Othergirl

by Nicole Burstein

  She told me about her dreams, which were growing in intensity.

  ‘It’s like I can’t even close my eyes without seeing flames now,’ she said. ‘All the time, the burning, and the light and the heat. Did I tell you I found scorch marks on my sheets the other day? It was so embarrassing! Burned right through to the mattress. I can’t let my mum find out. And I can’t go anywhere any more without an iced drink to cool me down! It’s so stupid. I can be doing almost nothing at all and then, wham! I’ll feel the blushing and my pulse will race and then there’s all the sweating!’

  The thing that bothered Erica more than anything else at this stage was the sweating. She was dressing as light as she could, but as the evenings got darker earlier it started to look strange that she wouldn’t wear a coat or tights with her school uniform. People were asking questions, and the more she worried, the hotter she got. She had to wear her hair in a high ponytail because the nape of her neck would get so wet, and she got through nearly a whole can of deodorant a day. Those were hard, horrible times. We’d have secret meetings at lunchtime, where I would supply her with extra body spray and listen to all her fears and worries (mostly about what boys would think), and then she’d meet me at my house after school, where she’d lie on my bed on top of towels and I’d place packs of frozen peas on her boiling tummy as if they were hot-water bottles and all she had were the cramps.

  Then there was the spark.

  Naturally the spark was her mother. Erica hated her mother, and was convinced that her mother hated her back. She’s probably still convinced about this, but I just can’t believe it. Call me the naive, bubble-wrapped daughter of happily-married childhood sweethearts, but I just can’t believe that any mother can hate her daughter. Not really. Try telling Erica that though. Liza had been just a teenager when she’d had Erica, and had married Erica’s father in haste to appease her conservative family. It didn’t work out, but they’d stuck together for as long as they could. I think arguing is the only form of communication that Erica understands when it comes to family members. Normal conversations are saved for when she comes round to my house.

  ‘I don’t even know what we were yelling about in the end, you know? I think it started because she thought my skirt was too short, and even though I had leggings on and you couldn’t even see anything at all, she still wanted me to change. And I said something about it not being my fault that she was so out of touch with fashion, and then she screamed and said, IT IS YOUR FAULT! And I screamed back at her, because, you know, I’M SORRY THAT I WAS EVEN BORN! And then she gave me this look, this look that told me that she hated me, that same look she used to give Dad in the end, and then something just popped. It’s just like the hot flushes, except that it feels more urgent, like a charge going right through my fingers that I absolutely have to get out of me.’

  She had got scared and knew that she had to get out of the house, so texted me to meet her at the park.

  I couldn’t even stand close to her because of all the hot, angry heat that was pouring off her, pulsing with intensity.

  ‘I just can’t believe her!’ she was yelling.

  I guided us both away from the main part of the park, past the playground, and out towards the fields, where I knew there would be fewer people.

  ‘It was like she wished that she had never had me or something! It was horrible! But do you think she’d let me go and live with Dad? No. Because she hates his family too and she says that he’d have no time for me between his job and his new girlfriend, and I was like, well, at least the time I would spend with him would be meaningful! And then I don’t know how many times I have to hear her call me a petulant brat, but there you go. I thought her face was going explode with it!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I offered, not sure what else to say.

  Her temperature was rising even further as she recalled the argument, her fists white with tension. And then, with one final, exasperated sigh, it happened. It broke the air like a summer thunderstorm.

  Erica’s hands were on fire. She held both of them out in front of her, whimpering with panic. She moved them slowly, turned them over, staring at the yellow-orange flames.

  ‘What is this? What is it?’ she was whispering, almost too scared to speak.

  ‘Just keep calm, OK? Try and breathe slowly.’ I said it like I knew what I was talking about. I wished I did.

  ‘I’m on fire, Lou, I’m on fire!’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘What?’ She looked at me like this hadn’t even occurred to her. ‘No, actually. It doesn’t hurt at all.’

