Soured Honey

Chapter One

I'm being cradled in someone's arms, except it's not me. It's me as a baby, a newborn. And my arm's in excruciating pain, making me cry hysterically. There's screams coming from everywhere, but a woman's screams seem to be the closest and loudest. The man holding me—my father, only younger— is looking at someone else in the room whom I can't see, shouting, "Helen! Helen!" over and over.
There are constant flashes of bright, colorful light that illuminates the trashed room we're in. There's a shattered mirror that I can see over my father's shoulder, and I can see the fuzzy reflection of dozens of people surrounded by bright flames. The flames, the screaming people, and my father's worried face, make me cry and scream more.
Then, I hear my father scream "no!" and a loud boom disturbs the chaos and everything goes white.

I'm awaken by the beep, beep, beep of my cursed alarm clock. I roll over onto my side, now facing my small, bed-side dresser and unapologetically smack the alarm off. It's always the same dream that plagues my sleep. I asked my father for help when I first had the dream, but he offered no guidance or clues about why I have the dreams. It was frustrating. The dream always seemed so real and I couldn't figure out why.
Before I get ahead of myself, let me introduce myself. My name is Honey Orenda and I am fifteen years old. I have brown eyes and honey blonde hair that's unfairly curly, though that's not why my name is Honey. My father always like to joke around and say that I was named Honey because when my mother was pregnant with me, she developed a strange craving for anything with honey. I think it's rather strange to name a child after a food product, but my parents don't seem to feel the same.
I lay in bed for what seems like only a few seconds before my alarm is going off again. I slink out of the thick, warm blanket enclosing me and turn off my alarm, venturing over to my closet to prepare for yet another day at the child prison adults call "school".
I quickly dress myself, grab my book bag, and head downstairs to find my dad. I walk through my house and into the kitchen where there's usually a fresh, hot breakfast waiting for me on the table. Instead, the table is empty and there is no sign of my father.
I creep down the hall to my father's room to look for him, finding this rather unusual considering my dad has never woken up late nor neglected to wake me up with one of my favorite meals. He always makes me a hearty breakfast and makes sure I get to school before going to work. I knock on the door and call out, "Dad?" No response. I crack the door open and poke my head in. The room is empty. I close the door and then call out, louder this time, "Dad. Where are you?" Again, no response.
Confused and hungry, I march to the fridge in the kitchen and pull out an apple and bite into it. The tart juice squirts into my mouth and I lick my lips. It's not as good as my dad's delicious meals, but I'm useless in a kitchen, so it will have to do.
A few minutes later, I've finished my apple, boarded my bus, and I'm on my way to school. As the bus comes to its destination, a sea of teenagers pour out of its doors and into the luminous school. I blend in with them, dodging bulging book bags and bustling bodies.
I make my way to the school library, where I find my best friend, Asher Hendrickson, with his nose in a book. He's always reading. Such a bookworm. But, I can't blame him for reading so much. Sometimes the story of someone else's fantasies are better than reality.
I bounce over to him and pull his book down, away from his face, saying, "Boo."
He smiles at me, the edges of his light blue eyes crinkling slightly behind his glasses. "Hey, Honey," he says.
Asher Hendrickson has been my friend since we were in fourth grade, when he first moved into town. I was always different than the other kids so no one would hang out with me, but he was different, too, and we got along together just fine. He always made me feel less alone. Asher has dark brown hair, almost black, and light freckles than are transparent against his tan skin. He's rather tall and loves to lord it over me by stealing my things and holding them high over his head. He always fooled around and annoyed me like that.
But, hey. He's my best and only friend. I have to stick with him.
"You reading something good?" I ask as he pulls the book back up to read. "Mhmm," is the only reply I get.
I start to make a sarcastic comment, but I'm interrupted by the grumbling of my stomach. I guess the apple wasn't enough after all.
"Didn't you eat?" Asher raises an eyebrow over his book. "Your dad always stuffs you full before you come to school."
I cross my arms over my stomach. "He wasn't home this morning."
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
Asher closes his book and looks at me, sharing the same sense of confusion I felt when I couldn't find my father. He opens his mouth to say something, but a wave of clarity seems to come over his face, and he stops himself.
My stomach growls again, demanding more food that I didn't have, and Asher reaches into his book bag and pulls out a granola bar, giving it to me.
"Thanks, Ash."
