Red is for Remembrance Read Online Free PDF Page B

won't turn into a Popsicle along the way-- it's got to be at least ten below with the wind.
    "Are you lost?" I look up from the map. There's a guy standing there. He's dressed from hat to hiking boot in Gap-like attire-- weathered baseball cap, artfully faded teal-blue sweatshirt under an equally faded charcoal pea coat, and khaki cargo pants.
    "What?" I ask, even though I clearly heard him.
    "You look a little lost. Are you a freshman?" He adjusts his cap, his short, gelled-up brown hair sticking out just a bit on the sides.
    "Is it that obvious?"
    He smiles, his muddy-brown eyes squinting ever so slightly. "Don't worry. It'll be our little secret."
    "Well, I hate secrets."
    42
    "Then I'll tell everyone I know." He turns, looking around until he spots someone familiar. "Hey, Nelson," he calls out. "I found myself a lost freshman."
    "That's nice," Nelson shouts back.
     
    "I should probably go," I say, suddenly feeling a bit awkward.
    "Wait," he says. "What are you looking for?"
    "Ketcher Hall."
    "Sure." He explains the route, using my map, adding only that I should watch my step while walking across the duck pond because the bridge is sometimes slippery with ice. "I'd take you over to Ketcher myself, but I'm already late for a meeting," he says.
    "I'll be fine. You've been a big help." I go to turn away, but he stops me with a touch to my forearm.
    "I don't even know your name," he says.
    I pull away, feeling even more uncomfortable. "Stacey."
    "Well, it's great to meet you, Stacey. I'm Tim." He extends his hand for a shake, a broad smile across his face. "Maybe I'll see you around some time."
    I fake a slight smile and turn on my heel, grateful to get away It's not that I think he had any weird motives; it's just ... I don't know. I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea about me. Not that he would. I mean, let's face it-- I look like Morticia Addams without her makeup.
    After just twenty minutes or so of walking, I spot Ketcher Hall just up ahead. I eke the heavy wooden doors open and ascend a shiny mahogany staircase, the smell of old pine mixed in mahogany wood all around me. I arrive in a large,
    43
    open waiting area and Ms. McNeal, a stout, gray-haired woman wearing a tan corduroy dress, tells me to sit a moment while she checks to see if the president is ready to see me. The place is oppressively dark, lit only with soft yellow lamps. There's classical music playing in the background and thick, velvety curtains that line the windows and block out the light. I pick a spot on a shiny leather couch with tarnished-gold studded trim, noticing how the floor creaks beneath my step.
    There's another girl here as well, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old at most. She's dressed in dark layers-- a mixture of smoky gray and navy blue. Her long blond hair hangs in her face, her eyes barely peeking out from the bangs. She's sitting on the floor in the corner of the room with books propped up all around her-- to block what's she's doing maybe. She catches me looking at her and narrows her eyes at me.
    "Stacey?" Ms. McNeal calls out from her desk. "Dr. Wallace will see you now."
    I feel my eyebrows furrow slightly. "She was here before me," I say, gesturing to the girl.
    "Don't worry about her," Ms. McNeal says. "She's fine."
     
    The girl gives me a dirty look. She drags her barricade of books inward, like this is grammar school and she's a seven-year-old. It almost tempts me to go over there and sneak a peek at what she's doing. Ms. McNeal opens Dr. Wallace's office door wide and clears her throat, perhaps trying to get me to hurry up.
    I move into his office and Ms. McNeal closes the door behind me, leaving Dr. Wallace and me alone. He looks much
    44
    different than I imagined, not the white-haired, wool-suited, bifocal-wearing college president that I was expecting. Except for the giant giraffe tie he's sporting, he looks almost normal--
    medium height, salt-and-peppery dark hair, and black wire-rimmed glasses.
    "Stacey," he