Free The Stager: A Novel by Susan Coll

find anything.
    I hear someone enter the kitchen and turn to see the Stager passing through on her way to the basement. She has the can of paint in one hand, and holds the brush over it, to catch the drips.
    “Hi, Elsa,” she says, but she doesn’t stop to talk to me, or ask how my day’s been. She doesn’t even comment about me standing on the counter with my muddy field-hockey cleats on, or about the coffeemakers and the toaster being back out again.
    “Hey, why are you painting the door white?” I yell to her as she walks down the stairs. “And why are you going downstairs?”
    “I’m painting the door red,” she says.
    “But it’s white!”
    “That’s the primer. You have to put a coat of primer on to get it ready for the new paint. Also, it will help cover up the black.”
    “Oh.” I don’t really understand why you’d put white on black before putting on red, or why you’d even put red on in the first place when the black looked perfectly good.
    “After it dries, I’ll start layering on the red. I’m just going downstairs to wash the brush in the laundry-room sink.”
    “But why?”
    “Because it’s full of paint.”
    “No, I mean why red?”
    “Oh, it’s just another staging thing. Mostly because it’s a cheerful color. It’s eye-catching, it has curb appeal. But there’s some symbolism, from what I’ve read. In some cultures—maybe Ireland?—it actually means the mortgage has been paid and the house is owned free and clear. And in feng shui it means stability and fortunate rest inside.”
    She’s halfway down the stairs now, and I want to keep her from disappearing into the basement.
    “What’s feng shui?”
    “Oh, just some Eastern-religion design thing.”
    “Do you know if we have any Pop-Tarts?”
    “I don’t know, darling. Ask Nabila. I’m sorry, but I really need to get back to work. There’s a lot left to do, plus I have another appointment later today, so I’m in a bit of a rush.”
    I wonder if her other appointment has to do with Vince and the loft. I wonder, too, if it involves another girl, maybe one who likes to run laps at field-hockey practice or who has a better collection of American Girl dolls. I ask her who Vince is, but she doesn’t answer, so I shout another question. “Hey, what did you do with the pig and the naked starving person?” But she’s already all the way downstairs, and I can hear the water running in the sink in the utility room.
    *   *   *
    I KNOW WE have Pop-Tarts, somewhere, so I take everything out of the cabinet to see if they’re way in the back. The counter is getting crowded with food, and a box of crackers falls to the floor. Looking at all this food is making me hungry. I think maybe I should stop trying to find the Pop-Tarts and just eat the crackers, or maybe have a bowl of Froot Loops, but I’ve already taken the toaster out and feel weirdly like I need to use it, so I keep looking. There’s a lot of ramen soup, like almost a hundred packages, but I don’t particularly like ramen soup. None of us really do, but my mom says she keeps it for emergencies.
    Maybe the Pop-Tarts are on the very top shelf? Even standing on my tiptoes on the kitchen counter, I can’t see what’s all the way up there, but I can reach it with my hand, so I just start pulling stuff down, and some of it’s heavy, like the bag of flour that falls, almost knocking me down. It splits open, and there’s flour everywhere. Still no Pop-Tarts.
    Nabila comes into the room and stares at me.
    “What in the world are you doing?” she asks.
    “I’m looking for a Pop-Tart.”
    “A what?”
    “You know, a thing you put in the toaster and eat for a snack. Or for breakfast, maybe. They have different kinds, like chocolate, or strawberry, or ones with sprinkles … I know we have some. I know we used to…”
    “My God, Elsa. What are we going to do with you?” She opens the freezer door and pulls out a box of Hot Pockets.
    “No, silly!” I find