Read Online Red is for Remembrance by Laurie Faria Stolarz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laurie Faria Stolarz
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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?"
"All kinds of stuff. Stuff we're dealing with, stuff we're going through, parents, pressures . . .
God."
"You know, witches believe in God, too."
Janie sighs, like she doesn't want to get into it. Amber and I were really worried about you," she says, changing the subject.
"I know. I'm sorry. I just have a lot to deal with right now."
"Amber told me." She dabs one of her toenail screw-ups with a cotton ball of nail polish remover.
About Jacob?"
She pauses from dabbing to look at me. "Is that okay?"
I nod and look away-- into my stash of spell supplies.
"Well, if you ever need to talk about it, I'm a great listener. My friends tell me so all the time."
More nodding, imagining myself opening up to Miss Sticker Album herself. I glance above her head at the collage she's made-- a zillion magazine cutouts of cats, with a bright pink sign that says "Cat-cha Later." But then I feel a pang of guilt. She's obviously just trying to be nice.
"So glad to see you bathed," she adds, with a smile. "It was starting to smell like sweaty socks in here."
Maybe nice isn't the right word. I muster a smirk, remembering how Amber said my stench was making Janie's
80
head ache. Maybe I should burn a little fish oil-- give her head something to really ache about. I take a deep breath, reminding myself about the rule of three-- how whatever I send out into the universe will come back to me three times. The last thing I need to deal with right now is a whopper of a headache on top of everything else.
I remove some spell supplies from my suitcase-- including a plastic food tray, a box of self-hardening clay, a pen and paper, a sponge, and a jar of moon-bathed rainwater-- and position the family scrapbook on the floor by my side. Big and bulky, with yellowing pages and hardened candle wax droplets in the corners, the scrapbook has been passed down in my family for generations. It was given to me by my grandmother just before she
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?"
"All kinds of stuff. Stuff we're dealing with, stuff we're going through, parents, pressures . . .
God."
"You know, witches believe in God, too."
Janie sighs, like she doesn't want to get into it. Amber and I were really worried about you," she says, changing the subject.
"I know. I'm sorry. I just have a lot to deal with right now."
"Amber told me." She dabs one of her toenail screw-ups with a cotton ball of nail polish remover.
About Jacob?"
She pauses from dabbing to look at me. "Is that okay?"
I nod and look away-- into my stash of spell supplies.
"Well, if you ever need to talk about it, I'm a great listener. My friends tell me so all the time."
More nodding, imagining myself opening up to Miss Sticker Album herself. I glance above her head at the collage she's made-- a zillion magazine cutouts of cats, with a bright pink sign that says "Cat-cha Later." But then I feel a pang of guilt. She's obviously just trying to be nice.
"So glad to see you bathed," she adds, with a smile. "It was starting to smell like sweaty socks in here."
Maybe nice isn't the right word. I muster a smirk, remembering how Amber said my stench was making Janie's
80
head ache. Maybe I should burn a little fish oil-- give her head something to really ache about. I take a deep breath, reminding myself about the rule of three-- how whatever I send out into the universe will come back to me three times. The last thing I need to deal with right now is a whopper of a headache on top of everything else.
I remove some spell supplies from my suitcase-- including a plastic food tray, a box of self-hardening clay, a pen and paper, a sponge, and a jar of moon-bathed rainwater-- and position the family scrapbook on the floor by my side. Big and bulky, with yellowing pages and hardened candle wax droplets in the corners, the scrapbook has been passed down in my family for generations. It was given to me by my grandmother just before she
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