Red is for Rememberance

  107

  When the phone finally stops ringing, I roll over in bed and grab the receiver to call my mother. But before I can even get the words out--how I feel like I'm cracking, how I don't know if I'm going to make it here--she just starts gushing. She rambles on for five full minutes about how proud she is of me, how she's been bragging to anyone who'll listen that I got into Beacon-fancy-schmancy-Univer-sity on a full scholarship. And how I'm her hero, too.

  I take a deep breath, feeling my eyes fill up. I gather a wad of comforter in my palm and assure my mother that everything's going great . . . better than I ever thought it could. And then I end the conversation by telling her that Amber and I are heading off to a party tonight, and that college is much more social than I ever expected. Instead of lecturing me on how I'm here to study and not to party, on how I have a certain GPA to keep up, and how drinking and driving can--quote unquote--kill a friendship-- all things she'd normally say BJD (before Jacob's disappearance)--she tells me to have a good time and to call her in a couple days.

  I hang up, feeling a stabbing pain in my chest. I take another couple deep breaths and grab my bowl of lavender pellets. I rake my fingers through them, waiting for my nerves to stop rattling, but I just can't focus. I consider calling Amber on her cell phone, but I honestly don't feel like disappointing her even more than I already have. Instead I call Drea. Her roommate picks up. She tells me that Drea and Chad went out for the evening and that she doesn't expect them back for at least a couple hours. 108

  I hang up, wondering if they're back together yet again, and reach into my night table for my bottle of pills. I already know that it's empty. What I don't know is how I'm going to fall asleep tonight without a little help. Will a dream spell alone be strong enough?

  I grab the phone again and my address book and look up Dr. Atwood's cell number; she gave it to me in case of emergency.

  I dial quickly, my heart tripping over from the mere anticipation of her response. Instead I get her voicemail.

  "Hi, Dr. Atwood," I stammer into the receiver. "It's me . . . Stacey. I was wondering if maybe you could call me back as soon as you get this. There's something I'd like to ask you. Could you call me back? Thanks."

  I clunk the receiver back down on its cradle, feeling even worse than just seconds before. A couple minutes later, the phone rings.

  "Hello?" I answer.

  "Hi, Stacey, it's Dr. Atwood."

  I let out a breath of relief. "Thanks so much for calling me back."

  "Sure," she says. Are you okay?"

  "Yeah. I just wanted to talk to you."

  "How is your first week of college going?"

  "Great," I say. "I mean, hard, but I'm enjoying it."

  "Really." She sounds surprised.

  "Well, it's hard," I repeat, my voice cracking over the words. "But I'm working hard, too--meeting people . . . studying." 109

  "That's good," she says, reservation high in her voice. "Have you met with Dr. Sonja?"

  "Who?"

  "The therapist I recommended out there."

  "Not yet," I say, practically biting through my lip. "I'm going to call her Monday, though. I just kind of wanted to settle in first."

  "Well, I guess that sounds reasonable," she says. "But you should give her a call to set something up. She's expecting it."

  "I know. I will." More lip-biting.

  "You mentioned there was something you wanted to ask me."

  "Yeah," I say, switching the receiver to my other ear out of nervousness. "I need more tranquilizers."

  "What happened to the ones I prescribed you?"

  I proceed to give her this lame little story about how I lost the bottle of MEDS in transit here, that I could have sworn I packed them in one of my suitcases. I tell her how I've even had my mother searching around at home, but that nobody, not even my roommates, has been able to locate them.

  "I suppose I could do that." She sighs. "But this is the only time. You need to meet with Dr. Sonja, okay?"

  "Sure," I say. "Monday morning. I promise, I'll call her." Dr. Atwood tells me she'll call the prescription in tonight and that it will be ready by tomorrow morning. I hesitate, almost wanting her to call it in to one of those twentyfour-hour pharmacies, but I decide not to press my luck. I hang 110

  up the phone and turn over in bed, noticing Amber. She's standing in the doorway with her arms folded.

  I freeze, my hand still curled around the receiver. "How long have you been standing there?"

  "Long enough."

  "What do you mean?"

  "What's going on with you?"

  I shrug.

