Ember

by Jessica Sorensen

  “Hop in.” He nods at the passenger seat. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  I adjust the handle of my bag. “Who said I need a ride?”

  “I noticed your friend leaving this morning without you.” He slides his sunglasses down the brim of his nose and gives me a look that makes me feel naked. “And then you walked out of your house, looking as if you were making the hardest decision of your life. So I’m guessing you don’t have a car, and you’re debating between walking and riding the bus.”

  “I was going to walk.” I adjust the handle of my bag. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

  He shakes his head and laughs. “Hop in, Ember. I don’t mind giving you a ride. Trust me.”

  I glance at the corner of the street where a line of people wait for the bus. “Fine. Thanks.” I walk around the front and hop into the passenger seat. The inside of the car smells like vanilla mixed with a hint of earthy cologne. Cameron waits for me to buckle my seatbelt, then pushes up his sunglasses, and drives down the road. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hand rests on the shifter and his fingers tap to the music murmuring through the stereo. The compulsion to reach over and entwine my fingers with his nearly devours me.

  “So are you always this quiet?” he asks after minutes of silence drones by.

  I turn my head away from the window. “I just don’t see the point of talking unless there’s something to say.”

  He widens his eyes. “Okay, sorry for asking.”

  I fidget with my leather bracelet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out so bitchy. I’m just having a rough morning.”

  He nods and proceeds with caution. “But I’m pretty sure you and I do have something to say, so the question is do you want to say it or should I.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to put it out there,” I say, shocked. “But okay.”

  “The first thing you should know about me is that I hate secrets. They are pointless and request too much energy from an individual, unless the revelation of the secret brings pain to someone.” His lips move like they are a poet’s pen on a sheet of paper.

  “Okay, so why were you digging up a grave in the cemetery the other night?” I lay it all on the table.

  His grin enhances with amusement. “To see if they really do put dead bodies in coffins.”

  I’m unsure how to respond. “I’m pretty sure they do.”

  “See, that’s why I think you and I can get along,” he remarks cleverly. “Most people would have jumped out of the car with that response.”

  I tuck my bangs out of my eyes. “Most people wouldn’t have gotten in the car in the first place.”

  “Excellent point.” He flips on the blinker and turns onto the school road. “I was doing my parents’ dirty work. My grandfather—or Old Man Carey as your weird friend calls him—owned a jewel that had a lot of sentimental value to my family. It’s been passed down from generation to generation. But no one can find where my grandfather put it, so they sent me to check in his coffin, just in case he requested to be buried with it and never told anyone except his friend who handled my grandfather’s funeral arrangements.”

  For some reason, his story reminds me of a 1980s Tom Hanks movie I watched once—The Burbs. “Did you find it?”

  “Again, you’re not fazed.” He grins, pleased and entertained. “No, I didn’t find it.”

  “Did you think to ask your grandfather’s friend, before you went rummaging around in his coffin?” I question. “It might have been an easier place to start.”

  “Hmm…” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I never thought of that.” He laughs and smiles. “Of course I did, but it turns out my grandfather’s friend has already passed away himself, only days after the funeral ended.”

  “That’s weird.” I’m torn whether I believe him. “So who was that man doing the actual digging?”

  His smile falters and his face reddens with anger. “You saw him?”

  I nod slowly. “Yeah…”

  His anger alarms me. “He’s my uncle.”

  “You don’t like him?” I ask.

  He fiddles with the keychain and sadness hues eyes. “He’s… tolerable.” He turns into the crowded school parking lot and everyone stares. The town is lowly populated and a new vehicle is big news. I can almost see the invisible stream of gossip move from car to car. “Wow, it’s like being a movie star,” he comments as he parks in an empty spot.

  A smile lurks at my lips. “Oh, it’s going to get a lot worse for you. Trust me. The new guy in school—it will be the headline of the newspaper. Well, maybe it won’t be quite that big. I think there might be someone else starting today too.”

  He takes the keys out of the ignition. “Do you know who it is?”

  “Yeah, I met him at a party Saturday night.” I unbuckle the seatbelt. “His name’s Asher Morgan.”

  A dark shadow possesses his expression. “And you’ve already met him?”

  “Yeah…” My eyebrows scrunch. “At the party, like I said.”

  He stares at the dashboard, jingling the keys with anxious energy. Then he opens the door and climbs out of the car. I hop out and meet him around the back.

  “You said you don’t keep secrets,” I say as we head for the front doors of the school. “But it kind of seems like you are.”

  “No, I said secrets were pointless unless they hurt someone.” He picks up the pace and waves over his shoulder. “See you around, Ember.”

