PRAISE FOR
ALMOST CRIMSON
“Dasha Kelly writes with equal parts sweetness and sadness about being a human. She writes about girls and women, family, friendship, and aching love. Almost Crimson offers a full teacup of emotions, past and present, delicately balanced on a wildly beating heart. This author, this novel–blessings to readers and storytellers alike.”
—Leesa Cross-Smith, author of Every Kiss a War
“Dasha Kelly’s Almost Crimson is a beautiful, poignant account of many lives, tremendous intersections, journeys to wholeness, and an exploration of love and community. This book rightly deserves a place alongside the works of Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, and Toni Cade Bambara.”
—Samuel Thompson, nationally-acclaimed
Afro-Classical violinist
“Dasha Kelly’s novel Almost Crimson is almost perfect, its structural genius rivaled only by the depth and complexity of its characterizations, the candor and frequent beauty of its understated yet direct prose style, the simultaneous plausibility and unpredictability of its plot, and the importance of its message of survival, perseverance, and ultimate transcendence.”
—Paul McComas, Midwest Book Award-winning author of Unplugged, Planet of the Dates, and Unforgettable
“Dasha Kelly’s Almost Crimson is a debut of rare power and grace. Beautifully written, moving, and wonderfully paced. This book is a must read.”
—Rob Roberge, musician and author of The Cost of Living
“Almost Crimson is what happens when a storyteller with the deft skills of a glassblower takes something as normal as words and transforms them into intricate works of art. Dasha Kelly has spun a vivid and timeless treasure, as only few writers can do.”
—Freddie Gutierrez, screenwriter for MGM,
Nickelodeon and Warner Brothers
“This book drew me in with increasing power. I couldn’t put it down. It’s a story of survival and redemption, offering a spark of hope and poetic justice for all the kids that raise themselves from neglect and isolation, and those who dare to reach out with encouragement and generosity. Dasha enchants and ensnares the reader with wry wit, lush imagery, and measured cadence of a true storyteller.”
—Asia Freeman, Executive/Artistic Director of Alaska’s
award-winning Bunnell Street Art Center
“Readers cannot help but root for CeCe as she struggles, hiding her pain behind grim determination and a strong habit of just putting one foot in front of another—walking onwards and upwards to new beginnings. Thumbs up to Dasha on this tour de force, coming-of-age novel! ”
—Kimberly Graba, librarian,
Wisconsin Department of Corrections
CURBSIDE SPLENDOR PUBLISHING
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of short passages quoted in reviews.
The stories contained herein are works of fiction. All incidents, situations, institutions, governments, and people are fictional and any similarity to characters or persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
Published by Curbside Splendor Publishing, Inc., Chicago, Illinois in 2015.
First Edition
Copyright © 2015 by Dasha Kelly
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014953131
ISBN 978-1940430485
Edited by Karen Craigo
Designed by Alban Fischer
Cover artwork by Mary Osmundsen
Manufactured in the United States of America.
for BabyCakes and SugarBug
ONE
YARN
CECE FELT HER HIP BUZZ. It was the third call. She knew her mother would start picking at that damn finger if she didn’t answer one of these calls soon. The last infection was gruesome, and CeCe didn’t want to deal with it again.
CeCe and her small team of coworkers stood in a carpeted intersection of their office suite holding what their boss called a flash-forward. According to him, the stand-up, bare-bones briefings saved them all from nearly four hours of bloated conference room meetings each week.
CeCe tugged at her purse strap as her hip vibrated again. She wanted to abandon this circle and escape into the elevator behind them, through the lobby, and into the downstairs diner. She needed to call her mother, and she needed a slice of cake. Now.
CeCe shifted her weight and tried to will a coworker into silence as she unwound a tangled ramble about missed calls, transposed numbers, keynote speaker contracts, and water chestnuts. CeCe tried to make eye contact with her boss to flash her impatience and annoyance. The blathering coworker was young and new and eager to counter every reality these truths might hold.
“Maybe we check out his booking fees through a different agency?” CeCe said, realizing no one was going to stop this child from speaking. Her boss was usually good at shepherding their small, nine-person team. He was being far too generous today, CeCe decided. “That way, we’re on his calendar but not locked in to such a crazy high quote. Good thing you pulled those numbers early.”
The young associate beamed, nodded and was quiet. The group dismissed and CeCe slipped into the elevator. She waved to the pair of security men as she walked the expansive lobby, breezed through the open doors of the Golden Goose diner, and headed toward a booth in the back. CeCe sat down and pried away her shoes. Beneath the table, she wiggled her toes.
“Heya, CeCe,” her waitress, Misha, said from behind the counter. She wore long braid extensions this month, and her signature brilliant red lip gloss, which had too much blue undertone for her complexion. CeCe had tried lobbing cosmetic tips at Misha when she first started working in the building. Much of the advice had been new for CeCe then, too. She’d been eager to evangelize. Misha would always respond with enthusiasm and conviction. Four years later, Misha still sported homegrown experiments of quick weave, color streaks, iridescent makeup powders, and elaborately decorated nails. Like any new convert, CeCe got over herself and her newfound style scriptures and embraced Misha’s good nature, red gloss and all.
“I’m good, Misha,” CeCe said as her cell phone rang again. She pressed the talk button and spoke into the phone. “Yes, how are you?”
As Misha poured a cup of coffee, CeCe mouthed her order. Cake. CeCe counted on an extra thick slice.
“I know, Mama. I was in a meeting,” CeCe said into the phone, digging in the small tray of sugar packets. “I’m sorry you worried.”
CeCe emptied two packets and stirred while her mother recounted highlights from her news programs. She had taken to calling CeCe with leading stories or curious statistics, in case the news of Prescott Public School closings, council meeting decisions, or book reviews might prove helpful in CeCe’s work at the management consulting firm. CeCe often reminded her mother there were televisions at the office, but she remained undeterred. CeCe’s best friend, Pam, had once pointed out that atonement arrives in many forms.
“Yeah, even Spencer voted for it,” CeCe said into the phone, pointing and nodding as Misha stood near the cake domes waving her hand above the pound cake like a model