Phoenix Reborn (Woodland Creek)(13)

It’s in your hands, she told herself. Literally.

For a moment she focused her thoughts and energy on one particular spot on the wall, trying to imagine what it might be like to burn a hole through it.

But nothing happened.

She tried to recall what she’d felt that night in the woods; to become angry, to create hostility towards the concrete barrier as she’d felt towards the boy she’d nearly killed. But still, nothing. Well, it had been years since she’d actually started any sort of fire. Maybe her powers had reduced themselves to a talent for melting silver.

And then her parents came into her mind. Thoughts of their faces, now fuzzy in her memory. Of how they’d left her behind without a word. How they’d deserted her, as though she were nothing more than an old newspaper.

Spiced tears welled up in her eyes and she felt her face contort into a combination of rage and hurt. The betrayal, the desire to scream at invisible people whom she could never access.

Seconds later, her arms were extended, palms up. Her hands glowed a series of orange, red and yellow streams. Ashling cried out.

“Why did you leave me alone?”

With that word, she flung her right hand towards the wall. A ball of flame flew at it, temporarily igniting the concrete.

“Why?”

It was her left hand now, flinging another red orb which exploded in a circle of flame against the wall.

She looked to her right and then her left. In each hand, another fireball had formed, hovering silently over her palms.

All her life she’d feared this. This power, uncontrolled. And yet in that moment she was learning to control it. Curiosity overtook rage. She stared at the orb, which rotated in slow, delicate circles, waiting for her signal.

And then she sealed her hand into a fist, cutting off the supply of oxygen. Then the other hand curled into a tight little ball.

They were gone. The fire was gone, and with it her rage. Ashling was at peace, if only temporarily.



* * *



In Drake’s Diner, Ashling found herself sitting the next afternoon, a book lying open before her. Her date with Hawke was several hours off, and this was her best attempt to distract herself, to calm her nerves.

She pretended to be absorbed in the book’s pages even as her ears wandered to the nearby conversations of people far more sociable than herself. For whatever reason, Drake’s was the afternoon gossip venue of choice for women in the same way that bars were for men — though men liked to pretend that they weren’t gossips; they were “shit shooters,” and their own subject matter tended to be more grave and important than women’s. Or so they liked to tell themselves as they discussed how the football team’s newest quarterback was doing.

The place was abuzz, women chattering in every corner. Their eyes were wide, voices animated. Every female in the joint, regardless of age or marital status, was excited. This was the best thing that had happened in Woodland Creek, well, ever.

“Did you hear? He’s come back. Hawke Turner is here, in town.”

“They say he used to come in here to eat. Maybe he’s looking for a coffee. Oh my God, we could get his autograph.”

“If he gave me his autograph, I’d never wash my pen again.”

This last sentence was uttered by a young woman that Ashling recognized as Jennifer Mitchell, who was a year older, had been a cheerleader in high school and who would have sold her soul for a chance to sink her teeth into the most popular boy around. Still, in her mid-twenties, she had the mentality that popularity was the key to gaining the unwavering respect of her peers.

Unable to resist, Ashling turned and stared at her.

“You went to school with him,” she said. “We all did. Why on earth would you want his autograph?” She realized how antagonistic the question was as soon as she’d uttered it, but it was too late to take it back.

“Because he’s famous,” Jen replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I knew him when he was a nobody. Much like you’ve remained, Fire Girl.”

A few nearby pals snickered.

“Fire Girl,” said Ashling. “It’s funny; my name used to be Ashling, but I’ve now changed it legally to Fire Girl. It’s on my birth certificate, even, though the state made my parents spell it with a P-h instead of an F. They said it made it more exotic.”

Jen sneered. “Didn’t your parents run off years ago? I seem to recall that they left you with that weird old geezer, Ranach.”

“My parents are dead, if you must know,” said Ashling, rising, her coffee in hand. She made her way to the door, exhaling as she opened it. The temptation to dump the coffee into Jen’s lap was great. Control, she reminded herself. Control.

“If you do see Hawke,” said Jen, ignoring the statement, “Send him here for a chat. Not that he’d ever speak to you.”

“No,” said Ashling, her back to her attacker. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. I’m sure that he’d never ask me on a date, either.”

With that, she allowed the door to close behind her, smiling broadly. It was the first time in her life that she’d managed a proper dig at one of the “pops,” the popular girls who’d made her life miserable through the interminable high school years. The girls who were now women, and no kinder than they had been eight years earlier.