"No problem, Chocolate chip," he replies, using his nick name for me that was thought of during a cookie baking marathon that may or may not have ended with me eating most of the chocolate chips.
I down the granola bar and my stomach finally settles. Asher and I chat for a few minutes before the bell rings, and we head our separate ways to our classes. I make it through the day with no mishaps or differences from any other day at school. That is, until I reach last period biology—the only class Asher and I share.
Mrs. Logans is our teacher for biology, except today she wasn't there. In her place as a substitute, was a short old man with a thick white beard. Mrs. Logans left an assignment for the class that Captain White Beard explained was a pop quiz that was personalized for each student. He passes out the quizzes and took attendance at a turtle pace, which was agonizing to watch. After a while, I receive my personalized quiz with my name already filled out on the packet. I read the first of the many open-ended questions.
"What is magic?"
As soon as I read it, I know something is strange about the quiz. What type of question is that? Magic isn't even real. I ponder why a question like that would be included on the quiz but after a minute, I dismiss it. Mrs. Logans is a good teacher with a good head on her shoulders. I'm sure the question was just meant to throw me off and that the other ones would make more sense. I answer the question with a reasonable, non-whimsical reply and move on.
"How does magic protect humanity?"
Now I'm bemused. "How does magic protect humanity?" I turn to Asher, who sits beside me and seems to be having no problem with his quiz, to show him the ridiculous questions Mrs. Logans had meant for me to answer and I see that Asher has the same questions that I do. So that means these "personalized quizzes" aren't really personalized. I turn to the boy on my other side and read his quiz questions. His are different. Strange. The girl behind me's questions are different, too. I look around and I realize that everyone else has a unique quiz non-related to magic, besides Asher and I.
I spend the rest of the class wondering about the strange questions about magic and answering them to the best of my ability. Soon, it's the end of the school day and classes are finally dismissed. Asher and I leave the school together and begin walking home— well, to my home. Asher has walked me home everyday since sixth grade, even though he lived on the other side of town. I'd always ask him why he didn't just go straight home and he'd always crack a smile and say, "Well, what if something were to happen? You're way to short to defend yourself, Chocolate Chip." I always liked his answer. It reminded me that even though we joke around and tease each other, we'd always have each other's backs.
As soon as we left the school, I asked Asher, "Did you find those quizzes a little strange? I mean, we were the only two who had the same quizzes, and the questions were about magic—something that has nothing to do with biology."
"Who says magic has nothing to do with biology?"
"Logic. Because magic isn't real."
"Well, who says magic isn't real?"
He has to be joking with me. Magic isn't real. Magic has nothing to do with biology. The only magic that does exist is the staged magic magicians preform for little toddler's birthdays. I stop in front of him.
"C'mon, Ash. Stop playing with me. Magic isn't real and you know that. You're smart enough to know that. Right?" I quirk my eyebrow.
He reddened, hesitating. Hesitating too long.
"Yeah, you're right. Magic isn't real." He said slowly.
Asher was never good at telling lies. He had too many tells. He'd always hesitate and his speech would always slow. He'd avoid eye contact and try to change the subject. It was always so obvious when he'd lie that it was almost funny to watch him try to make up excuses for late homework or staying out past curfew. But luckily for him, in those cases, I was always there to lie with him. And I am very skilled in the art of lying. Whether that is something to be proud of or not, that's the truth.
I'm just confused why he would lie about not believing magic isn't real. And his dishonesty was kind of angering.
I try to ask him why he lied, but he kept insisting that he didn't and tried to talk about other classes and plans for the nearing weekend. Getting tired of asking questions, I let up my failed interrogation and let him make plans for us to meet up on Saturday.
We reach my house, and we say our goodbyes. Asher's face still seems red from the "Magic Isn't/Is Real" fiasco, but I don't mention anything. He starts the trek to his own home and I go inside, hoping to find my father there, but I'm left disappointed. My father is still gone.
After eating a light meal that may or may not have been a microwaveable dinner and doing my homework, I go upstairs to my room. I change into comfortable sleepwear and collapse onto my bed. I hear a ping from my phone, notifying me of a message. Groaning at the disturbance keeping me from sleep, I roll onto my side and reach for my phone, looking at the message.
Asher was the one who texted me.
"Forget about going to school tomorrow. I need to show you something."