Flame (Fireborn) (7 page)

I like the way he looks
at me.

I like the way he sees
me.

"Do you have your
schedule with you? I can help you find your next class." Did
that sound desperate?

"I know where it
is. Let me walk you to yours."

I'm so stunned I nod
before realizing what I've done. He pulls me to his side. His mouth's
moving and I'm pretty sure he's asking me a question like where my
next class is. I can't form a thought other than he's still talking
to me. He still
wants
to talk to me. I haven't disappeared.

Not yet.

I feel a rush of
relief.

Snap, snap, snap.

"Where to?"
He's waiting patiently as if he's asked three times already. He
probably has.

"Second floor.
Room 240."

His hands clasp my
elbow. As if on cue, the crowd parts.
This must be what a rock
star feels like.
The bodyguard moves to Rhys's other side.

I wonder if Rhys knows
where he's going. "Should I lead?"

He spares me a glance.
"I can lead. I'm used to it."

He pulls ahead.

I follow.

People are watching us.
I can hear them whispering. I don't care because Rhys is near me.
He's real and he makes me feel real, too.

When we reach room 240,
he stops with me at the door. Looking at the floor, I try to think of
something cool to say.
See you later alligator?
No. He'd
wonder why I called him a reptile.
Kenna out?
No, too Ryan
Seacrest-ish.
Catch you later?
Would he think I'd be trying to
trip him?

Beep.
I look up
in time to see him pull out something small and sleek from his jean
pocket. He glances at it, and his lips move wordlessly.

His eyes darken. He's
not happy with what he's reading. When he catches my eyes, he
explains, "Something's come up at work."

"You have to
leave." I try to push my disappointment away.

"No. It's
something that can wait." He tries to smile again, but it
doesn't reach his eyes.

I don't want him to go.
Not yet. "You've only been here a few days and they've already
put you to work?" I joke.

"I put it on
myself." He takes a step back and the warmth between us slowly
starts to freeze.

"What do you
mean?"

"Trying to fix
some things I've done." Something about what he says hardens his
face. When he speaks again, he sounds flatter, more distant. "It's,
how do you say it? No big deal." His accent is as formal as his
tone. He takes another step back. The warmth I felt minutes ago is
disappearing with each inch he puts between us.

My walls come back up.

"Thank you."
My voice is stiff like his presence.

He hesitates as if he
wants to say something. He doesn't.

With a smile that
doesn't fool either of us, he turns and leaves. People rush by to
follow, but I'm rooted to the floor.

I wonder if I've just
imagined it all.

When I leave Mr.
Bernard's class the hallway is crowded. School staff monitors traffic
flow in full force. A teacher is standing every few feet calling out
students, giving reminders, and trying as hard as the students not to
stare at the reporters, bodyguards and government officials that have
suddenly descended on Morrison High School.

Snap, snap, snap.

Everywhere I look
people are taking pictures. Some carry small cameras, and others are
pulling out their camera phones snapping pictures of things like the
chair Rhys had sat on and the pencil he'd left behind. Earlier a
bodyguard had come to get him five minutes before the dismissal bell
rang. We all pretended we hadn't noticed him leaving, but the second
he shut the door I heard a collective sigh like nervous tension being
released.

I walk to my locker to
exchange a book. Everywhere people are whispering and it sounds like
the chirping of birds. I hear Rhys's name, but I also hear another
name. Lenora. She's the other alien at our school. I overhear some
pompous jock joke overly loud about what other "parts" of
her might "glow".

I roll my eyes in
disgust.
Really?

Opening my locker, I
search for my calculus book.

Snap, snap, snap.

Are those sounds going
to be the only sounds I hear all day?

Snap, snap, snap.

Apparently so.

"Uhm." A
throat is cleared.

Snap, snap, snap.

Seriously, that
clicking's going to haunt me in my sleep!

"Please excuse
me." The voice has a strange accent to it.

I freeze.

"Please excuse me.
Would you mind helping me with my locker?" His voice is formal
and polite.