  ‘OK then.’ We both stood in the field, mesmerised by her flaming hands.

  ‘Why doesn’t it hurt though? Shouldn’t it be hurting?’

  ‘I don’t know. But presumably not hurting is a good thing. Maybe this is what all those crazy weeks of flushes have been about? Maybe it’s all been leading up to this?’

  ‘Well, that could make sense. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But how the hell do I turn it off?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘I must be able to turn it off! How do I turn it off?’ The flames grew larger as she became more agitated.

  It was then that I remembered the old tunnel we used to explore when we were younger. I led her there, certain that it would be deserted. I worked on trying to keep her calm, realising that if stress made the flames bigger, then it was likely that relaxing would make them smaller. Sure enough, we managed to get the fire down to nothing but a dull glow, until finally, after lots of breathing, Erica wiped at her hands and the flames were gone. I held her hands afterwards, looking for the burns, but there was nothing. The skin might have been a little dry, but other than that, her hands had gone back to normal.

  We finally knew what was happening. We were starting to understand what Erica was capable of. She was like those superheroes you saw on the news, working alongside the coastguard and the fire brigade and the police. The Vigils, who up until that point had been no more important to us than the actors in my mum’s beloved soaps, or whoever was number one in the charts, were suddenly within reach. And it was exciting. Not, dressing-up-to-go-to-a-party exciting, but proper life-changing exciting. Things were changing, and everything that had seemed so important just the day before now became silly and juvenile.

  Over the next few days, the Vigils became all Erica could talk about.

  ‘I have to practise. I have to get really good and then the Vigils will have to have me on their A-team,’ she would say. ‘I want to be ready when they find me, you know?’

  I did know, and I understood. For the first time in her life, Erica could see a family and a home of her own.

  We don’t usually go to Erica’s house after a practice. We either leave each other at the park gate, or, most often, Erica comes back to mine for some exciting homework catch-up time. So when Erica casually suggests, after her mini-speech about the awesomeness of Jay’s motorbike, that we go to hers for a change, I’m a bit too stunned to say anything in protest. It’s not that I don’t want to go to her house; the house itself is perfectly all right. Just another Identikit suburban semi, like mine. It’s Erica’s mum, Liza, that I’m worried about. They have the kind of screaming rows I’ve only ever seen before in soap operas. Raging, door-slamming, emotionally charged arguments that don’t let up despite there being company present. More than once Erica has had to dash round to my place for an emergency ice-cold bath so that she doesn’t burn her whole house down. I’m socially awkward on my best days, so just imagine what I’m like when I’m around both of them.

  ‘Don’t worry, she’s not in,’ Erica says as she unlocks the front door.

  I’m not surprised that she’s noticed my reticence. I’m practically twitching with dread on her driveway.

  ‘Where is she?’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

  ‘Doing an evening course. Business something or other. Apparently I zapped all her potential the moment I came along and ru
ined her life. It’s only now that she feels confident enough to go out and learn stuff. That’s what she actually said – can you believe it?’ We dump our coats and shoes in the hallway and head up the stairs. ‘It’s like she blames me for her entire personality, but she must have had one before she had me, so I wonder who she blamed it on then.’

  ‘Well, at least she’s doing something about it now,’ I offer. ‘And if she’s going to be so busy studying, then that must ease things on you.’

  ‘You’d think, wouldn’t you?’

  I’m not sure that going back to Erica’s house tonight is the best idea. I’m working too hard to fight the tired and irritable mood, which, coupled with Erica’s hyperawareness when she steps into her house, makes for an uncomfortable energy. I know how much she hates her home. So I’m hovering awkwardly in her bedroom, wondering what to do. Does she want me to stay? I’ve still got my scarf wrapped around my neck, and I’m regretting taking my shoes off when I came in.

