Flame (Fireborn) Page 3

  "Dad?" I prod gently in the stillness. He doesn't respond. I walk behind him, my feet soft on the cold floor. I stand quiet as a statue. When the silence becomes heavy with more than just alcohol, I whisper, "Go to bed, Dad."

  For a few moments I think he doesn't hear me, but he turns, moving as quietly as when he first slipped in. He walks through the door. He never looks back. My eyes flicker back to the picture that means the world to me. He'd turned it face down.

  Chapter 2

  At first, the sun blinds me. It's unbearably bright, the sort of brightness that pierces your vision even when your eyes are closed. I shield them, and the wind whips my face, blowing my brown hair behind me. I hear her laughter and I turn. She's waiting, gesturing at me. She's wearing a floral dress, and shielding her eyes, too. Her face is blurry, but I know she's smiling; I can sense it from where I'm standing.

  "Over here, Kenna," she yells from afar.

  I'm ecstatic. "Mom!" My voice sounds small in the wind. "Mom!" I run to her, but I'm slow. No matter how fast I move she stays in the distance with her dress flowing around her. Wait, I try to say. I'm coming. Something changes, and she looks up. Out of nowhere a shadow suddenly appears above us. It's a ship, and its engines are drowning her words. It hovers above her, and she stares at it, transfixed.

  "Mom," I yell again. "Stay there!" Unexpectedly I'm afraid. The ship isn't moving. It's right on top of us like smog, and I'm not sure what it's trying to smother. A door opens, and stretches to the ground like a ladder.

  A figure appears.

  At first he's blurry too, but then he takes a step forward and I recognize the handsome Saguinox alien from the drive in. He's not looking at my mom. He's gazing at me. I stare back. Somehow despite the distance, I see his face clearly. His glorious black hair, glowing eyes, and strong chin make me breathless. I can't read his expression, but I don't care. I just want to look at him.

  "Kenna!" My mother's voice breaks my spell. She runs toward me, and for one second her face is abruptly in focus. There's fear there. I run forward, trying to reach her. She's shooing me away, but I won't turn back. I won't let her leave me again.

  There is a sound above us, like something being unleashed, and I know it's important to run faster. I try to warn her. "Don't look up!" I shout, but she's motionless. She's lost control of her body. Her eyes are wild, trying to tell me something important. The air is chaos around her like a fan is blowing from underneath. Her mouth opens.

  It's a trap.

  I can't hear the words, but they're in my head.

  "What?" I stop in mid motion.

  Her face contorts, and the voice is no longer hers. "Run!" it tells me. "Run, Kenna!" I don't hesitate, and I bolt, reversing away from the ship, sensing the danger. Abruptly, I become aware of a thick blackness growing around me. The man from before is no longer by the door, and blackness is leaking from it like a poison. I stumble to the side to avoid it, but it's no use. The dark fog encircles me, floating closer and closer. When it touches me, a cold tingling envelopes my body. I freeze. I don’t know if the fog is freezing me, or if I'm too shocked to move. All thoughts disappear when the tingling starts at my ankles and travels to my knees. It moves further up, and I forget everything. My blood is icy, and I'm chilled from the inside out. Dimly, I'm aware of a voice. It's too weak to penetrate through, so I ignore it. There's something stronger calling to me now. The fog is icy cold- deliriously so. How can something so cold feel so good?

  "Move, Kenna! Get away!" A feeble sound pierces through my delicious haze. I blink to clear away something nagging my mind. My body sways with the intention to lie down.

  "Wake up!" The voice is loud, booming in my mind. The birthmark on my finger burns, and a shaft of heat shoots up my arms, and down my body. The blackness shifts, looming above me, attempting to cave in like a collapsing roof. When I look up I see the dark abyss that waits for me. Its mouth opens to take me…

  Wake up!

  Cold hands shake me. I welcome the iciness because my body's on fire. Dad's face is unclear at first, but the smell of alcohol drifts into my nose as a pungent breath.

