by Martha Woods
Sara grabbed a piece of dry French toast and stomped up to the guest room. The second she got inside, she tried to summon the blue fire. She tensed her whole body. Her head shook, and her lips trembled, but there was no fire, no voices.
Her grandmother's house was no better than the hospital. In some ways, it was worse. She should've died. Now she would be forced back into the real world where she would have to accept that her mother was gone.
This was her worst fear come to life. She had lost her home and her family--her support base and now she was going to have to keep on living. It was possible to move on, but she didn’t want to do it. It went against every single fibre of her being. Her mother should be there with her, plain and straightforward. She should’ve been allowed to die. Why couldn’t she die?
There was a soft knock on the door. Sara whipped around and opened the door. “I’m sorry I--I don’t know what to think.”
“I’m telling you the truth, Sara. I don’t know what you saw, or what you think happened, but I’m not going to lie to you and play into some silly delusion.” Something in the way her bright green eyes met made Sara almost want to believe her, but she knew her grandmother was lying. “Come on.” Margaret took Sara’s hand and led her down the stairs and into the kitchen where the table had been cleared, and a vase of roses had been set in the center. They both sat down across from one another, still holding hands. “How do you feel, Sara?”
“Like I lost an arm.”
Margaret nodded understandingly.
“Do you know anything about my mother’s death?”
“No, just that she was attacked.”
“I don't know.”
“You must know something.”
“I know what you have to do,” her grandmother said. “You have to heal. I’ve found that the best medicine for grief is a healthy dose of real life. You can’t just sit around here doing nothing. What do you think about going to school?”
“No.” She responded immediately.
“It starts in an hour.”
“No.”
“You’re going.”
“Grandma…” Her head fell back. “Seriously.”
“I’m not letting you wallow in pity. I’m doing what I know is best. You need a distraction to cut all of that noise out of your head. Everyone thinks the same thing, you know. They tell themselves it’s their fault, that they can’t live without the person that died. It’s all bullshit. We all die, and we all have to get over it. The sooner you do, the easier life will be.”
“It’s not your place to say a thing about how I’m coping with this.”
“Say what you want, but I know you're taking on the burden of your mother's death. You're blaming yourself, and it's only going to end up driving you crazy. Stop. Get ready. It’s your senior year. You’re nearly through it. You don’t want to mess that up.”
Sara’s fingernails still had blood stains underneath the surface, and her hair was wild. “I look terrible.”
“Then wash up and take your time. It’s not like they’re going to get on your case if you’re late.”
“Alright.” Sara got up and walked upstairs. To her surprise, her clothes were already hung up in the closet, and she had her backpack sitting on a desk next to where her grandmother set her laptop. All she had to do was find the right outfit, and she was done.
Chapter 7
To most people, the first day of school is all about fitting in but Sara was not most people. She hated everything under 18 and for a good reason. Sara saw the rest of her peers as animals led around by their carnal urges and raging hormones. She considered herself to be a higher life form and she was. She was smarter than them, led by her brain rather than her groin, and she was better than them, ruled by a higher moral code, and she didn’t care about any of the petty things they obsessed over.
She had a natural aversion to anything with a penis. She wore the blandest things she could find, a pair of plain blue jeans, the cheap kind you get at Wal-Mart and a plain black shirt with a ringed collar. She topped the outfit off with clunky black boots and met her shocked grandmother downstairs.
“No. You’re not a lesbian. Get back up there.”
“I’m not dressing nicely. I don’t want any of these people talking to me.”
“But it completely defeats the purpose of you going.”
“I thought that was to learn.”
She beamed down at the girl. “You’re smarter than most of the faculty, and we both know it. You don’t even have to study. Now,” she pointed up the stairs. “I want to see something that barely covers your crotch. Get the black and purple skirt. At least that’ll go with your shirt.”
“No. I’ll go to school, but I’m choosing my outfit.”
“Alright.” She turned around and led Sara out the door.
Cape March was a small town off the coast of northern Maine, where God decided the sun would never shine. The sky was always entirely white unless a storm was rolling in. Then a theatrical array of blacks and grays would line up to create a tempest so powerful that residents often joked that the wind would blow them away.
The Bishop house sat amid a cluster of hills, which gave way to sharp rocks leading into the ocean. She watched as her grandmother’s compact sedan raced down the road and westward through the thick forest that lined most of the beach.
“How big is Cape March?”
“About fifty thousand people, so large enough that you won’t find much inbreeding but you might find crystal meth.”
“Grandma!”
“What?” She looked away from the road at what seemed to be the worst time. They were about to hit a sharp curve when her grandmother hit the gas just enough to ease around it. Sara had to hold onto the handle above the door just to ease her tension.
“The schools here are a year behind your old one.”
“Really?”
“Which means you’re to focus on socializing. I want you good and drunk the first week.”
“Grandma, you’re not supposed to say those things.”
“I keep the key to the liquor cabinet on a hook near the stove.”
“Grandma!”
