Red is for Rememberance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  121

  Stacey

  PJ gives us all his contact info--including his motel room address and phone number, his cell phone number, and his new campus e-mail address. He makes us promise to call him later. We agree; it's either that or he won't leave.

  Amber is beyond stressed. She's resorted to pulling a Drea--gnawing away at a chocolate bar in an effort to eat her funk. "He's going to hang all over me," she whines.

  "It's going to be just like high school--him hanging around all 122

  the time, making it look like we're a couple, ruining my game." I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to remind her how jealous she got this past summer when PJ showed interest in someone else.

  "He's such a cutie," Janie says. "I can't believe you don't like him."

  "Coming from someone who was shacked up with an egghead last night," Amber says,

  "that doesn't mean a whole heck of a lot."

  "I take it you walked in on them, too?" I ask.

  "Unfortunately," Amber says with a shudder. "G-strings and smelly fruit stickers--I'm still trying to block it out."

  "It's not like we did anything wrong," Janie whines. "We didn't go all the way, if that's what you're thinking. I do have my limits."

  'And what's your Unit?" Amber asks. "Getting jiggy in front of the entire floor, as opposed to just your roommates?"

  "Don't talk about me that way." Janie folds her arms and crosses her legs, bobbing her Strawberry Shortcake slipper back and forth. "For your information, I'm saving myself for marriage."

  'Are you sure?" Amber asks, arching her eyebrows. "Because it didn't look like you were saving that much."

  "You're one to talk," Janie says. "You and that blow-up toy of yours."

  "His name happens to be Spider-Man and, from the looks of things last night, he's probably a lot more useful in the sack than that egghead of yours." 123

  "Excuse me," I say, interrupting them, "but speaking as someone who didn't get any sleep last night, shouldn't we discuss more important matters?"

  "Totally" Amber says, arching her eyebrows up and down. "Let's hear it--the who, the where, and the how many times."

  "Sorry to disappoint." I sigh. "But I spent the night at the library"

  "Do tell," Amber says. "The stacks can be so hot."

  "I studied."

  "Ho hum." She passes me her chocolate bar for a bite. "You know that Tim guy really likes you."

  "He's a flirt," I explain. "It's his job to like everybody"

  "Puh-leeze," Amber says, rolling her eyes. "The poor boy salivates at the mere sound of your name."

  "I doubt it."

  "You know what's weird, though?" she says, ignoring me. "He thinks you have a boyfriend." She gives me a pointed look.

  I shrug and look away.

  "Don't worry," she continues. "I set him straight. You're welcome, by the way."

  "Thanks a lot." I sigh again. "Can we talk about the sleeping arrangements now?"

  "Now that's more like it," Amber says, rubbing her palms together.

  "That's not what I mean." I turn to Janie. "It's not fair that I have to spend the entire night at the library," I say.

  "No one said you had to," Janie says. "You were welcome to come back here." 124

  "With you and Boy Toy playing tongue hockey? No, thank you."

  "I live here, too," Janie says. "It's not exactly fair that I get stuck living with a Satan worshipper."

  "Please," I say, holding my hand up to shut her off.

  "You please," she says. 'All that witchcraft stuff you do . . . who knows what you might do to me?"

  "Yeah," Amber says, narrowing her eyes on Janie. "It might not be safe for you. Have you considered finding another room? Maybe Egghead has some space . ."

  "Witchcraft has nothing to do with Satan," I say, interrupting them.

  "Yeah, that's what Sage said, too," Janie snaps. "But then she tried stealing from a gravesite."

  "You have no idea what you're even talking about," I continue. "Wicca is a peaceful religion; it has nothing to do with breaking into cemeteries or putting evil hexes on people."

  "It's against my religion."

  "Is it also against your religion to educate yourself a little?"

  "I'm in college, aren't I?"

  'All I'm saying is that if you opened your mind even a smidge, you'd see . . . there's probably a lot we agree on."

  "Why don't we just agree to disagree," she says.

