by Casey Hays
I press my palms against my temples. Okay Kane. Get out of my head, please.
My feet hit the floor. I pace.
The baby grand hunches in the corner covered by a leather tarp, watching me. Or perhaps, it’s accusing me of neglecting it. I haven’t played, not in a very long time. It’s not something you forget though, you know? Not if you’re good enough, and I was once. Music was life, and beauty soared beneath my fingertips. It took me to another dimension.
I lift a brow, and before I can talk myself out of it, I tug the tarp free and open the top. The keys—black and white temptations longing to once again be heard—beckon to me. My heart thumps once, but I sit, position my fingers, and tap out a few chords.
It takes ten seconds for the tinny sounds to open a wound in my heart, pulling images of my dad to the surface. My fingers freeze, the last note hanging until it fades. The keys blur.
I can’t do this.
I rise, slam the lid closed, and stomp out of the room.
Seven
It's nearly one-thirty when I roll my yellow Bug into Frankie’s drive and park it next to her old, black Mustang. I’m late, and she’s mad. Her last text proved it.
I clamber out of my car just as her next text makes its appearance.
WHERE ARE YOU?
Ignoring it, I drag my shoulder bag off the backseat and hustle up the steps to the front door. She swings it open before I can ring the bell.
“I know, I know.” I offer an apology, slipping past her and into her living room. “I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”
Her frown doesn’t budge. “You know, this could be our only opportunity to get into Dad’s things.”
“But we have all night,” I remind her with a hopeful lift of my hand.
Exasperated, she sets off down the hallway, and I trudge along behind her, feeling the brunt of her irritation. I don’t like being on the receiving end of it.
“Clearly, you’re not taking this project seriously.” She shoves through her bedroom door, digging in her heels.
“But I am.” I drop my bag just inside the door and plop onto her bed. “I mean, I want to take it seriously.”
She hooks her fingers into the crook of her crossed arms. “No, you don’t. You’ve made that perfectly clear.”
I bite my lip. “Okay. I don’t.”
“Tell me your idea, then.” She angles her head, peering down her nose. “You didn’t offer one single alternative yesterday, but I’m open to suggestions.”
I lean back on the heels of my hands, looking stupid. She lifts her chin, tilts her frizzy head to one side.
“That’s what I thought,” she concludes after a minute. “If you have nothing to contribute in its place, you don’t get to criticize the current idea.”
With a sigh, I hang my head. Time to weasel my way back into Frankie’s good graces, or it’s going to be a long day.
“You’re right,” I admit. “I’ll try to be more enthusiastic.”
“Thank you.” She swishes past me to her desk and picks up her phone. “Checking my GPS locater. I want to make sure my parents are well out of town before we head to the basement.”
I nod, my eyes scoping Frankie’s room. Her quilt is homemade, and so is her headboard and the desk. The walls are painted light blue and covered in puffy clouds. Not just any clouds either. She has deliberately painted every kind. Cirrus, cumulus, nimbostratus. It could rain in here at any moment.
In the far top corner, she has one exception: a heart-shaped cloud. My stomach tightens. I look at her.
I suppose I should mention that Frankie knows quite a bit about my mostly-speculative-but-potential relationships. And why, you ask? Because she’s a sounding board—the ultimate secret keeper by nature. I never have to preamble a conversation with “Don’t say anything, but…” because I already know she won’t. And I can talk to her about things I don’t necessarily care to discuss with Jonas or Kane. Girl things. Whatever I choose to tell her always stays right here with the cloudy walls. So…
“I kissed Kane last night.”
I spit out the words without thinking about them first. I just need to say it out loud. I need someone to hear it. Frankie swerves her eyes from her phone to me. I keep talking.
“I don’t know why I did it. We were dancing, and the room sort of faded, and I got caught up—”
“You were dancing?” She sits at the desk.
“Yeah.” I flop back flat on her bed and stare at the clouds.
“Well, what did you expect?”
“I didn’t expect to kiss him,” I defend.
“Then apparently, he’s very convincing.” Her voice rises teasingly. “He convinced you to run into his lips.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
I rub at my forehead, annoyed, and roll onto my side to look at her.
“It would help if he didn’t smell so great, you know?”
She puckers with confusion. “Since when does Kane smell better than every other sweaty boy?”
I blink. “You don’t think he smells nice?”
“If machine grease and garlic covered by the fresh scent of soap is your thing, I won’t judge.”
I frown at her poor analysis. But we are talking about Frankie here.
“So what do I do now?”
Frankie lifts a brow, skeptical, and returns her attention to her phone. “You’re asking me? You’re the one who vowed never to fall for him. I know nothing of these games.”
I bite my lip.
“It wasn’t a kiss, per se,” I defend. “More like a half-second peck.”
Frankie scolds me with one look through her lenses. “Lips touched. It was a kiss.”
“You’re not helping.” I sit up. Frankie sets down her phone and folds her fingers together. Here it comes… my lecture.
“Do you like him?”
