse points on my neck, willing the homey scent to ground me even a little.

  Both Amber and Janie have left notes for me. Janie is at a faith club meeting and Amber went to boy shop. I crumple the notes up, imagining Amber traipsing around from floor to floor, sporting a push-up bra and some skimpy form of faux animal skin to cover her fanny, searching for some serious male attention.

  And why not? Isn't that what college is supposed to be about? Having fun, meeting new people, hooking up with random hotties, and partying from late Thursday night until early Sunday morning?

  But instead I'm here. I pop one of my tranquilizers and lay back in bed, wanting more than anything to fall asleep, to dream about water again--to see if Jacob will make an appearance in my dreams.

  I spend the next few days in bed, getting up only to raid the candy and soda machines in the dorm room lobby, to go to the bathroom, pop more pills, and defend myself from Amber's wrath. But I don't dream--not even a little.

  "You smell!" Amber shouts on day four of my bed binge. "When was the last time you bathed?"

  I respond by pulling a stick of rosewood incense from my drawer. I light it, waving the smoke toward her side of the room. "Better?"

  "Janie doesn't even want to sleep here," she says. "Your stench is funking up her brain even more. She says she's been getting headaches all week because of you." 66

  I roll over in bed, my back facing her, and tug the blankets up over my head.

  "Don't think you're gonna skip your classes again," she says, tug-of-war-pulling the covers from me. "It's 9 AM--don't you have a class at 10?" I shrug.

  "Perfect. Just enough time to get that bubble butt of yours out of bed, into the shower, and into some clean clothes. You can snatch one of Janie's Gogurts on the way out; we'll tell her one of the dorm rats ate it."

  "Maybe tomorrow." I sigh. "I want to sleep."

  'Are you kidding? You've been coma-queen for days."

  "Leave me alone," I say

  "You really want to go back home?" she asks, winning the tug-of war fight ove
r my covers. "Because that's exactly what's going to happen." I reach for the bottle of tranquilizers stashed under my pillow, noticing that I've taken them all, that the bottle is empty. A whole month's worth used up in a handful of days. I won't be able to call in a new prescription for another couple of weeks.

  "Well?" she asks.

  "I already have a mother, thanks."

  "Have you talked to her lately? Does she know you're funking up your chances here, that you're going to flunk out of college without having ever made it to class? I mean, you're starting to make me look good." Amber comes and sits on the corner of my bed. "Is that why the president wanted to see you the other day?"

  67

  I shake my head and move to sit up. "He wants me to help his daughter."

  "What's wrong with her?"

  I let out a sigh and tell her about his manipulative little plan--how he plotted to get me here and that's why I got the scholarship. "I should have known something was up," I say. "Nobody with high school grades like mine gets into a place like this."

  "I did," Amber perks.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, stopping myself from mentioning that Dr. Wallace brought her name up in our conversation, that he implied he knew we were good friends, and that's why she got in.

  "So what's the story with his daughter?"

  'Apparently she's having nightmares."

  "Nightmares like yours--dead bodies, pools of blood, little girls chanting in freakish rhyme . . . ?"

  I nod.

  "Sucks for her," Amber says. She leans over to reach for the mini-fridge, opening the door wide to survey all of Janie's prized goodies. She thieves a Popsicle from the freezer section and tears off the paper, popping the icy end into her mouth and sucking at the bright cherry redness. "So what are you going to do about it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, are you going to help her?"

  I snatch the covers from the foot of the bed and drag them back up to my chin. "I can barely even get out of bed."

  "Can barely or won't ever?"

  68

  "What's that supposed to mean?" I snap.

  "Don't get me wrong." She points the Popsicle for emphasis. "I mean, I love you like a sister, and I know this is going to sound much bitchier than I mean it to, but you're even more deflated now than you were this summer--like Spidey over there the morning after a good night." She gestures to the blow-up doll on her bed and then holds her Popsicle out to me for a luck. "Sugar high?"

  "No, thanks," I say, noticing how her teeth and tongue have turned fireball red.

  "Why don't you give Dr. Atwood a call?" she suggests. Aren't you supposed to be continuing your therapy?"

  "Maybe I don't feel like listening to the tone of her disappointed voice." Amber sighs. "She's not the only one who's disappointed, you know."

  "What do you mean?"

  She shrugs.

  "Spill it," I insist.

  "It's just. . . you used to be my rock, Stacey, my hero--the bravest person I knew. It didn't matter what was going on in your life or how stressed out you got. . . you still saved the day. I mean, I know you have a lot to deal with right now and I know it takes time, it's just. . . instead of moving forward even a little, I feel like you're slipping back."

  "Well I'm sorry," I say, feeling my teeth clench, "but guess what? I'm not some superhero; I'm a real person with real emotions and real feelings." I take a deep breath, trying to melt away some of the tension in my chest.

  69

  "That's not what I mean."

  "Oh, no?" I ask. "Don't you understand? Jacob is missing--"

  "Not this again!" she snaps. "He's gone, Stacey-- gone . . . as in dead. When is it going to dick?"

  I shake my head, fighting the urge to cover my ears.

  "But you're still here," she continues. "And so am I. And I want to help you; I want you to get through this."

  "I really don't feel like talking right now," I say, looking away.

  "I'm sorry. I just want you to get better."