  "I mean, what's going on with your nightmares? You ran out of here like someone was holding a tweezer to your ass--and not in a good way."

  I take a deep breath, relieved that she didn't hear my conversation with Dr. Atwood.

  "You really want to know?"

  "Well, yeah." She rolls her eyes. "That's kind of why I asked."

  "The little girl in my nightmare is Porsha's mother, President Wallace's deceased wife."

  "Wait, didn't you say the girl in your nightmare was, like, eight or nine? How is that possible?"

  "I can't explain it; I mean, I don't know why she's appearing in my dreams so young. But if I don't help her daughter, some boy will die."

  'And you think that boy is Jacob."

  "I don't know."

  "This is all so freakazoid," Amber says.

  "Which part?"

  'All of it. I mean, President Wallace asked you to help Porsha out. Now you've got his dead wife on your ass. Talk about pressure."

  "So you believe me?"

  111

  111 "That you're having nightmares about President Wallace's dead old lady in little girl form? Yes."

  'And that the boy could be Jacob?"

  Amber looks toward her collection of boas, avoiding the question.

  "They never found his body," I remind her.

  "I know."

  "Then what?"

  "How come you never dream about fun dead people? You know, like Elvis?"

  "This is serious."

  "Who's joking?" She sighs. "You need some fun."

  "I need some sleep."

  "No way," she balks. "This is your first weekend in college. I refuse to let you spend it in bed . . . alone, that is."

  "Don't you understand . . . some boy's life is at stake!"

  "Probably not tonight," she says, tossing me a leopard-print baby tee from her pile of clothes. "You're coming to a party. You need a change of scenery."

  "I'm not going anywhere," I argue.

  "You totally are," she says. "I've met the cutest guys this week--one of whom you've already met."

  "Wrio?" I ask.

  "Tim, that's who. You've made quite the impression on him."

  "Excuse me?"

  "He says you're just his type--sexy yet standoffish, serious yet seductive."

  "Excuse me?" I repeat.

  112

  "His words, not mine. Apparently, he likes a challenge. I told him he's got his work cut out."

  "How do you even know him?"

  "When I told him I was rooming with Stacey-my-best-friend-from-prep-school, he got all quizzy making sure you were you, the Stacey he'd already met."

  "Yeah, but where did you meet?"

  "The lobby. He's friends with some girls who live here. Small world, eh?"

  "Too small," I say, hiking the covers up over my head.

  "No way," Amber says, tearing the covers back down. "Tim's invited us to an off-campus kegger. So hurry up--get that pajama ass of yours into some chicness. Do you wanna try some of my new No Screw With You?"

  "Bug spray?" I ask, eyeing the slender bottle in her hand.

  "My new eyeliner," she explains. "It's guaranteed not to fade or bleed--no screwing around with this baby Maybe it'll make your eyes look a little less Night of the Living Dead."

  "Thanks for the sweet offer," I say, "but I need sleep." Are you kid
ding? You've slept more than my dead Aunt Paula. You need to get out of this room before Janie gets back and stickers you to death." Amber hurls a pair of faux-fur shorts at me, followed by her brand-new, straight-out-of-the-box knee-length sheepskin boots. "Get dressed!" she demands. "I'm getting you lucky tonight--whether you like it or not."

  113

  Stacey

  Despite Amber's hemming and hawing about going to the party with her and Tim the flirt, I end up convincing her that I need to spend some serious time studying if I want to stay here beyond two weeks.

  She really can't argue, which is why she finally leaves, pouting her way out the door. The only problem: I'm anything but tired. I decide to nab myself a shower, hoping the 114

  steamy water coupled with droplets of chamomile and lavender oil will help relax me. And it does. I step out of" the shower stall and wrap myself up in my terry robe, feeling much more centered . . . more balanced, like I might actually be able to fall asleep. But no sooner do I get back to the room than my nerves start rattling again. There's a "do not disturb'" sign hanging on the doorknob --a picture of a giant set of curly lashed eyes, one of them winking at me. I know it 'i's not Amber's--she definitely would have showed me something like this. I rap lightly a couple times on the door, but there's no response. Maybe it's just a joke. "Hello?" I call-'Amber?" A moment later, I see that Sage girl exit her room. She's got a backpack slung over her shoulder, like she's going off to study or going out to do ¦&¦ spell maybe. She's dressed in a long velvety black dress with a purple corduroy coat that has one of those big and fluffy faux-fur collars a la Amber. She peers over her shoulder,, catching me looking in her direction, and waves. I wave back, but it's too late; she's already turned away, down the exit stairwell.

