Among the Flames

by Lya Lively

  His gaze lowered and I knew he was sizing me up. That’s right, asshole. I could body slam you without breaking a sweat.

  “Alright, well. My shifts over in an hour. I could call up a cab if yuh’ need one?”

  “You this friendly to all of your customers are are you too chicken shit to kick me out?” I replied, my head on the precipice of combusting. “I’m leaving. Don’t worry. Just pour the drinks.”

  I finished draining the amber liquid back my throat in silence while I crumpled the napkin in my fist just before throwing down a tip and turning to walk out, the fire of my anger still raging inside of me.

  “Hey man-,” the bartender called out to me again.

  I turned to acknowledge him but said nothing as I shoved the paper into my pocket.

  “You sure you’re alright?” But what he was really asking was, Am I gonna get in trouble for serving a minor because you have a chip on your shoulder?

  I looked down at the time on my phone to see that there were no notifications, “What do you care?” Give me a reason to kick your ass, I thought while smiling, please. I needed an outlet, something to quiet the angry voice inside of my head, my voice calling me a fool for subjecting myself to her.

  But the bartender only nodded and went back to wiping his dirty rag over the bar. I muttered a string of expletives under my breath as I shoved open the door and stepped out into the muggy night air.

  Hayden

  I awoke to a dull thudding in my head as I glanced at my alarm clock. “Great,” I mumbled to myself as I wiped the sleep from my eyes. I’d napped most of the day away. I glanced suspiciously at my locked door before I shed my clothing from last night.

  The air in the room was cold. I hadn’t realized how overheated I was, cocooned in the thick comforter until I felt the dampness on my clothing.

  Undressed, I made my way over to the bathroom, for once taking the time to notice the subtle softness of the carpet beneath my toes; it was a slightly darker shade of tan than the bed sheets, but someone had made a clear effort to make the place feel like home.

  I pressed up on the balls of my feet to look at my full face in the bathroom mirror as I pulled my auburn hair up into a ponytail. I wasn’t short, just under five and a half feet, but the mirror was hung for someone who was obviously taller. I wondered if it had been that way when my roommate moved in, or it had been raised for them. Perhaps Cameron had used this room from time to time.

  I sank back to the heels of my feet and glanced down at the chipped pink paint on my toes before my gaze locked on my small stomach that protruded slightly with delicate indents where abs would be if I just pushed myself a little harder. I should take up jogging again. It would be a great way to learn my way around the city if I didn’t die from the heat. I caught sight of the little yellowing bruise below my right knee from when I tripped finding the way to Eric’s house late one night not long ago. It was still tender but would go unnoticed by others, especially if I spent a little time in the sun. The thought of making it out to one of the islands along the coast made me smile. It was nice not to be landlocked any longer, and I hoped to take full advantage of the warm breeze and salty waves.

  I turned the sink knob slowly as I thought of Eric. We’d known each other since we were both two awkward, uncomfortably smart children of the third grade. I started Greenstone Elementary late in the year of second grade, right around when my mom started having issues, but it was still too early to tell exactly what was going on with her. My only best friend that year was Miss Kim, who unfortunately passed away of cancer in seventh grade.

  Eric Fisher moved to Hanover early in the third grade. He kept to himself, opting to read books at recess instead of playing with the rest of the children. It was evident he was raised differently than the rest of us, but no one bothered to ask him where he’d come from. Every day he brought his lunch to school in a brown paper bag, and it smelled like death. The other kids would sit several seats away from him, claiming he was a zombie, and the bag contained pieces of dead bodies.

  One day, about halfway through the year, they dared me to sit near him. I placed my tray two seats down from his and sat down as I began to eat in silence, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he pulled a container from his bag and began to dig into his dish. He flipped the lid of his bowl upside down and began to scoop the noodle mixture out before sliding it over to me. He said he knew that the other kids thought he was a zombie, and if I wanted to show them I was fearless, I would eat some of his mother’s goulash. We ate lunch together every day since and even eight years later, his mother’s noodle scramble was one of my favorite foods.