For a second I tell
myself Rhys isn't talking to me. How had he even seen me? When no one
answers him, I turn around.

Rhys is standing less
than a foot away. His broad shoulders fill my vision, but not enough
that I don't notice the half circle crowd that's suddenly gathered
around us. People are pretending not to stare, but I can feel their
curiosity.
Why is he talking to her?

It takes a few seconds,
but I manage an answer. "Sure. What do you need help with?"

He gestures to the
combination lock on the locker near mine. "I have the correct
numbers. I keep turning it, but nothing's happening."

"It can be kind of
a nuisance."

"New sense?"
He pronounces it slowly.

"Like annoying."

He smiles. "Yes,
it is."

He hands me a crumpled
piece of paper, and I take it. Our hands brush against each other. I
notice his skin is rough and hard. Leathery. Unable to stop myself, I
take a peek. His palms have calluses.

He notices my stare and
says, "We had a rough landing coming through your atmosphere."
I'd heard about that. Each move they've made since contacting Earth
four months earlier has been recorded and analyzed by every media
outlet in the world. Even the late night talk shows have joined in-
putting their own spin on stories, of course.

What do smart
blondes and UFO's have in common? You always hear about them but
never see them! Well folks, it looks like we'll be seeing our first
smart blonde today…

What do you call an
overweight Saguinox? An extra cholesterol!

When Jay Leno got wind
of their problems with landing, he'd said:
what do you call a
spaceship with a faulty air conditioning unit? Come on, what do you
think? A frying saucer!

It wasn't a faulty air
conditioner, but facts don't matter in entertainment.

"I did hear about
that. Apparently debris from your deflector got into the engine and
caught fire?"

He looks amused. "Our
deflector was fine. It's a lot less complicated than that. We
miscalculated the heat levels in the mesosphere, and one of our main
engines burned."

"Oh."

Snap.

We try to ignore it.

Turning my back to the
crowd, I clasp his lock, preparing to show him what to do. "Turn
it three times to the right then you stop at twenty three. Turn to
the left… and right again, stopping at nine."
Click!
It
opens. "You try it."

He walks closer until
his chest touches my shoulder. He puts his arms around and over my
body as if hiding me from the startled gazes of my peers. This close
I can smell his clean, musky scent. It smells like a combination of
mint, linen and wood. He fumbles with the lock, turning it the way I
demonstrated. I look ahead, my heart beating faster.

"It's not
working." He sounds a little embarrassed.

I take a peek at the
throng of people behind us. It's grown larger.

Rhys's bodyguard tries
to look inconspicuous, but it's hard to hide a six and half foot
frame. His body's a tall street light among smaller lampposts. His
eyes scan the group surrounding us, but remains where he is.

"Maybe you'll just
have to help me everyday," Rhys half jokes.

My breath catches in my
throat.

He sees something on my
face. Suddenly there's a mischievous glint in his eye. "Don't
look so scared. I'm not planning on
probing
you."

Whatever awkwardness is
between us breaks. I laugh. Letterman had done his top ten alien pick
up lines last week and number one was:
wanna get probed?

"Someone must've
shot you with a phaser set on 'stunning'," I quip back,
remembering number ten on the list.

"Are you a carbon
based model?"
Number eight.

Putting my hand over my
heart, I say, "Of all the planets in all the solar systems in
all the galaxies, you had to walk into mine…"

"How about a close
encounter with the pantless kind?"

Holding back a laugh I
say, "I know you're an alien because you've just abducted my
heart."

His eyes sparkle.

Am I flirting? It's
never happened before.

I can't stop smiling.
"Do you understand everything you're saying?"

"Not quite
everything," he admits, with a little laugh. "But according
to the T.V. audience that list was very funny."

Snap.

He moves closer to me
until he's all I see, hear or smell.

"We don't have
things like that back on Sangine," he continues. "We don't
laugh a lot."

It's a strange thing to
say. I want to respond, but I can't. I see Rhys's eyes with clarity.
At first they appear only golden, but on closer inspection they hold
odd shades of green and some grays too. The colors seem to shimmer
together, intermixing in some spots, and standing boldly in others.
Somehow when it all came together, it creates a single golden cloud
in each eye. Right now the clouds are shining, beckoning.

