by Holly Hook
The two of us talked about what the guy could have been on the twenty-minute drive back to town, and why he could have chased me, and only me. We settled on some kind of Mage who used a spell to set himself on fire and get out of trouble. There were different types, but my parents warned me to avoid them all. Magic was dangerous, and I wanted no part. Halfway home, I concluded he might have been a Dark Mage, said to be the worst kind. "That looked like a sacrificial dagger," I said. "Dad says they all have bad tempers. My scratching him across the face set him off."
"You shouldn't have done that," Tasha said.
"I know, but I never felt that angry in my life. Not only was he violating my personal space, he was--"
"But you drew blood!"
She was making me uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to do that," I said. "It was an emergency. Adrenaline took over. Mom says growing long fingernails is great for self defense. Now I know why."
Tasha was glancing at me like I was some kind of freak. She wasn't grimacing, but there was a fear in the way she kept flicking her gaze at me.
I held up my nails, which was a stupid thing to do now that I think about it. "Our lone security guard wouldn't waddle all the way over in time to prevent my death."
"Maybe they'll kick out that sea salt booth," Tasha said, eyeing the road.
I struggled to put a neutral expression on my face. My stomach turned over as I realized that the local news would jump all over the story about the mall in no time. There was no hiding that part from Mom and Dad.
Right after that thought completed itself, my phone buzzed with a text.
45 minutes left, sweetie. See you at home.
Since Mom and Dad used the same phone sometimes, I could never tell which texts came from who. But they were the couple that used the same profile on Facebook, posted about their date nights all the time, and tried to make everyone jealous with how in love they were. I'd gotten used to it over the years. One Facebook profile only meant I only had to dodge one account. I knew the real reason they got on social media and it was to keep an eye on me. The dating stuff was a front. At home, they were all business with each other, managing the farm. If I didn't know better, I wouldn't guess they were married.
I texted back, OK. Left mall and got a bite to eat. Heading home. It was best to make my story consistent. They'd want to know where we ate and what I had eaten. Mom pushed a vegetarian diet while at home and didn't approve of factory farming. Except for eggs. The chickens laid us awesome ones, and I thanked them every day for the protein.
Then I thought better of waiting and texted, I had a salad at McDonald's.
Tucking my phone into my jeans pocket, I gathered my purse and watched as Tasha pulled into the long drive of our olive farm. Trees rose on either side of us. Dad had installed irrigation machines between the rows of trees to keep them alive and producing fruit during this two-year drought. It was expensive, and he hadn't had a choice but to raise the price of the crops. But at least the health food industry still pushed olive oil, or we would have gone broke a year ago.
Both Mom and Dad were in the house this late. They'd already eaten dinner—an all-cheese pizza—by the time I got through the door and listened to Tasha pulling away from the house. I held back a sigh of relief. She wasn't as good at hiding things as I was and I was glad she wasn't coming in. Maybe I was still in shock from the incident and the rest of the emotions wouldn't hit until later.
An urge to go to my room and close the door swept over me, but then I might as well put up a big sign that said someone tried to kill me, and you were right about the dangers of me going out.
Mom smiled at me and brushed her black hair away from her face. "So, how was the mall?"
"Great. I watched Tasha fantasize about clothes. Then we ate afterwards. I kind of dragged her out of there since I was getting hungry. You know how she is."
"Well, the girl is poor. It's best if you humor her," Mom said.
"I'll buy her that pair of jeans she's been eyeing since last month," I said. "You know, for her birthday. And I should have waited to eat. That pizza smells delicious." At least Mom's dietary rules didn't extend to dairy. I'd die.
"Well, you can heat it tomorrow. You saw nothing strange while out, did you?"
"No," I lied.
"And you didn't separate from Tasha?" Mom's expression hardened.
"We even used the same stall when we went to the bathroom," I blurted.
