Firebloods

by Hays, Casey

  It has to be from the kiss. Great!

  “Jude.” He tilts his head to one side. “Just thank me for getting your ring out of the vent, and let’s get out of this hallway. It smells like a sewer.”

  He reaches up then, chucks me on the chin with his knuckles like a brother might do to his kid sister, as if this will erase the whole crazy night from my life. I wish.

  A redhead exits the bathroom and tromps down the hall, cutting between us. I take a full step back to prevent her from bumping into me. She smiles at Kane and ignores me. As usual, Kane doesn’t even look at her, and I have to give it to him—he’s persistent. We follow behind her as she disappears through the swinging doors. I lift the paper towel. The bleeding has stopped, so I crumple the towel in my fist.

  “Thanks for always noticing things, I guess.” I offer a quick roll of my eyes. Kane’s crooked smile slips in.

  “How could I not?”

  I can’t look at him. Every time I do, my eyes make a beeline for his lips. I really need to go home and sleep this night off. A reset button would come in so handy right about now.

  “So…” Kane holds the swinging door open for me. “I hope you enjoyed your time with me in the hallway more than your time with Rylin.”

  I look at him squarely. He chews on his bottom lip, eyes intense. I knew it!

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I tease, slipping past him.

  “Uh, yeah. I would.”

  I laugh with a shake of my head, and we leave the hallway along with the vent cover lying in the middle of the floor to become someone else’s mystery to solve.

  Interlude

  The Music

  The first time I laid eyes on Rylin McDowell, I was sitting on my front porch on a hot day in June enjoying a popsicle. The moving van backed into the drive next door. It eased to a squeaky halt, and Rylin and his younger brother Rael jumped out of the cab and raced up the steps, eager to explore their new home. At the time, they were nothing more to me than a couple of rowdy and dismally ordinary boys, and I was disappointed that they didn’t even have the courtesy to bring along a sister my age.

  From day one, I sensed something different about Rylin—just from mere observation. I couldn’t quite pinpoint what that difference was back then, but it kept me from leaving the porch to cross the lawn and introduce myself. His intensity, the force by which he flew out of the house with Rael on his heels, the richness of his boyish laughter, the way he tossed the small, white baseball into the air—all of it was frightening. Even still, I found myself drawn toward the window seat in my upstairs bedroom every time his voice pierced the air on the other side of that pane.

  Rylin didn’t know about my spying. At least, I don’t think he did. I didn’t dare go close enough to find out. But I began to imagine that he was a prince, and I was a forlorn princess locked in a tower waiting for him to sweep in and rescue me. I never let my imagination run any farther than that. I was a silly, little eight-year-old-girl then, dreaming of princesses and knights in shining armor. And how could he rescue me when we had never spoken? Not the entire summer. Then, a few days before my first day of third grade…

  My mother sent me out to check the mail. I skipped down the steps and halfway across the sidewalk before I saw him. He ran backwards, his glove in the air above his head, eyes on the sky. The ball fell a few yards behind him with a clunky bounce. I stopped short as it slowed and rolled between my feet to cross my yard and smack against the old oak.

  Rylin started toward me, running the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead before he looked at me. His eyes were bright hazel.

  “Hey,” he said.

  It was the first word he ever spoke to me. It fell over me with a slight scent of mint. One small, insignificant word. Then, he scooped up his ball and trotted back across the lawn to his little brother.

  And the music buzzed to life.

  I have to admit, it was beautiful. It swept over me, convincing me that it was a part of my very fabric. It hummed an eerie, tantalizing melody that leaned dangerously toward hypnotism, and I couldn’t stop staring at Rylin McDowell’s face.

  He caught my gaze across the yard, and we stood frozen on a line for what felt like an eternity. After that, I forgot about the mail. I raced past my confused mother waiting for me on the porch, took the stairs two at a time, and locked myself into my room. But the music didn’t stop, not for the longest time. Not when I pressed my palms over my ears and squeezed my eyes as tight as I could. Nothing staunched it. Even after my mother forced me to open the door, and I lied and told her a garter snake had slithered under my bare foot and surprised me, the music didn’t stop. I fell asleep that night with the relentless song pounding inside my head. And at eight, I had no idea what to do about it.

