Torch Red: Color Me Torn with Bonus Content by Melody Carlson Page A

MY MOM’S VOICE . S HE IS REMINDING ME THAT TODAY IS MY day to help out at the soup kitchen.
    “Yeah, yeah.” I turn back over in my bed.
    “Come on.” She pulls back my warm comforter. “You made a commitment, and they’re expecting you to be there.”
    I make a face and groan.
    “It’s already late, Zoë,” she says in her I-mean-business voice. “People are counting on you.”
    Now, I am not what you would call a religious person—not at all. I mean I only go to church when my parents force me, which is usually only on holidays or when they’re feeling particularly bossy or religious themselves. But I do think it’s right to help out our fellow man, especially those who are struggling just to survive. And my parents’ church, which is this old one that’s right downtown, has a soup kitchen on Saturday afternoons. It only runs during the winter months, but somehow my parents talked me into volunteering this year. And so, even though I’d much rather sleep in until noon, I force my weary body out of bed, take a quick shower, pull on my clothes, and stumble downstairs.
    “You better hurry,” says Mom as she hands me a bagel with cream cheese. “It’s almost ten, Zoë.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” I mumble as I head for the back door.
    “Don’t forget the car keys,” she reminds me as she drops them in my other hand.
    “Thanks a lot,” I mutter as I go out to the freezing cold garage.
    “Drive carefully, honey,” she calls.
    “Yeah, yeah . . .”
    I get into Mom’s car and carefully back out, reminding myself that one of the perks of working at the soup kitchen on Saturdays is that I get to use Mom’s car and she doesn’t even mind if I stop by the mall on my way home. And that’s exactly what I plan to do, since I still have that gift certificate my grandma in Iowa sent me for Christmas. I’m thinking I’ll find something new to wear to the party tonight. To be honest, it’s about the only thing that gets me going this morning.
    “Hey, Zoë,” calls out Pastor Leon as he carries a box of food into the church.
    “Hey,” I answer with a smile.
    “Good to see you.”
    “Yeah,” I say as I hold the door for him. “You too.” Okay, it’s not totally honest, but polite. I hang up my jacket and reach for an apron.
    “I’m glad you’re here,” he says as he puts the box on the counter. “Mavis said we’re going to be really busy because we’re a little shorthanded.”
    “Guess I better get to work then.”
    “Want to help me unload the van for starters?”
    “Sure,” I tell him, but the truth is, I’m not that excited about working with Pastor Leon today. Not that he isn’t nice. He totally is. But I always feel kind of guilty around him since I so seldom go to church. I’m afraid he might think I don’t like him or something.
    I follow him back to the parking lot and wait as he pulls a box of canned corn from the back of his van and hands it to me. To bepolite, I wait for him to get a box for himself then we walk back toward the church.
    “Not much of a churchgoer, are you?” he says.
    What did I tell you? “Well . . . uh . . .”
    He laughs and that’s when I notice he has this really cool laugh, kind of deep and hearty and warm. Just like you’d expect from a big African-American guy like him. “Don’t worry,” he tells me, “I’m not going to lay some big guilt trip on you. I just thought I’d mention it in case you were feeling uncomfortable.”
    “Actually, I do feel kind of bad about that.”
    “So why don’t you come then?”
    “I don’t know.” I glance over at him to discover he’s smiling. “I guess I’m just lazy,” I confess.
    He laughs again. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
    If he only knew.
    “Does it bother you that I don’t come on Sundays?” I ask as we go inside. “But that I’m willing to come work at the soup kitchen, I mean?”
    “No, not at all. In fact, it just makes me really curious about you.”
    “How’s