Rise of Ember Quin

Her POV – Ember The mirror in Ember Quin’s room is full-length, cheap plastic rim askew from a tangle with last year’s moving boxes. She angles it against the closet door and assesses her reflection with the measured horror of a biologist peering into a new species of deep-sea toad. Her body is bundled under a navy hoodie two sizes too large, sleeves knotted at the thumbholes. Her thighs, doubly sheathed in leggings and self-loathing, seem to push against the fabric like unbaked bread dough. The hoodie is old, the cuffs pilled and fraying, the chest screenprint faded to a ghost of its former irony: I’M NOT LAZY, I’M ON ENERGY-SAVING MODE. She’s counting the minutes—no, the seconds—until Rae Albright descends on the sanctuary of her room and peels back the layers like a forensic pathologist at a crime scene. She stares at herself, trying to see beyond the hoodie. Ember knows, in some rational way, that her body is just a body. It eats, it metabolizes, it contains blood. But in the mirror’s warping truth, it’s a collection of missteps and soft failures, each curve a rebuke to the memory of her mother’s bony wrists or the geometry of girls in department store ads. She’s tugging at the pouch of her stomach, flattening it with her palm and then letting it go, letting it rebound like a slapstick belly. She mouths a phrase she once read online: This is the only body you get. She wonders if that’s meant to be comforting. The door handle jiggles, then swings open with a thud. “Amber Alert!” Rae’s voice bounces off the painted cinderblock walls, impossible to ignore. “I come bearing the gift of sick party vibes and possibly the best eyeliner you’ve ever seen.” Ember’s cousin stands in the doorway, grinning wide enough to show the gap between her incisors, hair streaked with freshly applied magenta that still smells faintly of peroxide and rebellion. Rae is already dressed for the evening: crop top with mesh sleeves, high-waisted jeans surgically tailored to her gymnast’s hips, a gold chain with a pendant shaped like a crescent moon. She moves like a grenade that’s been rolling for three seconds. Ember slides her hands into the hoodie’s pouch and hunches. “Isn’t it, like, ninety degrees out?” Rae flops onto the bed, bouncing twice. “Fashion is pain, babe. Let’s see what we’re working with. Up.” She gestures, a magician’s flourish. Reluctantly, Ember stands, keeping the hoodie zipped to the chin. Rae springs up and starts pawing through the closet with all the decorum of a raccoon in a salad bar. Ember’s wardrobe is a study in defense mechanisms: dark colors, long sleeves, shapeless tunics, a single vintage dress she bought on eBay and never wore. Rae flips through hangers at warp speed, making disapproving noises—tsk, meh, ugh—until she finds a red t-shirt dress buried behind a winter coat. She holds it up like a prize. “This. With your legs? Jackson won’t be able to take his eyes off you.” Rae smirks. “Unless you want him to stare at that hoodie and think you’re secretly hiding twins.” “I don’t—” Ember tries to snatch the dress away, but Rae is already peeling the hoodie off her shoulders, gentle but relentless. “There’s a person under here!” Rae says, triumphant, as she reveals Ember’s bare arms and dimpled biceps. Ember flushes, then crosses her arms across her chest, defensive and petulant. “Stop,” she mutters. “Seriously.” Rae backs off a step, hands up, but her expression softens. “Sorry. I just… you’re beautiful, Em. I know you can’t see it, but you will. Promise.” Ember sits heavily on the bed, twisting the red dress in her lap. “What if nobody else sees it?” she asks, voice half-swallowed. “Then they’re idiots.” Rae grins, crumples up beside her, and leans in until their shoulders touch. “But Jackson is not an i***t. Jackson is hot, and hot people see everything.” Ember almost laughs, almost. Instead, she allows Rae to coax her into the dress. It’s stretchy, clings to her chest and hips in a way that feels too loud, like wearing a neon sign. Ember tugs at the hem, pulling it lower. It fights back, snapping into place mid-thigh. She tries to turn away from the mirror but Rae positions her in front of it, placing both hands on her shoulders. “Look,” Rae says, eyes