  Erica starts to get changed, handing her costume over to me so that I can keep it safe. We do this partly in case her secret identity is discovered and someone raids her home looking for proof, and partly because if Erica keeps anything important at her house, there’s a good chance it will be found by her mother at some point. The thought of Liza knowing about Erica’s powers is enough to make me shudder.

  ‘You can sit down, you know,’ Erica says, and all of a sudden I feel monumentally stupid for just standing around, so I let myself flop back in Erica’s beanbag chair and reach for her laptop.

  ‘Looks like Hayley Divine wore a nearly see-through dress to a club opening.’ Erica’s homepage is the main Vigil gossip site, so a picture of Hayley Divine in another trademark barely-there dress comes up full size on the screen the moment I’ve loaded up her browser, along with all the pop-up advertising for Vigil merchandise and sponsors. ‘And apparently Zero has been out on another date with that girl who won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar.’

  ‘Big wow. He eats celebrities for breakfast. And I hear he’s planning on playing himself in his own film biopic.’

  ‘Well, at least he’d be able to do his own stunts.’

  I think about what it would be like to switch on my computer and see Erica there, in some designer outfit, on the arm of some famous film star. I’m not really sure that I’d like it.

  I notice that Erica has bookmarked a page called the International Superhero Name Database. Clicking on the link reveals a registry of every superhero I’ve ever heard of, and some I haven’t. Laid out in columns and rows, the names are cross-checked with apparent powers and country of residence. Much of the information is blocked for public viewing and requires a password, which I suppose makes sense, for security reasons.

  ‘Is this, like, a proper government registry or something?’ I ask, surprised that I haven’t come across it before.

  ‘It’s not official. I think there’s a fanboy in Brazil looking after it. But it’s pretty cool, right? Comprehensive, I mean.’

  Erica comes up behind me and leans on the back of the beanbag. It’s not really big enough for two people, but she finds a way of draping herself across the back of it that isn’t too awkward for either of us. Me being a rather small person makes things a little easier too.

  ‘I was looking up names,’ Erica says, as though she’s revealing some big secret. ‘Not that I think there’s anything wrong with Flamegirl, but I just, you know, wanted to check all the options.’

  ‘But you realise that maybe Flamegirl isn’t exactly ideal?’ I’m tentative, because I don’t want her going all pissy on me again for saying that I don’t like the name. I’m a bit nervous about this whole conversation actually, and if Erica gets even slightly hot and bothered, then we could find ourselves on a big melty blob instead of a beanbag.

  ‘I know you don’t like it,’ Erica says. ‘But it suits for now, doesn’t it? And look, nobody else has listed it yet, so I was thinking of registering it before anybody else gets in there first.’

  I crane my neck around so that I can give Erica a look.

  ‘What?’ she says, defensive.

  ‘It’s just a big step, that’s all.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t do it without talking to you first. And I’m not even sure if it’s the right time yet.’

  Erica’s expecting me to say that of course it’s the right time, but my silence makes her shift behind me.

  ‘I know what you really think about the whole Vigils thing,’ she says, not in an accusing way, but still in a way that makes me think very carefully about what I say next.

  ‘It’s just that, you’re still so young. And what if it’s not for you? Being a Vigil isn’t just about the parties and the clothes. You’re going to have to do the scary stuff too.’

  ‘You know I know that …’

  ‘Plus we have exams this year, and haven’t you thought about college? Or even university? You do have other options, you know.’

  ‘But then sometimes I think that I lost all my options when I discovered that I can fly,’ Erica says. ‘The Red Rose was fourteen when she was made a member of the Vigils. And Quantum was sixteen. And it’s not as if anything happens in this town that allows me to really show off my abilities. I’ll never be ready unless something actually happens. And what’s the other option? Stand on the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square and set fire to the lions?’

  I turn to look up at Erica, whose face has started to get blotchy with emotion. I take a mental note of everything in her room that might be flammable.

