by Hays, Casey
It was a rock. Painted on it in all the colors of the rainbow were wings spanning from one rounded end to the other. The colors had mixed together to look like fire, and they were beautiful. On the other side, in tiny, crooked print, were the words, Your Guardian Angel and my dad’s name: Rafe Gallagher.
Under cover of a large umbrella at the graveside service, the warmth of the rock squeezed in the center of my palm was all I needed to know that things wouldn’t always be sad. I wouldn’t always miss my dad so much. I still had a life to live, and I had Jonas’s friendship.
I keep that rock hidden in an earring box in the top of my closet, right next to the shoe box full of old poems and songs I’ve written. I’ve never shown it to anyone. I’m not sure whether Jonas remembers giving it to me; we’ve never discussed it. But that day, I trusted in our friendship with my whole heart.
When Devan entered my life, I worried Jonas might be jealous of this new friendship. He wasn’t. In fact, in hindsight, I have a suspicious feeling he liked her even back then. But in seventh grade, who can tell up from down?
I suppose I could have been jealous of Devan when she stole his heart last summer at the local country club. Usually it was just the girls, but sometimes Jonas and Kane would tag along. And when Jonas began arriving first and orchestrating our whole poolside seating arrangement—inevitably placing himself next to Devan—his attraction to her could no longer be denied. And Frankie and I, against our will, had first row seats to their developing relationship.
I laugh to myself remembering how Jonas preened like a rooster in heat, smoothing his dirty blond strands into place nearly every five minutes for a while. Frankie and I exchanged more than one humorous glance over Devan’s head at this. Even with his sunglasses on, I noticed how his eyes were drawn to her with a growing magnetism. And while I rolled my own behind my sunglasses as I watched him make a fool of himself to gain her attention, Devan chatted on about one topic or another, her bronzed skin glistening with water droplets and magnifying the perfect cut of her salmon-toned bikini. She had no clue, not until we bluntly pointed it out to her.
“Noooo.” She gasped, and then inconspicuously tossed a glance toward the snack booth where Jonas and Kane waited in line. “That would be... weird. I mean, we’re friends.”
I merely shrugged and dumped a pile of sunscreen onto my stomach. “Keep living in oblivion, but I know Jonas. And I know mad love when I see it.”
“I second that,” Frankie chimed in from beneath the overlarge umbrella that shaded every single inch of her milky white skin.
Devan crinkled her nose with a laugh. “Oh, so now you two work for the Queen of Hearts?”
Such sarcasm! I sighed and slunk low on my reclining pool chair. Way to rub it in, Devan.
Another week passed before Jonas braved sliding his hand into hers, entangling their fingers and refusing to let go. And that was all it took.
It did cross my mind that things might change between us once he started dating… anybody. They didn’t. And the fact that he chose Devan honestly might have been the reason. She was one of us. They’re good together.
So now you know. Jonas has been a constant all my life. He keeps me steady. He loves me like a brother and protects me like a fierce warrior… in his imagination, anyway. And possibly in a couple of video games where he’s created and named a prime character after me.
I can take care of myself. I learned how to shoot a Glock and a rifle a few years ago, but if he wants to think he’s contributing in keeping me safe, I’ll let him. And whether he truly is or not doesn’t matter, honestly. Either way, I need him.
Of course, I never believed I needed protection from anything.
Flash forward.
I sit in The Nest, shoveling my second helping of pancakes into my face, laughing with my friends, and believing that this summer will be no different.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Two
The library’s air conditioning system goes on the fritz around noon, forcing them to close early. Anxious to catch up with Jonas and Devan at the pool, I’m rummaging through my dresser for my black two-piece when Frankie’s text comes in:
MEET AT MY HOUSE. WE CAN STILL GET SOME THINGS ACCOMPLISHED.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath. I should have known Frankie wouldn’t let me off so easily.