  "Fine," I say, completely frustrated with her narrow little mind. "Let's get down to some rule-making."

  "Great," Janie says. "If I'm with a boy, I'll put the sign on the door."

  'And how often do you plan to do that?" I ask.

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  "I don't know." Janie shrugs. "Not that much. Maybe three or four times a week." Amber's mouth falls open. "Freak!"

  "What?" Janie asks, pasting a twinkling star sticker to her chin. "It's not like you guys can't do the same. It's not like I don't have to live with a witch." She glances a moment at the side of my bed--at my chunky cluster rock, my bowl full of lavender pellets, and the clay bowl from my restoration spell.

  "Egghead has stamina," Amber continues.

  "For your information, his name happens to be Hayden, and he's very sweet--we sing in the church choir together."

  "Jesus would be so pleased." Amber rolls her eyes.

  We argue for several more minutes about our sleeping arrangements and my spell schedule. Basically, Janie has kindly agreed to continue living with me, but she doesn't want to see any of my spells. In exchange, she's agreed to cut her Egghead time down to one or two rendezvous per week, taking advantage of his room as well and to give Amber and me a little heads-up time so we can plan accordingly. Meanwhile, we're all going to post our weekly schedules.

  "Wait," Janie interrupts. 'All of this can't kick in until tomorrow. I already told Hayden that we could be here tonight. It's only because his roommate's planned something special with his girlfriend--they're going to be using his room."

  "Fine," I say, figuring I'll be spending the rest of the day in bed, catching up on sleep. "I should probably study anyway."

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  "Well it isn't fine with me," Amber balks. "I'm going to a party tonight, but there's only so long you can chow down at Denny's afterwards. I'll probably be back by three."

  "We should be done by then," Janie chirps.

  Perfect.

  "Oh, and one last thing," Janie continues. "I think you and Amber should get your own fridge. I'm tired of you stealing all my stuff. Don't think I haven't noticed." Amber stifles a laugh and looks away

  "Deal," I say.

  The basic rules in place, I check my phone messages. Both Drea and my mother called me back last night. Instead of returning their calls right away, I slip back down into the sheets and cradle my dream box, eager to dream about Jacob.

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  Shell

  Before they leave the trading field, Shell tells Mason, Clay, and the others that he thinks he dropped his glove in front of the cheese traders and would like to go back and have a peek. Mason agrees, a bit distracted as he and the others pack up the car. Both gloves jammed into the waist of his pants, Shell glances in Brick's direction, sensing that Brick knows he's

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  lying. He can see it on his face--the way Brick's eyebrows furrow up for just a second. Shell heads down the row where the girl was passing out angel wings. He finds the booth a little too easily. There's nothing else around it now, just open fields for as far as he can see.

  The girl is standing there, beaming at him. "Back so soon?" she asks. Shell looks around him, wondering where all the other traders went. He looks back toward where his fellow campers were loading up the car--but they're gone now, too.

  "What are you waiting for?" She grabs the angel wings she picked out for him earlier and props them up on the table. "Try them on."

  Still confused over everyone's sudden disappearance, Shell studies her a moment.
She even looks like an angel--pale peachy skin, light silvery eyes, pinkish lips, and cornsilkblond hair that hangs down the back of her long and shimmering gown.

  "What's your name?" Shell asks.

  'Angel," she says.

  Shell holds back a laugh.

  "What's so funny? At least I know my name."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "What's your name?" she asks.

  "Shell."

  "What's your real name?"

  Shell looks away, avoiding the question. He doesn't remember his real name. So, like many of the campers who

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  elect to change their name when they become members of the community--sort of like starting over fresh--Shell was renamed by Mason.

  "I'm waiting . ." she sings, adjusting the makeshift halo she's got wired over her head--a glittery cardboard ring attached to a stick that she's got clipped to the back of her dress. It wavers back and forth as she moves, like antennae.

  Shell focuses on her necklace a moment. "Where did you get that?" he asks. It's a tiny emerald-green bottle that's been threaded through a silver chain.

