Red 1-2-3 Read Online Free PDF

for school and her parents had interrupted her with a Jordan, we need to speak with you . . .” summons, she truly wondered whether continuing was at all worthwhile. She knew nothing was truly her fault, and yet it felt as if everything was her fault.
    Filled with confusion about seemingly everything in her life, Jordan stepped inside the vestibule of her dormitory. She shook some of the dampness from her head and scooted some from her parka. She tugged off her ski cap, letting her hair fall loose because no one was around. Everyone was still at lunch and there was a little time left before the afternoon sports activities took over the private school routine. The quiet calmed her, and she padded over to the table where the dormitory’s mail was sorted into six different trays. She saw there were three letters in hers.
    The first two were in familiar hands: her father’s tight, barely readable scribble and her mother’s more flowery, expansive script. That these two letters arrived simultaneously made perfect sense to Jordan. There was some new excessively dramatic dispute, some new and overblown bone of contention between the two of them. Since their announcement hardly a week had gone by without some new bickering back and forth.
    This had allowed their lawyers to posture and threaten like the blowhards they probably were. Her parents both considered Jordan to be the ultimate emotional battlefield, the Waterloo over which they could compete like Bonaparte and Wellington. She knew what was inside each letter: an explanation of each one’s latest nonnegotiable position, and why Jordan should side with the letter writer’s interpretation of events. “Wouldn’t you 24
    RED 1–2–3
    really rather live with me, darling, and not your father?” Or: “You know how your mother can’t think of anyone except herself, honey.”
    Her parents had only recently taken to communicating with her through the formality of the U.S. mail. Both had realized that she simply ignored e-mail and allowed her cell phone to go straight to voice mail when they called. But the tactile presence of the written word on her mother’s pink-hued, expensive stationery, or her father’s business-weight bond, seemed harder for her to shunt aside. But, she thought, I’m learning .
    She shoved the two letters into her backpack. Ignoring whatever falsely urgent dispute between her parents that needed her immediate attention gave her a small sense of satisfaction.
    The third letter surprised her. Other than her name and a New York postmark, she could not tell what it was about. Her first thought was that it was from one of the many attorneys handling the divorce, but then she realized that wasn’t the case, because those folks all had very fancy stationery emblazoned with their names and addresses so there was no doubt of the importance of whatever was contained within. This letter was slender, and as she walked to her room, pushed open the door, and stepped inside, she turned the envelope over two or three times, inspecting it. She was reluctant to open any mail. It was never good news.
    She dropped her coat to the floor and dumped her backpack on her bed. She took out the orange for her lunch and started to peel it, but stopped midway through and, shrugging, tore open the letter.
    She read the message slowly, then read it again.
    After she finished, Jordan looked up, as if someone had entered the room beside her. Her lip quivered.
    This has to be a joke, she thought. Someone is playing a trick. It can’t be real.
    It was the only explanation that made sense, except she could feel a lurking darkness deep within her telling her that making sense wasn’t really what was important to whoever had written this letter.
    Earlier that morning, she had not thought that she could possibly feel more alone, but suddenly, right at that moment, she did.
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    3
    Panic One.
    Panic Two.
    Panic Three.
    After reading their letter, each Red panicked in her own unique