Touch The Fire

“ Storms don't just break things. Sometimes, they bring what's buried straight to the surface. ” *** Thunder rolls overhead like the sky is cracking open and thick gray clouds smother any trace of sunlight. Welcome to Wildecliff, I guess. First day of school and already the weather is threatening to wash us out. A warm gust curls around my ankles, lifting dead leaves into a lazy dance around our feet as Margot and I walk along the edge of our new life. Again. I breathe in deep. The humid air smells damp and earthy, like rain, moss, and that strange new town feeling. I roll my shoulders back, trying to shake off the tension that's settled there, but it clings on, stubborn as ever. I can't remember the last time my body was completely relaxed and stress free. How depressing is that. I've lost track of how many schools I've started at. How many times I've stood at the edge of a campus with Margot at my side and a hollow feeling in my chest. Always packing, always unpacking. And always, always starting over. I think I stopped counting after town five. All thanks to Dad's job, his brilliant, important, ever moving job. He's uprooted us more times than I can count, dragging us across states like suitcases. Never long enough to settle. Never long enough to make friends. Not that I mind being alone, I actually prefer it. But that's not the point. The point is, every time he says, "This is the last move, Clara." I believe him a little less. This time, he hasn't said anything at all. Which tells me everything I need to know. A quiet sniffle draws my attention down. Margot's cheeks glisten with tears. She wipes at them quickly, like maybe I won't notice. But I always notice. I crouch beside her and pull her into my arms, wrapping her up tight like I can shield her from the world. Maybe if I hold her close enough, it'll keep the bad things out. Probably not, but I can only try. "You don't need to cry over what happened," I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It was an accident" "But you got in trouble because of me," she says, staring down at her shoes. "No." I stand, brushing dirt from my knees. "I got in trouble because I've got a big mouth and don't know when to shut it." We start walking, leaves crunching underfoot. My mind won't stop replaying this morning. The yelling. The vase. The way Lucinda's voice dropped into that calm, sharp edged register, not screaming, never screaming, just sharp enough to cut. Margot had rushed through the kitchen, rushing to get ready for school, and knocked the vase over by accident. It shattered across the floor. I tried to speak. Just said what I was thinking, that the stupid "heirloom" vase, the one no one cared about until it shattered, looked like something from a secondhand shop. I even kept my voice light. Sarcastic, not angry. And just like that, all Lucinda's frustration redirected, from Margot to me. Lucinda's hand clamped around my arm, deceptively tight, her nails biting into skin. Her face never changed, calm, composed, but her grip bruised deep. She leaned in, hissed through her teeth about "respect" and "consequences" while dragging me toward the mess. "Clean it up," she said. "Since you're so good at tearing things apart." She didn't shout. She didn't need to. It was cold. Controlled. And it always happened when Richard wasn't in the room. My arm still throbs. Beneath the turtleneck I threw on after, the bruises are blooming, delicate and purple like petals from a dying flower. My tights are in the bin. The cuts along my legs from where I knelt on broken porcelain sting with every step, but I don't limp. Limping would raise questions. Lucinda doesn't hit like in the movies. No slaps, no screams. She wounds you in ways no one would think to look for. And when Richard asks what happened? I'll say I tripped. I'd do it again. A thousand times. If it meant keeping Margot safe, I'd take every bruise, every cut, every scream, if it meant that she was out of harm's way. A sharp c***k yanks me out of the memory. I look up just in time to see lightning tear through the sky, like it's ripping the world in half, and slam into the road ahead of us. We freeze. Just for a second. Did that actually happen? "I think there's something on the ground," Margot says, squinting at the scorched pavement. "It's nothing," I say quickly. Too quickly. I don't want to scare her. Talk about divine timing. If I hadn't stopped to comfort her, I'm positive that would of been us charcoaled to crisp rather than the pavement. The hairs on the back of my neck heckle at the thought, and an ice cold shiver runs up my spine. Don't get me wrong, I love chaotic, stormy weather that's capable of ripping a town apart. A weird calmness tends to come over me. Perhaps that's because I'm usually tucked away inside, bundled under one to many blankets and a hot chocolate, observing mother nature behind a protection of bricks and thick glass. Maybe I wouldn't