“Oh, come on. You just lost your mother. Have a little fun, will ya?”
“No.” The forest thinned and opened up to a small cluster of hills where houses and businesses had been built as well as small side roads that passed by them. Sara couldn’t believe just how little Cape March really was and she certainly couldn’t believe it when they pulled up to a one-story building the size of an elementary school.
“This?” She turned to her grandmother.
“I know it doesn’t look like much, but there are boys and booze in there. What more could you want?”
“Do you want me to get knocked up? Is that it?”
“Yes, and you have to keep the baby if you do. They have a got good deals in the trailer park just up the street, and the gas station next door to it takes food stamps.” They both burst out laughing. It was refreshing, sharing that moment together until Margaret glanced over at her granddaughter and Sara realized what was going on. They had fun and Sara wasn’t allowed to have a good time while her mother was gone. “It’s that guilt. It’ll eat you alive, and you’ll let it.”
“We’re not talking about emotions--ever.”
Margaret left Sara sitting in a gum-splattered church pew outside the office while the savages rushed past, glaring blatantly while they tried to reach her classes. She was surprised to find just how much she fit in. Cape March was a rural town with two major stores: A Wal-Mart and a grocery store. There weren’t very many clothing choices. Many of the people that passed her by were wearing the exact same simple t-shirts and jeans. Some of the girls had managed to get cheap online knock offs, but for the most part, everything they wore came from Wal-Mart.
Margaret emerged from the office with a large blond dressed in a bright pink skirt suit. “Hello,” she rushed up, smiling exaggeratedly like she was talking to a child. �
��You must be Sara.”
Sara stifled an overwhelming urge to punch the woman.
“Well, we’ve got it from here, don’t we?” She turned towards Margaret who was wearing a sadistic smile.
“I’m sure you do. Don’t forget our talk in the car, Sara, OK?” Her tone was serious.
“I'm not going to do any of that.” She groaned. Her grandmother left Sara and the woman alone.
“I’m Barbie.” Sara stifled a giggle. “I’m the school guidance counselor here. I try to help new students along and get them acquainted.”
“Alright.” Sara got to her feet. “What’s next?”
“Textbooks.” Her shoes clopped against the tile while she led Sara towards a closet where she pulled out at least fifty pounds’ worth of useless books. Then they marched down the halls while Barbie gave her the tour. The school was a joke. The people were a joke. Everything was downsized.
By the time they stopped in front of her first-period geometry class, Sara had decided that the place was a sham and that none of the students graduating there would have anything close to a future. She wasn’t going to talk to a single person there.
“I’ll just go ahead and introduce you.” The second Barbie touched the door handle, Sara jumped.
“No. I don’t really feel comfortable with that.”
“Oh, nonsense. You got to get out of your shell a little bit.” She poked Sara’s shoulder playfully, testing the girl to her limit.
“Don’t do it,” she urged her.
Barbie sighed. “We introduce all of our new students. It fosters a healthy social life which will allow you to develop the social skills necessary to succeed in the future.” She was reciting something she read in a book, Sara was sure of it.
Sara stopped dead in her tracks. She wasn’t moving an inch. Barbie opened the door and walked inside, letting out a high pitched squeak that sounded like something between a sneeze and her trying to make her throat. It forced the teacher to stop class and pay attention. “Hello, all.” She took center stage. “We have a new student coming to class with us today.” There was stifled laughter. “Her name is Sara Bishop, and she’s come all the way from Washington State.” She looked to Sara. “Come on, Sara. They won’t bite.”
She was going to rip the woman’s head off. Maybe she could act out, punch the woman or faint to get out of class. Sara thought about it. She wasn’t sure which would be better: a day in the principal’s office or a day with the savages? It was difficult. The last thing she wanted to do was be the target of adolescent mockery, but the principal’s sole purpose was to make life difficult for students.
Sara decided that the best thing would be to swallow her pride and walk inside with her head held low in hopes that nobody recognized her face.
Chapter 8
There were sneers and giggles. Then there was the cat call. That guy, a hormonal blond with hair swept to the side was going on Sara’s hit list. He even watched her boobs bounce while she stumbled through the obstacle course of backpacks to get to the back of the room where she laid her head down on her desk and tried to drown out everything around her. They were a year behind, just like her grandmother said. From what Sara could tell the students didn’t seem to know anything about what the teacher was talking about, most were trying to decide how they were going to haze the fresh fish.
Sara was having none of it. When the bell rang, and a boy with black hair came up to her with a cocky smile, she walked right past him like he didn’t exist and ignored the flock of queen bees that tried to call out to her near the door. They would get the hint eventually, but Sara was going to have to dodge a couple blows first.
She was furious with her grandmother for throwing her into this place right after her mother died. She might have been right about Sara needing the distraction but not this--anything but this. This was worse than her withdrawals.