  "Kenna, wake up. Whas wrong wi' you?" His voice is slurred, but his eyes are blinking, attempting to focus on me. I sit up, almost begging him to touch me again. I feel so hot. I palm my forehead, but it's impossible to know if I have a fever when my hands feel even hotter than the rest of my body.

  "Hot," I choke out, fanning my face.

  He nods. "Feels like a f-f-furnace in h-h-he…" Here, he attempts to say, as his words slide together like fluid. "Did y…turn…on..?" His question hangs in midair. I don't need him to say more because a decade of experience has taught me to decipher his drunken code talk.

  "I didn't turn on the heat," I reply. It's September in Minnesota, but it isn't nearly cold enough to use the furnace. We can't afford to have heat early. The house isn't big, but I'm lonely at night. Maybe it's because I'm usually the only one home. The thought reminds me of a time when it was different, and I push it away as fast as it comes.

  Dad rubs his eyes, making them redder. I check the digital alarm next to my bed. It's 4:30 in the morning. He's still dressed in a light jacket.

  "Did you just come back?" I ask softly. He nods.

  "Did you go with Jack?" I press.

  "Don't need to," he answers vaguely.

  "You shouldn't be driving when you've been drinking, Dad," I'm unable to hide the exasperation in my voice. It doesn't matter though because I'm talking to air. He's turned away; his mind already wandered off. He circles unsteadily around my bedroom until he comes to a framed photograph. It's the only thing of value I own. He stares like he expects it to move. In the picture, Mom's brown eyes peek mischievously over my head as she hugs me in her arms. The side of her smile is noticeable behind my thick head of hair. He studies the picture. I wonder what he sees. The silence feels immeasurable.

  "Dad?" I prod gently in the stillness. He doesn't respond. I walk behind him, my feet soft on the cold floor. I stand quiet as a statue. When the silence becomes heavy with more than just alcohol, I whisper, "Go to bed, Dad."

  For a few moments I think he doesn't hear me, but he turns, moving as quietly as when he first slipped in. He walks through the door. He never looks back. My eyes flicker back to the picture that means the world to me. He'd turned it face down.

  Chapter 3

  The reporters and cameramen are visible within a mile of the school. National and local news vans line the streets like spectators waiting for a parade. My rusty 1997 Toyota Camry is nothing fantastic to look at. I'm embarrassed driving by as photographers click away.

  I press the brakes hard as the car in front of me makes a sudden stop. I'd been within a mile of the school for the at least ten minutes. Turtles moved faster than we are. I understand that we're the first school on earth to have alien students, but really, is all this necessary? Another bright light flashes between my eyes as a picture is taken. I guess that answers my question, I think.

  By the time I arrive at school, my face is flushed with irritation. The parking lot was full, and I had to drive and park on the street. I ended up trying to power walk three blocks with three textbooks on my back. Over forty-five minutes late, I concede that it's not the greatest start to my morning.

  I notice a line at the front entrance. Men dressed in blue security suits are checking backpacks and bags. I even see one of those hand held metal detectors they use at sport games. Is this going to happen everyday? I wonder. A couple dozen students are waiting to get inside, but they don't seem to mind much. They're probably just happy to miss part of first hour. I'm barely inside the doors when a voice drifts to me.

  "I wonder if they're here yet," someone says from behind.

  "Probably not. Did you see all the reporters out there? They're still here because they haven't gotten their story yet," a louder voice answers.

  "God, did you see the guy, Steph? Hubba, hubba."

  "Delish," the second voice agrees. "His na
me's Rhys, I heard."

  "Rhys." She says it with a sigh. "I don't know how I'm going to focus if he's in a class of mine. I'd-" Her voice cuts off as she bumps into me.

  "Oh! Sorry. I didn't see you," she apologizes. Her brown eyes are wide.

  Embarrassed, I give a small, fake smile. "It's ok," I assure them in the I-don't-care-everything-is-normal voice that I'd spent years mastering.

  They walk around and ahead of me. "I swear I didn't see anyone ahead of us…" her voice trails off as the pair moves further away.

