Fire Haired Girls and Starlit Skies

Chapter 1: Comicon

 My dad was named King. I'm not kidding- HE WAS A LEGEND. When I was little, he would take me on his knee and bounce me up and down t o my delighted squeals as I clapped in excitement. I remember that morning, I was four years old and I went into the small kitchenette to get a bowl of Captain Crunch cereal. I couldn't reach the shelf, but he<d normally pick me up onto his shoulders, zoom around, finally ge tit but toying with me as I giggled and he placed me down onto the linoleum tiles, me jumping to reache his hands where he held the prize. That morning though, he only fetched it and placed it onto the table. Normally, he'd pour the milk over it, just the right amount so that it wouldn't get soggy. I would lap up the sweet liquid after, letting the spoon clatter down onto the counter, wipe my milk mustache off with a swipe from the back of my hand. That morning though, instead of showing me new lyrics to one of his songs, there was a hollow silence and some milk slopped over the side of the bowl when he poured and he gave me a glass cup instead of my pink sippy one with starfish stickers peeling off. I rubbed my sleepy eyes, better registering the man in the room with confusion. It really wasn't my dad at all, but his twin brother uncle Steven, eyes red rimmed, dark circles and bags, eyebrows twisted upward. I felt my throat tighten, my small fist closing around the glass. "I want my sippy!" I wailed. I have never been great with high tension situations.

So maybe, that's why, as we haphazardly file out the door I feel a similar tension building in the tips of my fingers, numb. As the fire alarm rings, clatters, my heart startles with every beep, every clang. Tensing at every laugh from my careless classmates as they chatter, scattering as we step out onto the gravel parking lot, merging with the crowd. I gasp for the fresh air, still cool in late February. A slight breeze mills around, sifting through the blue sky.Teachers try to regain control, but it's fourth period, March break begins tomorrow and it's a worthless effort.Friends clump together, slowly trickling out into the park behind the school or the football field, or skateboarding down the street to the café or the Dep. There is the slightest odour of weed, mint bubblegum and cold, a few melting clumps of snow near the sidewalk. Luckily, the sun shines and I lurch forward as someone tackles me from behind. Shoulder is still tense, heart hammering, I whip around and relax as Arianna leans in to give me a slow dusting of pink lipgloss of a kiss.Reluctantly, she pulls away, adorable in an oversized purple sweater, formfitting blue jeans and cream coloured vans.Herlong, auburn red hair hangs over her shoulders, blue eyes framed behind square black glasses, a sprinkling of freckles and blush on her pink cheeks.

Noticing the bag she holds in her hand, all fear is quickly replaced with excitement and a squeal bubbling from the warmth in my chest.

"Eeeee! The final pieces!" I clap my hands together, smiling so wide that any non-nerd probably gives us one of those eyebrows raised, sad shakes of the head accompanied by a small smile if they're feeling generous. But my enthusiasm far outweighs their stubborn negativity as Arianna invites me over to finish putting everything together. Alejandro finds us just as we're leaving, the final piece of our trio. Even as my best friend since grade 2, he's not quite as into comicon, as me and Ariana but we let him tag along anyway.As we walk down the street his phone buzzes with a notification and he routes around his giant, cluttered pockets to find it.Pulling it out, he smiles. I raise an eyebrow teasingly.

"Is it Noah?" I ask, batting my eyelashes, Ariana giggling, my hand and hers. He shoots me a glare.

"No. It is not Noah." God, I love to annoy him. I punch him lightly on the shoulder, trying to tackle the phone from his hand to see, laughing. He whines, rolling his eyes, struggling to punch me away. He try to suppress a smile but I see the hint of it, the quiver in his cheek. The straining in his jaw. The dance in his eye. Successful, I hold it up victoriously, hostage above his 5"3 mop of messy, dark brown hair. He jumps for it, but I scroll up in his messages. Another notification pops up- from Noah.