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.
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.
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—Intro to Sociology and Math Topics I. 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 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?”
“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 French class from 2 to 3:15. “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 à 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.
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 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 French. 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.
>
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.
“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 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.
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 stickiness around with a fork and pretends to eat, so as not to appear ungrateful for the food.
Lily is sitting across from him; Clay, beside her; the elders and small children, at both ends of the long and splintery table; and Brick and Daisy are seated on each side of him.
Things are just as they should be, and yet everything feels so different.
Maizey, one of the children, whines that her rice is already cold, that she’d prefer jam and toast, but she’s silenced almost immediately by Rain, her mother, with a sharp reprimand and an evil eye.
Shell wonders how many of the campers know that he didn’t go through with looting the old man’s place last night. He looks up, trying to gain eye contact with Clay or Lily, but neither will even look at him. Breakfasts are usually quiet at the camp, but he doesn’t remember one as silent and oppressive as this. The sound of forks scraping on plates sends nerves down his back. Why did Clay come to his room before breakfast? Why did he want him here?
Once Clay found out that Shell had returned from the old couple’s place without so much as a single piece of hockable silver, he was less than civil. He punched the steering wheel a bunch of times, telling Shell that he’d failed his friends and family and that he wasn’t worthy of his keep. Is that what this silent treatment is about?
Shell continues to slide the rice around on his plate, trying to sneak peeks at Lily, but she continues to ignore him. Instead she nudges him a couple times under the table with the toe of her boot, both startling and reassuring him.
He looks over at her, admiring her long and twisty golden hair and the way her cheeks dimple when she chews. He wonders if she too might be disappointed with him. He’s sure the others are. Aside from Clay’s appearance in his room this morning, no one has so much as looked at him. There are twenty-two people living under these roofs, and yet not one of them will give him any inkling as to what happened last night after he went to bed. Had Clay called a meeting behind his back?
Lily whispers something in Clay’s ear and the two laugh in unison. “It’ll be our little secret,” Clay says to her.
“May I be excused?” Shell asks.
Clay turns to him, finally. “We need to have a meeting. All of us.” He looks around the table with his steel-gray eyes, nabbing the attention of most of the campers, save for a couple of the younger children. Shell figures that Clay can’t be more than seventeen at most, and yet he seems to yield almost as much power as one of the elders . . . even Mason himself.
“When?”
“When I say so,” Clay snaps. He tucks a lock of his floppy, dark hair behind his ear.
“We’ll meet now,” Mason says.
Mason is nearly sixty years old but with the health and strength of a man half his age. He’s lived at the camp longer than anyone—when it was only an abandoned shack and there was only him and Rosa, his wife, who passed away shortly after they got set up. It was he who built these rustic cabins, with the help of a few passersby—wanderers, he calls them—in search of a more peaceful and self-fulfilling life. He paid them with room, board, and his teachings, and soon the wanderers turned into full-on campers. “Nobody leaves the camp,” Mason often says. “Nobody ever wants to. And nobody ever should.”
Brick once told Shell that campers have left the camp and returned back to the pains of normal society. He’s also told Shell that no one—not even Clay—is allowed to talk about it.
Shell wonders if it’s because of tasks like last night’s that made those campers want to leave.
Lily sneaks a smile at Shell as Clay stands to begin the meeting.
“We need to discuss the events of last night,” Clay begins.
His voice is loud and bellowing, making up in projection what he lacks in height and visible strength.
“One of our campers was asked to perform a task,” Clay continues. “He was asked to break into one of the cottages in the town and take whatever valuables he could find—anything he wanted.”
Several of the elders gasp in response. Mason wraps his arm extra tight around Rain and then strokes the length of her inky black hair. She and Mason have been together for at least a few months now, despite their obvious age difference. Though she’s considered an elder
because she’s an adult, Shell figures she can’t be more than twenty or twenty-one at most, just a few years older than him.
“As we all know,” Clay continues, “taking without first considering the worth an item has to its owner is called stealing. This camper was asked to steal as much and whatever he could so that we, as loving campers, may go on in our peaceful ways . . . so that we may continue in our loving mission, living without the evils of man.”
Several of the campers, including Lily and Brick, shake their heads in disapproval.
“We don’t need the evils of television,” Clay insists. “We don’t need the evils of cell phones . . . of computers . . . of microwaves.”
“No way,” several of the campers mutter under their breath.
“We listen to each other,” Clay says. “We talk. We’re each other’s source of fulfillment, discussing subjects face-to-face. We don’t need plastic man-made objects to talk—objects that transmit cancerous airwaves. We don’t need beeping boxes that heat our food in unnatural ways, zapping away all of the nutrients. We cook over a fire. We plan meals with each other in mind. We love. We share. We live in peace.”
“Yes,” several of them cheer. Lily bows her head in thankfulness.
“So,” Clay continues, “when we asked this camper to perform an act against peace—to thoughtlessly steal from another—he showed fear . . . he showed reluctance. He didn’t want to do it. But, at the same time, he didn’t want to disappoint us.”
Shell grows more and more confused by the moment. Lily peeks up at him and smiles, reaching across the table to grasp his hand.
“Shell,” Clay says, raising his glass of water. “You came to us just four months ago. The mission we sent you on last night was a test—to test your loyalty, but just as important, to test your character. I am proud today to say that you passed that test. You went on that mission to please your fellow campers, but at the same time, you stuck to your moral convictions.”
Red Is for Remembrance Page 2