Red Is for Remembrance Read online

  He smiles, his muddy-brown eyes squinting ever so slightly. “Don’t worry. It’ll be our little secret.”

  “Well, I hate secrets.”

  “Then I’ll tell everyone I know.” He turns, looking around until he spots someone familiar. “Hey, Nelson,” he calls out. “I found myself a lost freshman.”

  “That’s nice,” Nelson shouts back.

  “I should probably go,” I say, suddenly feeling a bit awkward.

  “Wait,” he says. “What are you looking for?”

  “Ketcher Hall.”

  “Sure.” He explains the route, using my map, adding only that I should watch my step while walking across the duck pond because the bridge is sometimes slippery with ice. “I’d take you over to Ketcher myself, but I’m already late for a meeting,” he says.

  “I’ll be fine. You’ve been a big help.” I go to turn away, but he stops me with a touch to my forearm.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he says.

  I pull away, feeling even more uncomfortable. “Stacey.”

  “Well, it’s great to meet you, Stacey. I’m Tim.” He extends his hand for a shake, a broad smile across his face. “Maybe I’ll see you around some time.”

  I fake a slight smile and turn on my heel, grateful to get away. It’s not that I think he had any weird motives; it’s just . . . I don’t know. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about me. Not that he would. I mean, let’s face it—I look like Morticia Addams without her makeup.

  After just twenty minutes or so of walking, I spot Ketcher Hall just up ahead. I eke the heavy wooden doors open and ascend a shiny mahogany staircase, the smell of old pine mixed in mahogany wood all around me. I arrive in a large, open waiting area and Ms. McNeal, a stout, gray-haired woman wearing a tan corduroy dress, tells me to sit a moment while she checks to see if the president is ready to see me. The place is oppressively dark, lit only with soft yellow lamps. There’s classical music playing in the background and thick, velvety curtains that line the windows and block out the light. I pick a spot on a shiny leather couch with tarnished-gold studded trim, noticing how the floor creaks beneath my step.

  There’s another girl here as well, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old at most. She’s dressed in dark layers—a mixture of smoky gray and navy blue. Her long blond hair hangs in her face, her eyes barely peeking out from the bangs. She’s sitting on the floor in the corner of the room with books propped up all around her—to block what’s she’s doing maybe. She catches me looking at her and narrows her eyes at me.

  “Stacey?” Ms. McNeal calls out from her desk. “Dr. Wallace will see you now.”

  I feel my eyebrows furrow slightly. “She was here before me,” I say, gesturing to the girl.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Ms. McNeal says. “She’s fine.”

  The girl gives me a dirty look. She drags her barricade of books inward, like this is grammar school and she’s a seven-year-old. It almost tempts me to go over there and sneak a peek at what she’s doing. Ms. McNeal opens Dr. Wallace’s office door wide and clears her throat, perhaps trying to get me to hurry up.

  I move into his office and Ms. McNeal closes the door behind me, leaving Dr. Wallace and me alone. He looks much different than I imagined, not the white-haired, wool-suited, bifocal-wearing college president that I was expecting. Except for the giant giraffe tie he’s sporting, he looks almost normal—medium height, salt-and-peppery dark hair, and black wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Stacey,” he says, standing up from his desk. He drops the Magic 8 Ball he’s holding and extends his hand for a shake. “I’m Dr. Wallace. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “Sorry about earlier,” I say, noticing how big his office is.

  “Not to worry,” he says, still shaking my hand. “You’re here now; that’s what’s important.”

  I nod, trying my best to smile.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Stacey Brown.”

  “You have?”

  “Please, sit down,” he says, ignoring the question. He finally pulls his hand away and gestures to the buttery leather chairs in front of his desk.

  “So,” I whisper, practically scrunching down in the seat. The man is openly staring at me—almost as if he’s trying to size me up, not in a skeevy way but in a “I want to know what she’s about” kind of way.

  “Yes,” he says, snapping to attention. He leans forward in his chair. “How are you enjoying the campus? Did you get all the classes you wanted?”

  I nod, wondering what I’m doing here, why he cares about my schedule. “Do you meet with all the scholarship students?”

  Instead of responding, he continues to stare at me, turning my insides to nervous mush.

  “I won’t miss any more classes,” I say, out of nervousness. “My mother really wants me to do this—to be here, I mean.”

  “You want that too, I hope.”

  I look toward his Magic 8 Ball, wondering what it says, if there’s any prophetic message about my dismal future here. “I guess,” I say, finally.

  “Not so sure?”

  I shrug and look away, feeling suddenly like I’m back in Dr. Atwood’s office, being asked to dump all my emotional baggage.

  “Well, I know that I want you here,” Wallace offers. “That’s why you got the scholarship.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, looking back at him.

  He peels open the folder on his desk and begins reading off a list: “Stacey Brown, Hillcrest Prep grad; overall GPA by the end of her senior year at Hillcrest . . . barely a 2.0. No extra-curriculars to speak of; no hardship case; no declared major; and lukewarm recommendations from her teachers.”