That was a lie, but Mom stood there in the kitchen doorway and shook her head. Maybe Tasha had infected me with some rebelliousness, or maybe the confrontation made my parents seem a lot less terrifying. I felt as if I'd crossed a threshold after scratching him across the face.
"Felicia!" she said. "You know it's important to--"
"Stay with someone at all times, because I'm only seventeen and have one year before becoming a legal adult," I filled in. "I'm lying. We held hands. Why are you getting harder on me instead of easier, Mom?" Even two years ago, Mom and Dad didn't insist I stay with someone at all times. The curfews were still a thing, yes, but the texts weren't as constant. I knew why they were tightening the reins. They wanted my help on the farm for years to come. From what I understood, they'd gone through a lot to adopt me and couldn't afford to adopt another kid.
"The world is getting more dangerous," Mom said. "There was that city way up north where that demon mayor opened a portal to his home world and tried to get it to bleed into ours. Then there was that vampire attack on that army base--"
"That was in civilization," I said. "We don't live there. Olivia has none of those weird Abnormals. We don't even have any crime. Well, unless, you count the graffiti on the side of the school where someone who wasn't very imaginative just wrote a bunch of profanity--"
"You'd never know," Mom said. "Until you turn eighteen, you need to follow our rules. And that is to go nowhere by yourself."
"Um, I told you. I held hands with Tasha the entire time like the perfect child."
"Go to your room." Mom glanced at the wall as if she didn't want to face me or get caught staring.
"Fine." I brushed past her, glad for the escape.
"And don't forget to be up by seven tomorrow," she said. "Some of those trees are drooping with olives. We have to collect them before they go bad, or we lose the crops. Your father needs your help."
Seven. On a Saturday. Ah, the joys of farm life.
I hated olives, Italian food, and everything else that kept me chained here. College couldn't arrive soon enough. Then, if I got a dorm, Mom and Dad couldn't make me hang around. They'd have no excuse. I'd hop into Tasha's car, get out of here, and never look back. A normal life was only one more year away.
Chapter Three
Since I spent all of Saturday picking olives (seriously, why didn't my parents hire outside, temporary help from the high school?) I couldn't watch the news to see anything about the crazy guy in the mall. Well, neither could my parents. It was only when Tasha pulled the Zombie into the drive and parked several rows away from me did I know that she'd found something out.
I couldn't go to her right away. Dad insisted that I finish plucking the olives from my current tree before I took a break. He wiped sweat from his forehead to convince me to stay and help. Already, the sun was getting low in the sky.
"I think she wants to ask me something," I said. All day, I'd been trying not to dwell on the mall.
"It can wait," Dad said. "Finish this tree, and then you can head over. But we expect you back here right after. There's no time to go out today."
I stared at the fruits hanging from my assignment. Great. Then I got to plucking as fast as I could, throwing the olives into the basket hanging off the side of my ladder. At least heights never bothered me and I didn't sweat the way Mom and Dad did. Maybe it was a genetic thing since we weren't related by blood.
At least it gave me time to plan a story in my mind. They'd ask me the details of our conversation I had with Tasha. Yes, my parents monitored those, too. There
was a reason I didn't text with Tasha or anyone else very much. Without asking, I knew Mom and Dad peeked at my phone when I wasn't looking. Whenever I left it out on the coffee table, it would be in a different position when I got back from the bathroom, guaranteed.
But when I got done and could break away, Tasha was standing outside her car.
She said one thing in a tone I didn't like. "That crazy guy was human. The autopsy found nothing strange other than the dagger he had."
"That's weird," I said, mind going back to the smoke that leaked from him. "He still could have been a Mage, though. Tests don't show when someone has magic."
"It's possible," Tasha said.
"Or he was Normal, and someone cursed him to burn if he didn't make a sacrifice," I said. I hated saying it because it made Mom right about the world's danger level. That meant a Mage might be around—and not the nature-loving, harmless kind.
