PHOENIX RISING
first two chapters
Chapter One
The 6:30 alarm blaring out at me to begin my day startles me less now. Back in September when school first began for the year, I’d bounce out of bed at the sound.
Now, I’m a little less bounce and a whole lot of crawl.
Don’t get me wrong, I love school. What sixteen-year-old isn’t thrilled to rise before the sun to begin a day of pursuits in higher education? Of course there are some who frown upon the waking− the guys, the girls, kids who are breathing…
I make my way out of my bedroom, greeted by the blinding lights of the hallway and the aroma of Mom’s scrambled eggs. I know she hears my feet padding toward the bathroom, but she’s learned not to acknowledge me until I’ve showered and made an attempt to tame my unruly mane of red curls.
After shutting the door, I crank on the hot water as high as I can stand it. The closet with a toilet we call the “bath” fills with steam as I step out of my pajamas and pull a towel from the cabinet. The idea of a shower to help clear the cobwebs from of my mind is one my body relishes. I don’t smell bad or anything, but the aches and pains my body feels are more reminiscent of my Granny Abigail’s ills than those of a fun loving teen.
After my lather, rinse, and repeat routine, I dress and make my way downstairs to the kitchen to find my over excited mother.
“Morning Pumpkin!” she calls to me, her luminescent smile inhumanly wide.
“Yup,” I respond begrudgingly, taking the plate of eggs she offers and sitting at the kitchen island. Mom pours herself what must be her tenth cup of coffee. There really is no way any human could have the energy she possesses this early without a steady influx of caffeine.
“It isn’t that early,” Mom says.
“How is it you hear every thought I ever have?”
Mom replies, smiling, “I was a teenager once too you know.”
“Yeah, in like the 1800’s Mom, and coffee was a hot commodity back then.” I smirked, taking her mug and sniffing the rich Colombian aroma.
“You’re such a funny girl Magpie.” Mom grabbed her purse, heading toward the door, “And on that note, I have a 9:00 meeting with the folks looking at the Hempstead place. I should be home by 4:00. I was thinking we could take a drive out to Sunnybrook?”
“Do I have a choice?” I muttered under my breath, picking at my breakfast, my mood souring. Mom gave me a quick kiss on the forehead.
“He knows when we’re there, Maggie. Could you at least pretend to be happy to see him?” Mom didn’t waste time waiting for my response. She knows it will be the same reply she’s heard for the last ten years when informing me we’re going to Sunnybrook.
“Love you Magpie,” she smiles and shuts the door. Knowing she was now out of earshot, I drop my fork on the counter and shove away the eggs she’d plated for me.
Sunnybrook. What a misleading name for a psychiatric hospital. I hear “Sunnybrook” and try to envision a babbling stream, a picnic lunch, and little white flowers in the grass around me.
Well, there’s babbling at least.
Maybe I’m too rough. Maybe I’m selfish, I admonish to myself.
Sunnybrook Psychiatric Hospital has been my father’s home since I was six years old.
John Henning had been a pillar of the community; head of the local Elks club, PTA President, and a founding member of the law firm Henning and Rolsten with his best friend John Rolsten. That had all changed one cool, October evening.
I don’t remember it happening. I only know what I’ve heard.
The names I’ve been called.
Passing the burned foundation of the First Church of Our Lady everyday on my way to school…
The story, so I’ve been told, was that my father went totally crazy and rushed into the church, screaming like a lunatic. It was inside that he threw Molotov cocktails against the walls and burned the sanctuary to the ground, killing eight people.
John Henning, my father. The Murderer. There’s a label you want to carry with you through school.
I remember being little and swinging at the park with my father. We’d spend hours there, giggling and running, until my mother would show up with her hands on her hips to scold us for not being home in time for dinner. Dad would pick her up, swing her around, and offer a peck on the cheek as his way of apologizing.
I’ve tried to talk to my mother about what happened several times, each with the same result− a complete shutdown. She’d put her hands up in the air, shake her head back and forth, and tell me my father had “issues” and I should just try to accept it.
Easy for her to say, I suppose. She didn’t have to go to school here. She didn’t have to walk the halls and listen to the murmurs of the passersby. She didn’t have to open her locker and find construction paper cut outs of tombstones.
I begged her all through middle school to move, but she’d dismissed my pleas. She justified that by explaining it was closer to my father for visiting purposes. I exploded at the age of 13, refusing to visit him at all and threatening to call child protective services.
“For what?” my mother had asked. “Because I’m making you visit your father?”
It wasn’t fair.