I scoop up my keys from the nightstand and head for the stairs, peeking in on Mom as I pass her room. Her graveyard shift at the hospital ended at seven, and she’ll sleep until at least three. I sigh and pull her door closed. I’ll be lucky if I see her at all today.
Okay, back it up. For the record, I’m not about to throw a pity party over my estranged relationship with my mother, so let’s move on to a more interesting topic. Like Frankie.
I’m just going to say it: of all the people on my short list of friends, Frankie is one of the most unique. Longing to study on a Saturday in the middle of the summer is proof enough. She marches to the beat of her own drum, is misunderstood most days, and the best part? She couldn’t care less.
The first time I saw Frankie, she was standing at the front of Mrs. Cantwell’s second grade class as the “new girl.” Everyone was so intrigued by her bushy, flyaway hair and her mismatched knee high socks—me included. She smiled at us in this awkwardly confident way that revealed three missing teeth, and then she took her seat near the front of the classroom.
We didn’t become friends right away—it was a slow and gradual process throughout the years. In fact, I didn’t get to know the quirky and extremely intelligent Frankie on a more personal level until our first year of middle school when she became my science lab partner. Only then did I truly get the opportunity to fully enjoy the eccentricity and awkwardness that is Frances Elaine Melmack.
These days, I’m ashamed to admit that I was mortified to have been assigned to Frankie. Even though she’d been in Carson City for several years by then, she didn’t have too many friends, and she had a reputation for being, well… weird. But it didn’t take a genius to recognize the value in her before too long. Intelligence seeped from every pore in her body, and to be honest, as lab partners go, she didn’t need me nearly as much as I needed her. I watched her set liquid on fire in a beaker like a pro, knowing full well I would have singed my eyebrows right off my face. She dissected a frog as if she was creating art; I could barely keep my lunch down from the smell of formaldehyde alone. She could identify the tiniest of microorganisms with only one guess, and she was always right. For weeks, I sat on the metal stool beside her at our lab table and watched her work her magic. I learned from her. We talked about everything under the sun. Weeks turned into months, months into a full year, and I couldn’t help it; her odd charm captivated me until I genuinely grew to like her.
She became more than a lab partner; she became one of my best friends.
With Frankie, there’s never a dull moment, and when it comes to passion, she’s full to the brim. But if I had to describe the most vivid quality in Frankie, I’d have to defer to this: she is an avid, over-the-top, kick-ass fantasy science-fiction fan. Which is the central reason she selects the most bizarre of all subjects for our scholarship fair project. Seriously, I could never make this up.
The minute she slams me with her out-of-the-ordinary idea, three things run through my mind: I need a good night’s sleep, a full stomach, and brain cells standing at full attention to make sense of it.
“So you’re telling me…” I pause, pressing my fingertips to my temples. “That you want to try and prove the existence of a…what now?”
I sit at Frankie’s kitchen table, surrounded by the scent of a freshly-baked apple pie cooling on the stovetop. It smells so delicious that those brain cells I mentioned are fighting to stay focused and losing the battle.
“The full name is Vatra u Krvi,” she answers, accentuating the words brilliantly.
“But—what is it?”
“Well, presently it’s… a myth.” She keeps her voi
ce low. When I frown, she scurries through the rest of her statement. “Until we prove otherwise.”
“Excuse me?” I don’t hide the sarcasm from my words. “You want to base our hypothesis on a myth?”
Only then does she produce a blue accordion file from her lap. She lays a ripped page from a book in the center of the table. It’s a picture of a bird. Every color of the rainbow seems to be mixed into its feathers, but a fiery orange sticks out the most. Its tail is bright red laced with gold, and its beak is the color of a rose. Frankie pushes her bushy, blond hair out of her face and taps the picture twice.
“You’ve heard of the Phoenix?”
I think, trying to remember the details of the legend. “Yeah. The bird that explodes and comes back to life. Right?”
Frankie smiles, causing the freckles littered across her nose to dance. “Close enough.”
“How does this fit into our science project, exactly?” I crease my brow, confused.