  To make matters worse, Rylin invaded my space all year long in my third grade class at Mark Twain Elementary, and I resented him for it. I avoided him as much as possible, even when Mrs. Carver placed us in a group together for a poetry project. I never looked at him directly, and if he asked a question, a light Irish accent lacing each word, I let another member of the group answer. It was pure torture.

  The music never stopped that year—not once. All day, day after day, it drummed inside my head until I thought I was going insane. I didn’t tell my parents about it, not at first. Instead, I buried the horribly agonizing secret the way a murderer buries his victim. Because how could I tell them without them thinking I was crazy?

  My only relief was sleep. I woke in the mornings to sweet silence, and I basked in it for as long as I could. But the very minute I stepped into the classroom, the tantalizing notes would resume their symphony.

  I could only beg my mother to let me stay home for so long before she began to grow suspicious. But it was my dad who came to the rescue.

  I was in the den practicing for my next music recital. I’d finally memorized Beethoven’s 5th which was a huge feat for a nine year old. It had impressed the socks off my piano teacher, but not my dad. He never doubted my natural talent, always reminding me that mine was greater than his own by leaps and bounds.

  I stopped playing and smiled up at him when he entered the room. Angelica sat next to me on the bench, and Dad scooped her up and took her place beside me. I moved over to give him room.

  “Sounding great, sweetie. You’re going to blow away the competition.”

  “Thanks, Daddy,” I beamed.

  He wrapped an arm around me, planting Angelica into my hands. I hugged her to my chest.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’ve seemed a little… distracted lately.” His slight Irish accent, barely perceptible, sounded like honey. “Are you having trouble in school?”

  I swallowed.

  “No.”

  “Okay. Are you having trouble with anyone at school?”

  I blinked. He nodded as if he already knew exactly what my problem was. And then... he just said it.

  “Do you hear things, Jude?” He strummed a couple of basic chords and looked at me. “Music, perhaps? Inside your head?”

  Surprised, I nodded.

  “How did you know, Daddy?”

  “Daddies know lots of things.” He smiled, hugging me closer. “You know, Angelica is your guardian angel.” He tipped his chin toward her. “As long as she’s with you, the music will leave you alone.”

  “It will?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “I’ve made sure of it.”

  “Okay.” I nodded furiously.

  My little girl's heart believed him, and he kept true to his word. Every day after that, I carried her hidden in the bottom of my backpack. Anytime the music invaded—anytime it became too much—I just had to touch her, and it disappeared like a forgotten snow. After that, I didn’t mind the music, not when Angelica could put a stop to it. Crazy thing… I learned how to control its intake somehow, to turn it down or tune it out completely. Some days, when I was feeling brave, I’d leave Angel
ica at home and let the music consume me for a little while. To a degree, it began to define me, to dictate my decisions, my thoughts, even my moods. It was like my very soul.

  If Rylin was aware of it, I couldn't tell.

  I wouldn’t say I understood any of it. But simply put, I had to resign myself to the fact that this boy made me hear music, and Angelica shut it off.

  And then, the summer before seventh grade—six months after my father died—the moving van loaded up Rylin’s family, and he was gone as quickly as he’d come.

  For four years, Rylin’s music had been a constant companion framing my days. I know this may sound weird, but I’d learned who Rylin was through it. I’d sensed a connection with him that defied the words we never spoke to each other. Somehow, I knew him. It explained the way he looked at me from time to time. It melted away my initial fear of him. It urged me to chance a weak smile every once in a while from across the room.

  When he left, the music went with him. It was just . . . gone. No more Angelica required.

  You'd think I would have been relieved, but oddly enough, I missed the music. The years passed, life changed drastically, and in time, I couldn’t remember one single note. Even meeting Rylin at the club didn’t jar it to life again. I heard nothing, and frankly, I never thought I'd hear the song again.