It still isn’t fair.
My cell phone rang, shaking me out of my thoughts.
“Hey there, Maggie!”
It was Stephanie Rolston, my father’s former law partner’s daughter, and my only friend. “Steph, tell me something good.”
“Well,” she pondered for a few seconds, “I’m still hot!”
“Fabulous.” I murmured, not replicating her enthusiastic tone.
“Visiting day?” Stephanie always knew by my tone of voice when it was time to make the trip and visit dear old Dad.
“When Mom gets home tonight. I tried to get out of it, but it isn’t happening. I don’t understand why I have to go watch him drool. He doesn’t even know we’re there for Christ’s sake!”
Stephanie knew my moods well enough to realize I was on edge. “I know how to help. Are you dressed? Good. Be there in fifteen minutes.” She hung up, not waiting for my reply and a joy in her voice that I couldn’t echo. Steph’s glee could mean only one thing−
Retail therapy.
I glanced at the clock and estimated how long it would take me to slap on a little gloss and liner. I decided if I hurried I could be semi-presentable by the time Steph got here. I had a small pange of guilt for ditching school, again, but I scrubbed it away. How many times do I need to hear the kids at school and their nasty names for me? I wonder if there’s a new credit requirement that says students can’t graduate until they can prove they’ve made me cry?
Standing and placing my plate in the sink, I opened Mom’s cookie jar of spare cash. Pulling out a wad of bills and counting out twenty bucks. Remembering how pissed I was about having to go on this visit, I grabbed another twenty and blew a raspberry at the jar. To hell with school and with my mother.
I chose to forgo the trip back upstairs to the bathroom, instead using the foyer mirror. I rummaged through my purse for the right shade of gloss. In my rush, I knocked the piles of unopened bills and magazines to the floor. I muttered a curse as I bent to pick up the mess, stacking the items back on the table, and I noticed a letter in the pile addressed to me.
The return address was Sunnybrook Psychiatric Hospital, but instead of the normal self stick, computer print out address label, my home address was written in a precise script. I set the letter down but couldn’t take my eyes off it. Why had Mom hidden it under a pile of mail?
It didn’t matter, I told myself. I didn’t even want to visit, what do I care about a letter from the asylum?
I tried to ignore it while I smoothed the pink gloss over my lips, but my gaze kept drifting toward it as I pawed through my bag, drawn like a moth to light. Knowing it was from the hospital didn’t seem to be working as any sort of deterrent. Unable to stand it any longer, I picked up the envelope, ripping at the glued edges, and pulled a piece of paper out of it.
The paper inside was folded three times with clean edges. I paused hesitantly then took a deep breath and mustered the courage to open it. The note was written on official hospital letterhead and scrawled with the same penmanship as my address. Two handwritten lines, centered, were all that was found on the paper.
It’s all true.
Guard the blood.
“What the hell?” I thought aloud as I stared at the words. I’d seen this penmanship before, but couldn’t place from who or where.
A honking noise out front startled me. Stephanie had arrived. I stuffed the weird letter back in its envelope, grabbed my bag, and rushed out the front door slamming it shut behind me.
The envelope fell, drifted to the floor, and set itself on fire.
Chapter two
Stephanie Rolsten is hot. There’s no debating that. With her pretty blue eyes and shoulder length blond hair, Steph is exactly what every teenage girl wants to look like and who every teenage girl wants to be.
My BFF drives a brand new Toyota Camry, ice blue like her eyes. She only wears clothes that carry a name brand and has never paid sale price for anything. Considering the money her parents have, this isn’t a surprise.
Her father had been a great guy before he’d died, and there was quite a bit of money left behind to care for Stephanie’s mother, brothers, and Stephanie herself, but that didn’t stop her mother from touring the country club set to snatch a new man, which she found in Brian Anders the Third, a local big wig in the town’s main industry, lumber. Stephanie didn’t care for her stepfather. She complained he spent too much time trying to buy the affections of those around him, instead of actually doing anything.
Sure, Stephanie benefitted, but you wouldn’t know it from her actions. She’s far from a spoiled brat. Steph would prefer to wear ripped up jeans and a hoodie, and if she could get out of the house dressed like that, she would. Stephanie’s wardrobe came strictly from her mother, Cathy Anders.
My parents grew up with Cathy and Dan. They’d been best friends. My mother used to tell me stories of the crazy things they all did when they were young. A particular favorite of mine was about Cathy car surfing down Main Street one evening. That wasn’t Cathy anymore. Steph’s mom cared what everybody thought now.