  Huh?

  “But,” he continues, “despite all that, this same Stacey Brown gets into Beacon University, one of the most competitive universities on the East Coast, along with her good friend Amber, also an underachiever. She gets a full scholarship—both room and board with zero required work-study—and all she has to do is maintain a minimum grade point average of 2.7 or better. Come on,” he says, pushing back in his chair, the wheels squeaking slightly, “even my full-ride football players have to maintain GPAs higher than that.”

  “What are you trying to say?” I ask. “Has there been some mistake?”

  “Mistake—no. But it does sound a little unfair, now, doesn’t it?”

  “I didn’t ask for any scholarship,” I say, hearing the agitation in my voice.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “I meant it when I said that I want you here. I think you’re quite extraordinary; that’s why you got the scholarship.” He closes up my folder and leans forward again to stare at me. “But do I need to remind you that your scholarship is one that needs to be renewed every year . . . pending presidential approval?”

  It’s then that it hits me—he obviously wants something from me. He’s obviously heard about my involvement in the events that occurred at Hillcrest these past couple years.

  “It would be a shame to lose such a scholarship—such an opportunity—over something small,” he says. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Small?”

  “You believe in helping others, don’t you, Stacey?”

  I feel my body stiffen in the seat.

  Wallace wheels his chair around and points to the wall behind him, where he’s got a bunch of framed diplomas hanging—from places like Columbia and Stanford. But then I notice another one—a diploma from Hillcrest, very much like the one I have.

  “So you’re a Hillcrest grad as well,” I say.

  He nods. “I’ve been a devoted and supportive alumnus since graduation, nearly thirty years ago now. Since then, I’ve kept a hand dipped into the goings-on there, volunteering on various committees.”

  “So you’ve probably heard about all the stuff t
hat’s happened there.”

  “One girl, murdered; another, kidnapped and almost killed; one boy arrested and placed in a juvenile detention center for involuntary manslaughter; one man put away for attempted murder; a club dedicated to resurrecting the dead . . .”

  I swallow hard, wondering where he’s going with all this.

  “Rumor has it,” he continues, “that you were able to predict it all. Is that true?”

  I shrug and look away, wanting more than anything to crawl out of here.

  “I think it is,” he whispers. “A sixth sense—isn’t that what they call it?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Your help.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t even help myself.”

  “You’re my last hope.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat. I stand and turn to leave.

  “Stacey—wait,” he says. “Please, sit down and hear me out.”

  “I have to go,” I say, heading for the door.

  “Not yet,” he says. “Not until I tell you about my daughter. She’s in trouble—and I think you might be able to help her.”

  I pause just inches from the door and turn back around.

  “Did you see that girl out there in the waiting room on your way in?” He’s standing now as well. His demeanor has changed—less confident, more desperate. He moves from behind his desk, taking off his glasses and tossing them down atop his ink blotter. “That’s my daughter. She has nightmares, too.”

  Dr. Wallace is clearly upset; his eyes look red and his face is getting more flushed by the moment.

  “She’s been having them for the past year now,” he continues. “At first we thought they were nothing—a reaction maybe to her mother’s death. My wife passed away not long ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He nods and turns away, toward the wall of diplomas, to hide his emotion. “But the nightmares only seem to be getting worse, not better. She says she’s dreaming about some camp . . . people working through the night, living backwardly, and stealing. She claims that some boy is going to be murdered . . . and then there’s something about a lily.”

  “Lilies?” My heart speeds up, thinking how I used to dream about lilies, too; how my grandmother taught me that lilies mean death.

  “Well, just one lily, I think,” Dr. Wallace explains. “I think it might be someone’s name, but I’m not sure. It’s so hard to keep track of it all. The nightmares have really changed her. It’s like her body’s still there, but her eyes . . . it’s as if they’re vacant.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but I really don’t know what—what he wants from me, what words will make it all better. I wish I could tell him that the nightmares will go away one day, but I know firsthand that isn’t true.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, turning back to me. “I’ve been out of line.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “So will you help me?”

  “Help you?”

  “We’ve been to several doctors—psychiatrists, neurologists, acupuncturists, you name it.”

  “And?”

  “And they want to put her away.” He pauses to take a breath. “They think institutionalizing her is the best answer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but what does it have to do with me?”

  “You could work with her as a peer. You’ve been through this.”

  “I have a lot on my plate right now.”

  “I don’t know what else to do,” he says. “I’m afraid I’m going to lose her completely. I think she’s starting to believe the doctors when they say she’s sick.”

  “I have to go,” I say, feeling a tightening sensation in my chest.

  “Stacey—please,” he insists. “You’re my last hope.”

  After the celebration, everyone in the community sixteen years old and older disperses to go about their daily chores, while the younger children scamper off to the elder cabin for their daily lessons. Both Shell and Brick have the grueling task of chopping wood for the evening’s fire. Despite his sore and calloused hands, Shell happily works his way through the pile of wood, the image of Lily alive in his mind.

