Red is for Rememberance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

"Just a rule," Brick says. "Mason doesn't like it when people leave the camp. I think he's afraid talking about it might encourage more people to go."

  "Is that what the barbed wire fence is for?"

  Brick shrugs. "Mason says the wire's to keep people out --strays, you know--people who don't belong, who don't understand our mission of peace." Shell looks away, knowing that it's all a pile of crap. Why else would they need a chaperone to leave the camp premises? Why else would they not be allowed to stray too far into the woods? She'll wonders if he'll ever be able to leave and, if so, where he'd possibly go.

  "Speaking of missing rocks," Brick says with a smirk, "did you hear about the stone jewelry that was taken from Rain's trading table today? She said it was a turquoise ring and a jade bracelet."

  "Does she know who did it?"

  137

  Brick shrugs and looks away, grabbing another stick. "She thinks it was probably someone she traded with. Maybe they took more than their share when she wasn't looking."

  "What do you think?" Shell asks, clearly sensing that Brick doesn't believe that's the truth.

  Brick pauses from fire-poking to meet Shell's eye. "Maybe we shouldn't be talking about this."

  "You think it was Clay, don't you?"

  Brick shrugs.

  "Do you still think he took that necklace?" She'll continues. Brick squirms slightly "Let's talk about something else."

  "You can trust me. I won't say anything."

  "That isn't the point."

  "Then what is?" Shell demands. "It's not like we don't steal, too."

  "We don't steal," Brick says firmly.

  "Well, I don't know what else to call it." Shell sighs. "We break into people's houses and take their things behind their backs. How is that any different than Clay taking from Rain? Haven't you ever questioned it? Even once?"

  Instead of answering, Brick resumes prodding the fire with the stick. "He has a gun, you know?" he says after several moments.

  "Clay?"

  Brick nods. "I'm pretty sure, but no one's supposed to know about it."

  "How come you know?"

  138

  "I was there," he says, focusing back into the fire. "I think he took it on one of the taking missions. He acted like the sight of the gun made him sick but, when I checked the drawer on my way out, it was gone."

  "Why do you think he'd need a gun?" Shell asks, growing more uneasy by the moment. Brick shrugs. "For protection, probably"

  "Protection from what?"

  "For the taking missions, maybe. Or for trespassers who break into our camp . .. who want to violate our mission of peace."

  "Do you really believe all that?"

  Brick doesn't answer. Instead, he sits back and wipes at his brow, at the tears of sweat that roll down his face in spite of the chilly morning air. "You won't tell anyone about this, will you?" he asks, finally.

  Shell shakes his head, not exactly sure what he's agreeing to. "As long as you don't tell anyone that I'm starting to remember pieces of my past."

  "But that's good news. Why don't you want anyone to know?"

  "For the same reason you don't want me to say anything about Clay" Brick smiles slightly, and the two sit in silence for several minutes, watching the fire as it snaps up into the wind.

  "We're a lot alike, I think," Brick says, venturing to look up at She'll. Shell nods. He couldn't agree more.

  139

  I'm walking down a long, dark tunnel toward a bright and shimmering light. There's a rhythmic sound all around me, like a beating heart. Is it mine? I place my hand over my chest, but I can't tell. The nerves in my body tremble. My fingers shake. There's a splashing sound at my feet. I look down, realizing that the sound is coming from me, that I'm walking knee-deep in water. There are hands sticking up through the surface of the stream--long, pale, and twisted

  140

  fingers that reach out to touch me, to pull me under. I do my best to walk a straight path to avoid them, but it's hard.

  "Long time no see, Miss Stacey B," says a female voice, the same childlike voice from before. "I'm the girl who'll set you free."

  "How?" I hear myself shout out. "Who are you?" Her shadow scampers through the light; I see her dress skirt out behind her. "Don't you remember, cutie pie? About the boy who's going to die." At that, a hand wraps around my leg and tries to pull me forward, into the water. I hold myself back, struggling to keep my balance, trying to kick the hand away, using the heel of my other foot.