She donated almost all of the inheritance money left behind when Stephanie’s father died to the local hospital, only keeping enough to pay for food and other “needs”. She then promptly bought a new outfit, had her nails done, and headed out husband hunting.
It hadn’t taken Cathy long to find one. It was a sore subject for Stephanie. She often complained to me how her mother hadn’t even waited for her father to be cold in the grave before slipping Ander’s ring on her finger.
When news of my father’s crime broke, Cathy and my mother stopped speaking and Cathy forbade Stephanie to speak to me. She was only permitted to speak to me now because Brian Anders said it was OK. Cathy wasn’t about to argue with her meal ticket. What Brian says is law in that relationship.
I shook off the memories and made my way into Stephanie’s car. She peeled from the curb onto the street.
“Morning honey,” Stephanie spoke cheerfully over the latest Pink song. “I see you decided to wear your Sunday’s Best for our little trip?” I glanced down and took in what Stephanie saw. It wasn’t the torn jeans or the tank top I had on that grabbed her attention. Rather, it was the two different sneakers.
“Well crap,” shaking my head. “I had a rough night and didn’t even pay attention when I slipped them on.”
“Another nightmare?” Steph wondered, concern in her voice. She knew I hadn’t been sleeping lately. I’d been plagued with the oddest nightmares. “You wanna talk about it?” my friend asked, turning down her car radio before glancing over to me.
“What would be the use? I can’t remember any of it when I wake up,” I respond, flustered.
“Maybe that’s for the best then? If it was so bad, it’s probably better that you don’t remember.”
“Doesn’t ease the frustration,” I complained, “maybe I need a sleeping pill or something?”
“HA!” Stephanie laughed. “I could consult the Catherine Pharmacy and see what she has laying around?” It was no secret that Cathy Anders had a bathroom cabinet full of prescriptions that probably funded Bayer’s whole research department.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
Stephanie was quiet for a few minutes, giving me time to sort my thoughts. That letter popped into my mind. “Hey, if I told you to ‘guard the blood’ would it mean anything to you?”
Stephanie drove quietly for a few minutes, pondering. “’Guard the blood’ huh? Is it lyrics to some emo song or something?”
“Not that I know of, just something I read somewhere.”
“Weird,” Stephanie concluded, putting on her turn signal and entering the mall parking lot. “I would tell you to quit reading before you fall asleep but we both know you can’t read!”
I gave Stephanie a gentle elbow as we both giggled at her remark.
***
We walked around the mall for hours, drifting in and out of different retailers that I couldn’t even begin to afford. A stab of jealousy hit me over Stephanie’s cash and my lack of it.
We were walking past the cinema and my friend paused, ogling the newest poster featuring her favorite I’m-gonna-marry-that-one actor, when I felt a coolness hit my spine. It was a chilling feeling and caused me to turn around, tuning out my friend’s rant about her future husband.
I looked to the music store, full of drum kits and pianos, promising that anyone could learn to play in 6 weeks or less and heard a melody that seemed to beckon me for my attention. “I’ll be right back,” I murmured to my friend, walking[l5] through the crowd of busy shoppers, following the music.
I’d never bothered to come to the store before. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, let alone pick up an instrument and play anything. Why I felt the need to come in and find the source of this rendition, I had no idea.
I drift through the people perusing the wares. There were several shelves of sheet music and books of tablature, everything from easy piano songs to the full Led Zeppelin collection. I nonchalantly picked up one called “All You Need to Know about Sax” and began thumbing through it, not actually registering the blur of notes and words contained inside.
I search out for the source of the music. My eyes scanned the store, bobbing side to side past long haired punks in flannel playing strikingly bad riffs on Gibson guitars.
“Can I help you?” A man asked politely as he approached, bringing me back to reality.
“Oh,…ah,” I stammered. “No, just looking.”
“You play?”
“Huh?” I replied, confused. The clerk nodded to the book in my hand. “Oh! No,” I giggled, trying to think on my feet of a way to save myself more embarrassment. “I was actually just trying to decide on a guitar, for my brother,” I lied.
The clerk was pleased. “Does he play bass or 6 string?”
“Umm…what?” I asked. I had no clue about guitars or brothers, as I didn’t actually have one of those either.
The clerk smiled, trying to come across as friendly but looking more annoyed. “I’ll show you what we have.” He gestured for me to follow him to the back of the store.
The melody that had drawn me here in the first place had stopped. Aggravation filled me. I was about to come up with a witty excuse to get out of the store when another song began. Not as haunting as the first, but just as expertly played. I found my feet following the salesman toward the origin of the music.