  And I'm still standing he re in my robe. I let out a sigh, fish my key out of my basket full of bathing stuff, and open the door only to find Janie. In bed. With her boy toy. She's straddling him, wearing a sorry excuse for a bra (two tiny swatches of fabric joined together with a string) and a pair of matching stringy undies. The guy is barely clothed as well--just a pair of boxers arid lots of glossy sweat.

  115

  My mouth drops open just as Miss Smiley Sticker herself pauses a moment from licking down the length of his face.

  "I'm so sorry" I blurt, my eyes practically popping out of my head.

  "Didn't you see the sign?" she shouts. "We're a little busy in here."

  "I'm sorry," I repeat. "I was in the shower."

  "Come back in a couple minutes," her boyfriend tells me. Janie frowns at him. "Make that an hour."

  While they resume their activity, I avert my eyes, grab my book bag, pluck some clothes from the foot of my bed--including Amber's knee-high sheepskin boots--and head back to the bathroom to change. The worse part in this whole scenario--aside from the fact that Little Miss Sticker is getting stuck in our room, making me have to evacuate the premises--is that not only do I have to go to the library for real now (since that's the only place I can think of to go), but I also have to wear the ridiculous outfit Amber picked out for me, baby tee and all. I cannot believe these are the clothes I picked up. Thank god I also managed to scoop up my sweatshirt with the broken zipper. So while Amber spends her Friday evening at some off-campus kegger, I spend mine dressed like a prostitute in a study carrel, raving it up with subjects like lipids, proteins, and narrative essays. The one saving grace--my holistic health class. I know I'm technically already failing it, but I'm thinking it's going to be one of my better courses since I already know a lot of this stuff. I mean, it's actually interesting -- Ayurvedic principles of earth, fire, water, air, and space;

  116

  Tibetan herbal teas laced with yak butter; and Chinese healing rituals. It's actually quite motivational, which is why I end up pulling an all-nighter. That and because when I call the room to check if Janie and her boy toy are finally done, she tells me that they aren't, but I'm welcome to sleep in our room anyway since it's "really no big deal."

  Needless to say, it's a less-than-tempting offer--one I don't even need to think twice about. So Saturday morning, in lieu of heading straight back to the room for a shower and some sleep, I forget that I'm still dressed like a prostitute and hop on the bus that will take me into town to pick up my prescription.

  When I get back to the room, Janie's in bed--alone, this time. So is Amber. I pop a pill, change into my flannel pj's, and set my dream box down on the pillow beside me. It's a small wooden box I bought at a flea market last year. Made of smooth golden pinewood with a chrome hinge and a matching clasp, I open it up so that it can catch my dreams. Jacob taught me all about dream boxes. He'd been keeping one since his freshman year of high school and found that when left open before bed, it enabled one to remember what they dreamed about, so they didn't end up forgetting as soon as they woke up. Concentrating on Jacob--on the time we painted henna on each other; on the night we did the spell to banish secrets, and how he held me right after; how we physically declared our love for one another--I lie back in bed and close my eyes, the blissful memories lulling me to sleep.

  117

  117

  I wake up with a start, several hours later. There's a knocking at the door. I look down at my dream box. It's still open, still sitting beside me on the pillow But I don't remember a thing.

  I take a deep breath, wondering who's at our door. Amber and Janie are still in their beds, seemingly unaffected by the banging. So maybe I should ignore it, too. I roll over in bed, dragging a pillow over my ear to block out the noise.

  That's when I hear Amber moan her annoyance. She gets up and staggers over to the door. "It's only ten-freaking-thirty in the morning," she whines. "Unless you're packing a serious bag of Skittles and looking for a good time, I don't want any." The next thing I know, the door creaks open and I hear Amber shout, "Tell me I'm having a nightmare!" I roll back over to face the door just as PJ, Amber's ex, busts his way in. "Hey there, sweet thing," he says, kissing both her cheeks, French style. "Guess who arrived to light up your life? And don't say Debby Boone."

