Red is for Remembrance (7 page)

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

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 Stacey 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

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.

"You almost knocked me down," he says, taking a step away from them.

76

I look at him, feeling my face scrunch up, wondering who in god's name he is.

"Tim," he says, reminding me.

"Right," I say, finally putting the pieces in place-- the guy from the other day, the Gap attire, the medium brown gelled-up hair, the way he pointed out the directions to Ketcher Hall using my map.

"Where are you headed?" he asks.

"My room," I say, thinking how it must be obvious.

"How about some food first?"

"Food?"
I repeat, like it's as foreign of a word as
chromatin
or
nucleoplasm.
I glance toward the pack of girls he was standing with, wondering if he's suddenly forgotten about them. One of them folds her arms in my direction, a huge scowl across her makeup-adorned face.

"Yeah," Tim continues. "Food." He smiles wider, adjusting his cap. "Don't you eat? I have an in with the cafeteria lady-- she always saves the fresh stuff for me."

"Sure," I say.

"Great!"

"No. I mean, no."

His face twists up in confusion.

"I mean, sure . . . yeah ... I eat-- all the time, actually. Just not now. I have some serious catching up to do."

"Not on an empty stomach."

"A
girl can live on snack food alone."

"Sounds like you speak from experience."

"Ring Dings and Cheez Doodles-- basic staples of prep school."

77

"What kind of a healthy diet is that?" he asks.

"The only kind I have time for-- if I want to stay in college for longer than a week, that is."

"Well, then, can I raincheck you? Maybe we could get dinner some time? I wasn't going to mention this," he pauses to glance over both shoulders, "but I also have an in with Pizza Prison across the street. What do you say to Double-Bubble Criminal Crust and Garlic-Cheesy Bankrobber Bread?"

"Excuse me?" I laugh.

"I take it you haven't been there yet."

I shake my head.

"So what do you say?"

I pause a moment to look at him-- the way he's beaming at me, how his soft brown eyes crinkle up when he smiles, and how he's doing this cute little back and forth shuffle with his feet. "I have a boyfriend," I say, finally.

"Oh," he says, taking a step back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-- "

"No," I say. "It's fine. I just gotta go."

I turn on my heel and walk away, just like that-- feeling like a complete and utter jerk. It's just ...

I don't know-- too weird, too uncomfortable . . . too familiar. And I'm nowhere near ready for familiar yet.

I climb the three floors to our room, passing by that Sage girl yet again. She's carrying a basket of laundry. A silver pentacle dangles from a wiry rope chain around her neck, reminding me what I stand for-- how it would be stupid for me to prejudge her based on clothes or rumors.

"Hi," I venture.

78

She does a double take at me, as though surprised that I'm actually speaking to her. She nods me a quick hello and then continues on her way.

When I get to my room, I grab my bathing essentials-- including a bottle of eucalyptus oil to help cure myself of this funk, and some apple cider vinegar for its ability to cleanse the mind-- and head down the hall to the bathroom. My grandmother, who taught me most of what I know about the art of kitchen witchery, always stressed the importance of properly cleansing the body in preparation for a spell. The spell I want to do this afternoon involves restoration; I need to start rebuilding the fragments of my life.

After a walloping thirty-five minutes spent standing under the bliss of steamy water mixed in eucalyptus and apple cider fumes, I slip into my study uniform (my favorite pair of flannel pajamas) and head back to the room. Janie's there; she's sitting on her swirly pink bed linens, painting her toenails a coordinating shade of strawberry.

"Hi," I say.

She forces a smile, her mood much less sticker-worthy than our last conversation. "Some girl named Drea called for you."

"Thanks," I say, reaching for the phone, feeling a sting of guilt that I didn't try calling her sooner.

"She said she was going out," Janie tells me. "She'll call you when she gets in."

79

I bite my bottom lip and return the phone to the desk, a bit disappointed-- a bit lonely maybe.

"How was your faith club meeting?"

She shrugs. "Okay, I guess."

"What do you guys talk about anyway?"