  ‘What’s the point of all this practising if I’m just going to stay in this town and do A levels? Joining the Vigils has been my dream ever since I found out what I can do. And yes, the fame and fortune and living in a mansion or whatever would be nice, but I know about the other part too. And of course it’s really scary. But if I just hang around here and wait for real danger to strike, am I ever going to be ready?’

  We’re stuck in another one of those horrid silences again. We really must stop having these. Especially in her house when Liza could come home any minute.

  ‘And seriously, is Flamegirl really such a bad name?’ Erica’s the one to break the silence while shifting her position behind me.

  ‘Well, you can also fly. Why don’t we call you Flygirl?’ I suggest.

  ‘Because there’s already a Flygirl working on the South African Vigil team.’ She reaches around me and scrolls down the computer screen. ‘See? She’s registered right there between the Feline and Frostfire.’

  ‘Well, has anyone taken Vega yet?’ I scroll and see that they haven’t.

  ‘I told you, I don’t like that name.’

  ‘I know, I know. But as your manager, I’m allowed to strongly suggest it. It’s cool – and modern, I think.’

  ‘It sounds like what somebody might call an asteroid.’

  ‘It’s not an asteroid. It’s a star.’

  ‘Give up on it, Lou. I don’t like it. Let’s just register Flamegirl and get it over and done with. Who knows – maybe the Vigils check this website, and then somebody will come knocking in the morning.’

  ‘Of course. Because that’s precisely how international teams of superhuman crime fighters and rescuers work. They search the websites made by fanboys.’

  Although, to be honest, that could very well be how they work. We’ve read up on countless theories about how the Vigils go recruiting, from online spying and phone-tapping to the crazy notion that they’ve got some psychic working for them whose sole purpose is to root out potential superheroes. The truth is, how they actually operate is as closely guarded a secret as where they’re based, or who’s really in charge. And if anybody is going to get to the root of the operation and suss them out, it’s hardly going to be a couple of teenage girls.

  Erica’s phone pings on her bed, and she clambers around me so that she can reach it.

  ‘Oh. Em. Gee.’

  ‘What?’ I don’t really care who’s messaged her and what they’re
saying, because chances are it’s something to do with her other friends, but I know that if I don’t feign interest, Erica’s only going to get annoying about it.

  ‘You won’t believe who’s messaged me!’

  ‘Who?’ OK, so it looks like she’s going to get annoying about it anyway.

  ‘No, seriously, guess! You won’t believe it!’

  ‘But if I won’t believe it, then how am I meant to guess?’

  ‘Sometimes, Lou-Lou, you are just absolutely no fun.’ A dramatic pause so that she can glare at me for a bit. ‘It’s Jay! Jay has sent me a message! Jay has FINALLY sent me a message!’

  ‘Oh. Yay?’

  ‘He wants to know what I’m doing this weekend. What are you doing this weekend? Is he asking me out? This is so exciting!’

  I move so that Erica can get up properly, and she dashes over to her wardrobe to look at her clothes. She’s already planning her outfit before even replying to him. Seriously?

  ‘Aren’t you going to message him back?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course I am!’ Erica giggles. ‘But not right away. Never right away. I’ll probably wait until tomorrow to reply. Or whatever.’

  ‘So then in the meantime maybe we should read those chapters for English.’

  ‘Or you can read them and tell me what happens, and I can find something to wear?’ She’s laughing as if she’s joking, but I know that really she’s not.

  ‘You’re not the only one who’s got plans with a boy this weekend, you know.’

  I don’t know why I say it. I really don’t. I wasn’t going to say anything about it at all. I thought I could get away with pretending that Toby hadn’t asked me, and then maybe he’d forget too, and then we could just go about our lives as usual. But I feel like pushing back against her for once. There’s something about her obsession with this Jay guy, and the way that she’s blown off the name thing and my suggestion of knuckling down with the homework. There was also the armpitting earlier. My shoulders have definitely not forgotten about that yet.