  "Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead!" she sings. Her silhouette appears in the light. She has long, straight hair that goes past her waist. The rest of her is draped in the dress, big and flowing, like maybe she's playing dress-up. There's a ball in her hand. She bends down to roll it at me. The ball travels along the surface of the stream before it gets eaten up.

  I continue to kick at the hand, but it won't let go. It grips tighter, cutting at my circulation. My leg throbs. My foot turns numb.

  "My daughter has a burning arm, you see. A bright red heart and the letter the. You need to help her, it's what you're meant for. 'Cause if you don't, Jacob will be no more." Jacob? My eyes widen. "Is he here?"

  She reaches into her other pocket, pulling out what I know is my chunky crystal rock. She holds it up, the light casting through the chips and indentures making it glow. "Dive right in, Miss Stacy B, if it's Jacob you've come to see."

  141

  With that, the girl dives into the water. I follow, allowing the hand to pull me under. I spend that night studying in the library, trying to catch up on my work, motivated by the dream--by the promise of Jacob. I play the words from the dream over and over again in my mind-- a bright red heart and the letter T-- wondering what they mean, what the letter the stands for. I brainstorm ways to connect it to Jacob, but nothing seems to work--not his middle name (Cameron), not his astrological sign (Capricorn), not his hometown (VaU), and not his favorite food (brownies). For just a second, I feel my heart thump, remembering that he owned a dog for part of his childhood, but that the dog ran away. I rack my brain, trying to remember the dog's name. But when it hits me, my heart goes flat again. His name was Sleepy, named after one of the Seven Dwarves. How ironic, I think, since sleepy is exactly what I'm feeling.

  I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I have other work to do. I plug my way through chapter summaries and lists of words, knowing that I need to do well, that I need to stay here. If helping out the president's daughter means seeing Jacob in my dreams, if the two things are somehow linked, then that's what I have to do. When Sunday morning hits, I can't wait to get back to the room to sleep. I plow through the door, eager to jump into bed, but Amber completely startles me. 142

  "Yowch!" she screams. She's standing at her dresser, still in her cheese-print pajamas, and it appears as though she's just slammed her finger in the drawer.

  "Oh migosh," Janie yelps, jumping up out of bed. 'Are you all right?" Amber gives her the wounded middle finger, the nail painted robin's-egg blue. "Does it look like I'm all right?"

  I whip Janie's fridge open and pull out a jar of mayonnaise. "Here," I say unscrewing the lid. "Stick your finger inside."

  "Yuck!" Amber shouts.

  "Just do it. It'll help stop the swelling."

  Amber complies, plunking her finger down into the creamy whiteness.

  "Isn't that better?" I ask.

  "It feels like butt cream," she says, making a yuck-face.

  "You would know," I tease. "Just hold it in place. The eggs in the mayo will help soothe it. Just like they soothed your burning face last summer, remember?"

  "Don't expect me to use that now," Janie says, referring to the mayo. Her name is written in big black letters across the label.

  Amber extracts her finger for a lick, totally rubbing it in. Meanwhile, I grab some dried mint leaves from inside my spell suitcase and sprinkle them into the jar.

  "For flavor?" Amber asks, double-dunking her finger.

  "For healing," I say "Mint hel
ps speed things up."

  "Wait," Janie squeals, "is this more of your witch stuff?"

  "Better look out." Amber looks up toward the ceiling. "I feel a lightning bolt about to strike."

  143

  "Not funny," I say, taking an egg from the fridge.

  "Those are mine," Janie whines. "I didn't even get to hardboil them yet."

  "Why do you even have a dozen eggs, anyway?" Amber asks. "It's not like we have a stove in here, and you're not exactly the Easter Bunny"

  "There's a stove over at the townhouses," Janie explains, "where Hayden lives. I like to boil them up for snacks."

  "De-lish," Amber says, sticking her tongue out in sheer yuckification.

  "We'll buy you a dozen," I say, placing the egg inside Amber's other hand. "Hold it as close to the wound as possible," I tell her, "and picture the cut leaving your finger and entering the egg."

  "Does that really work?" Janie asks.

  "It's what I use. My grandmother taught it to me."