  Until I did.

  Six

  I dream of a boy. We’re dancing. His fingers brush the skin of my arm before his hand settles against the small of my back. I hear no music, but he leads me about the floor regardless. Other people sway together around us in the flashing of pale, blue light.

  I can hear the beat of his heart, and we move together, synchronized to its pounding. It’s all very intimate, our dancing. I cling to him even though he’s a stranger, but it doesn’t feel strange. And then it does. I’m torn between the two dissenting ideas.

  The boy is oblivious to the lack of music. He never changes pace. One step... two steps... three. We’re lost in our own private dance in the silence.

  “We should do this more often,” I whisper.

  I can’t believe I’m so bold, but it feels as if I could say anything to him. He tilts his head like a bird, quick and sharp, and looks me in the eye. I can’t make out his face.

  “We should.”

  The sound of his voice sends a tingling along the length of my spine. It sounds familiar—a combination of more than one voice. I shift my gaze toward the wall behind us. It has a huge, dark knothole right in the middle of the paneling. I squint, examining it. One blink, and somehow, I’m standing right in front of it. It transforms into a winged shadow.

  “What's going on?” I ask the shadow.

  I know it’s the boy. My question echoes back at me until my spirit seems to leave my body, and I float high above the scene, watching myself stare at the boy and his wings.

  Suddenly, we’re dancing in the silence again, only this time, he wraps those wings around us. We’re close, cheek to cheek. I’ve never been this close to anyone. I feel his jaw tighten into a smile when he reads the thought.

  “There’s something about you,” I tell him. “Something different.”

  “I know.”

  He says this inside my head, and I know I could answer him without saying a word, and he’d hear me. The intensity of the silence makes me nervous....

  I can only see his lips now. He smiles... and his face explodes into a thousand puzzle pieces.

  I hit the floor face first with a thud.

  “Ouch,” I mumble.

  I roll over with a grunt, taking a minute to get my bearings. The sun casts a beam of light through the lacy curtains, flooding the room with those tiny, little flecks of dust that like to float in the air. I watch them whirling around a minute longer before I lug myself back into my bed.

  The plastic bag of ice sitting on the mattress is mere water now. I scoop it up and toss it onto my nightstand. It wiggles a few seconds and stills. I check the agility of my finger. I can almost make a complete fist, and the two scrapes across my knuckles throb only a little.

  The clock reads six-thirty, so I snuggle down under the blankets. I begin to drift until that stupid dream tries to invade my brain, jerking me fully awake. With a sigh, I flip to my back and stare at the ceiling.

  I’ve come to learn something about myself over the years. When strange things happen in my life, they are inevitably followed by weird dreams. After my dad died, I dreamt that Angelica was a real girl for a whole week. I’m not kidding. She kept trying to get me to climb the old oak and jump out of it because she was convinced I could fly. I finally did, and just like this morning, I ended up eating the rug.

  After the odd mix of last night’s clubbing experience, I’m not at all surprised by the latest dream.

  I roll to my side and catch sight of Angelica slumping slightly to the left, her legs dangling over the edge of my bookshelf. Her crystal eyes fixate on me, and her smile—only for me—lures me to get out of bed and retrieve her.

  I haven’t touched her in so long. A year? She feels foreign in my hands, but I hug her to my chest, and all my memories of our times together pile in on me. I smile and kiss the top of her head as I climb into the window seat.

  A lawn mower roars to life. Mr. Tomlinson is getting an early start on his yardwork. He’s lucky I was already awake.

  From my window, I watch him for a few minutes as he rides around the yard, singing over the sound of the machine, and Rylin enters my thoughts. So many times, I sat right here and watched him play catch with his brother. And I had the audacity to accuse Kane of being a stalker? I squeeze Angelica a little tighter.

  I’d decided years ago that the odds of seeing Rylin again were nonexistent. Even this morning, it feels like a dream. He wasn’t really at the club. He was merely a whisper from my past. He might as well have been a dream back then too for all the words I ever said to him. On the nightstand, my phone buzzes as a notification comes in. I scoop it up and head for the stairs.

