A Strange Fire (Florence Vaine) (15 page)

 The school corridors are deserted, one or two stragglers pass me by but
they don’t pay me too much attention since I’m no one they know.

 My bones quake when Frank’s instantly recognisable voice announces, “I
was looking for you,” as he approaches me from halfway down the corridor. I
really am a magnet for unwanted attention today.

 “Well, you f-found me,” I tell him, while slamming shut my locker.

 I make the mistake of looking him in the face, thus exposing my red
rimmed eyelids. Frank comes and leans back against the locker next to mine.

 He scrutinises me a moment, then asks, “Are you upset?” It startles me
because he appears ready to attack what or who-ever it was that caused me hurt.

 “I’m fine.” I answer coldly.

 “You had a counselling session with Sam,” he says darkly, and I can’t
tell whether it’s a question or a simple statement of fact.

 “Yes.” I say, “I did. But that’s none of your business.” I push past
Frank, but he grips my arm, swings me around and pins me back against the
lockers. Making a loud bang on the metal as he does so, but there isn’t anybody
around to hear it. I gulp. Scared now. In an instant he has evolved from
quietly probing to overtly furious. Jesus, I have a feeling those tears are
going to return any second now. I don’t say anything, only stare at him with a
thousand questions on my face.

 “You’ve been avoiding me all day, why?” he asks, making a visible effort
to calm his temper.

 “I didn’t realise I was under any obligation not to.” I tell him, still
unsure of how safe I am in his presence.

 “That’s not it. There’s a reason you’re not telling me. I can feel it.
It’s like you suddenly hate me or something.” His face is all hard lines and
fierce eyes. His flames blazing outwardly from his body.

 I don’t want to get into what Josh said to me about him, it would be far
too uncomfortable. And, as I said before, I tend to avoid confrontation. I
scramble through my brain trying to think of anything I can say to him as an
excuse.

 “I don’t hate you.” I answer. “I just don’t like how your brother
treated Caroline on Friday night.” Technically, that’s one of the reasons for
my negative attitude towards him, hardly a lie.

 Frank lets out a long breath, he’s close to me now, his left hand still
gripping my wrist. “You mean Alex, what did he do?”

 “He didn’t tell you?” I ask.

 “No, I just figured Caroline hadn’t been enjoying herself at the party
when I saw her run out of the barn.”

 “She kissed Alex and he was very rude about expressing his disgust at
what she’d done.” I answer him.

 Frank half smiles. “She – Caroline kissed him?” His eyes linger on my
lips when he says this. I cough loudly to get his attention.

 “Alex only has eyes for one girl,” Frank continues, focusing back on my
face. “A girl who’ll never want him.”

 “What do you m-mean?” I reply, confused.

 “When they first moved to Chesterport,” he says, still close enough for
me to able to smell the fresh scent of his shower gel and the clean laundry
smell of his white t-shirt, “both Alex and Ross had a thing for Layla. She
chose Ross. Alex pretended he was fine with it, but he’s been in love with her
ever since, never even considering dating any other girl. Always pining for one
he can’t have.”

 “That’s no excuse for how he acted with Caroline,” I fume. “She was
mortified.”

 Frank is quiet for a moment and I think about what he’s told me. It’s
quite stupefying to think that Alex could be in love with anyone. His entire
attitude has a kind of laissez faire, non-caring aspect that makes me wonder if
he could even be capable of such a strong emotion as love. Or maybe he simply
doesn’t allow anyone to see past the hard shell he has created for himself.
Frank being a possible exception, he seems to know things about Alex that no
one else does.

 Frank loosens his grip on my wrist, but doesn’t let it fall free. “Do
you want me to tell him he was out of line?” he asks, expression exquisitely
intense.

 Okay, so I might not like Frank’s duplicity, but I can’t help admiring
his more handsome features. I can smell the sun on his skin. His blue eyes glow
in the windowless corridor. His flames fan out gloriously when he notices me
watching him. My eyes trail to them instinctively.

 “Are you reading me?” he asks, apparently intrigued.

 “Not exactly, just looking.” I respond.

 He must have noticed the look of wonder on my face, because a moment
later he asks, “Looking or admiring?”

 “Modest aren’t we?” I say and then turn to step aside, but he has me
cornered.

 He quickly moves to block me. “Wait, don’t go,” he whispers, his nose
touching my ear. He breathes in deep, then continues, “We’re all alone.”

 Judging from his sudden mood swing not minutes ago, I’m not sure how to
react to his words. They could be either romantic or psychopathic, there’s
really no telling which. I don’t move. My body becomes rigid and tense.

 “Relax.” Frank murmurs, his hand trailing down my side to rest on the
fraction of exposed skin just between my t-shirt and my trousers. His thumb
strokes the ridge of the material.

 “W-what are you doing?” I ask with great effort. I’m torn between what
my rational mind is screaming at me to do: run a mile, and what my body wants:
his hands to keep touching me. If it weren’t for the pills I took earlier I
wouldn’t be able to speak at all right now.

 “You don’t know how you draw me, Florence, you lure me in. I can’t stop
thinking about you,” he breathes.