  I wonder if I stood glued to this one spot, how many people wouldn't "see" and bump into me? What if I start line dancing with my backpack on top of my head? I think sarcastically. How many people would notice then? I'm angry enough to try it, but Dr. Bingham's voice booms over the loudspeaker, trampling any idiotic ideas I considered pursuing.

  "Students, please report to first hour immediately. There will be no loitering in the hallways. Attendance will be taken promptly at 8:20 am." The principal's nasally voice repeats the announcement once more before a loud clicking sound is heard from behind. Then another. And another, until a hoard of snapping sounds spill inside through the doors.

  Cameras.

  They'd arrived.

  I don't bother to turn around to catch the action. What's the point? I'd probably be trampled to death before anyone realized I was there. Eager whispers and animated excitement ripples through the crowd of students. Ignoring the heightened energy, I take advantage of everyone looking back to sidle to the front of the line.

  "Open your backpack, please," the security man says in a bored voice. In a hurry, I do so. I'm ok, until I notice his eyes traveling over a bright, mint green wrapping. My cheeks heat up at the feminine product in my bag. How was I to know there'd be a man rummaging through my bag today? His fingers find a half eaten Twix bar, and an unopened Cheez- it pack, before he finally looks up.

  "You're good," he says.

  I lift one backpack strap onto my shoulder, and rush away, zipping the bag as I walk. Note to self: hide everything embarrassing ASAP!

  The classroom door creaks as I slide it open, and a few sets of eyes drift over. When they see who it is, they turn back to the TV, bored. AP English Literature is in full swing by the time I come. Walking over to Mr. Bernard, I whisper my name, "Kenna Parker."

  He lifts a hand to his ear. "Eh?" I point to my name on his clipboard. He writes a checkmark beside Kenna Parker and adds a "T" to indicate tardy. For a split second, I debate whether I should point out technically I'm on time, but due to external circumstances such as new alien students, I was forced to be late. I decide it's not worth it, and find a seat. A third of the chairs are empty. It doesn't surprise me that some of the students made an opportunity of this momentous occasion, and skipped school. I might've also, but I had to do a cooking demo in Home Economics, and to put it bluntly: I'm bored at home. There's no one to keep me company but a hung over father, and an overly quiet house. Yes, unfortunately, given a choice, I would choose school every time.

  The lights are dim because we're watching Romeo and Juliet. It would've been a nice movie had we been watching the Leonardo DiCaprio version, but we're stuck with a movie from 1968. It was so old some of our parents weren't even born yet when it was released. Mr. Bernard had been a young man when this movie first came out, so he didn't seem to notice or care what we thought. Last week he'd spent a good fifteen minutes setting up the old VHS player to accommodate the ancient tape. I wonder how long it'd taken him today.

  "O happy dagger!

  This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die."

  Juliet's frantic words are said with such desperation I pause to look at the screen on my way to my seat. The intensity in which Juliet stares at the blade she holds leaves me with a disconcerted feeling. I understand her anguish.

  I go straight for my usual seat at the back of the room. Even when I'm in the middle of a group, I have a way of making people forget me. At least, that's what it feels like. I hate it, but I can't make someone see me if they don't want to.

  A loud snore covers up the sound my backpack makes as it slips from my shoulder onto the floor. I want to sleep too, but I know Mr. Bernard will be planning a pop quiz on the movie tomorrow. It's what he always does, but half the room is dozing off and appears to have forgotten this pattern. Instead I cushion my cheek with my hand, propping my suddenly tired head up. I felt fine seconds earlier, but something about this movie is sucking my energy dry.

  The birthmark on my finger itches, and I scratch it. The reddish brown stain starts from base of my thumb on my palm to the tip of my index finger. It's an unusual looking mark, and it's been itching a lot lately.

  "What misadventure is so early up,

  That calls our person from our morning's rest..?"

  My eyes wander to the window beside me. It's hard to resist looking out. Now that fall is here I like to watch the leaves twirl, settling aimlessly about. It's mundane, thoughtless, yet every second soothes me. Today large vans and foreign looking cars line the streets obstructing my view. I stare, but few leaves are falling. Maybe this is the universe's way of telling me to pay better attention to the movie.