The clerk began pointing at various guitars hanging from pegs on the store wall, extending the virtues of the different strings and body styles. Occasionally, I nodded my head and answered with small grunting noises, not paying attention to him at all.
“I’ll let you look around. Let me know if you need any help,” he stabbed at me under his breath when it finally became obvious to him that I wasn’t listening.
I nodded, but didn’t give him any more acknowledgment. I’d found the song and the guitar player who’d drawn me in.
Sitting on a stool was a guy strumming over the strings, his fingers moving gracefully up and down the neck. A gentle, easy wave of notes rang out in the air. He didn’t look up at me or any of the several people who now surrounded him, many of them girls. They giggled whispers between them as they shot sideways glances at the guy playing. If he heard them, he paid no attention, as he was[l6] completely absorbed in the music he was creating.
He was a beautiful guy, hair as black as midnight falling in a long layer down his back and over his shoulders, the ends of some lying carelessly over the instrument. He wore black jeans and a simple white tee shirt that fit his body as if it was painted on him. I could see his biceps twitch every so often when he would lift the neck of the guitar in time with the song he played.
A small guilty smile crept across my face. I wasn’t accustomed to thinking of this kind of guy as a dessert, but he could be the cheesecake to my strawberries. As if he heard my thoughts, a devilish smile teased his lips and I instantly felt my face flush. I knew I hadn’t said it aloud, but it didn’t help my conscience one bit.
There was a tug on my sleeve that brought me back down to earth. “What the hell are you doing?” Stephanie demanded; her voice held an air of disgust to it.
“Did you hear him?” I whispered, surprised by my friend’s change in tone. Not five minutes ago, she’d been all smiles and wistful, planning how many children she was going to have with what’s his name actor. Now, however, she seemed pissed.
“Let’s go,” she tugged painfully, dragging me toward the exit of the store.
I almost lost my footing as Stephanie pulled. “Ow!” I complained. Her fingers were digging into my arm, and it was beginning to really hurt. “Let go Stephanie! I can walk!”
Back in the main walkway of the mall, Stephanie finally released me and stared coldly, her hands on her hips as if to scold me.
“What’s wrong with you?” I shot at my friend, rubbing the spot on my arm she’d bruised. “That fricking hurt!”
Stephanie glared briefly, and then her face seemed to change. She gave me an apologetic looking smile. “I’m sorry,” fidgeting with her watch. “It's just, what if that guy was a serial killer?”
“I wasn’t going to dinner with him, Steph. I heard the music and wanted to see what it was.”
“I don’t need my best friend dragged in by some siren’s song,” Stephanie teased, attempting humor, but there was a distinct change in her voice, something cold and unfeeling. Just as quickly as I felt it, it disappeared.
“Come on,” She continued, giving me a small shoulder bump, “Let’s get some lunch, my treat?”
Something didn’t feel right. I shook it off, blaming it on surprise at the way my friend had acted. I agreed, bumping her back “Sure,. I’m feeling famished suddenly.”
Stephanie laughed, and I gave her a smile. We’d taken only a few steps when I dropped my cell phone trying to answer a text.
“Crap!” I exclaimed, stopping to bend over and pick it up. As I reached for the device, my hand was meant by another.
The guy from the music store was bent in front of me, picking up the phone. Slowly I straightened, looking at him. If I had thought he was good looking in the store, I’d seriously underestimated my appraisal.
Mmm, Cheescake, I helplessly thought again.
His hair shone, reflecting the fluorescent lights in the mall and displaying slight blue highlights in his mane I hadn’t noticed prior. His skin was flawless, but it was his eyes that did me in. Green, but not just any hazel-like irises. His eyes glistened like an emerald, flecked with tiny bits of silver that almost seemed to swim.
“Wow,” I breathed. The guy before me smiled as I realized I’d spoken aloud. My face flushed red.
“You dropped this,” he offered, handing me the phone, his voice as beautiful as the melody he’d been playing.
Stephanie answered for me, shocking me back from my dream-like state while looking at my phone’s rescuer. “Thanks,” she answered flatly. Her voice taking the nasty tone that she’d had outside the store again. The guy with the raven locks looked past me to my friend. I thought, for just a second, that his pupils had changed a little.
“Let’s go, Maggie,” she ordered, pulling on my elbow as I took my phone from the guy, smiling my thanks.
He touched my hand for a moment, pulling me to him and away from Steph, whispering so only I could hear. My breathing hitched for a moment when his words touched my ear.