  I cupped my hands full of the still running water, rubbed it on my face gingerly to embrace the warm liquid, and then shut the sink off. I glanced up, taking in my still too tired appearance before looking away.

  It was too much; just seeing me was too much. I could dye and cut my hair, change my style, move to a land far away with different people, but I will never be able to change what happened. Wasn’t that the point? To change it until it didn’t hurt anymore?

  I grabbed my toothbrush from the small blue cup on the back of the sink and squeezed a small dollop of toothpaste over the head. I scrubbed violently, the bristles grinding their way through my enamel probably disastrously so; I didn’t care. I want it all to be over. I want to be able to see my reflection under a dim light and not know who the Hell was looking back at me.

  I rinsed my mouth out quickly with a handful of cold water, running out of the bathroom to find something to wear for the day that wouldn’t scream Northerner. I flipped carelessly through my limited stacks of laundry; I was almost successfully distracted. Almost.

  A slight glance at the t-shirt my father had bought me on a father-daughter road trip to get my license made my heart sink. Halfway to the DMV, I spilled a blue drink on the shirt I was wearing while we had been jamming out to Johnny Cash. We stopped at a store that was part gas station/grocery store/flea market all in one, where he’d gotten me a hunter’s Daughter boxy-tee so I wouldn’t look like a complete slob in my photo, even though they only take a picture from the neck up.

  The thought of my dad and I triggered a mix of emotions that twisted in the pit of my stomach. Visions of him appeared like they do in the movies, scenes fading to black only to be revived in a different location and time. Only now my brain focused on the minute details, the seemingly unimportant gestures, and glances. How had I missed them at the moment?

  Only this time, as I was thrust back into my past, I wasn’t being drowned in a lack of consciousness; I was being awoken.

  ***

  The AC blasted against my face causing tremors to shoot goosebumps down my arms. I shut it off quickly, “It’s too cold in here.”

  “Well,” my father replied in his trademark sarcastic tone, “we are only driving on a mountain.”

  “Yeah,” I whined jokingly. “But it’s supposed to be spring.”

  “The snow waits for no man,” he replied, staring ahead as he navigated the winding road.

  “Ahem.” I glared over at the side of his weathered face. “Dad, I’m not a man.”

  He laughed but still didn’t glance in my direction.

  The snow turned to sludge, piling up along the sides of the road. Dad was quiet, seemingly invested deeply in his thoughts, so I turned up the radio and changed the station to a random comedian.

  Within minutes the small space was filled with quiet chuckles; not because of what the comedians were saying but our interpretations and corresponding inside jokes that significantly raised the hilarity of the otherwise bland situation.

  The sharp, intense stabbings lessened to just the areas of my face where my vents aimed. The squealing, in fact, was an eruption of my own bubbly excited laughter. And then I heard the familiar laughing that would’ve otherwise stopped my heart and cause me to burst into tears on the spot, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. While it was all too real, it was still no more than memory that
will be forever engrained in the deeper parts of my mind.

  “Woah,” he laughed. “Quiet down; you’re gonna cause an avalanche,” Dad teased.

  “You’re a jerk,” I yelled back while continuing to laugh at my high-pitched laughter. It ranged somewhere between the maniacal laughter of an evil genius, and a bumbling idiot.

  ***

  Instantaneously the scene shifted, and I was sitting in the driver seat, a stranger relaxed beside me. Her hair was knotted into a loose ponytail, a pink button-up shirt over blue knee-length shorts.

  ***

  “Okay, you’ve got to back up without hitting the cones in four moves. You can use less, but if you use more you automatically fail.” She said, so comfortable the clipboard seemed more like an accessory choice.

  I flipped on my turn signal and held my body at an uncomfortable angle against the corner of her seat so that I could see the cones behind me. In two moves I was in the spot, but out of nerves I asked her dumbly, “Can I still pull forward?”