  A loud knock interrupts my thoughts. Dr. Bingham strolls in looking nervous, and a little agitated. Someone immediately turns on the lights, and it floods the room, forcing a few heads to look up, dazed.

  "Daniel! The movie," Mr. Bernard waves at it. A blonde haired boy in the front row jumps up and grabs a black remote. He presses a button, pausing it.

  "This is the button for pausing, Mr. Bernard," Daniel explains patiently, showing him. The person ahead of me snickers softly. Dr. Bingham stands at the front, clapping loudly to get everyone's attention.

  "We have a new student joining your class today," he begins with a small smile. He gestures to the people at the door. It's then I notice what appear to be two secret servicemen, the assistant principal, and two other official looking men. As if on cue, the two security men part and our first alien student walks in.

  Rhys.

  Again, the dreamy sighs I first heard when they landed are reenacted within milliseconds of his arrival. It somehow sounds just as loud as before even though only ten female students are in the room. Dr. Bingham seems a little embarrassed by the sighs. His neck gets red, but he keeps his eyes on us. Having the hots for an alien is still a novel idea for many people on earth. I'm not even sure if it's physically possible to do anything about it.

  Rhys's eyes seemed to glow less in the light. In front of us, they just look abnormally bright. If you scan past him briefly, you might not even notice it. But it'd be impossible to pass over him quickly. His physical beauty is too seductive to ignore, and even though I'm far away, I blush. Biologically we're supposed to notice differences like disfigurement or deformity, but the human eye notices something else too; it notices perfection. Morning sunlight reveals a face that is perfectly symmetrical. This is something no camera can capture; you have to experience it to understand.

  He's dressed in dark jeans and a plain forest green shirt that contrasts the olive tones in his skin. The clothes are simple and clean, but he wears them like they've been made for him.

  "This is Rhys, er, Doe," Dr. Bingham continues. "Rhys Doe," he repeats more forcefully. I nod in understanding. Like John Doe. Maybe aliens don't have last names. I'm suddenly curious if I'm right.

  "He will be here for the rest of the semester with us. Please do your best to follow the guidelines we sent home earlier this month," Dr. Bingham reminds us. The "guidelines" he's referring to was a letter of information detailing what we could discuss with our new "planetary exchange students." The list included human culture, language, foods, music, fashion, and media. It asked students to defer from asking "deep, personal questions" that could threaten national or Saguinox security.

  "Welcome," Mr. Bernard greets in a forcefully cheerful voice. It's obvious he has no idea how to handle the new events unfolding in the world, like having an a
lien student, but he's willing to make the most of it. Maybe that's why the national government chose Minnesota. Minnesota nice extended to extraterrestrial creatures, too.

  "Well, um, take a seat." He gestures to the rows of empty chairs. His white hair looks whiter next to Rhys' ebony colored head. "We were just watching a very famous story called 'Romeo and Juliet'. It's, er, a human story about love." Then he looks at Dr. Bingham as if he's suddenly realized something. "Does he need an inter-?"Again, Mr. Bernard stops, not wanting to embarrass his new student.

  Immediately, Rhys replies, "I don't need an interpreter. I am still learning your language, but I have been studying it and your culture for many years. If I need help, I know how to ask," Rhys replies. His voice is smooth, syrupy, and holds a hint of an accent I can't place. Well, duh, I abruptly think to myself. His accents from outer space!

  "Oh, great. Good," Mr. Bernard sounds relieved. "Well, welcome again, and take a seat."

  "If you need anything, let us know," Dr. Bingham tells Rhys. "They," he gestures to the security, "will stay and-"

  "That won't be necessary," Rhys gives him a polite smile. "I'm sure they have other things to do that will be more… beneficial. I think I can take care of myself." His voice is low, but every person including me, strains to hear his conversation. Maybe he notices because his voice gets softer, and I can't hear anything from the back. An older gentleman from the group at the entrance steps forward to protest, but Rhys raises a commanding hand, and he stops.