  The house is dead silent, and the breaths inside my head only magnify its emptiness. I find a plate with a half-eaten piece of toast and an empty juice glass on the kitchen table next to the Sunday paper.

  “Mom?”

  My voice only resonates back through the empty house. I know she isn’t here. I know every week, and I call out to her anyway. Habits are hard to break.

  I scrape and rinse Mom's breakfast dishes and gulp orange juice straight from the pitcher before I shove it back into the fridge. At the table, I sift through the boring sections of the paper and settle on the comics. Not a single one makes me laugh today.

  Mom won’t be back until late afternoon. Every Sunday, she leaves before the sun rises to light a candle for my father at the cathedral down the street. We aren’t even Catholic, but she does it anyway. She spends the rest of the day sitting on the stone bench across from his grave. She paid to have the maintenance crew at the cemetery install it for that very purpose. She sits there every week and cries herself to exhaustion. Up until my fifteenth birthday, I went with her. But after a couple of years, it somehow felt wrong, as if Dad was disappointed that we hadn’t picked up and moved on. That we weren’t respecting his memory by living. Clearly, she didn’t have the same revelation, but one day, I just quit going. Mom never seemed to notice.

  That’s when I realized that she’d never noticed that I was with her in the first place.

  The rest of the week, when she's not working at the hospital, you can find my mother at the bar, trying to forget her grief by drinking it away and dancing with every available man out there. And some that aren't available too, so I've been told. Sometimes, she doesn’t even come home, and I am completely ashamed. I'm guessing Dad is too.

  In dealing with her grief, she’s broken every friendship she ever had, especially those that remind her of Dad. And because of it, she’s never been able to heal. To move on. To live.

  Occasionally, a rare day drops in on us when I see the semblance of my mom inside all
the grief. On those days, we can talk like we used to, and she smiles a lot and talks about Dad. She asks me about school and boys—Kane in particular, which drives me insane. But I’m so grateful to have her back for one day that I oblige her in every way.

  My phone vibrates against the tabletop. I glance at the screen. It’s a text from Devan.

  HELLO? ARE YOU PLANNING TO IGNORE ME ALL DAY TOO?

  I punch the button that opens up our entire conversation. She’s sent me thirteen texts since last night:

  KANE SAID HE SAW YOU. I THOUGHT YOU LEFT.

  DO YOU WANT ME TO COME OVER? I WAS PLANNING TO STAY WITH JONAS, BUT HE’LL UNDERSTAND.

  JUDE, ANSWER ME.

  HE’S UPSET. WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HIM?

  OKAY, FINE. CALL ME IF YOU NEED ME.

  I scroll through the rest of the messages. Most of them reference not breaking Kane’s heart… or hint at the fact that perhaps I already did. I sigh and type my message:

  KANE AND I ARE FINE. THANKS FOR CHECKING. J

  She replies instantly: DOUBTFUL

  I stare at the letters. The word “doubtful” tries to scare me for a minute, but I shrug it off. Kane and I are fine. We are.

  That kiss leaks into my memory, but I shove it off. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  Stop it, Jude. It wasn’t a real kiss. It meant nothing.

  I work to embed this conclusion into the memory while I erase the five missed calls from Devan. She didn’t leave a single message, but Frankie did. I press play.

  “Juuuude? My house at one. I hope you didn’t party too hard. See you then.”

  “Right. The crate.” I sigh and close out my screen. My plans to loaf around on this lazy Sunday and not think too much destroyed with one voicemail.

  With a few hours to spare, I shower and sink into the overstuffed recliner in the den, hoping to dull my mind with a senseless movie. I concentrate on the television screen, but I can’t follow the story line, and every romantic scene sends last night tumbling into my thoughts again on replay. Even with all the other distractions, my thoughts come full circle to land on Kane. Holding me. On the dance floor. His lips inches from mine. His fingers warm on my hips. It feels so fresh, as if all my senses are attuned to all of his, even in memory.