THE FIRE SAGA

SPARK 9 - EXERTION

Intended or not, Tally's ditching Declan comment lit a fire in me. I don't need a boyfriend, fake or otherwise. One faux fight and breakup scene in the parking lot guarantees my temporary solitude. What's Declan going to do? Throw me into the car? No, he wouldn't dare, and certainly not with such an enthralled audience. Tally might, but she's at cheer practice. That small win almost makes up for walking home in my loser attire. Almost.

I arrive home to my father sitting at the table where he always is, reading the paper he always reads. He lifts it higher to prevent eye contact. After my irregular day, the routine is comforting. However, irregularity ensues as on the counter is a plate holding a sandwich. Beside the plate is a cup of steaming hot coffee. He doesn't cook for me. He doesn't cater to me. I've been on my own in the kitchen since I could speak full sentences. The sudden paternal interest is suspect. Is he trying to coax me into a sit-down? Yeah, no. I'm not sitting down to discuss my day with him. I'm much more interested in shedding the falsified me.

Say thank you, Superego admonishes.

"Thanks," I mutter, heading upstairs to my room.

Playing popular took a lot out of me. I want to crawl into something cozy. As I'm stripping off the hideous clothes, I briefly entertain lighting them on fire so I won't have to wear them again.

I take a swig of coffee before setting the mug down on my dresser by the plate. It's when I open my closet the heat begins. It sparks in my cheeks, as it always does, moving outward in a flash, singing and crackling its way along my limbs. Can I keep from burning the house down? We'll soon see.

On the shelf above the hanging rack, all my worn-out department store jeans have been replaced with slacks and skirts. There are a few denims, but they scream designer. Nothing remains I would've chosen for myself, from the flared to skinny bottoms, artistically ripped for added ridiculousness. My T-shirts are gone, too, every last one of them. They've been eaten by flamboyantly colored blouses and sweaters of varying materials: satin, silk, and cashmere. R.I.P. cotton. I will avenge you. I swear it.

"Tally!" I bellow.

Cued by her name, my bed starts to sing. Ring of Fire by Johnny Cash increases in volume from a red device on my bedspread. I want to pick it up and chuck it at the wall, but that won't be as fun as shoving it somewhere else later, somewhere Tally won't like.

"What?" I growl into the phone.

"Second drawer down. Left side. Hurry up," she barks.

I throw the phone back on the bed, imagining her choking on it, but do as I'm told. Spandex sports gear is in the drawer where my lounging pants used to reside. I silently seethe, yet don't explode. Good job, me.

I pull on a pair of shorts and walk into the bathroom where my hamper is. Tally might've been brave enough to chuck my clean clothes, but there's no way she'd have touched the dirty ones. I pull out a T-shirt I hope smells just bad enough to drive her insane without nauseating me.

Running shoes have been conveniently placed beside my bed. I grumble while lacing them up, then grab the sandwich, take a large bite, and wash it down with the rest of my coffee. It tastes like used charcoal. There's no way I can finish it. Predictable.

I run downstairs, stash the rest of the sandwich in the trash bin, and load the dishes into the dishwasher. Dad is sitting at the table behind his customary paper wall. Aggressive knocking on the door causes his hands to crinkle the paper, but he doesn't show any other indication he's cognizant of anything happening around him. Strategically oblivious is a decorative theme in the Tierney house.

The knocking persists. I consider dodging this whole scene by hastily exiting through the back door. What stops me is potential retribution. If I keep my enemy close, she's bound to display a weakness I can, and will, exploit. She's poking the wrong elemental. If she's going to play with fire, she should expect to get burned.