  "No," I snap, turning back to face her. "I'm the one who's sorry. I'm sorry that I came here. I'm sorry that I can't be a hero for you, a success story for Dr. Atwood, a perfect daughter for my mother, or now, a savior for President Wallace's daughter."

  "Stacey--"

  "Just leave me alone." I lay back down in bed, drawing the covers over my face to block her out. All I need right now is to fall back asleep--to try, once again, to find Jacob in my dreams.

  70

  Stacey

  I toss and turn in bed after Amber leaves, trying to fall back asleep, but I can't. I just can't stop thinking about everything she said--that she once thought of me as her hero, the bravest person she knew, and that I've suddenly been plucked from that position, whether I like it or not.

  I sit up in bed, wishing I had one of my tranquilizer friends to help me get over this hump, but I don't. And so I decide to do the one thing I have yet to embark upon since 71

  first setting foot on this campus . . . the bravest thing I can think of. I go to class.

  According to my schedule, I have forty-five minutes until Life Science. I fish a clean sweatshirt and pair of jeans from my unpacked suitcase and rush down the hallway for a shower and tooth-brushing, almost plowing down a girl who fits the description of Sage, Janie's old roommate, along the way--a walking cliche of black clothes, black hair, pasty white skin highlighted by layers upon layers of charcoal-colored eye makeup, and lots of silver jewelry. Her stereotypical appearance makes me wonder if she's one of those Wiccan wannabes, the kind who knows nearly nil about the Craft but decides it would be cool to practice it anyway. It also makes me wonder if there's some truth to all those rumors.

  Less than forty minutes later, I fly through the doors of the Stratcher Science Building. The classroom is packed--at least thirty students flipping back and forth through notebooks, pointing at diagrams in their textbooks, and quizzing each other with flashcards. I take one of the only two available desks toward the back of the classroom.

  "What's with the study frenzy?" I ask the girl sitting beside me.

  "Are you kidding?" She raises her barbell-pierced eyebrow for emphasis. "Today's the quiz."

  Quiz? "But this is only the third time this class has met."

  "It's on the syllabus."

  Great. I chew at my lower lip, fighting the urge to bury my face in my hands. 72

  Barbell-girl must notice my Up-sweat. She lets out an evil little smirk, raising her barbell up even higher.

  "What's it on?" I ask.

  She flashes me an index card, where's she got the words Unit Membrane written across the top. There's a couple rows of circles with squiggly lines sandwiched between them, and what looks like a sideways cheeseburger in the middle.

  "What is that?" I feel my mouth drop open.

  "Didn't you read the section on lipids and proteins? He's also going to include all the nuclear envelope stuff."

  Huh? I swallow hard, feeling a sudden heaviness in my chest. I peer up at the professor as he extracts his books and notes from a weather-beaten leather briefcase, wondering if he'll be understanding about my recent rash of school skipping. He looks kind of young--maybe late twenties at most--so I'm thinking he's one of those graduate student assistants you hear about. The kind that often sits in for the real professor and does all the correcting--all in exchange for a break in tuition and a reference on his resume.

  I approach his desk. "Excuse me . . are you Professor Rosin's assistant?" He pauses from unpacking to look up at me, his tiny blue eyes almost lost behind a pair of square black glasses. "No." He cracks his jaw and glances down at his watch. "Next question?"

  "Professor Rosin?" I ask, positive that my lip is sweating now for sure. 73

  "Muller," he corrects, resuming his unpacking. "Dr. Wayne Muller--at least, last I checked."

  "Right." I glance down at my schedule, noticing that Professor Rosin is the name of my English professor. "Well um, my name is Stac
ey Brown. I was sick earlier this week . . . that's why I wasn't here."

  Instead of responding, Dr. Muller turns away to write something on the board.

  "I understand there's a quiz today," I continue, my voice squeaking slightly out of nervousness.

  "You understand correctly, Ms. Brown," he says, scribbling the day's assignment on the board.

  "Well, I was just wondering if maybe I could make the quiz up at another time . . . since I was absent. I mean, I don't even have the syllabus."

  He turns around to face me, a small menacing smile stretched across his pasty white lips. "This isn't high school, Ms. Brown. Sink or swim." He pulls an extra syllabus from his bag and thrusts it at me.

  Huh?

  "No life rafts in here." Muller turns his back on me once again, solidifying the obvious--that I'm absolutely screwed and that I absolutely hate him. A couple minutes later, he passes out the quiz--one long list of words I've never seen before: chromatin, nucleoplasm, nucleolus . . I glance over at barbell girl, who's obviously whipping right through--it appears as though she's already on the second side. I sign my name and hand in my automatic F, feeling my cheeks get hot as I walk out of the room.

  74

  The remainder of my day's classes are equally as miserable. There was a short personal essay due in my English class--another big fat zero--and I obviously didn't outline the first two chapters for my Intro to Holistic Health class, nor did I single-space-type-out the answers to the chapter review questions at the back of the book. I take a deep breath, feeling my chest tighten up once again. Apparently a lot of the professors at this college abide by the sink or swim philosophy--a philosophy in which I have obviously sunk.

  75

  Stacey

  I beeline it back to the dorm, almost making it without having to actually talk to anyone. But then I hear my name called out, about halfway up the dormitory steps. I turn and spot him--some guy standing amongst a throng of girls, a giant grin across his face.