  "Who?" Amber asks.

  "Leave it to you not to know a real musical artiste when you hear one. Now, I don't have Skittles, but I'm always looking for a good time. Will peanut M&M's suffice?" He flashes the yellow package inside his pocket. "Saved all the green ones for you, Trisket."

  "What are you doing here?" she asks, her mouth hanging open in a gawk. Except for his hair color, which he tends to change at least twice a semester and which, at present, oddly appears to be a mainstream shade of honey brown (to contrast his 118

  usual shades of plum purple and melon orange), he looks exactly the same--tall, thin, with dark gray eyes and short, spiky hair.

  'And you thought you could slip your little self away from me so easily"

  "PJ!" I say, leaping out of bed. I wrap my arms around him, even surprising myself. I mean, PJ and I have never been close; it's just, after everything, it's refreshing to see a familiar face--especially one that knows what I'm going through, who was there when I lost Jacob.

  "Hey there, Miss B," he says, hugging me back. "I meant to call you once or a hundred times, but you know how it goes for a swanker like me--"

  "Too busy harassing girls?" Amber asks.

  "No way, my jealous jar of jelly The only girl I'd ever think of harassing is you." He winks at her and then focuses back on me. "So how are you feeling?" Instead of answering, I squeeze him tighter. "Better watch out, teacup," he says to Amber, "you might have a little competition on your hands."

  "It's good to see you," I say breaking the embrace.

  "Am natural, my little witchy one."

  "What's going on?" Janie asks, sitting up in bed.

  "Chips ahoy," PJ says, stepping over a pile of clothes to greet her. He extends his hand for a shake, but ends up kissing the back of her hand instead, his lips landing on a sticker of a happy bunch of grapes. "I'm PJ; maybe you've heard of me?"

  "Yeah," Janie says. "You must be
Amber's ex-boyfriend." 119

  "So she has talked about me." PJ taps a finger over his lips in thought.

  "Just a little," Janie says, picking a matching grape sticker off her face.

  "Do tell. I suppose she told you all about our fits of passion, how she couldn't keep her hands off me . . . the little schoolboy outfits she had me wear. Such a kinkoid, that one." He growls.

  "Maybe in your dreams," Amber says.

  As a matter of fact, I have been known to wake up in the middle of the night--sweaty jammers torn askew, screaming out your name . . . feisty little one." He winks at her.

  "Help!" Amber moans.

  "Don't let her negativity fool you," he continues to Janie. "She's just bitter because I broke it off with her. See that Spider-Man doll over there? She closes her eyes at night and imagines it's me."

  "Oh my god, you're so cute," Janie says, hopping up and down on her bed.

  "Finally a lady with taste," he says.

  "Do you go here?" Janie asks.

  PJ turns to Amber. "I do now."

  "Um . . . what?" Amber's mouth hangs open.

  PJ's completely beaming now. "Guess who Beacon University's newest transfer student happens to be?"

  "Tell me you didn't."

  "Gotta love a straight-A first semester at community college, late registration here, and a hefty donation from Dad to sweeten the deal."

  120

  "Oh my god," Amber says, taking a seat on her bed. "This isn't happening. Tell me this isn't happening."

  "Au contraire, my thorny little bush." PJ pounces down next to her, planting not one, not two, but three mushy kisses on her cheek. "Believe it or not, there is a splash of bad news amidst all this loveliness."

  "There's more?" Amber groans.

  "I'm homeless."

  "How's that possible?" I ask.

  "The dorms are all filled, that's how. I'm staying at the Shady 8 Motel and Smoke Shop down the road. So," he swivels back toward Amber, "unless you're craving something a little bad-girl-and-broomsticks-with-soundproof-padding-stapled-to-the-back-of-thebed, we'll have to conduct our love-fests here." Amber pulls Spider-Man over her as a shield, flopping backward in bed, though it's doubtful that even Spidey can save her. It looks like PJ is here to stay, which, from the way things currently stand, is more than I can say about myself.