Read Online Torch Red: Color Me Torn with Bonus Content by Melody Carlson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Melody Carlson
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feel guilty about neglecting my work and return to the kitchen.
Just as the last tray of dishes is slid into the big industrial dishwasher, I hear Mavis calling me.
“Someone here to see you, Zoë,” she says with this sly grin.
“Hey, Nate,” I say as I wipe my hands on my apron and push a stray piece of hair from my eyes.
“What’re you doing here, Zoë?”
I hold up my hands. “What’s it look like?”
He laughs. “Who’da thought?”
“Your band sounds great,” I tell him.
“Thanks, I’ve been promising Pastor Leon that we’d come play once we got our drummer replaced.”
“You know Pastor Leon?”
“Sure, this is where I go to church.”
I nod. “Oh.”
“But I haven’t gone here for that long.” Then he kind of frowns. “Do you go here too?”
I give him a sheepish smile. “Oh, not so much. But my parents do.”
“But you work in the soup kitchen?”
“Yeah. I’m told that’s kind of weird.”
“Actually, I think it’s kind of cool.”
We talk for a bit longer, but then his band buddies call for him to come and help them pack up.
“I better go,” he says.
I nod. “Yeah, me too.”
Then I go back and finish wiping down the counters, turn in my apron, and finally leave.
I feel kind of funny when I leave, like I’m wondering what I amreally doing there. Not that those people don’t make me feel at home, they totally do. And I really like Mavis. Okay, Pastor Leon too. Maybe I’m just questioning why it is that I’m not interested in going to church. Especially after hearing that Nate goes.
As I get into Mom’s car, I remember that it hasn’t always been like this. There was a time, back when I was about seven, that I actually liked going to church. But it only lasted about a year. Our Sunday school teacher was this sweet little lady named Mrs. Fieldstone. She was a great storyteller, and she always brought homemade treats and told us how much God loved us. She made Bible stories seem real. Come to think of it, it was in her Sunday school class that I invited Jesus into my heart. Or at least that’s how I remember it. But that was nearly ten years ago and I’m not even sure if it was for real. Besides, I have a strong feeling that whatever I did back then has nothing to do with who I am now. In fact, I’m sure that’s the way I want to keep it. I mean my life seems pretty okay to me. It’s not like I’m doing anything that’s really wrong.
I turn toward the mall and tell myself to stop thinking about such weird stuff as I search for a good parking spot. Even Pastor Leon said he wasn’t trying to lay a guilt trip on me.
“Just forget about it,” I tell myself as I lock Mom’s car and hurry over to Banana Republic (where my gift certificate is for). Okay, I’m not that crazy about Banana Republic anymore (that was last year), but how can I expect my grandma to keep up with such things? Besides, as I’m sure she or Mom would tell me, you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Like I know what that’s supposed to mean.
So I’m walking through Banana Republic in search of something totally amazing to wear to the party tonight, and I suddenly remember the girl I’d noticed at the soup kitchen today. I remember the look on her face—total hopelessness—and the pathetic-lookingjacket she had on. Even so, I tell myself, at least the jacket’s warm, right? And why am I thinking about this anyway?
But it won’t go away. And as I’m walking through the perfectly arranged shelves and racks at Banana Republic, it’s like I cannot stop obsessing over this poor girl and wondering about how miserable her life must be and how awful it must feel to be in her shoes (which were a nasty pair of old cheap tennis shoes).
And finally, these thoughts just totally spoil this whole shopping experience for me. Feeling upset and ridiculous, I hand the sweater I’ve just picked out back to the smooth-looking salesgirl.
“Do you need a different size?” she
Just as the last tray of dishes is slid into the big industrial dishwasher, I hear Mavis calling me.
“Someone here to see you, Zoë,” she says with this sly grin.
“Hey, Nate,” I say as I wipe my hands on my apron and push a stray piece of hair from my eyes.
“What’re you doing here, Zoë?”
I hold up my hands. “What’s it look like?”
He laughs. “Who’da thought?”
“Your band sounds great,” I tell him.
“Thanks, I’ve been promising Pastor Leon that we’d come play once we got our drummer replaced.”
“You know Pastor Leon?”
“Sure, this is where I go to church.”
I nod. “Oh.”
“But I haven’t gone here for that long.” Then he kind of frowns. “Do you go here too?”
I give him a sheepish smile. “Oh, not so much. But my parents do.”
“But you work in the soup kitchen?”
“Yeah. I’m told that’s kind of weird.”
“Actually, I think it’s kind of cool.”
We talk for a bit longer, but then his band buddies call for him to come and help them pack up.
“I better go,” he says.
I nod. “Yeah, me too.”
Then I go back and finish wiping down the counters, turn in my apron, and finally leave.
I feel kind of funny when I leave, like I’m wondering what I amreally doing there. Not that those people don’t make me feel at home, they totally do. And I really like Mavis. Okay, Pastor Leon too. Maybe I’m just questioning why it is that I’m not interested in going to church. Especially after hearing that Nate goes.
As I get into Mom’s car, I remember that it hasn’t always been like this. There was a time, back when I was about seven, that I actually liked going to church. But it only lasted about a year. Our Sunday school teacher was this sweet little lady named Mrs. Fieldstone. She was a great storyteller, and she always brought homemade treats and told us how much God loved us. She made Bible stories seem real. Come to think of it, it was in her Sunday school class that I invited Jesus into my heart. Or at least that’s how I remember it. But that was nearly ten years ago and I’m not even sure if it was for real. Besides, I have a strong feeling that whatever I did back then has nothing to do with who I am now. In fact, I’m sure that’s the way I want to keep it. I mean my life seems pretty okay to me. It’s not like I’m doing anything that’s really wrong.
I turn toward the mall and tell myself to stop thinking about such weird stuff as I search for a good parking spot. Even Pastor Leon said he wasn’t trying to lay a guilt trip on me.
“Just forget about it,” I tell myself as I lock Mom’s car and hurry over to Banana Republic (where my gift certificate is for). Okay, I’m not that crazy about Banana Republic anymore (that was last year), but how can I expect my grandma to keep up with such things? Besides, as I’m sure she or Mom would tell me, you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Like I know what that’s supposed to mean.
So I’m walking through Banana Republic in search of something totally amazing to wear to the party tonight, and I suddenly remember the girl I’d noticed at the soup kitchen today. I remember the look on her face—total hopelessness—and the pathetic-lookingjacket she had on. Even so, I tell myself, at least the jacket’s warm, right? And why am I thinking about this anyway?
But it won’t go away. And as I’m walking through the perfectly arranged shelves and racks at Banana Republic, it’s like I cannot stop obsessing over this poor girl and wondering about how miserable her life must be and how awful it must feel to be in her shoes (which were a nasty pair of old cheap tennis shoes).
And finally, these thoughts just totally spoil this whole shopping experience for me. Feeling upset and ridiculous, I hand the sweater I’ve just picked out back to the smooth-looking salesgirl.
“Do you need a different size?” she
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