Frankie pushes her glasses up her nose and glances at the door leading to the living room, before she whispers, “The Vatra u Krvi race was created using blood of the Phoenix.”
Before I can react to the absurdity of her statement, a paper airplane swoops across our table and crashes into my cheek, then falls to the floor. I twist in my seat. Matty, Frankie’s seven-year-old little brother loiters half-hidden in the doorway in his pajamas. Taking full advantage of his Saturday, I see. His frizzy curls tumble all over the top of his head, and a sly grin sits on his chubby face. I narrow my eyes playfully.
“Matty. Are you crashing paper airplanes into your toy soldiers again?”
He stares, seemingly shocked that I spoke, but he doesn’t say a word. He never says a word to me. But anytime I’m in the vicinity, you can bet he’ll show up and try to get my attention.
Frankie scoops up the airplane and zips it in a perfect arc back toward him. He bounces a few inches off the floor and traps it between smashed palms.
“Matty, we’re busy. You can come back and flirt with Jude later. Go find Mom.”
His face goes white, then flushes a deep red. His expression puckers, and I chuckle a little. Funny how a big sister can shift your mood from elation to full on embarrassment in zero point nothing seconds flat. He spins on his socked feet and flees the room. Frankie follows, peers out, and pulls the pocket door closed, shutting us off from the rest of the house. I study her. Honestly, she’s acting awfully suspicious. She faces me.
“You’re insane,” I retort. “You cannot possibly be serious about choosing this as the topic of the most important science experiment we’ve ever done.”
“Let’s have some pie.”
Without missing a beat, she takes two small plates from the cabinet and proceeds to cut the pie.
“Frankie—”
“The Phoenix is a great fire spirit in Greek mythology, you know?” She sets one slice of pie on a plate, then pauses to slide a large encyclopedia across the table until it’s situated in front of me. It’s bookmarked, and she flips it open to the description of the Phoenix. “It’s a sacred firebird that represents immortality, rebirth, and renewal. It can live from five hundred to a thousand years according to legend. At the end of its life cycle, it builds a nest, climbs inside, and bursts into flames.”
“Okay?”
“So…” She sits, placing my pie next to the encyclopedia. I move the book aside and take up my fork. “The Phoenix is one of the only living creatures that is self-reproducing, because from those ashes…” She cuts off the pointed end of her pie piece and raises her fork along with her brows, which peek at me over the top of her glasses. “…a brand new baby Phoenix is born.”
I shake my head. “Where are we going with this?”
“Think about it. Its aspects are magical. Otherworldly. A race of people with its blood running through their veins would be extraordinary.”
“The Phoenix is a myth,” I remind her.
“You could be a little open-minded.”
I plunge a piece of pie into my mouth and speak around it. “Okay. So this reborn bird… is it a new Phoenix or the same one?”
She shrugs. “That’s debatable.”
“And is there more than one Phoenix?”
“Hard to say.”
I shake my head. “Give me something here, Frankie.”
“Well, it’s rare to see one at all, so… it’s hard to say.”
It’s rare to see one because they don’t exist. I squint, testing her further.
“Male or female?”
“I suppose that would depend on the answer to the first two questions, wouldn’t it?” She picks off a piece of pie crust and nibbles on the end. I scoop up another full bite.
“Okay, look.” I focus on her pointedly. “And I’m only saying this so we don’t have to scrape our embarrassed butts up off the floor later, but we can’t do this. It’s nonsensical, and—”
Before the rest of my sentence leaves my mouth, she produces another picture from her accordion file. This one takes me by surprise. A photograph. I pick it up, holding it out for a better look.
It's a man—no, maybe just a boy. He's handsome. Jet black hair. Violet eyes. His bare chest ripples with muscles, and spread out behind him is the most brilliant pair of black wings, fluttering with an iridescent glow. They're sleek and beautiful. I blink once, and I swear they flutter.
“This is a Vatra u Krvi,” Frankie says.