“Yes. I’ve always liked him. We’re friends.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know.” I sigh, heavy this time. “I mean, he’s great. Any girl would be lucky to have him, but… I’ve never thought of him like that.” I pause a moment, cover my face with my hands. “Until recently. Ugh! I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re thinking of him like that,” she concludes. I blink once. “So what’s the root problem here?”
I think. She waits.
It’s a complicated question, but I’ve mulled over the answer enough to figure it out. First of all, my dad’s death changed me, plain and simple. I might as well have lost my mom too, and this has made me afraid to let myself care too much. I’ve made up all sorts of excuses to push Kane away, but really, to let him come closer means taking a chance at losing him. I can’t let another piece of my heart break. I don’t have enough left to spare.
On the flip side, this isn’t some boy I just met who’s toying with me. He’s Kane. He already has my heart in a way.
Okay… I said it. I can’t think anymore.
“Let’s drop it.” I stand up. “It’s no big deal, and we were fine when I left the club. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” I focus on her. “Now, we’re here to work. Let’s get started.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” She climbs to her feet. “Forget that boys exist and throw yourself into your work.”
Right.
In the kitchen, Frankie unlocks the basement door, and a chill consumes me. The ultimate distraction to get my mind off Kane? Yeah, this’ll work.
Let me interject here.
This isn’t one of those basements turned family den with cozy couches and a big screen TV. It’s just a basement. A creepy, dark, dank hole in the ground. The house was built in the late 1850s, a few years before the Civil War started, so it’s old.
The first few times I came to her house, I thought this was the door to the pantry. Her mother would disappear inside and return with canned foods or jars, so yeah. Made sense. But then, I learned it was a basement and that Frankie’s g
reat grandfather times five used to hide soldiers down there who had defected during the Civil War. A couple of them even died from their wounds. I remember feeling a distinct shiver climb from my tailbone to the base of my neck the first time I went down there with Frankie. I expected to see a blue-clad soldier wrapped in bloody clothes suddenly appear from the shadows. Of course, that didn’t happen, but I peer into the entrance now, and that old rush of fear greets me.
A set of stairs leads downward and disappears into a blanket of darkness until Frankie reaches in and flips a switch on the wall.
“I wish you’d never told me that stupid story about the soldiers,” I breathe.
She grins at me over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Today, the worst that could happen is you might see a spider.”
“Yeah, that makes me feel better.” I shiver.
She skips downward. A tiny amount of light cascades across the first three stairs. I steer clear of the foamy webs that cling to the bricks and follow her down.
The lighting is dim and eerie thanks to a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. I shift, allowing my eyes to adjust. Beneath the bulb sits a table and two chairs. The room is lined with shelves full of dusty and very old books, canned foods, jars full of peaches and sliced apples. Cardboard boxes full of old clothes and Christmas decorations line the back wall. A medium-sized crate sits on the table, top opened, a large padlock clearly broken with a pair of bolt cutters. The letters VuK stare at me from its side in bright, red marker. This is clearly the box of interest. I inch my way to the table, fumbling with my ruby. The smell of dank, rusty pipes and wet wood is strong.
“Seriously, Frankie.” I scoop up the padlock. “You broke into your father’s private things.”
“All in the name of science.” She drags the crate to the edge of the table. “Relax and grab that end.”
We somehow manage to wrangle the heavy box up the cement stairs to the kitchen. It’s risky bringing it up here, and Frankie would have been perfectly content working in the basement, but I’m more than relieved that she didn’t suggest it. And I’ll say it right now: I’d carry ten heavy boxes out of that basement all by myself to keep from having to work among spiders or ghosts or whatever else shifts around in the shadows of creepy basements.
I shrug off a final shiver and close the basement door while Frankie busies herself with digging through the crate.
“So what do we have here?” I ask.
“Information not readily available online.” She waves a couple of documents at me and sets them aside. “A few interesting objects. And this little treasure.”
She holds up a book. It’s worn and faded with two strings hanging over the edges that tie it together.
“What is it?”
“The journal of Randall McNally. Dated 1971. Ireland.”
I peer at it. “An Irish journal from the 70s? That’s pretty cool, actually.”
“It really is.” Frankie clutches the book to her chest. “I read through as much as I could when I first stumbled across the box.”
I pick up a manuscript protected in a plastic covering and take a seat. The title etched in large, black font is “Truth Serum: The real facts about the Phoenix.”
“You said Ademov’s experiments occurred in the 1950s, right?”
“Yes,” Frankie sits. “Which means, McNally’s journal could very well be that of a second generation Fireblood.” She loosens the binding strings and flips open the book. “Listen to this.” Leaning forward, she adjusts her glasses, and reads. “Oy clutched me shotgun closer and edged around the carner of me hoose.” She tosses me a clever smile. “How d’you like me Ayrish?”
“Exceptionally good, lassie.” I giggle.
She continues.
“Gad help me if Oy’m lying, but Oy know what’s been killin’ me cows. It’s a man, nine feet tall and counting, bigger than Oy’ve ever seen. Oy raise me gun in the air and fire. And Gad bless me if it don’t raise its head and look at me loike nothing human. Its oyes are as broight as the moon, and deadly. Before ye know it, it raises two huge wings and takes floight. Roight before me oyes! Bless me!”