  The whole female student body watches him swagger up the sidewalk with hungry eyes. I roll my own and shift directions for the side entrance. By afternoon, he’ll probably be dating Mackenzie Baker and be swooned over by the entire cheerleading squad.

  The side exit is the mellow area of the school. It enters through the art hallway, unlike the front entrance, which goes directly to the quad and is always abundant with people. I dig through my bag and pull out my cell phone and text Raven.

  Me: U at skool yet?

  I wander down the hall lined with fake spider webs and orange and black confetti, with my head tucked down, waiting for an answer.

  Me: Hey, r u ok?

  Again, no response. I put my phone back in my bag and decide to check in Mr. Morgan’s art room. Sometimes Raven goes there before and after school to work on projects, mainly so she can use the school’s supplies.

  I poke my head inside, but the only person there is a guy painting in the far corner. I begin to back out.

  “Ember,” the guy calls out.

  “Asher?” I step into the classroom. “What are you doing in here?”

  He stifles a smile and raises the paintbrush in his hand. “Painting.”

  “But isn’t this your first day?”

  “Mr. Morgan is my dad’s brother.”

  “So you have connections?”

  His smile illuminates his slate eyes. “I guess you could say that.”

  I grow flustered with the impulse to walk across the room, run my hands up his lean arms, and tangle my fingers through his hair.

  “Well, I’ll see you around.” I wave and step back to depart the room.

  “Aren’t you curious if I’m any good?” He sets the paintbrush down and motions me over.

  I set my bag on a table and weave through the desks. His eyes never leave me. By the time I reach him, my skin is scorching. He has a black hoodie pulled over his At the Drive-In T-shirt. His faded jeans are stained with little droplets of black paint, the same look Ian often sports. He brushes his black hair out of his eyes and I notice a small scar along his brow line, right beneath his eyebrow piercing.

  He gestures at the canvas. “So what do you think?”

  It’s the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen. Flawless strokes of black paint brush the shape of a male angel. His head is tucked down and his dark hair blows in the wind. His feet are traced with a black circle, like he’s bound to the lonely spot. He’s crying and the agony and torment
in his expression is so real, I want to reach out and comfort him.

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathe. “I can feel his pain and anguish. It’s like it’s killing him, being trapped to that single spot.”

  “You understand it like a true artist,” he observes, with a trace of ache in his eyes. “Do you paint?”

  I shake my head, fixated with the painting. “No, my brother does. And Raven. I’m more of an artist with words.”

  “So you’re a writer,” he says.

  I turn to face him. He’s standing closer than I thought. Out of habit, I step back, and the heel of my boot collides with the easel. “I want to be one someday.”

  He sweeps a strand of my hair back and tucks it behind my ear, a reminder that I don’t have to fear his touch; that his contact only brings solace, not sorrow.

  “Do you know some believe that the eyes are the window to the soul?” he asks softly.

  I arch my eyebrows. “You know that’s a pick-up line, right?”

  His intense expression is breathtaking as he cups my cheek and grazes his thumb along my cheekbone. The feel of his skin against mine brings a comfort I’ve never experienced before.

  “It is now, but a long time ago people used to believe that a person’s eyes gave insight to one’s soul. It showed what they were really feeling and their vulnerability.” He slowly traces his finger below my eyes. “You have beautiful eyes, but there’s so much sadness in them.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and focus on his lips. Dear God Almighty, he has such luscious lips.

  “Ember,” he whispers like he’s known me forever, temporarily unhitching the chains that bind me to every single person’s death. It’s strange, but exhilarating. “I want to kiss you.” His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Please tell me I can kiss you.”

  I’ve never been kissed before—I’ve never been able to get close to anyone like this without feeling smothered by death.

  He closes his eyes. I inhale as his lips inch nearer. My heart dances vigorously in my chest.

  “Asher, what are you doing?”

  Our eyes snap open and we back away from each other. Mr. Morgan, the art teacher, is standing by his desk. He’s in his mid-forties, with chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes. He wears a lot of cargo pants and polo shirts, smeared with charcoal, paint, clay—any art supply, really.

  “Oh, hi there, Ember.” He sets a stack of artwork down on his corner desk. “Have you seen Raven this morning? She usually comes in here, but I haven’t seen her.”

  “I think she might be a little late this morning,” I explain.

  “Oh, I see.” His gaze flicks to Asher and something in his eyes makes me want to leave.

  I wave goodbye to Asher. “See you around, I guess.”

  He picks up the paintbrush distractedly. “Yeah, sure.”

  Raven and I usually sit around and talk before class, but she still hasn’t texted me back. So I collect my books from my locker and head to class a little early. I have English first period with Mr. Mackerlie. He’s writing on the whiteboard when I walk into the classroom and doesn’t notice me.

