Red is for Rememberance

  "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

  46

  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.

  47

  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 that'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."

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  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 Lilly"

  "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

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  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." 50

  Shell

  After the celebration, everyone in the community sixteen years old and older disperses to go about their dally 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.

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  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."

&nb
sp; "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 52

  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?"

  She'll 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," She'll 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

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  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 (campers like 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 She'll 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

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  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.

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  Shell

  In the kitchen, the female campers prepare the evening meal--chicken drumsticks, pickled beets, and mashed potatoes. There are candles and lanterns placed on the table and countertops for extra light, and the fireplace is blazing for added warmth. Shell stands in front of it, rubbing his palms together, feeling the heat of the fire against his face. "Hungry?" Daisy asks him.

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  Shell nods, his stomach growling from the mere smell of the cooking. He glances over at the stove where Daisy checks the doneness of a potato with her fork. Though the cabins themselves are pretty primitive, they do have some amenities, like heat and electricity supplied by a generator, and a well for water. Still, they conserve whenever they can so as not to be wasteful.

  Shell jumps suddenly, feeling a tap on his shoulder. He whirls around to find Clay right behind him.

  "Sorry" Clay says. "I didn't mean to startle you. Do you have a second? We need to talk." Shell nods, following Clay into the living room area, just behind the kitchen. Clay takes a seat on the thick, velvety plum-purple carpet Rain brought back from the trading field last month; it's a perfectly good oriental piece with barely any wear and no stains to speak of. She apparently traded it for a pair of aquamarine earrings and a handmade rolling pin that Mason crafted himself.

  "We're going out tonight," Clay says.

  "Where?" She'll asks.

  Instead of answering, Clay gestures for Shell to have a seat. Shell surveys the room for his options--a patched-up beanbag chair, an iron park bench, and on the rug opposite Clay. He opts for the bench, figuring that, from the graveness of Clay's present demeanor, he could use the extra stability

  "The only reason I'm telling you ahead of time is because I don't want you to become alarmed right in the midst of things and upset the other campers; I need them on my side tonight."

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  "How would I upset them?" Shell asks. He reaches into his pocket to hold the rock he scratched earlier, the one with the pentacle. He grips it hard, soaking up the natural energy willing inner peace.

  "You're still fairly new here," Clay explains. "You're still learning about our community . . . growing into our world of peace." He pauses a moment to admire the crackling of the fire and the orange glow of the logs.

  "I'm learning every day," Shell says, hoping to reassure Clay of whatever reservations he may have about him.

  "Of course you are." Clay turns back to smile at him. 'And you're doing a good job of it. It's just, even though you've only been here a handful of months, I've noticed that you carry a lot of influence here. Campers are drawn to you. Take Lilly for instance." She'll clamps the rock even harder, having feared this very moment. "What about her?"

  "I'm curious about your intentions for her."

  "I like Lily," Shell says, swallowing hard.

  A lot?"

  "Is that a problem?"

  "If it's the truth, it isn't," Clay says. "You should never be afraid of the truth."

  "It is the truth," She'll says.

  Clay nods, a dead stare to his eyes. "That's what I thought." He clears his throat and looks away. "I just wanted to be sure. And I wanted to tell you about tonight. Lily will be there and I know she's fond of you. I'd hate for you to influence her in a way that might keep us from our peaceful mission. Understand?"

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  "I'm not sure," Shell says, shaking his head, completely co
nfused. "Would you prefer it if I didn't go?"

  "Of course not. You of all people need to be there. How else will you learn our peaceful ways?" Clay stands, looking back at She'll. "You're going to do very well here. I'm sure of it."

  Late that night, Clay, Lily, Brick, Shell, and Daisy cram themselves into the community car, a creamy beige Grand Marquis with scratches all over the hood and a Cape Cod bumper sticker on the rear with a giant smiling crab. Dressed in dark clothing, from knitted hats to winter gloves and boots, the group is well equipped with duffel bags, flashlights, and tools for breaking and entering.

  Clay is driving. He waves to the campers on patrol duty--those who've been assigned to stay up and watch over the camp tonight--and then pulls out into the driveway.

  "Is the camp patrolled every night?" Shell asks Brick, wondering if they're carrying weapons.

  Brick nods. "Just in case."

  "In case what?" Shell whispers.

  But Brick doesn't answer Shelly's question. He just continues to eyeball Clay in the rearview mirror.

  Frustrated by the silence and a bit uncomfortable with the tense energy in the car, She'll stares out the window the whole way, trying his best to relax, wondering what the patrolling is all about. How would anyone even find their

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  place? And what would they possibly want to take from it? It's not as though they're rich with possessions.

  They pass by the honey farm where the owners--an old German couple, according to Brick--raise bees and sell candles. Shell memorizes street signs they pass, trying to get a firmer idea of where he is. It's a good ten minutes before he's able to see much more than barren trees and vacant streets.

  "There's the Bargo Tower," Brick says, pointing out the window. They come to a stop light at the end of the street. There's a tall brick tower standing high atop a hill, just to the right of them. Shell has to scrunch down in his seat and look up to appreciate its height.

  "You can see the whole cape from the top," Brick says.

  Shell nods, making the mental note, noticing the Brutus town sign that sits at the base of the bill.

  They drive for another half hour at least, passing through two more towns, and finally cruising through a residential area. Clay slows the car and clicks off the headlights. "The family who lives at this house is away all week," he says, steering the car down a long, narrow road. He orders the campers to open their doors slightly, so as not attract attention or make any noise, and then he pulls up in front of a medium-sized cottage set a good distance away from the other houses on the street.