meeting hers in the glass. “You’re stunning.” Ember’s cheeks are blotched with red. “I look like a traffic cone.” “Good,” says Rae. “Better than a speed bump.” They laugh, but Ember’s hands are cold and trembling as she smooths the dress against her thighs. Rae notices, of course. Rae always notices. “You okay?” Rae asks, squinting at her like an optometrist. Ember shrugs. “I don’t know. My stomach is… fighting me.” Rae stands, fetches a tube of BB cream and a well-loved makeup brush from her purse. She settles back and tilts Ember’s chin upward. “Let me work my magic. Distraction always helps.” Ember closes her eyes and lets Rae go to work. The brush tickles, smells faintly of vanilla and something chemical. Rae’s hands are deft, feather-light, unafraid of Ember’s jawline or the bump in her nose. They fall into an old rhythm: Ember holds still, Rae chatters. “So, here’s what you missed in the group chat,” Rae begins, reciting the evening’s guest list with the breathless urgency of someone reporting an alien landing. “Jackson is coming, obviously. He texted me at, like, two a.m. last night, ‘Is Ember coming or what?’ with a fire emoji, so that’s promising. Plus, Molly is bringing tequila and the new kid—guy’s name is Dimitri, but I bet he goes by something cooler. Also, rumor has it Lexi and Finn broke up for real this time, so we’re maybe due for some nuclear drama.” Ember hums, letting the words wash over her, trying to focus on the gentle tug of mascara wand, the pleasant numbness of her face transforming under Rae’s touch. She wants to believe Rae. She wants to believe anyone. When Rae steps back, she holds up her phone as a surrogate mirror. “Damn, I’m good. Who is she?” Ember peeks, half-expecting to see a clown. The girl on the screen is not a joke. Her skin is even, her eyes huge, lips glossy but understated. Her hair—usually left to mat in a bun—has been coaxed into loose waves. She looks… intentional. Like someone who woke up and made choices. Ember’s phone buzzes, a small earthquake in her palm. She unlocks it and sees a text from Jackson. “see u there.” That’s all. Lowercase, no emoji, no punctuation except the essential. She wants to screenshot it and ask Rae, Is this what interest looks like? Instead she locks the phone and places it on the comforter, watching as Rae dabs glitter onto her collarbone, as if preparing her for some kind of initiation rite. Rae talks, Ember nods, but the sound is distant, filtered through layers of static. She’s thinking about the party—who will be there, how many times she’ll have to fake-laugh, what Jackson will say when he sees her in red instead of navy blue. She wonders if he’ll even notice. The anxiety grows roots in her gut. Ember’s hands shake so hard she has to clench her fists to still them. Her breathing comes shallow, quick, like she’s already running a race she didn’t enter. She checks her reflection again, searching for something—approval, maybe, or just proof of existence. She tugs at the hem. The dress gives a little, then springs back. Rae sweeps hair off Ember’s shoulder, pins it with a bobby pin pulled from her own mouth. “Perfect,” she pronounces, as if the question has a right answer. Ember nods, but the word perfect rings in her ears like a dare. She stands, arms wrapped around her ribs, and looks at the mirror for a long time. She can hear Rae reciting the plan—drive over, make an entrance, stay for at least an hour—but Ember is drifting, her mind slipping sideways into the future, seeing the party as a series of missteps already queued up. Her phone vibrates again. This time it’s a notification from i********:, a post from someone she barely knows: group selfie, bodies tight and faces stretched wide with the effort of looking like they belong. She imagines herself inserted into the frame, tries to visualize what her face would look like next to Jackson’s. She can’t. Rae loops her arm through Ember’s. “Let’s go kick ass, shall we?” Ember forces a smile, inhaling the smell of Rae’s perfume—sharp, floral, optimistic—and lets herself be led out the door, down the stairs, toward a night that feels less like a beginning and more like a tightrope. She doesn’t look back at the mirror. She knows it’s still there, watching.