A tiny catch in my chest makes it hard to breathe. I’m dead serious. Every one of my five senses is held captive by the beauty of this image.
“Translated, the phrase means ‘fire in the blood.’” Frankie cocks her head to the side, just like a bird herself. “In English, the common term is Firebloods.”
“He looks like an angel.” I breathe out the words.
She smiles. “I know.”
I tear my eyes away and glance up at her, suspicion moving in. Because this can’t be real. It can’t.
“Where did you find this?”
Her eyes flit past me to ensure the door is closed. “In my father’s office.”
I lean back in my chair examining the image. It stares up at me from some vast realm of someone’s artistic imagination.
“This isn't real.” I glance at Frankie. “It’s all fascinating from a fantasy standpoint, but it isn’t a viable subject.”
“I think we can prove his existence.” She nods at the image, adamant. “In fact, I know we can.”
“How?”
She lowers her voice to a whisper and motions me to lean in closer.
“My dad has a crate full of information on the Firebloods. Not just documents. Artifacts.” She taps her fingers against the table.
I stare at her, incredulous. Is she seriously contemplating basing our hypothesis statement on a mythical creature? I suddenly feel ill. My chances at winning a scholarship are riding on whatever it is we decide to do this summer. I need this. And this is all she’s got? A flying boy? I sigh and toss the picture onto the table, frustrated.
“Frankie, this could just be your dad’s hobby. Maybe he collects memorabilia on a favorite, fictional character in a book.”
“I don’t think so, Jude. You didn’t see what was in that crate.” She habitually pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her mouth poised and very serious. “I asked my dad about it a couple of months ago when I found it. He shut me down. Fast. He told me to focus on my studies and keep my head out of the clouds.”
“See?” I hold my palms face up, agreeing with that reasoning.
“The crate disappeared after my conversation with him. I found it again last week. In the basement. With a padlock intact. He’s hiding the truth about this.”
“Frankie—”
I stop when she shuffles to her feet and yanks open a cabinet door to retrieve a couple of glasses. Water streams from the refrigerator dispenser. She sets a full glass in front of me.
“Will you just listen to what I have to say?”
I
straighten, scraping up the last bit of my pie with a shrug. “I’m just being honest when I say I don’t have much faith in this idea.”
“I gathered.” She leans a hip against the counter. “I’m only asking that you not immediately discredit it. Not until we’ve had a chance to research it further.” I purse my lips; she keeps talking. “Jude, we could blow the judges away with our findings. It could be a monumental discovery, right up there with extra-terrestrial life. Don’t you see?”
I focus on the photograph of the angel-boy. He looks so realistic. His eyes, poignantly vibrant, seem to reach right into my very soul. I shudder and look away.
“This is risky,” I point out.
“I know. But it’s worth the risk. It’s why we could win.”
“I don’t think we should waste much of our time on it.” Doubt flutters across my face, and she sees every bit of it in the wrinkled folds of my brows. “I mean, anybody can doctor up a photo. Take Bigfoot. Prime example.”
Frankie lifts her chin, indignant. “I have it on good authority that Bigfoot is most indeed real. You are such a pessimist, Jude Gallagher.”
“Pessimist? This is myth, Frankie. One of us has to be reasonable.”
“Wrong. If scientists were reasonable, nothing would have ever been discovered or invented. Or founded. Take Newton or Einstein, for instance. Do you think they accomplished anything by being reasonable? No. They defied norms to prove their theories. People thought they were off in the heads, but those men proved in the end that they were brilliant. We have that opportunity here.”
I simply stare at her. What can I say to that?
“Look, have some confidence in me,” she implores. “Have I ever let you down when it comes to a scientific adventure?”
I think, my chin propped against my fist. “No,” I admit. “No, you haven’t.”
She sits, excitement lighting her eyes. “You have to see what’s in this crate, Jude. It’s… the most amazing find. In fact, if we can prove the existence of the Firebloods, my dissertation for my thesis paper will be complete as well.”