“Cheesecake is always better with strawberries.”
The 6:30 alarm blaring out at me to begin my day startles me less now. Back in September when school first began for the year, I’d bounce out of bed at the sound.
Now, I’m a little less bounce and a whole lot of crawl.
Don’t get me wrong, I love school. What sixteen-year-old isn’t thrilled to rise before the sun to begin a day of pursuits in higher education? Of course there are some who frown upon the waking− the guys, the girls, kids who are breathing…
I make my way out of my bedroom, greeted by the blinding lights of the hallway and the aroma of Mom’s scrambled eggs. I know she hears my feet padding toward the bathroom, but she’s learned not to acknowledge me until I’ve showered and made an attempt to tame my unruly mane of red curls.
After shutting the door, I crank on the hot water as high as I can stand it. The closet with a toilet we call the “bath” fills with steam as I step out of my pajamas and pull a towel from the cabinet. The idea of a shower to help clear the cobwebs from of my mind is one my body relishes. I don’t smell bad or anything, but the aches and pains my body feels are more reminiscent of my Granny Abigail’s ills than those of a fun loving teen.
After my lather, rinse, and repeat routine, I dress and make my way downstairs to the kitchen to find my over excited mother.
“Morning Pumpkin!” she calls to me, her luminescent smile inhumanly wide.
“Yup,” I respond begrudgingly, taking the plate of eggs she offers and sitting at the kitchen island. Mom pours herself what must be her tenth cup of coffee. There really is no way any human could have the energy she possesses this early without a steady influx of caffeine.
“It isn’t that early,” Mom says.
“How is it you hear every thought I ever have?”
Mom replies, smiling, “I was a teenager once too you know.”
“Yeah, in like the 1800’s Mom, and coffee was a hot commodity back then.” I smirked, taking her mug and sniffing the rich Colombian aroma.
“You’re such a funny girl Magpie.” Mom grabbed her purse, heading toward the door, “And on that note, I have a 9:00 meeting with the folks looking at the Hempstead place. I should be home by 4:00. I was thinking we could take a drive out to Sunnybrook?”
“Do I have a choice?” I muttered under my breath, picking at my breakfast, my mood souring. Mom gave me a quick kiss on the forehead.
“He knows when we’re there, Maggie. Could you at least pretend to be happy to see him?” Mom didn’t waste time waiting for my response. She knows it will be the same reply she’s heard for the last ten years when informing me we’re going to Sunnybrook.
“Love you Magpie,” she smiles and shuts the door. Knowing she was now out of earshot, I drop my fork on the counter and shove away the eggs she’d plated for me.
Sunnybrook. What a misleading name for a psychiatric hospital. I hear “Sunnybrook” and try to envision a babbling stream, a picnic lunch, and little white flowers in the grass around me.
Well, there’s babbling at least.
Maybe I’m too rough. Maybe I’m selfish, I admonish to myself.
Sunnybrook Psychiatric Hospital has been my father’s home since I was six years old.
John Henning had been a pillar of the community; head of the local Elks club, PTA President, and a founding member of the law firm Henning and Rolsten with his best friend John Rolsten. That had all changed one cool, October evening.
I don’t remember it happening. I only know what I’ve heard.
The names I’ve been called.
Passing the burned foundation of the First Church of Our Lady everyday on my way to school…
The story, so I’ve been told, was that my father went totally crazy and rushed into the church, screaming like a lunatic. It was inside that he threw Molotov cocktails against the walls and burned the sanctuary to the ground, killing eight people.
John Henning, my father. The Murderer. There’s a label you want to carry with you through school.
I remember being little and swinging at the park with my father. We’d spend hours there, giggling and running, until my mother would show up with her hands on her hips to scold us for not being home in time for dinner. Dad would pick her up, swing her around, and offer a peck on the cheek as his way of apologizing.
I’ve tried to talk to my mother about what happened several times, each with the same result− a complete shutdown. She’d put her hands up in the air, shake her head back and forth, and tell me my father had “issues” and I should just try to accept it.
Easy for her to say, I suppose. She didn’t have to go to school here. She didn’t have to walk the halls and listen to the murmurs of the passersby. She didn’t have to open her locker and find construction paper cut outs of tombstones.
I begged her all through middle school to move, but she’d dismissed my pleas. She justified that by explaining it was closer to my father for visiting purposes. I exploded at the age of 13, refusing to visit him at all and threatening to call child protective services.
“For what?” my mother had asked. “Because I’m making you visit your father?”
It wasn’t fair.
It still isn’t fair.
