Residue Read Online Free PDF Page A

after hours, always with delinquent behavior in mind to glue the classroom doors shut, paint our rival school’s sign with our school colors, leave notes for the boys at their academy down the street, and steal the academy car for joy rides. In fact, I was the only one in the student body who had pre-scheduled meetings with the headmistress to review and repent for my digressions.
    At the end of my reminiscence, I found myself smiling, a soft giggle shaking my chest.
    No, I was not a prudent person. This was my new home and I wouldn’t be fearful in it.
    With that in mind, I left the house quietly, and after taking the St. Charles streetcar and walking 30 minutes I reached my destination.
    My path took me through a neighborhood adjacent to Aunt Lizzy’s, a place called the French Quarter, also known as the Vieux Carré. It holds the distinction of being the oldest neighborhood in the city. This not only meant that the rest of New Orleans sprawled out from the French Quarter, its center, but that many of the buildings dated back to the 1700s, built after The Great New Orleans Fire consumed most of the buildings. The Quarter, as the locals call it, boasted aged buildings crowding each other along narrow streets; lush, welcoming courtyards tucked away down narrow alleys and carriageways; and the smell of crawfish etouffee and jambalaya wafting from unseen kitchens. Adding to the neighborhood’s mystique, jazz musicians sat in the sheltered entrance of stores that had not yet opened to serenade those walking by. Street performers propped on boxes remained motionless, only launching in to their act once a bill was dropped in the nearby hat. Also along the way, elaborate wrought-iron and cast-iron balconies overhung the sidewalks, offering me shelter from the growing intensity of the sun. Even for September, this city proved it could deliver heat with a kick.
    Being such a far stretch away from the cool, pristine academy grounds, I couldn’t help feeling like I was on vacation, exploring a new city and culture, this time without my mother.
    The directions I followed, took me to a quiet side street lined with worn buildings, and more specifically, to an unmarked, weathered door along a row of doors looking remarkably the same.
    Without the typical store sign or even a window to peer in, I didn’t know whether I might walk into someone’s house. To be on the safe side, I knocked.
    The door rattled loosely against its frame and then settled. A few moments passed and no one came, so I knocked again. Again, there was no answer.
    Wondering if the directions were wrong, I tried the door handle. It was unlocked, which almost surprised me. Opening it a crack, I peered inside.
    While it was incredibly dim inside, lit only by candles held in wall sconces and open lanterns hanging from the ceiling, I could see that it was actually a store. Disheveled and poorly laid out with towering wooden bookshelves stuffed with merchandise, I couldn’t see all that far inside.
    “ Hello?” I called out without receiving an answer back.
    Figuring they may be in the storage room, if one even existed, I stepped inside.
    “ Hello?”
    No one responded so I moved farther down the aisle.
    This was no regular OfficeMax or OfficeDepot. It didn’t even resemble a college bookstore. In the place of textbooks on biology, calculus, and the English dictionary there were witch almanacs, spell books for solitary witches, and tomes on spells and rituals for every purpose. Where pens and paper should have been, there were tarot card stacks and candles of every color, style, and size imaginable. Canisters of countless herbs, stones, and gems replaced impulse-purchase bins of calculators and keychain flashlights.
    What exactly am I supposed to buy in here? I wondered.
    Then, just as I reached the cash register, which looked like an antique ready for a museum, the store’s front door opened, allowing in a thin stretch of light down the side aisle. I listened as