“So he claims to have seen one?” My skepticism is thick. Frankie ignores this.
“Apparently so.” She skims the page again before adding. “I’m very optimistic that we can prove this. I simply need to get this journal authenticated. Which might mean a trip to Vegas.”
Frankie stands and rummages through the crate again, but I take another look at the manuscript in my hands.
The Phoenix, it turns out, is an interesting topic. According to the anonymous author of this essay, there are all sorts of birds—real birds—on which each culture bases the Phoenix. Some believe the pink flamingo is the Phoenix, but I don’t see how. I mean, the flamingo is kind of a sissy bird in comparison to a bird of fire. I picture the Phoenix big and strong and dangerous… and definitely not pink. I skim.
In ancient Greek mythology, the Phoenix, the most beautiful bird to ever exist, was considered to be the greatest and the leader among all other birds. It is most widely known for its unique rebirthing method, which allows it to remain immortal.
On another note, some cultures hold that the Phoenix would rise at dawn each morning and sing a song so enchanting that even the sun god was mesmerized by the sounds.
I skip down a couple of paragraphs and something else catches my eye.
The Phoenix has no need for a mate. Although in theory, it can be drawn to another, it is one of the only creatures that is completely self-sufficient. Legend has it that the blood of a Phoenix was often used as an elixir to heal and to bring people back from the dead.
I raise my head.
“Did you know Phoenix blood could raise people from the dead?”
“Yep.” Frankie hides behind a big book entitled In Search of the Bizarre and Fantastical. She lowers it. “Therefore, it would be logical that Firebloods are immortal. Or that they can be revived from death.”
“That’s just creepy,” I mutter. I resume reading.
In some cultures, it is taught that there is only one Phoenix; in others, multiple fire birds are prevalent. However, the few individuals who have reported seeing one have seen just that: one. Therefore, studies have been inclusive as to numbers, and the existence of the Phoenix has remained purely myth.
The most current report of a sighting was by American journalist, Jack Jorgeson, who was researching the extinct Slieve Guillon volcano in Ireland for an upcoming news article in the nineties. He claims the bird was nestled in a rocky crevice, and when he approached to take a photograph, the brilliant bird was startled and flew up into the air in a trail of fire. He snapped several photos, but when developed, all the prints were blackened out, as if burnt. Before that, a Bosnian scientist, Amir Ademov purportedly sighted the Phoenix in Fiji in the early 1950s. Whereabouts as of today are unknown.
I stand and peer into the box. It’s full of smaller boxes, manila envelopes, more documents. And another photo of the winged boy. I pick it up, mesmerized all over again, and I wonder how plausible all of this might be. Then again, it may just be the curiosity talking. Because I hate to admit it, but a very small part of me—and I’m talking miniscule here—wouldn’t mind seeing one of these things.
“So?” Frankie lets the book fall against her chest as she gauges my expression. “What are your initial thoughts?”
“I’m… intrigued, I suppose.”
“I thought you might be.” She stands and pulls out a brown manila envelope sealed with packing tape at one end. “I have yet to open this.”
I take the envelope from her. “What do you think it is?”
“I have no idea, but I can’t wait to find out.”
I flip the envelope over, eying her. “I hope you have a plan to put all this stuff back together after we rip everything apart.”
She smiles and digs into a department store sack, pulling out a brand new padlock and a roll of packing tape. “Covered.”
I shrug.
That works.
Frankie hands me a butter knife, and I slide it along the edge of the envelope until the tape breaks free. I peer inside.
It contains three things.
Frankie comes to her feet and leans over the table to have a look. My fingers barely graze the edge of the opening when she stops me.
“Wait.” She digs through the sack and produces a box of plastic gloves. Ripping it open, she holds out a pair. “Put these on first.”
I slide into the thin gloves.
The first item is a feather, long and red with an iridescent shimmer. It casts a prism across the table. Wide-eyed, we both stare for a minute without saying a word.
“I never expected to find an actual piece of a Fireblood,” Frankie finally whispers.
I’m pretty shocked myself. I run my gloved fingers the length of it; the colors shimmer along the tabletop. It’s magical. Frankie slides on her own gloves and takes it, holding it up in the light.
“This is incredible.” She grabs a clean dishtowel and fans it out, lowering the feather onto it. “I found a book in the Underground Section last week. It contained a chapter on mysterious findings. I saw a feather pictured with this same detailing—right down to the prism reflection.”
She reaches into the envelope and pulls out the next item: a piece of yellowed notebook paper folded into fourths. Slowly, she opens it and lays it next to the feather. I lean in for a closer look.
“What is it?”
“It’s a letter. But—” She turns the paper so I can see. “It’s in an unknown script.”
I take in the strange lettering. The writing contains odd swirls, and even a few hieroglyphic markings. It means nothing to me, and honestly, I don’t think it’s going to be of much value.
