Ark of the Light

Four: Angel of Fire

Outside, the spring weather averaged the regular 85 degrees, but inside the over-crowded, underfunded high school sweltered in the low 100's. School would be out in two weeks, meaning Emilia could leave the idiot infested place behind, along with the smell of sweat, axe-body spray, and raging hormones. Despite only being 17 and her teacher's unimpressed impressions, Emilia would be graduating a year early. Then she could appeal for emancipation and live her own life.

Emilia tuned out her algebra teacher as she droned on about quadratics in favor of staring out the second story window. She rested her feet on the desk, leaning back in her chair. Below them, Emilia could see the run-down trailers where everyone born on the wrong side of the tracks lived—though in this size of a town, it was the entire school district. While some of her class mates would luck out, go on to college, and leave the town behind, most would stay. After graduation, Emilia would pack her rusted out Hummer and leave town. She would drive to the coast, the West. She had some friends from the system who shared a place. She'd pick up a job waitressing or bartending, somewhere where she would still have time to make art and write bad poetry and maybe be a dumb kid for once. Either way, she'd be free.

Emilia hadn't realized she had fallen asleep until she heard the crack of a ruler against her desk. Eyes snapping open, Emilia managed to stabilize herself without removing her feet from the desk. The teacher glared down at her, somehow making a button nose look threatening. "Miss Sanchez, would you care to tell me how sleeping will help you pass this final?"

Emilia rolled her eyes. "We've been doing quadratics for the past two weeks, Mrs. Webber. Not to mention all of freshman year."

Mrs. Webber's cheeks went red, fists trembling. "Boots off the desk, Miss Sanchez, we aren't in a barn yard," she managed to squawk. Emilia crossed her arms, prepared to make the inevitable detention worth it, when the bell rang.

Without wasting time, Emilia grabbed her back-pack and darted out of the room. Back-pack slung over one shoulder, she made her way to the school bus. Under the hot sun, she regretted her decision to wear black jeans that morning, but was forever grateful in her undercut, as she tightened her ponytail. Her wedged combat boots crunched against the gravel road, as she pulled herself onto the bus. She shot the bus driver, an older fellow with a graying beard, a small smile before she took her seat near the back. The vinyl seating stuck to her entire body. Putting on her headphones, she let her mind wander for the ride.

Rolling to a halt on the broken asphalt of the back-country roads, Emilia noticed the black SUV in the driveway and grimaced. Her social worker was there then. Standing, Emilia slipped out of her seat and marched down the aisle.

"Have yourself a good afternoon, Miss Sanchez," the bus driver drawled. Emilia nodded, mind drifting elsewhere. The door closed behind her with a creek, and Emilia stared at the dusty ranch style house, trying to determine how much yelling and crying there would be this time. Just when she thought she had gotten a good foster home.

The Durham's had taken her in a few months ago, after her last foster home had gone up in smoke. It was her ninth home in the four years since her biological family had died. They were decent enough people, but Ms. Kroger's SUV was never a good sign. Gritting her teeth, Emilia decided it was better to just go in and face it head on, rather than drag it out.

Opening the screen door, Emilia dropped her bag in the entry-room. So far, it was quiet, but she could hear voices from the kitchen. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans, she managed to keep herself from stalking into the other room and screaming—she had tried that in other homes. Leaning on the counter, Mrs. Durham held a coffee mug in her hands, holding back tears. Mr. Durham put his arm around her in a side hug. Ms. Kroger sat across from them at the table. In front of her laid several documents. Her hands were folded together on top of the table, a measured smile crossing her lips. Her suit cut her body at sharp angles, hair tied back with military precision, and Emilia could never determine if the woman's features were truly that pointed, or if it was a clever trick of contouring.