  Did she really mean it when she told him she loved him? There’s a part of him that hopes she did. But how could she? Even though they’ve known each other for several months now, until these past couple weeks, she hasn’t paid him much attention.

  “That was a great celebration,” Brick says.

  Shell nods in agreement, his mind wandering a moment to the old couple’s cottage, the one he almost raided.

  “You did good,” Brick continues. “Everyone’s really proud of you.”

  “Thanks,” Shell says, remembering the pocket watch he found and the message inside—To Candace, forever, with love. He wonders why it upset him so. But maybe the pocket watch isn’t the problem at all. He’s heard before that people who find themselves victimized often try to tell their perpetrators bits of personal information or show them personal objects so the perpetrator sees them as a real person, making it difficult to commit the crime. Maybe the pocket watch just made the old couple a little too real.

  “Most of us wouldn’t have been brave enough to follow our convictions,” Brick says. “Most of us would have done what we were told.”

  “Most of us?” Shell repeats. “So some of the campers do disobey?”

  “Only sometimes,” Brick says, pausing a moment from chopping. His wavy, blond hair flies back with the wind.

  “Have you stolen before?”

  “It’s only stealing if you don’t first consider the worth an object has to its owner; that’s what Mason says. For example, some people have three or four TVs in their house, but do they really need all of them? Probably not. But something personal, something like an heirloom . . . well, that’s probably priceless to its owner. It would be stealing to take something like that. Get it?”

  Shell shrugs, still a bit confused.

  “Mason says that it’s human nature to want to give,” Brick continues. “The problem is, some people don’t know they want to give. We help those people; they give to us when we take their extra stuff—their needless possessions. They help us continue in our mission of peace.”

  Shell nods, mulling over the explanation but still not completely clear about it. After all, who’s to say what’s needless?

  “Everyone was happy that you followed your heart,” Brick says, his icy blue eyes tearing up from the cold. “Heart is essential for peace . . . so is bravery. Mason says that all the time, too.”

  “Mason says a lot, I guess,” Shell says, suddenly at a loss for words.

  “He thinks that we work well together,” Brick says, the tiny gap between his two front teeth just visible in his smile. “He’s going to pair us up for chores as often as he can.”

  Shell smiles back. Brick has become his confidant these past several months, offering tips and assisting with tasks.

  “How about a break?” Brick suggests.

  Shell nods, more than ready to rest his hands. A couple of his knuckles have started to crack and bleed from the cold.

  The two sit down on a log, breaking out their day’s snack food—homemade granola bars and Thermoses full of hot tea. They sit in silence for several moments and Shell takes a moment to observe their camp. There are eight cabins total: one for Mason and Rain; one for the children and their parents or assigned caregivers; one for the leaders just under Mason (at the present moment, just Clay); one for the elder women, sometimes used as an infirmary; one for the remaining females (campers like Lily and Daisy); another for the remaining males (campers like himself and Brick); and still another with a large kitchen and recreation area. There’s also one designated bathroom cabin where people shower and bathe.

  The backdrop to
the camp is the ocean. There’s also an expansive forest that extends to the right, just beyond their chopping station. After his first few weeks here, Brick told Shell that Mason inherited the land from Rosa, his late wife. Apparently the land had been in her family for generations and, when she died, Mason got to keep it all. Shell pauses a moment at the chainlink fence that surrounds the camp and the barbed wire that winds around it at the very top. He’s wanted to ask Brick about it for a while now, but he’s still not sure how much he can trust him.

  “Look,” Brick says, interrupting Shell’s thoughts. He points up at the sky. Despite the early hour, the moon has made its appearance, just above the barren trees. A pale grayish sliver, approaching first quarter. “It’s waxing,” Brick says. “A good time to wish for something.”

  “And what should we wish for?” Shell asks.

  “What else but peace?” Brick says.

  “Peace,” Shell repeats in agreement.

  “Peace will set us free.” Brick picks up a couple rocks from the ground, a stark white one with a flat surface and the other with a pointed end. Using the point, he scratches across the surface of the flat white rock, creating a five-pointed star surrounded by a circle. “It’s a pentacle,” Brick says. “Each point represents something different—earth, air, fire, water, and spirit. The circle is for the spirit’s endless love.” He flips the rock and draws another star, taking his time with each point. “See,” Brick says, “when you draw it like this, from left to right, it empowers you to make something happen—to bring about change . . . good change.”

  “Are you a witch?” Shell asks, trying to remember where he’s seen the symbol before, wondering where he’s heard about pentacle invocation.

  Brick nods. “Don’t tell anyone, though. I’m not sure how the elders would like it. Rain caught me doing a soap spell once with tea leaves and a hand-rolled candle. She flipped out and went to Mason. Some people are afraid of what they don’t know, you know. They don’t understand how peaceful Wicca really is.”

  Shell agrees. He picks up a couple rocks and does the same, drawing a pentacle across the surface and silently praying for peace.