  My bag lands on the floor loudly and he turns with the marker in his hand. “Oh, Ember, I didn’t see you come in.” He clicks the lid on the marker and sets it in the tray.

  Today’s assignment is on the board. We are studying William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. I read the book when I was fifteen after Raven made me watch the movie—the newer version starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes—so I already know how the story goes: love, rivalry, violence, and tragedy.

  Mr. Mackerlie shifts through papers on his desk. The bell rings and people start wandering into the classroom. Mr. Mackerlie walks back to my desk with a smile on his face.

  “I really enjoyed the poem you wrote for last week’s assignment, Ember.” He taps a finger on the paper in his hand, stained with my undying penmanship.

  “Thanks,” I reply uncomfortably. I never meant to turn in that particular poem.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to read it aloud to the class,” he says. I shake my head in protest, but Mackenzie Baker taps him on the shoulder, sidetracking him.

  Her eyes skim me like I am ghost. “Mr. Mackerlie, I just brought in the new guy.” She points over her shoulder at Cameron, who winks at me.

  I called that one.

  Mackenzie has strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, and wears clothes that barely pass the dress code. She’s kind of like Raven in a way, only maybe a little less forward. In fact, the only reason they’re not friends is because Mackenzie is rich and looks down on us low-lifes who live in the rundown townhomes on the far side of town.

  “He needs his books and stuff,” she states. “And a place to sit.”

  “Oh, yes, you must be Cameron Logan,” Mr. Mackerlie says and he glances back at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll say it’s anonymous.”

  I throw up my hands exasperatedly. Is he joking? The poem is titled Ember.

  “You look a little upset.” Cameron slides onto my desk, trying to act nonchalant, but sorrow haunts his eyes.

  “I’m fine.” I take a pen and notebook out of my bag. “I’m just having a rough morning.”

  “Did you find your friend?” he asks. “The one with the pink hair?”

  I shake my head. “No, I stopped by the art room this morning, because she likes to go there a lot, but the only person there was the other new kid.” I bite at the end of my pen pensively, remembering what almost happened in the art room.

  “You ran into Asher this morning?” He studies my face closely, as if he’s looking for cracks that will reveal some hidden secret.

  I pull the pen out of my mouth. “You seem like you know him.”

  “Only from word of mouth.” Placing his hands on the desk, he leans in, smelling of mint hued with a woodsy aroma. “I’m finding out you were right about the whole new-guy-popularity thing.”

  “I told you they’d eat you up,” I remark.

  “No, you told me they’d be star-struck by me.” He smirks. “The only one who looks like they could eat me up is you.”

  I fight my instinct to look away. “No, I don’t, Cameron.”

  From a desk in the front row, Mackenzie crosses her legs and crooks her finger at Cameron. “Come here, Cam. You can sit by me.”

  Cameron leans away and touches his chest. “My fans are calling me.” He saunters up to Mackenzie, whispers something in her ear, and she giggles, patting his chest.

  I roll my eyes. He fits the part.

  After the bell rings, and Mr. Mackerlie takes roll, he stands in the front of the room with my poem in his hand. “Listen up, everyone,” Mr. Mackerlie says. “I wanted to share with everyone something that I think is an excellent poem that was turned in for last week’s assignment. But I’m going to keep it anonymous.” His gaze flicks to me for only a second, but it’s enough that eyes wander in my direction.

  “The poem is called Ember.” Every looks at me and Mr. Mackerlie clears his throat. “The ember dies slowly in a mound of ash. Darkness and mourning, it longs to burn fire. But the smoke and sorrow let it die. The need for a spark asserts fiercely. But a spark won’t surrender. So the ember continues to smother. Into ash, into dust, into nothing. And that’s how it will stay forever.”

  Please let this Ember die now.

  Everyone is staring at me like I’m the lunatic they always thought I was, ever since my dad’s disappearance. But I refuse to cower, so I sit up straight and wait for Mr. Mackerlie to move on.

  Some jock coughs, “Psycho killer.”

  Giggles flutter the room and Cameron raises his hand.

  “Yes,” Mr. Mackerlie says. “Is it Cameron?”

  Cameron nods. “Personally, I think it was an amazing poem about pain and survival.”

  Mr. Mackerlie browses over the poem again. “Well, that’s a good interpretation, but I think perhaps it’s more about the natural process of death.”

  Cameron taps his fingers on the d
esk. “Death might be a theme, but I don’t think that’s what it’s completely about. I think it’s more relative to the pain someone feels about death and their need to survive through the pain, even though they think they can’t. Perhaps they’ve even lost someone close to them and they are trying to break free from the continual heartache and torment.”

  Everyone goes silent. I swear I could kiss those pretty boy lips of his. He turns around and gives me a look that says, You know you’re in love with me now.