I like the way he looks
at me.

I like the way he sees
me.

"Do you have your
schedule with you? I can help you find your next class." Did
that sound desperate?

"I know where it
is. Let me walk you to yours."

I'm so stunned I nod
before realizing what I've done. He pulls me to his side. His mouth's
moving and I'm pretty sure he's asking me a question like where my
next class is. I can't form a thought other than he's still talking
to me. He still
wants
to talk to me. I haven't disappeared.

Not yet.

I feel a rush of
relief.

Snap, snap, snap.

"Where to?"
He's waiting patiently as if he's asked three times already. He
probably has.

"Second floor.
Room 240."

His hands clasp my
elbow. As if on cue, the crowd parts.
This must be what a rock
star feels like.
The bodyguard moves to Rhys's other side.

I wonder if Rhys knows
where he's going. "Should I lead?"

He spares me a glance.
"I can lead. I'm used to it."

He pulls ahead.

I follow.

People are watching us.
I can hear them whispering. I don't care because Rhys is near me.
He's real and he makes me feel real, too.

When we reach room 240,
he stops with me at the door. Looking at the floor, I try to think of
something cool to say.
See you later alligator?
No. He'd
wonder why I called him a reptile.
Kenna out?
No, too Ryan
Seacrest-ish.
Catch you later?
Would he think I'd be trying to
trip him?

Beep.
I look up
in time to see him pull out something small and sleek from his jean
pocket. He glances at it, and his lips move wordlessly.

His eyes darken. He's
not happy with what he's reading. When he catches my eyes, he
explains, "Something's come up at work."

"You have to
leave." I try to push my disappointment away.

"No. It's
something that can wait." He tries to smile again, but it
doesn't reach his eyes.

I don't want him to go.
Not yet. "You've only been here a few days and they've already
put you to work?" I joke.

"I put it on
myself." He takes a step back and the warmth between us slowly
starts to freeze.

"What do you
mean?"

"Trying to fix
some things I've done." Something about what he says hardens his
face. When he speaks again, he sounds flatter, more distant. "It's,
how do you say it? No big deal." His accent is as formal as his
tone. He takes another step back. The warmth I felt minutes ago is
disappearing with each inch he puts between us.

My walls come back up.

"Thank you."
My voice is stiff like his presence.

He hesitates as if he
wants to say something. He doesn't.

With a smile that
doesn't fool either of us, he turns and leaves. People rush by to
follow, but I'm rooted to the floor.

I wonder if I've just
imagined it all.

My footsteps sound loud
on the hard wood floor of our hallway. It's a habit for me to make as
much noise as possible to announce my arrival. At first it was a
coping tactic to make sure someone noticed me, but it stayed on even
after I realized my strategy wasn't successful.

"Dad?" I call
to the emptiness. "I'm home!" There's no answer, but I
don't expect there to be. He's usually out at a bar, or at Jack's
playing cards and drinking. I was happy when my dad found another
widower friend to hang out with, but it didn't take long to figure
out that they didn't help each other in the way I thought they would.

My feet continue to
make loud, disruptive noises as I move to the kitchen. I can't
describe how I do it, how it's natural to pound my feet on the
surface like I'm jumping on a bed. It used to feel good to feel the
stomping in my knees. Now I worry my knees are going to give in early
from daily impact. But that's the thing about habits; they're too
comfortable to break.

I open the refrigerator
door to take out raw chicken breast. I'm a decent cook. I have to be
or else we would starve. The motions are automatic; washing, cutting,
and frying. Sometimes we have fresh vegetables. Mostly, we don't. So
I pair our meals with bread, rice, or whatever carb I can find.
Searching the kitchen pantry, my hands touch more empty space than
food. Finally I find what I'm looking for. Ramen noodles.
Score!
I salt the chicken and wait for the noodles to soften. When it does,
I pour the soup over the chicken, adding a touch of hot sriracha
sauce to liven it up.