  "My mother gave it to me. It was made from sea glass." She grips the tiny cork, spilling a droplet of oil onto her finger. "Lavender oil," she says. "Would you like a sniff?" Shell nods, knowing that he's seen a necklace like that before. It looks so familiar.

  "I'll bet it does," she says, as though reading his mind. She dabs the oil at both sides of her neck, a smirk across her face.

  "What are you talking about?"

  Angel smiles wider. "Come closer," she says, opening the collar of her dress. "Sometimes scents can help us remember things from the past."

  Shell leans forward, but he doesn't smell a thing. Instead he notices the dark brown X on her neck, right over her collarbone, about the size of his thumbprint.

  "Is that a tattoo?" he asks.

  Angel runs her fingers over the X and nods. "It's the rune for partnership. You have one as well, don't you?"

  "A tattoo?"

  "No." She sighs. A partner."

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  Shell nods, thinking of Lily

  "Not her," Angel squawks, still reading his mind. "Your real partner. The one with the X

  on her neck."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You're onto something with the whole To Candace, forever, with love thing . . . the inscription on that old couple's pocket watch . . I know how much it puzzles you."

  "What does it mean?"

  Are you kidding me?" Angel says, rolling her eyes. 'Am I supposed to do all the work? A little brain power of your own, please."

  "Sorry"

  "Whatever. Let's just get back to your partner. Do you know who I'm talking about . . . the one who's got your wings all broken up . . . ?" She gestures toward his back, toward his invisible broken wings.

  Shell shakes his head, thoroughly perplexed.

  "Figures," she says with another sigh. "Here." She thrusts the pair of cardboard wings at him. "Put these on before you completely tick me off."

  "How do you know so much about me?"

  "I'm your guardian angel," she says. "It's my job." Shell's face scrunches, even more confused. "I'm not dead."

  "Hold that thought," she whispers.

  And, with that, Angel kisses his cheek and disappears, right along with his wings. 131

  Shell

  Shell wakes up a couple seconds later. Breathing hard, he rubs at his eyes and shakes his head, trying to get a grip. He looks over at Brick, still fast asleep in his bed, and then at the younger boys in their bunks across the room. He's thankful that he didn't wake them, but how is he supposed to fall back asleep now?

  Instead of even trying, Shell crawls out of bed, grabs his coat, gloves, and hat, and heads outside. Using the waxing

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  moon as his light, he walks past the chopping station, past the woods, and takes the trail that leads to the beach. There's a dock out there, a fishing boat attached. Clay, Mason, and some of the elders often take the boat out--either for food or on one of the taking missions.

  Shell takes a seat on the dock, looking toward the boat, wondering where Clay and Mason keep the ignition key. He dangles his feet toward the sea, suddenly feeling a bit scared, a bit uneasy, but he doesn't know why. What's bothering him? Is it the night . . . sneaking out and the fear of getting caught? Is it the dream he just had?

  He breathes the salt air in, trying to figure it out, wondering if Angel is really the name of the girl at the trading field and if, in some way she really was able to sense stuff about him. He cradles the pentacle rock in his coat pocket, imagining it as a giant crystal cluster that has the power to protect. Maybe if he'd had that sort of protection out on the streets, he wouldn't be missing whole chunks of his life. He takes a deep breath in, watching the dark, murky sea as it splashes up on the dock legs, making him feel a little nauseated.

  Why does he feel this way? Why did the sea glass necklace in his dream--Angel's necklace--look so familiar to him? What did she mean when she said that he's on to something with that inscription in the old couple's pocket watch? Is it just his subconscious playing with him? Or is it something more?

  A couple seconds later, he hears something--the squeak of rubber soles bearing down into the wet sand just behind him. Shell braces himself, wondering if he should hang off 133

  the dock, into the water, so as not to be seen. Mason has strict rules about not being out after curfew. What if someone noticed that his bed was empty?

  He squints hard, trying to make out a figure. A moment later, a bright light shines in his eyes.

  "Who's there?" Shell calls out.

