Defying Vesuvius

Chapter 1 - Ella

I gasped and bolted upright, breathing hard, to the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand beside my bed. Its display flashed with seven unread texts and four missed calls, all from my best friend, Miya, and all along the lines of Where the heck are you? I groaned and picked up my phone, my heart stuttering when I saw the time. Seven forty-five?! Throwing off my blankets, I leaped out of bed and ran straight into the bathroom, the last wisps of my dream fading from my mind. No, not dream. Memory, I had to remind myself.

The night Pompeii burned.

I brushed my hair and teeth in record time, not even bothering to glance in the mirror. My reflection was always the same: gray eyes, small nose, pale skin. Only my hair was different—cut short near my shoulders and dyed a shade of rich plum-purple.

Hey, after nearly two thousand years of looking the same, I'd been desperate for a change.

Clothes were next. The entire second bedroom of my apartment comprised my closet. Along one wall hung fine silk dresses from my Renaissance days, corsets and chemises carefully folded on the nearby shelves. Another wall proudly displayed the memories of my favorite era of fashion: the 1920's. Flapper dresses of every color adorned with sequins and beads, cloche hats sitting on silk mannequin heads, and a little black dress custom designed by Chanel herself. An ivory armoire caged the clothes that I refused to wear: 60's go-go boots, 70's bell-bottoms, and a multitude of other styles that had seemed like a good idea at the time (they weren't). Needless to say, I didn't keep many photos from that time.

I quickly searched through the dresser that held my modern clothes—by far my favorite style of anything I'd ever worn. Jeans were so much more comfortable than hoop skirts, and don't even get me started on corsets. I squeezed into a pair of black skinny jeans and threw on a comfy red sweater, only allowing myself a cursory glance in the mirror before I left, backpack and keys in hand. My yellow 1978 Volkswagen Beetle—which I'd had since 1978—sat in my parking spot and I tossed my backpack into the passenger seat through the open convertible top.

I jammed the keys into the ignition and turned them, but the engine only sputtered for a few seconds and died. I slammed my palm on the steering wheel and tried again. "Come on, Lady, don't quit on me now," I begged as the engine coughed again and turned over. With minutes to spare, I peeled out of the parking lot and drove off to school.

* * *

The bell rang just as my foot crossed the threshold for first period—a miracle that had only been possible by running the three stop signs between the school and my apartment. Not something I'd like to get into the habit of doing, but first-period calculus was punishment enough without the added threat of detention with Ms. Newberry. She shot me a warning glance as I ducked my head and sank into my desk near the back of the room, pulling out my notebook and pen and wishing I were invisible.

"Catchin' up on your beauty sleep, Ella?" Someone snickered in my ear.

I turned to see that Miya had slid into the seat behind me, a teasing grin on her face. We'd met in freshman biology three years ago and had been practically inseparable in the years since. Miya was a combination of contradictions: she had a piercing through her eyebrow and another through her nose, but they were set off by her long, caramel brown, cheerleader-esque ponytail. She dressed in nothing less than the newest designer fashions—a taste that had only grown since her father accepted a high-end marketing job in Los Angeles five years ago—but she spent most of her time outside of school covered in the implicit messes that result from hours spent volunteering at the local animal shelter.

Today her large hazel eyes were ringed in smoky gray shadow, looking sultry and soft simultaneously. She rolled her eyes as Ms. Newberry struggled to operate the Smartboard at the front of the classroom. It was only the second week of the school year, but it was obvious this was going to be an almost everyday occurrence. I'm better with technology, and I'm almost two thousand years old.