"That's possible, too," Tasha said. She adjusted the frills of her shirt—the same one she'd worn yesterday. It smelled of soap from her washing it last night.
If there was one area I excelled, it was telling stories and coming up with explanations.
"We'll go with that," I said. "It's over and it's done." I shuddered as I thought of the guy burning from the inside out. Our mall guard would have to go to therapy. Poor guy. "Chances are, we'll never deal with anything strange again. And I'll never get to go to the mall again."
* * * * *
"Felicia, you're not going to the mall anymore. There was an attack there."
Blinking sleep out of my eyes, I met my parents in the kitchen Monday morning as Dad whipped up pancakes and veggie bacon. He flipped one over where it sizzled and bubbled. He'd turned the heat too high.
"You'll burn that," I said. "There was an attack at the mall?"
"Yes," Mom said, getting down plates.
"And I can't go there anymore, period?" My voice rose.
"Not until you're out from under our roof," Dad said. "It's too dangerous for you."
"So you're not going, either?" I asked. "If people are getting attacked, it might be a good idea not to--"
"You are still a child," Mom said. "And you're not going to the mall so long as you live here. Tell Tasha when you get to school today. A man tried to stab someone with a stage prop. I never liked those kiosks. He was a worker at one."
"Neither have I," I said. "They're pushy. Tasha and I avoid them like the plague." I struggled not to let my rage slip. My body was heating again as if someone had lit a fire inside. What was wrong with me?
Mom and Dad expected my world to be school and the farm. That was what. If they had it their way, it would be like this for the rest of my life.
Today, after school, I'd look for a job that would pay me more than a small allowance. I'd save and get a secret car. Tasha would let me park one outside her place. After graduation, I would leave Olivia forever. Maybe the two of us would drive to a new life. My future wasn't olives or working under the table, dependent on my parents. I wasn't sure what my destiny would be yet, but it wasn't being under someone else's thumb. My only regret was not getting an outside job sooner. My parents would hate it, so I'd have to mask it with an after-school activity or two. Difficult, but at least they approved of school.
Or maybe they'd find more reasons to need me around the farm.
"I know you've been going there a lot with Tasha," Mom said. "The two of you will need to find another activity."
"We can throw stones in the river if it ever rains again," I said. "Or maybe we can spray F-bombs on the side of the school. That's about all there is to do."
"You're getting an attitude," Dad said, glaring at me. "Do you want to be grounded?"
"What are you going to ground me from?"
Dad screwed up his face, thinking as I balled my fists.
His veggie bacon pan burst into flames. Fire rose towards the cabinets above and licked them, curling around the wood.
He swore and backed away, reaching for the sink and turning it on. Mom fished a bowl out of the cabinet and stuck it under the flowing water.
I realized what they were about to do in their panic. "Don't throw water on a grease f--"
Too late.
Mom had already passed the bowl to Dad. And then he did the worst.
The kitchen heated as a ball of flames rose from the pan. Fire raced along the ceiling and vanished, leaving a taller inferno on the surface of the stove. New flames danced on the surface of the nearby counter from the splattered grease as Dad backed away and held his hands over his face. I waited for him to yell at me to get out.
It was clear my parents had no idea what to do. I grabbed the cookie sheet from the cabinet and shoved it over the bacon pain. Most of the flames stopped, but the pancake was catching around the burned edges and the fire on the counter raced to the dish towel and our ceramic plates, growing higher. I waited for Mom or Dad to pull me away and try to regain control, but they watched as I took charge of the disaster.
The fire on the stove ran out of grease and burned out, leaving the cabinets above untouched. The towel smoked and went up. There was nothing else I could use to smother it.
Without thinking, I slapped my palm down on the flames. Heat registered, but no pain, and half of the fire went out. Then I slapped my palm down on the rest, watching as they went out, too.
I stood there and let out a breath as the flames forming around the pancake also died. The cookie sheet remained on the other pan. Then a thought hit me that I should turn off the heat, or the flames would return as soon as we removed the cover. I did.
