Red is for Remembrance Read Free

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?"
    16
    "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 my Holistic Health class from 2 to 2:50. "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 a 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.
    17
    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