My cell phone rang, shaking me out of my thoughts.
“Hey there, Maggie!”
It was Stephanie Rolston, my father’s former law partner’s daughter, and my only friend. “Steph, tell me something good.”
“Well,” she pondered for a few seconds, “I’m still hot!”
“Fabulous.” I murmured, not replicating her enthusiastic tone.
“Visiting day?” Stephanie always knew by my tone of voice when it was time to make the trip and visit dear old Dad.
“When Mom gets home tonight. I tried to get out of it, but it isn’t happening. I don’t understand why I have to go watch him drool. He doesn’t even know we’re there for Christ’s sake!”
Stephanie knew my moods well enough to realize I was on edge. “I know how to help. Are you dressed? Good. Be there in fifteen minutes.” She hung up, not waiting for my reply and a joy in her voice that I couldn’t echo. Steph’s glee could mean only one thing−
Retail therapy.
I glanced at the clock and estimated how long it would take me to slap on a little gloss and liner. I decided if I hurried I could be semi-presentable by the time Steph got here. I had a small pange of guilt for ditching school, again, but I scrubbed it away. How many times do I need to hear the kids at school and their nasty names for me? I wonder if there’s a new credit requirement that says students can’t graduate until they can prove they’ve made me cry?
Standing and placing my plate in the sink, I opened Mom’s cookie jar of spare cash. Pulling out a wad of bills and counting out twenty bucks. Remembering how pissed I was about having to go on this visit, I grabbed another twenty and blew a raspberry at the jar. To hell with school and with my mother.
I chose to forgo the trip back upstairs to the bathroom, instead using the foyer mirror. I rummaged through my purse for the right shade of gloss. In my rush, I knocked the piles of unopened bills and magazines to the floor. I muttered a curse as I bent to pick up the mess, stacking the items back on the table, and I noticed a letter in the pile addressed to me.
The return address was Sunnybrook Psychiatric Hospital, but instead of the normal self stick, computer print out address label, my home address was written in a precise script. I set the letter down but couldn’t take my eyes off it. Why had Mom hidden it under a pile of mail?
It didn’t matter, I told myself. I didn’t even want to visit, what do I care about a letter from the asylum?
I tried to ignore it while I smoothed the pink gloss over my lips, but my gaze kept drifting toward it as I pawed through my bag, drawn like a moth to light. Knowing it was from the hospital didn’t seem to be working as any sort of deterrent. Unable to stand it any longer, I picked up the envelope, ripping at the glued edges, and pulled a piece of paper out of it.
The paper inside was folded three times with clean edges. I paused hesitantly then took a deep breath and mustered the courage to open it. The note was written on official hospital letterhead and scrawled with the same penmanship as my address. Two handwritten lines, centered, were all that was found on the paper.
It’s all true.
Guard the blood.
“What the hell?” I thought aloud as I stared at the words. I’d seen this penmanship before, but couldn’t place from who or where.
A honking noise out front startled me. Stephanie had arrived. I stuffed the weird letter back in its envelope, grabbed my bag, and rushed out the front door slamming it shut behind me.
The envelope fell, drifted to the floor, and set itself on fire.
Chapter two
Stephanie Rolsten is hot. There’s no debating that. With her pretty blue eyes and shoulder length blond hair, Steph is exactly what every teenage girl wants to look like and who every teenage girl wants to be.
My BFF drives a brand new Toyota Camry, ice blue like her eyes. She only wears clothes that carry a name brand and has never paid sale price for anything. Considering the money her parents have, this isn’t a surprise.
Her father had been a great guy before he’d died, and there was quite a bit of money left behind to care for Stephanie’s mother, brothers, and Stephanie herself, but that didn’t stop her mother from touring the country club set to snatch a new man, which she found in Brian Anders the Third, a local big wig in the town’s main industry, lumber. Stephanie didn’t care for her stepfather. She complained he spent too much time trying to buy the affections of those around him, instead of actually doing anything.
Sure, Stephanie benefitted, but you wouldn’t know it from her actions. She’s far from a spoiled brat. Steph would prefer to wear ripped up jeans and a hoodie, and if she could get out of the house dressed like that, she would. Stephanie’s wardrobe came strictly from her mother, Cathy Anders.
My parents grew up with Cathy and Dan. They’d been best friends. My mother used to tell me stories of the crazy things they all did when they were young. A particular favorite of mine was about Cathy car surfing down Main Street one evening. That wasn’t Cathy anymore. Steph’s mom cared what everybody thought now.