  '"Tis I." Brick laughs, angling his flashlight beam so that it lights up his face. "Did I scare you?"

  Shell lets out a sigh of relief. "What are you doing here?" Brick joins Shell on the dock. "I could ask you the same. Aren't you freezing out here?" Shell nods and follows Brick to the beach, where the group often has campfires. Brick starts the flame, extracting a small pouch from his pocket. "Dried dandelions," he says, passing the pouch to Shell. "Have you ever used them before?" Shell opens the pouch and holds it in the flashlight beam. He looks down at the bits of green, yellow, and brown, and then brings it to his nose for a sniff. The familiar sour scent of dried grass wafts up in his face. "For conjuring spirits, right?"

  "I'm impressed," Brick says. "You've obviously tried it before." Shell nods, confident that he has indeed tried it, but not remembering where. Brick takes the pouch back, spilling the contents out over the fire. "So who Shell we conjure up? Abraham Lincoln? Ghandi? Or maybe somebody more accessible . . . somebody we know..."

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  Shell thinks about it a moment. Does he know anyone who's passed on?

  "How about Rosa," Brick suggests. "Mason's first wife. Mason said she died because she was raised in a material world; her family had lots of radiation-bearing gadgets like TVs, computers, microwave ovens . . he says she became sick because of it."

  "Do you really believe that?"

  Brick shrugs. "I believe Mason believes it. He often says how proud she'd be of our community, of what we're doing here. Maybe if we contacted her, she could tell us secrets about--"

  "My uncle," Shell says, interrupting.

  "What uncle?"

  Shell shakes his head, his heart beating fast now. "I think I may have had an uncle who died."

  "You're remembering stuff from your past?"

  Shell nods;, sure that he remembers going to a funeral--the procession of cars, the sea of long black coats, the flickering candles in a musk-scented church. "It just kind of came back to me . . . with the scent of the dandelions," he says, remembering how, in his dream, Angel told him that scents can sometimes help people remember the past.

  "It must be a powerful batch," Brick says, enticing the fire by picking at it with a stick.

  "Can you picture what he looked like?"

  Shell closes his eyes, trying his hardest to concentra
te on a face, but all he remembers is that the casket was closed, like a giant, empty box.

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  "Hello?" Brick says, snapping his fingers.

  "I don't remember," She'll whispers, opening his eyes.

  "Well it's still good news. I mean, maybe your brain will eventually let you remember good things."

  Shell hopes that's so. But then why did Mason tell him that nothing in his past was good?

  "I want to talk to that girl again," Shell says. "The one from the trading field."

  "With the wings?"

  Shell nods.

  "Told you, you should have tried on a pair."

  Shell shrugs. "When's the next trading day?"

  "Not for another month," Brick says, tossing the stick into the fire. A series of embers fly up into the wind.

  "I need to find her."

  Brick chews at his lower lip. "We're supposed to be going into town tomorrow. Mason wants us to shop for supplies."

  "And?"

  'And, who knows . . . maybe she'll be there. If it's meant to be . . . Don't you believe in fate?"

  "I believe we make our own fate." Shell scrunches his face at his own words, at his seeming confidence in them.

  "It was fate that brought you to our camp," Brick says, swiping a piece of his long blondish hair from in front of his eye. "Did you make that happen?"

  "I don't know how I got here. I just woke up one day and here I was."

  "Precisely," Brick says. "Fate."

  Shell thinks about it a moment and shakes his head. Whenever he asks about his arrival at the camp, he always

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  gets the same version of the story--that Clay, Mason, and Rock found him on the streets, that he was starving and nearly beaten to death. He sits back on his heels, remembering the wounds that covered his body--the gash to the back of his head, where it's still tender, where his dark brown hair hasn't fully grown back yet. He remembers Sienna, one of the elder women, looking after him in the elder women's cabin.

  "Whatever happened to Rock?" Shell asks.

  "He isn't here anymore," Brick explains. "He left the camp shortly after your arrival. We're not really supposed to talk about him."

  "Why not?"