  'And that's witchcraft?" she asks.

  "Pretty painless, huh?"

  "More like pointless," she grumbles.

  While Amber continues to treat her finger, I crawl into bed, neglecting even to change my clothes. The problem is I'm so hyped up, anticipating how my dream will continue --if I'll finally get to see Jacob this time--that it takes two full hours, one dream bag spell, and two attempted telephone calls before my mind and body can even think about snoozing.

  After Amber and Janie head out for brunch, I do the spell and then call my mother and Drea back, neither of whom pick up. I leave messages for both and grab my bottle of tranquilizers. I chase a couple down with a steaming mug

  144

  of Echinacea Green and then lay back on my pillow, finally feeling myself doze off. I sleep for fourteen hours, but I don't dream at all. Not even a little. I wake up Monday morning completely frustrated, but also somewhat relieved that the weekend is finally over. So, after making it to all my classes, I head straight to the president's office. Ms. McNeal is there, sitting at her computer, playing a round of Solitaire.

  "Is Dr. Wallace in?" I ask her.

  She turns from the computer screen and stiffens up right away. "He's been expecting you."

  Her response takes me aback. She obviously told him everything that happened here Friday. Ms. McNeal goes into his office, shutting the door behind her. Several seconds later, she comes back out, leaving the door wide open for me. "Dr. Wallace will see you now."

  I take a deep breath and head into his office, noticing right away that he isn't alone. Porsha's there as well. She's sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, books barricaded all around her like before. She peeks up at me for just a second, but then resumes her work like I'm not even here.

  "Stacey," Dr. Wallace says, standing from his desk. "I'm glad to see you back."

  "I want to talk to Porsha," I say

  He nods, taking a giant breath, as though relieved by my decision. "She'd like that. I spent the weekend telling her about you, about your experiences with premonitions--as least as much as I know."

  145

  I look at Porsha, wondering if she would indeed like that or if she'll end up pulling a tantrum like Friday. It appears as though she's drawing lines down the pages of a textbook. Her hand has been bandaged up--from the pencil stabs, I presume.

  "This is a good thing," Dr. Wallace continues. The emotion is clearly visible on his face. He looks away, toward the windows, as though checking something outside--to hide what he's feeling maybe.

  A few moments later, he excuses us from Porsha, leading me out of his office, down the hallway, and into a small conference room so that we can go over a few things in private.

  He shuts the door behind us and tells me that if Porsha should try to hurt herself, I'm to tell him (and no one else, if I can help it) right away. He also gives me his beeper number, his cell phone number, and makes me promise not to tell anyone about our arrangement.

  "You can use my office," he says. "I have to go out to a meeting now anyway"

  "Fine," I say, motioning to the door, eager to get started.

  "Wait," he says, before I can even turn the doorknob. "Be sure to keep track of any charges that are incurred during your time with Porsha."

  "Charges?"

  "If she takes anything of yours or ruins any of your belongings--inadvertently, of course."

  I feel the surprise on my face, wondering if she'd ever try to hurt me like she hurts herself.

  146

  "Just don't let her get control of the conversation," he says. "She's good at that--at playing with people's psyches. She's been to so many psychotherapists that she's gotten quite adept at asking the right questions, if you know what I mean." My surprise melts into confusion.

  "You'll do fine," he says, but I don't know if he's trying to assure me or himself. At that, he escorts me back to his office and checks Porsha's pockets and clothes, extracting a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the waist of her skirt. "Where did you get these?" he demands.

  Instead of answering, Porsha turns away to face the wall.

  "She's not supposed to have these," Dr. Wallace tells me, stuffing the cigarettes and lighter into his coat pocket. "I'll want to hear from you later." He tells Porsha goodbye, blowing a kiss to the back of her head, and then leaves me with her-- alone.

  *

  147

  Stacey

  I ask Porsha if she'd like to have a seat in the sitting area toward the back of Dr. Wallace's office. There's a long glass coffee table surrounded by a couple creamy leather chairs and a short velvety couch.