She donated almost all of the inheritance money left behind when Stephanie’s father died to the local hospital, only keeping enough to pay for food and other “needs”. She then promptly bought a new outfit, had her nails done, and headed out husband hunting.
It hadn’t taken Cathy long to find one. It was a sore subject for Stephanie. She often complained to me how her mother hadn’t even waited for her father to be cold in the grave before slipping Ander’s ring on her finger.
When news of my father’s crime broke, Cathy and my mother stopped speaking and Cathy forbade Stephanie to speak to me. She was only permitted to speak to me now because Brian Anders said it was OK. Cathy wasn’t about to argue with her meal ticket. What Brian says is law in that relationship.
I shook off the memories and made my way into Stephanie’s car. She peeled from the curb onto the street.
“Morning honey,” Stephanie spoke cheerfully over the latest Pink song. “I see you decided to wear your Sunday’s Best for our little trip?” I glanced down and took in what Stephanie saw. It wasn’t the torn jeans or the tank top I had on that grabbed her attention. Rather, it was the two different sneakers.
“Well crap,” shaking my head. “I had a rough night and didn’t even pay attention when I slipped them on.”
“Another nightmare?” Steph wondered, concern in her voice. She knew I hadn’t been sleeping lately. I’d been plagued with the oddest nightmares. “You wanna talk about it?” my friend asked, turning down her car radio before glancing over to me.
“What would be the use? I can’t remember any of it when I wake up,” I respond, flustered.
“Maybe that’s for the best then? If it was so bad, it’s probably better that you don’t remember.”
“Doesn’t ease the frustration,” I complained, “maybe I need a sleeping pill or something?”
“HA!” Stephanie laughed. “I could consult the Catherine Pharmacy and see what she has laying around?” It was no secret that Cathy Anders had a bathroom cabinet full of prescriptions that probably funded Bayer’s whole research department.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
Stephanie was quiet for a few minutes, giving me time to sort my thoughts. That letter popped into my mind. “Hey, if I told you to ‘guard the blood’ would it mean anything to you?”
Stephanie drove quietly for a few minutes, pondering. “’Guard the blood’ huh? Is it lyrics to some emo song or something?”
“Not that I know of, just something I read somewhere.”
“Weird,” Stephanie concluded, putting on her turn signal and entering the mall parking lot. “I would tell you to quit reading before you fall asleep but we both know you can’t read!”
I gave Stephanie a gentle elbow as we both giggled at her remark.
***
We walked around the mall for hours, drifting in and out of different retailers that I couldn’t even begin to afford. A stab of jealousy hit me over Stephanie’s cash and my lack of it.
We were walking past the cinema and my friend paused, ogling the newest poster featuring her favorite I’m-gonna-marry-that-one actor, when I felt a coolness hit my spine. It was a chilling feeling and caused me to turn around, tuning out my friend’s rant about her future husband.
I looked to the music store, full of drum kits and pianos, promising that anyone could learn to play in 6 weeks or less and heard a melody that seemed to beckon me for my attention. “I’ll be right back,” I murmured to my friend, walking[l5] through the crowd of busy shoppers, following the music.
I’d never bothered to come to the store before. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, let alone pick up an instrument and play anything. Why I felt the need to come in and find the source of this rendition, I had no idea.
I drift through the people perusing the wares. There were several shelves of sheet music and books of tablature, everything from easy piano songs to the full Led Zeppelin collection. I nonchalantly picked up one called “All You Need to Know about Sax” and began thumbing through it, not actually registering the blur of notes and words contained inside.
I search out for the source of the music. My eyes scanned the store, bobbing side to side past long haired punks in flannel playing strikingly bad riffs on Gibson guitars.
“Can I help you?” A man asked politely as he approached, bringing me back to reality.
“Oh,…ah,” I stammered. “No, just looking.”
“You play?”
“Huh?” I replied, confused. The clerk nodded to the book in my hand. “Oh! No,” I giggled, trying to think on my feet of a way to save myself more embarrassment. “I was actually just trying to decide on a guitar, for my brother,” I lied.
The clerk was pleased. “Does he play bass or 6 string?”
“Umm…what?” I asked. I had no clue about guitars or brothers, as I didn’t actually have one of those either.
The clerk smiled, trying to come across as friendly but looking more annoyed. “I’ll show you what we have.” He gestured for me to follow him to the back of the store.
The melody that had drawn me here in the first place had stopped. Aggravation filled me. I was about to come up with a witty excuse to get out of the store when another song began. Not as haunting as the first, but just as expertly played. I found my feet following the salesman toward the origin of the music.
