Almost Crimson Read Online Free

have any other friends, since the other kids were so much older and she and her mother didn’t know any other kids. CeCe only waved at Mrs. Castellanos for a long time. When she introduced herself to CeCe, offering to read her a story the next day, CeCe had been thrilled.
    Mrs. Castellanos read stories in her decorated accent, still waxed heavy with Puerto Rican roots. Sometimes, CeCe would play quietly on the bench next to her while Mrs. Castellanos read a newspaper. One week she didn’t meet CeCe out in the courtyard and CeCe thought she had somehow made her friend angry.
    â€œLast Thursday was Christmas, dulce ,” Mrs. Castellanos said, squatting next to CeCe on the dusty ground next to the bench. “Don’t you remember when Santa came to visit?”
    CeCe pinched her face together trying to remember a visit.
    Mrs. Castellanos gasped a little. “ Dulce CeCe , you didn’t get anything from Santa for Christmas?” she asked.
    CeCe shook her head slowly, beginning to wonder if she was in trouble somehow. She didn’t know anything about this Claus.
    CeCe sat with her friend until lunchtime, until CeCe’s stomach was empty and her mind full of images of happy, fat men hauling around gifts with her name on them. Mrs. Castellanos told her good little girls were allowed to send their wishes to Santa, too. Having her mother back was CeCe’s number one wish. Roller skates was her second.
    â€œWhen is he coming back?” CeCe asked.
    â€œWe’ve got a ways to go, dulce ,” Mrs. Castellanos said, watching the cloud fill the child’s face. “Christmas is always December twenty-fifth and that was only one week ago. We have to wait until next year.”
    CeCe considered.
    â€œHow long is that?”
    â€œA year?” Mrs. Castellanos asked. “One year is the same as fifty-two weeks, dulce .”
    CeCe thought some more.
    â€œIs that soon?”
    Mrs. Castellanos took in a breath and thought. She crossed arms across her massive breasts and drummed her fingertips until an idea came to her.
    â€œOn Thursday when we walk to the store, that will be one week,” she had said. “And the next Thursday will be another week—”
    â€œâ€”And after . . . fifty-two Thursdays Santa will come back?” CeCe chimed.
    Mrs. Castellanos beamed. “Yes, dulce .”
    â€œIs fifty-two a long time?”
    â€œIt can feel like a long time sometimes, dulce ,” Mrs. Castellanos laughed.
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    Ms. Boylin now sat on the hard, square bed, facing CeCe and her rudimentary calendar. She could see now that December 25, 1975, had been circled.
    â€œDid you do this, Crimson?”
    â€œNo,” she said, unsettling her thick plaits with a shake. “Mama showed me where Christmas was after I told her about Santa. I don’t think she knew about him either, because she cried about missing him, too.”
    â€œAnd, so, you count the Thursdays with this chain so you and your mama won’t miss Santa, is that right, Crimson?”
    Another rattle of braids.
    â€œHow many Thursdays are left in the cup?
    â€œThirty-three.”
    â€œHow many Thursdays are on the chain?”
    â€œNineteen.”
    â€œThat was a lot of fruit punch, huh?” Boylin said, with a wink.
    CeCe ducked her head with a grin.
    â€œYou’re a very bright girl to have figured this out all by yourself,” Ms. Boylin said.
    CeCe released her second broad smile of the morning. “Ms. Cas-teanose calls me ‘bright,’ too,” she said. “I like it. Makes me feel like I have magic inside.”
    â€œSweetheart, you do have magic inside you. You absolutely do.”
    CeCe returned to the courtyard bench while Ms. Boylin spoke with her mother again. She tried to press all of Ms. Boylin’s words against her memory: bus stop, state law, gifted class, private school, scholarship, development, future, foster care. CeCe could tell these were