  But she doesn't answer me. She just resumes drawing lines down the pages of her book. 148

  I approach her slowly, taking a seat on the floor in front of her. "What are you working on?"

  She still doesn't answer me, so I take a few moments to inspect the books surrounding her. They've all been damaged--pen lines and blade incisions carved deep into the covers. "Do you want to tell me about your nightmares?" I ask. More silence.

  "Maybe you want me to leave," I say, with no real intention of going anywhere. Instead of answering, she scribbles something down the margin of her book page. I angle myself to look. A gasp escapes my mouth before I can stop it.

  "I know you're alone," it reads.

  Just like my nightmare.

  "How did you know?" I ask her, my heart beating fast.

  She doesn't answer.

  "That phrase was in my dream," I continue. "I hear that you have dreams, too . . . something about a camp . . . about a girl named Lily. Are those things true?" She continues to ignore me.

  Are you the girl with the burning arm?" I ask.

  Porsha looks up at me, finally. Her eyes are a silvery gray color, highlighted with thick dark rings--a mix of sleeplessness and eyeliner pencil, maybe.

  I concentrate hard, trying to remember the little girl's voice in my nightmare. "Is one of your burns heart-shaped?"

  Porsha doesn't answer. She stares at me, not blinking.

  149

  "There's another burn, too, isn't there?" I go on. "Is it shaped like a capital the?" I reach out to touch her arm, the one I suspect has the burn marks. "Will you tell me what 'I know you're alone' means?"

  Porsha pulls away and shakes her head, her hair hanging down over the pages of her book, the tips still dyed a deep olive color. "Haven't you heard?" she whispers. "I'm crazy."

  "That's not what your father thinks."

  "Yes, it is," she says, the rims of her eyes all crusty and red. "Part of him thinks that you're crazy, too . . . and that he's crazy himself for putting us together."

  "I don't think that's true."

  "Who cares what you think?"

  "Your mother does," I say. "She wants me to help you."

  "My mother is dead."

  "I know. I dream about her."

  "That's bullshit."

  "It's true," I whisper.

  "Then prove it."<
br />
  "How?"

  "Tell me something only she and I would know."

  I shake my head, picturing the little girl in my dreams, with her flowing hair and drapey dress, wondering why she appears to me as a child rather than an adult. "I can't."

  "I didn't think so." She looks back down to resume her scribbling. I take a deep breath. "What does the "T" on your arm stand for?"

  "Toasty," she hisses, snapping her head back up to look at me. 150

  "Toasty? Toasty what?"

  "Trouble," she continues. "Tuna fish, tomato, tasty, tiny terrific, tarantula, tricycle--"

  "Porsha," I say, interrupting her list of T-words. "This is serious."

  "Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead," she sings. She goes to draw on her bandaged hand, but I reach out to stop her.

  "No!" she shouts, tugging her hand away drawing a deep black pen line down my arm. I pull away to inspect the damage. She managed to break the skin near my wrist.

  "Go!" she shouts, the pen raised high above her head like a knife. "I don't want to talk to you."

  I keep my eye on the pen and lower my voice to a whisper, refusing to give in to her so easily. "I'll go if you want," I say, "but first, listen to me." I take another deep breath, reminding myself of courage. "It's happened to me, too. I've dreamt about my best friend's death, about my own death, the death of a stranger, and of the little girl I used to babysit."

  Porsha lowers the pen to her lap. 'And, aside from you," she asks, "did any of them die?" I nod.

  "Why?" Her eyes are wide. "Was it because of you? Because you weren't able to save them in time?"

  I bite my bottom lip and look away, trying to get a grip, wondering why I wasn't able to predict Jacob's accident, why I was able to save Clara--a virtual stranger--but not the person I loved most in this world. "I did my best," I whisper. 151

  "But it wasn't good enough, was it?" She smiles slightly, inching her way closer to me, knocking down her barricade of books. 'And now you have to live with it all."

  "I've forgiven myself."

  "Not completely," she says, still studying me.

  "No," I say swallowing hard, still trying to get a hold of myself. "Not completely I did the best I could . . predicting things, but I haven't been able to get over everything."

  "Which one eats at you?"