The clerk began pointing at various guitars hanging from pegs on the store wall, extending the virtues of the different strings and body styles. Occasionally, I nodded my head and answered with small grunting noises, not paying attention to him at all.
“I’ll let you look around. Let me know if you need any help,” he stabbed at me under his breath when it finally became obvious to him that I wasn’t listening.
I nodded, but didn’t give him any more acknowledgment. I’d found the song and the guitar player who’d drawn me in.
Sitting on a stool was a guy strumming over the strings, his fingers moving gracefully up and down the neck. A gentle, easy wave of notes rang out in the air. He didn’t look up at me or any of the several people who now surrounded him, many of them girls. They giggled whispers between them as they shot sideways glances at the guy playing. If he heard them, he paid no attention, as he was[l6] completely absorbed in the music he was creating.
He was a beautiful guy, hair as black as midnight falling in a long layer down his back and over his shoulders, the ends of some lying carelessly over the instrument. He wore black jeans and a simple white tee shirt that fit his body as if it was painted on him. I could see his biceps twitch every so often when he would lift the neck of the guitar in time with the song he played.
A small guilty smile crept across my face. I wasn’t accustomed to thinking of this kind of guy as a dessert, but he could be the cheesecake to my strawberries. As if he heard my thoughts, a devilish smile teased his lips and I instantly felt my face flush. I knew I hadn’t said it aloud, but it didn’t help my conscience one bit.
There was a tug on my sleeve that brought me back down to earth. “What the hell are you doing?” Stephanie demanded; her voice held an air of disgust to it.
“Did you hear him?” I whispered, surprised by my friend’s change in tone. Not five minutes ago, she’d been all smiles and wistful, planning how many children she was going to have with what’s his name actor. Now, however, she seemed pissed.
“Let’s go,” she tugged painfully, dragging me toward the exit of the store.
I almost lost my footing as Stephanie pulled. “Ow!” I complained. Her fingers were digging into my arm, and it was beginning to really hurt. “Let go Stephanie! I can walk!”
Back in the main walkway of the mall, Stephanie finally released me and stared coldly, her hands on her hips as if to scold me.
“What’s wrong with you?” I shot at my friend, rubbing the spot on my arm she’d bruised. “That fricking hurt!”
Stephanie glared briefly, and then her face seemed to change. She gave me an apologetic looking smile. “I’m sorry,” fidgeting with her watch. “It's just, what if that guy was a serial killer?”
“I wasn’t going to dinner with him, Steph. I heard the music and wanted to see what it was.”
“I don’t need my best friend dragged in by some siren’s song,” Stephanie teased, attempting humor, but there was a distinct change in her voice, something cold and unfeeling. Just as quickly as I felt it, it disappeared.
“Come on,” She continued, giving me a small shoulder bump, “Let’s get some lunch, my treat?”
Something didn’t feel right. I shook it off, blaming it on surprise at the way my friend had acted. I agreed, bumping her back “Sure,. I’m feeling famished suddenly.”
Stephanie laughed, and I gave her a smile. We’d taken only a few steps when I dropped my cell phone trying to answer a text.
“Crap!” I exclaimed, stopping to bend over and pick it up. As I reached for the device, my hand was meant by another.
The guy from the music store was bent in front of me, picking up the phone. Slowly I straightened, looking at him. If I had thought he was good looking in the store, I’d seriously underestimated my appraisal.
Mmm, Cheescake, I helplessly thought again.
His hair shone, reflecting the fluorescent lights in the mall and displaying slight blue highlights in his mane I hadn’t noticed prior. His skin was flawless, but it was his eyes that did me in. Green, but not just any hazel-like irises. His eyes glistened like an emerald, flecked with tiny bits of silver that almost seemed to swim.
“Wow,” I breathed. The guy before me smiled as I realized I’d spoken aloud. My face flushed red.
“You dropped this,” he offered, handing me the phone, his voice as beautiful as the melody he’d been playing.
Stephanie answered for me, shocking me back from my dream-like state while looking at my phone’s rescuer. “Thanks,” she answered flatly. Her voice taking the nasty tone that she’d had outside the store again. The guy with the raven locks looked past me to my friend. I thought, for just a second, that his pupils had changed a little.
“Let’s go, Maggie,” she ordered, pulling on my elbow as I took my phone from the guy, smiling my thanks.
He touched my hand for a moment, pulling me to him and away from Steph, whispering so only I could hear. My breathing hitched for a moment when his words touched my ear.
“Cheesecake is always better with strawberries.”