  Sarcasm bled from her tone so casually you could’ve sworn it was nothing more than a language to her she spoke naturally. “Well, you had four moves, and you made two; what’s four minus two? Hmm, that’s two. So do you think you still have any more moves?” She was smiling, her tone lighthearted and joking, but it was just enough to turn my cheeks a bright red.

  “Alright, ma’am,” I said mimicking her tone respectively. “Now, I don’t need your sass. I get it, but a simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed.”

  She laughed causing me to relax.

  “Well, I mean, it’s so simple.” She was still laughing to herself when I finished pulling forward; sure my vehicle was perfectly aligned.

  “I just wanted to be sure,” I had said before I beeped the horn to signal that I was finished.

  “Perfect! You’re in the lines,” she announced when she got back in the car, and then she told me to pull back around by the front of the DMV. I pulled back by smoothly, eyeing the string of building fronts hoping to give Dad the big thumbs up, but I couldn’t find him.

  ***

  The scene changed again, one memory bleeding into the next like ink on a soggy paper. We now sat solemnly in a restaurant only a couple blocks away from our hotel that we were staying in so Dad could meet up with a client in the morning. In front of me were a large, flat bowl of Chicken Noodle Soup and a small mug of Hot Chocolate. Across the table was my dad sipping at his coke, his expression bordered disappointment and sympathy.

  ***

  “I know you didn’t make it, sweetie; I’m really sorry. I wanted you to pass too.” He said as he took a few more bites of his burger, bacon spilling from the sides.

  I pushed around the noodles aimlessly, my shoulders hunched. I said nothing.

  “Man, I thought you were kidding.” He chuckled lightly. “Man,” He sounded so disappointed, and then he took another sip of his soda.

  After I had taken my test I told him, “I didn’t pass.” And he, of course, thought I was joking because I had studied for weeks.

  “Well,” he broke the uncomfortable silence of me desperately trying not to break down and cry. “Finish up,” he glanced over at the hostess counter, light brown hair with flecks of white in a ratty mess. Over his small-framed glasses, because he left his black ones at home; he looked a bit like an evil scientist. “I’m gonna go get some stuff and then we’re gonna head out of here. Next time, Kiddo.” He patted my head, a sudden smile crossing his dry mouth. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  He went up to pay the bill, laughing at something the hostess had said to him. Occasionally they would glance at me; he was probably telling her about how I was only one stop sign away from passing. She almost looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her face.

  ***

  When the memory faded, replaced by the harsh loneliness of reality, I wanted to scream. Part of me wished I could just forget my family ever existed so I wouldn’t have to relive the memory of them.

  I pushed the horribly selfish thought to the back of my mind as I pulled on my ruffled black top and a pair of skinny jeans with matching jean flats.

  I was still a mess, but with proper finger combing of my hair and a bit of mascara, I looked casually messy. Thank God for hipster-style teenage trend things. I grabbed my guitar, in its case, from beside the nightstand and slung it over my shoulder.

  I sat my fedora on top of my head, my arms feeling naked without the comfort of my jacket, but the last thing I wanted was to pass out from heat exhaustion again today.

  I reached into the mesh pocket inside the lid of my suitcase and fumbled through it with my fingers until they brushed up against some travel cash left over. I only had $300 left for on-hand expenses like bus, cab, or food. It’s previous purpose was gambling money for Eric and my late-night secret poker games with his older brother, Sam.

  I only started out with $20, I thought, smirking mischievously.

  My anxiety was almost completely forgotten, only until I was forced to face the bedroom door.

  I could just stay inside, I thought stubbornly. My roommate hasn’t even met me yet; and if I hid long enough, maybe I wouldn’t ever have to face him.

  It was all so very persuasive. I could just keep running, I thought wildly, no one would ever have to find me. I would never see Eric again... At this I gripped the doorknob with delicately callused fingers. No one would ever have to know I exist!