And a second after that, I lifted my palm and turned it over, dreading what I'd see.
My skin was greasy but intact. There was no sign of blistering or even anything that resembled a sunburn.
It should have hurt to put my palm over burning grease. Some of it coated my hand and reeked of burnt veggie bacon. It was an awful smell. Or maybe it was just shock and the pain would follow once I got to school, making an already awful day even worse.
"It's out," I said. "I put the fire out." Why didn't I feel panic like my parents? Every time I blinked, the fireball spreading over the kitchen ceiling returned. At least it hadn't heated enough to set it on fire. "Please don't pour water on burning grease again."
Mom and Dad stared at me, catching their breath. "Thanks, Felicia," Dad said. "You prevented a costly problem."
"A costly problem," I said. They were making me angrier by the second. "Like burning myself? Yeah, hospital bills can get up there." I forced a smile, but I wanted to get the heck out of the house. Something wasn't right.
"You're okay, aren't you?" Dad asked. "I don't see any burns on you."
Or maybe he missed me putting out the last of the fire with my bare hands. Maybe he thought I'd put a towel over it or something. I'd roll with that. Maybe I had put the towel over the flames instead of my hands and my brain didn't record the memory right. Didn't Mr. Carlinki in Psychology say we couldn't trust our memories about traumatic things? It was a disturbing idea, but it was my life raft. I grasped onto it and pulled myself out of the raging ocean.
"Yes," I said, holding up my palms. "I'm okay." I needed to get to school and tell Tasha that I could no longer go to the mall because I couldn't handle myself.
* * * * *
By the time I got off the bus in front of Olivia High School, a building with only four hundred total students, I'd convinced myself that I had a faulty memory like everyone else and imagined the weird happenings of Friday and this morning. I also hoped that Mom and Dad would rethink me still being a child. A child who had handled a grease fire without their input.
Tasha was getting her huge Lit book out of her locker when I caught up with her. "Hey," I said. "My prediction came true. Can you guess what it is?"
She frowned at me. "We're not going to the mall together anymore, are we?"
"Lucky guess," I said. "I'll sneak around even more than I used to." Did I even want to go back there with
the memory of the attack? I wasn't sure yet.
"Girl, you're making it harder for me to save you," Tasha said. "How am I going to convince you to drop the jogger look when it will be ninety percent harder to take you to anything other than the dollar store?"
I found that I missed Tasha's constant nitpicking while shopping. While I wasn't much of a shopper—tank tops and jeans worked for me—Tasha pretended to be one, so we made an odd pair. The mall over in Arlandia was my only escape from Olivia and small town boredom. "I'll get a job," I said. "This afternoon, I look."
"But your parents--"
"They want me to pick olives," I said. "Forever. If I'm going get out of here, I have to start now. I've got to save and get a car. I know you have one, but even the Zombie won't get us across the country. And even if it could, there's the problem of tuition. I can't go to college broke."
"That's hard," Tasha said as we walked to Lit class. Ah, there was nothing like literature at eight in the morning. Blah. "And you're right. The Zombie would never make it across the whole country in one go. And yes, you'd be broke. You'd end up with a mountain of debt and someone would have to co-sign on your loan. Like your parents."
"You don't think I will get out of here, do you? Thanks for your vote of confidence."
Tasha frowned at me. "Be realistic."
An upset feeling in my stomach grew as the two of us navigated the cramped hallways of our small high school. We passed the cafeteria and made our way to the four Lit classrooms, one for each grade. I mulled over Tasha's words. She was right. No one would give me a loan if my parents wouldn't co-sign, and what were the chances of that? They loved me but they refused to let me grow up. College had lots of guys. Drinking parties. Spiked drinks, as if I didn't know to avoid leaving my cup unattended at any get-together. Mom had drilled that into my head more than once.
There was a new guy in Mrs. Cornea's classroom.