It became apparent that something was going on when she started trying to find her locker. She might’ve been the worst dressed girl in the entire school, but every boy in the place was staring at her like she was a supermodel. She should have chopped off half her hair and smeared lipstick all over her face, but something told her that that wouldn’t have worked either.
By the time she found her locker and had her head firmly hidden behind the door, she started to realize what it was. The school had less than 500 students. All of these kids grew up together. Most of them had probably already screwed one another. They wanted to add something new to the gene pool and as much as she tried she couldn’t hide her natural beauty.
Sara slammed the locker door, only to find the cocky blond from class leaning against the locker beside hers. She looked to both sides to see if anyone was coming. Then she grabbed him by the neck and slammed him into the locker. “I don’t want you or any of your piece of shit friends trying to talk to me. Now fuck off!”
“Hey, I--
She kneed him in the groin and turned around to find her next class.
They’d get the hint.
She was being forced to take electives, even though her extracurricular activities in Washington more than made up for the credits. Usually she would be allowed to choose what it was she wanted to take, but she was arriving at the end of the school year, so they had to find a slot and fit her in.
That meant she was going to be taking oil painting for the next two months. When she walked into class the teacher, a frazzled ginger woman ran up. “Are you Sara?”
“I prefer to be called Countess Bathory after the serial killer .” The stranger she sounded the fewer people would bother her.
The woman laughed. “There’s no way. Grab an easel. Just fake it. I’ll pass you. If you want them, there're some paints in the back.”
“Thank you.” Sara had never heard a teacher say anything like that in her entire life, but you don’t need to know how to paint to work at Wal-Mart, so none of the students were going to need this class.
That point was not lost on the blond girl sitting to her right. Her canvas was blank, and she was using it to block the teacher from seeing her use her smartphone. The teacher didn’t seem to care. She was doing the exact same thing.
Sara hated painting. She’d imagine a beautiful landscape and end up drawing an irregular nonsensical shape. She just didn’t have the talent for art, but she was doing her best to be a nonconformist.
Sara painted the canvas black then started with a baby blue dot in the center. Then she expanded it outwards until she had a shape like a tear drop. Then she changed to a darker color and gave it arms, fiery tendrils flying out all ends. The teardrops became the zenith of the flame.
“I like it.” Sara whipped around, ready to throw paint thinner in the girl’s face but she seemed harmless, a simple nerd with a thick red bush of hair and black rimmed glasses.
Sara turned back around and added a small tinge of yellow in the center, representing the soul of the fire.
“What is it?”
“Blue fire.”
“Do you paint much?”
“No.” Sara turned back around to her painting and tried to decide if it needed anything else. The flames didn’t pop so she decided to add some more white into them.
“I’ve been doing it a while myself. It’s kind of my thing.” She walked back to her easel. “I’ve been working on this one for most of the semester.”
It was a beach scene, perfectly modeled after the beach near her house with intricate designs on the waves, mirroring real life reflections.
“That’s superb.”
“Thank you,” she blushed. “I’m Andrea.” She held out her hand which meant that Sara would have to shake it.
Sara gave her a quick smile and turned back to her painting.
“You’re Sara right. I mean--of course, everyone knows who you are.”
“It’s been less than an hour. How could everyone possibly know about me?”
“We have cell phones.” Andrea and Sara both started laughing.
“Yo
u know, I told that creature Barbie not to introduce me and she gave me this ridiculous spiel about how introducing me to the entire school will help me learn the social skills I’ll need to succeed for the rest of my life.”
“As if hobnobbing with future Wal-Mart employees was a major life event.”
“You read my mind.” Sara didn't mind her. She was cynical and goofy to be relatable.
“Have you ever been to the cliffs?” Andrea asked. “There's some nice quiet places to sit out and watch the water.”
“I live near the cliffs. You can see the drop-off from my window so every time I look out, I can see the water past it.”
“Well I was going to go there after school,” Andrea said. “I was wondering if you'd like to tag along.
A quiet walk near the side of a cliff. Ironic that Sara had just tried to kill herself less than 24 hours ago. “Alright. Let's go.”
Chapter 9
When Sara came home, she slammed the door so hard the house shook. If she was going to lie to she was going to make her discontent known. Margaret, rather than rushing into the living room, stood leaning against the wall by the stove where she was roasting something in the oven.
“Don't think I'll put up with that crap.” She chased after Sara who was making a quick dash to her room. Margaret cut her off at the stairs. “I said, I won't put up with that crap.”
“You think I'm going to let you lie to me without hearing a word about it? You're wrong.” She tried to push past Margaret, but she cut off Sara's path.
“I will be respected in my own home.” She met her granddaughter's eyes with a threatening tone.
“You wretched old hag.” Sara advanced on her. “I was beaten and violated. I killed two men. If you know what happened, you have to tell me.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” Sara advanced on her grandma again causing her to retreat backward.
“Yes. You do.” Sara reaffirmed.
“No. Sara you were delu—
“Delusional!” Sara bared her teeth. “Grandma, are you going to let me live the rest of my life not knowing what that was?”