  And then I turned the knob.

  FOUR

  Hayden

  Cameron lounged on the sofa parallel from my bedroom door; his head adorned with a headset/microphone. His eyes glazed over, and the faint smell of marijuana lingered in the air as his long fingers tapped relentlessly on a classic controller.

  He shouted something vulgar at the television, my first response, of course, was to squeal and jump backward nearly losing my footing. “Oh, sorry,” He chuckled.

  I laughed too, both eyebrows raised. “No, it’s fine. Good job, I guess.” My fingers tied themselves together in front of my stomach.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, his eyes never breaking from the game.

  “No problem,” I replied, rocking back-and-forth from toe to heal. “Is your brother back yet?”

  I waited, watching him physically tear himself from the screen. “Not yet, should be soon, though,” He smiled, and there was something behind it, perhaps amusement, but I couldn’t quite discern it. Whatever it was, it was making me increasingly nervous to meet my new roommate.

  “Okay. I’m just gonna head out, see some sites, get comfortable with the place,” I replied, but Cameron had already locked his attention back onto the screen. I picked $25 from my stash and sat the money on the table, beneath the apples. “Rent’s on the table, under the fruit.”

  “Alright, later.” He replied halfheartedly. I shouldn’t have expected anything more or less; I compared the reaction to mine when songwriting. It was something that required passion and attention.

  “What the hell was that?” He yelled in frustration, signaling to me that it was time to go.

  ***

  On my way out to the elevator, I tried to decide what I wanted to be doing for the remainder of the day. I needed to get myself a phone for emergencies. Once I met my roommate, we would probably need to exchange that information seeing that he never seemed to be home.

  Wait, ‘home?’ Was that the actual word I used to describe the place I’ve only spent one night in?

  I smiled to myself as I thought about how I’d gotten lucky enough only to pay half the rent but basically, be living alone. But then I remembered Cameron on the couch, screaming at the television.

  The only time I remember getting out of the house to hang out with friends was when my mother would have her fits of frustration that would send her on an unbelievably aggressive rampage. It was almost like she was a completely different person altogether.

  My thoughts were cut short when I ran into someone, bouncing off their muscular chest like I’
d hit a wall.

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologized instinctively as I tried to catch my balance. My voice came across shaky, but it didn’t seem like he noticed or cared. In fact, had I not spoken, I was sure he wouldn’t have even had realized he had nearly plowed me over. I glanced up at him, ready to tell him to watch where he was going next time but I bit back the obscenity when I noticed the pensive look on his face. Clearly, he was not having a good day.

  Everything about him was physical perfection from his messy coal-black hair to his chiseled features and strong jawline. I could feel myself beginning to blush, and I hoped he assumed it was from the unrelenting heat.

  “It’s fine,” he bit out, distracted with something that furrowed his eyebrows, narrowing his gray eyes that were flanked by thick lashes. “No big deal,” he pointed his finger over my shoulder, “See you around.”

  I glanced to the smattering of dried blood across his knuckles. Before I could respond, he was already slipping around me, and I turned to watch him walk off before shaking my head.

  I could feel the anger bubbling up inside me when he didn’t apologize and the generic way he’d blown me off, and then out of nowhere, “Well, I’m Hayden. It was nice meeting you too. Can’t wait to run into you again,” I blurted out as my frustration got the best of me. I shook my head, mumbling a curse under my breath when the guy stopped. “Shit.”

  “Noah,” He called back as he turned around and smiled, clearly amused by my outburst. He took two giant steps back toward me and extended his large hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  I looked at him questionably, glancing back and forth between his hand and his narrowed eyes. Taking a couple of slow steps forward, I slid my hand against his rough palm and squeezed it gently.

  I couldn’t help but stare at his smoke-colored eyes. Realizing that I was leering, I looked down quickly. Across his chest written in white was the name Johnny Cash. He pulled his hand away and cleared his throat.