be a good storm chaser after all. Dream crushed. We don't linger. A few more minutes and we're at the school gates. Middle school for Margot, high school for me. They're side by side, which is convenient, if I need to get to her fast. "I'll wait by that brick wall over there," I point to the edge of the car park in front of the high schools lawned area, where some teens have grouped up. "What if it's pouring down?" Margot knits her brows together, concern written between the two lines. "Then I'll still be there." I give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. All though Margot is the more extroverted out of the two of us, everytime we start fresh, she creeps a little more into her shell, shying away from the world. Becoming more and more like, well, myself. Closed off, and it kills me everytime I can physically see her retreat. I give her a playful shove, hoping to ignite her wild energy. She runs off, and is immediately swallowed by a group of girls in matching pink sneakers. I watch her for a moment, relief blooming in my chest. Maybe this won't be so bad. That's when I hear it. The engine. Low, deep, rumbling like a threat. I turn just in time to see a black vintage car flying toward me. It's not slowing down. I don't think. I don't panic. Crackling energy that always pulses beneath my skin surges forward, zipping from my chest to my fingertips, heating my skin to a dull simmer. Time stretches thin. I flex my fingers. And just like that, the car screech to a halt, inches from my knees. I stare at the hood. One inch. Maybe less. If I hadn't— Rage floods through me. I lift my head and lock eyes with the driver. He looks... bored. Like he's waiting for a light to change. Like he didn't just almost kill me. I take in the sun bleached curls, the tanned skin, the way he leans back in the seat so carelessly as if he didn't almost commit vehicular homicide. How there is no remorse on his face is beyond me. The girl beside him, Margot's age, maybe—older—glares at him, clearly not impressed. And then he honks the horn. Unbelievable. I fold my arms across my chest and raise an eyebrow. If you only knew what I could do to you. He pushes his aviators down the bridge of his nose and revs the engine again. The message is clear: Move. I don't. "Nice entrance, asshole!" I shout, before storming off toward the school building, feeling my blood fizzing like soda in my veins. I don't look back. I can't. I need to keep my temper in check, or I'll accidentally flip his car into a tree. The sound of his engine revving only fuels the fire in my chest, making my feet moves faster to give myself as much distance from the carpark as possible. Inside, I find my locker and start fiddling with the dial. My fingers are still simmering and buzzing from earlier. I can't get the stupid thing open. I glance around, no one's watching. I let a bit of energy spark through my hand, just enough to— "Hi there!" I jump and spin around. "Sorry! Didn't mean to scare you." A tall girl with soft brown skin, flawless curly hair and a radiant smile beams down at me. "I'm Justine. I'm supposed to show you around today." I blink, focusing on slowing my heart rate down. "Uh... I'm Clara." "Love your outfit," she says cheerfully. I glance at my boots and red plaid skirt and turtleneck. Mostly black. All thrifted. "Thanks," I say, even though I know I'll be wearing this exact shirt again tomorrow. And the day after that. With her help, I get the locker open and dump my stuff inside. She takes me on a quick tour, pointing out classrooms, fire exits, and the best vending machine. We have a few classes together, which is something. She's nice. Kind of loud. But nice. When we get to English, I head straight for the back table by the window. Always my favorite spot. I sit, stretching out, finally feeling like I might make it through this day. But Justine hesitates in front of me. "I'd move if I were you," she says, voice lower now. "Why?" The door swings open. And I feel it, that prickle down my spine. He walks in like he owns the place, like he expects the whole damn world to part for him. The driver. King of Wildecliff High, I bet. Every school has one. I've met them all. Of course it's him. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't need to. He just walks up to my desk, stops, and says, "Move." I look up slowly. "And why would I do that?" Silence drops over the room like a curtain. The entire room seems to zone in on our interaction. Some people snort. Others look like they are watching a car crash and can't look away. He takes off his sunglasses, hooks them on his shirt, and finally meets my gaze. His eyes are this intense, deep green. The kind people get lost in. Not me. "This is my seat," he says. I raise an eyebrow. "I don't see your name on it." That actually makes the room go silent. "I won't ask again." He leans forward, fists on the desk, trying to loom over me. Trying to scare me. Amateur. I don't move. I don't blink. I've faced worse than this arrogant jerk. He wasn't half as scary as what I'd already faced this morning. "No," I say, clear as glass. And I mean it. Gasps ripple through the room like dropped pins, sharp and echoing in the tense silence. Whispers follow, thick as the air pressing down on me, threatening to crush me under it's pressure. All because of one word, no. I meant it. I still do. I watch a muscle twitch in his jaw, see the way he drags a hand through his sun tipped curls like he's trying not to snap. Then he slams his palm down on the table between us. The sound makes the room flinch. Including me, though I don't show it. "If you're this quick to anger over a seat," I lean back and c**k my head slightly, arms still folded over my chest, "I'd recommend seeing a therapist." In my peripheral, people are physically holding in their laughter. Some hands clamping over mouths. Some shoulders shaking. Some curling over, in an attempt to not poke the beast. Who apparently didn't take my comment well. "I should have run you over this morning," he seethes, low and venomous. I slowly plant both my hands on the desk and push myself up, rising until we're face to face, well, almost. He's still slightly taller. I tilt my chin up, refusing to back down. "You can try again this afternoon," I say sweetly, lifting an eyebrow, "or tomorrow morning if that doesn't work out." His eyes narrow, something flashing behind them, rage? Amusement? Confusion? I can't read him, and I hate that. I'm usually good at reading people, but him? He's a wildfire. And I can't tell if he's going to engulf this classroom in it, or cut of the oxygen and subdue the rage. Then I notice how close we are. Inches. I can smell the faintest trace of something. Spicy cologne mixed with sea salt and something else I can't name. I freeze, just a little. Not out of fear, but... instinct. He feels like a warning sign. And of course, because the universe loves timing, he leans in. I don't move. I will not be the one to back down. I can feel the energy in my chest. Pulsing. Simmering, Begging to be released. So I let it travel down my arms, into the tips of my fingers and hold it there. My skin hums in anticipation, ready to be used in any way possible. "Already messing with the new student, I see, Mr. Turner." The voice snaps the tension clean in two. I jerk my head toward the front of the room, where a man stands by the desk, arms crossed, face unreadable. Jakes body was blocking my view from, everything... I definitely wasn't so consumed by his presence that I didn't hear the door close. Jake—Turner, apparently—leans back, but his eyes stay on me for another long second before he pastes on a smile that's so fake it might as well be plastic. "Of course not, Mr. Walkman," he says, calm and smooth, as if he didn't just threaten to run me over, again. "I was just telling her that this was my seat." "I haven't assigned any seats," Mr. Walkman replies, sliding glasses onto his face and pulling papers from a folder. "Sit at the desk next to it, and maybe be early next time if you want to claim territory." His eyebrows lift, sharp and expectant. Jake turns, finally, and stalks over to the next desk. He drops into the chair like it personally offended him. I can feel his glare boring into the side of my skull, but I don't care. I won. Just as I'm about to sit, Mr. Walkman clears his throat. I freeze. "You're already standing, so I may as well introduce you to the class." He glances down at a page in his hand. No. No, no, no. I tense as every neuron in my brain starts screaming don't look at me. But it's too late. He adjusts his glasses and reads aloud: "Everyone, please welcome Clarissa Dumore—" "I prefer Clara," I cut in quickly, forcing a smile I don't feel. And just like in every teen movie nightmare, the entire class turns at once to look at me. Stares. Everywhere. Some eyes are wide. Others look like they've just seen a ghost. My smile vanishes. I flick my eyes to the side, Jake's watching me, brows lifted like I just threw a chair across the room. What the hell? "Are you Richard Dumore's daughter?" Mr. Walkman's voice is cautious now, curious. He sets the paper and his glasses on the desk. I blink. "Um... yeah," I say slowly, frowning. "How do you—?" His expression softens. "It's nice to have all the founding families back in Wildecliff." Founding what? The words slam into me like a wall. My body moves on autopilot, finally sinking into the chair, but my brain won't stop spinning. Founding families? Why would my family be one of those? We've never even set foot in this town before. Right? Dad, what the hell aren't you telling me? I try to focus on the rest of the class, but my head's gone foggy with questions. The words on the board blur. Mr. Walkman's voice fades into background noise. I stare out the window instead, watching the trees sway gently in the wind like they know something I don't.