Kiss of Fire (Imdalind, #1)(2)
I jumped off my long board as I approached his house. If he heard the clicking of it against the sidewalk, he might throw another fit; that is, of course, if Mrs. Nose-Against-The-Window hadn’t already put in a call. I looked up the long driveway as I stepped in front of the gate. Only the gray Rolls-Royce lay parked against the side of the house, causing my heart to fall—no bright yellow Lotus. Ryland wasn’t home yet.
I hopped back on my long board to roll down the side of the house; my somewhat good mood dashed by the absence of my best friend. Who cared if King Edmund got mad at me for making a racket?
I crashed into the kitchen, the slam of the door disrupting the 70s music that my mother and Mette, the LaRue’s baker, were listening to. Plopping myself onto one of the many bar stools surrounding the long work surfaces, I placed my head on my arms and covered my face as much as I could with my hood.
“Happy Birthday, Joclyn!” my mom said. I only grunted as I attempted to cover my head with my hoodie. “How was school?”
“Fine,” I answered into the countertop.
“Fancy that,” Mette said in her rich, Irish accent. “She can almost disappear into the table. Must be a trick learned when one turns sixteen.”
I grumbled nonsense at them again and covered my head with my arms, trying to ignore the laughter of the two women.
“Not funny,” I growled.
“Hello, in there! Joclyn, can you hear me?” My mother lifted the side of my hood as she called into it, and I tried not to smile. “Well, I think she’s done it! She has melded into the sweatshirt and become one with it.”
“That will make it easier to wash her, that will.”
“Not funny.” I tried not to sound amused, but I don’t think it worked. My mother snorted so loudly it reverberated off the pristine marble countertops.
“I’ll just throw her in the washing machine, then a little bleach, lots of detergent, and the skateboard can go in the dumpster.”
“Hey! It’s a long board, and it’s the only way I get around! Unless you bought me a car. Did you buy me a car?” I shot up like a light, my face breaking out into an eager grin.
“There she is,” Mom laughed, throwing a present at me. “Happy Birthday, honey! Sorry, no car this year.”
“She lives. She lives. Praise the Lord! I thought for a second we would have to call a priest to exorcise her from the sweater,” Mette laughed, her red bun bobbing on top of her large, round head. “Happy Birthday, dearie.”
My mom nudged the present at me again, prompting me to open it. Her eyes were sparkling with that eager anticipation she always got about gift-giving. The package was a good size, but lumpy and squishy. Clothes. Clothing had been an issue with my mother and me since that darned mark showed up on my face and chased my dad away. I preferred to hide the mark, and myself.
She thought I should show the world how beautiful I was. I guess she might be right; I could be seen as the epitome of the fair-skinned, dark-haired beauty with some form of ethereal features. My mom fawned over my bone structure and perfectly-formed eyebrows that just grew that way. But, when I looked in the mirror, I only saw a skinny girl who wasn’t quite good enough. My mom obviously saw something different. She liked to give me blue shirts to highlight my black hair, or green belts to set off the silver of my eyes, or so she said. All I saw were vivid colors or an obvious lack of fabric that would make me stand out.
For years my mom kept trying to convince herself that my choice of baggy, dark-colored clothes was a stage that I would outgrow. I always found a way to hide myself; I kept my black hair long and falling in a sheet around my face, my clothes always dark and at least a size too big. It was all done in a way to help me blend in so people wouldn’t notice me. I felt comfortable inside my safety shield, hoping that no one could see me or figure out what was wrong with me. When the Goth kids showed up at school, it worked to my advantage. My mom, for once, thought I was trying to be cool, but I wasn’t overly emotional or narcissistic like they appeared to be. I just wanted to disappear.
“Go on,” Mom prodded. “Open it.”
I sighed before ripping off the paper. It was a deep red shirt, embroidered with some beads and fabric flowers. There was no denying it was pretty. It even looked like one of the things I wished I could wear, if only I felt comfortable doing so.
“Just try it on, Joclyn.” My mom danced around in her white kitchen shoes. How in the world could I say no to that?
I dragged my feet all the way to the bathroom with the red shirt sticking out of the arm of the hoodie my hands were hiding in. I put on the shirt, cursing the fact that my mother could tell what size I was even through my purposely too big clothes. It was snug, but not too tight.
I stared at myself in the mirror for a second, looking through the tunnel of dark hair. I looked so different in the shirt, almost pretty. Without thinking, I pulled my hair up into a pony tail, just to see what it would look like, but the mark stood out so vividly; its ugly shape stuck out right behind and below my right ear. I twisted my hair and pulled it around the side, twisting it down the side of my neck. The low twist covered it easily, but I still didn’t trust it. Part of me wished I could dress like this, but I could never tell my mother that.
I looked in the mirror a second too long, trying to figure out a way to get out of this. Even if I said it was too small, my mom would insist I show her anyway. Best to get it over with. I sighed just a little bit before leaving the bathroom, knowing that Mette and my mom would fawn over me. I closed my eyes so that I wouldn’t have to see my mom dance around with excitement again. The door clicked open, and I stood there, eyes closed, waiting for it to come.