 Even though he’s probably lying, because there’s no way I have that kind
of allure, what Frank says makes me melt. And I’m sort of angry at how my
hormones betray me in this way. All of a sudden he pushes me harder against the
lockers, though in passion not in anger. His entire body is pressed up against
mine. I freeze.

 “What can I do to make you more comfortable with me?” he asks in a
throaty voice, his eyes shine down on me.

 “Maybe you could give her some space, Frank,” suggests a third voice.
His head whips around rapidly, mine following its lead. Sam is standing a
couple feet away from us in the middle of the hallway. After a second of consideration,
Frank steps back, allowing me my freedom.

 “Hey Sam,” says Frank casually, with no embarrassment at all. I, on the
other hand, am burning up. Not only because of being caught in this position,
but also because of how exposed I feel with Sam in general, what with how much
he knows about my dad.

 “We were just – talking,” he continues.

 Sam laughs, a portion of which holds no humour at all. Frank doesn’t
seem to notice it though. Sam turns his ice blue eyes on me. “Everything all
right, Flo?” he asks.

 “Y-yes.” I reply, willing my cheeks to cool down.

 Sam glares at Frank in silent reprimand. Perhaps he doesn’t take kindly
to people intimidating his “subjects” or whatever I am to him, because Frank
pressing me up against the lockers would appear threatening to the casual
observer. Frank seems momentarily taken aback at Sam’s harsh tone. He shifts
his position and stands beside me.

 “Florence is fine,” says Frank, he looks at me adoringly and it feels
like his expression is more for Sam’s benefit than for mine.

 “Yes, I’m okay,” I reply, and make a big deal out of glancing at my
watch, “And actually I’m late, Gran will be wondering where I am, so I better
go.”

 “I’ll walk you out,” says Frank.

 Sam nods and smiles at me. “I’ll see you next Monday Flo,” he says,
before glancing back at Frank. “Take care, Franklin,” Then he continues down
the corridor before turning the corner and disappearing from sight.

 Once we get outside of the school gates, Frank says, “What did he ask
you in the session?”

 “Who Sam?” I ask, surprised at Frank’s brusque tone.

 “He didn’t – he didn’t push you talk about things you didn’t want to,
did he?”

 “Isn’t that the purpose of Guidance Counsellors?” I reply humorously,
but Frank’s unflinching expression informs me that he’s in no mood for jokes.
“Well, he had some teacher’s reports from my old school, and I suppose you
could say they contained some surprisingly personal details.”

 “How personal?” Frank probes, his face serious.

 “I’d rather not get into it, if you don’t mind.” I answer curtly.

 “He clearly brought up something that caused you distress, you’ve been
crying, I can tell.”

 I stop dead in my tracks, because it seems that Frank is planning on
walking me the whole way home, and I can’t have him interrogating me for the next
twenty minutes. It baffles me that he cares so much what Sam and I spoke about.

 “I’ll be fine walking by myself from here.” I tell him, feeling guilty
for being rude, then I have to remind myself of the lie he told about me.

 Frank stretches his hands up and rests them on the top of his head, he
examines me with endlessly deep eyes. A fraction of olive toned abdomen skin
revealing itself in his stretch. Don’t be a fool, Flo, I tell myself. People
aren’t always what they seem. There were times when Dad could have charmed the
pants off of a nun, but behind closed doors he was anything but charming. Frank
may be beautiful, but in real terms, I know next to nothing about him.

 “What if I promise to quit pestering you with questions,” Frank
suggests, hands still resting on his head. “Will you let me walk with you
then?” he asks, smiling a smile that could melt the hearts of thousands. Be
brave. Be fearless. Assert yourself. This is my pitiful self-help mantra. But
it does give me some courage.

 “I t-think it’s best if you leave me to walk alone,” as I tell him this
a hauntingly powerful shiver comes over me, and instantly I know that my
invisible stalker has just joined us. Spontaneous anger consumes me, I stamp my
foot in exasperation and peer around myself. The presence seems to be most
concentrated by a tall tree on the side of the footpath. Malevolent by nature.
I march towards it, “Oh God! Why can’t you just leave me alone! What the
hell
do you want?” I demand.

 Frank coughs. “Um, Flo, you aren’t talking to me now are you?”

 I spin around. “What? No, um – look Frank I’m sorry, I have to go.” And
on that note I run away from him. That makes it twice now.

That night, in my dreams, I have a conversation with a woman who
continually changes forms. At once she is a girl with light chestnut hair and
big Bambi eyes, next she is a boy wearing a baseball cap with shaggy blond hair
sticking out at the ends. Her form shifts from male to female, but somehow I
know that in essence, she is a woman. Perhaps because when she speaks, a
slightly distorted female voice comes through. It seems that her bodies are
either those of the very young, teenagers, or the very old, men and women in
their sixties and seventies.

 I know without being told, that of all of the guises she takes, none of
them are her own, none are her true appearance. We both drift, in a toneless,
colourless space. None of her numerous bodies have an aura. I take that to mean
that they are dead. She is using the faces of individuals no longer of this
world. She hovers before me, pacing back and forth on a groundless surface.
Perhaps the path she walks is simply invisible to me. I stay still, floating in
the empty space.

 “It must be vanity,” says the ever changing woman, ponderously to
herself, “that I reveal myself to her. No,” she continues, “no that can’t be
it, for if it were I would appear as myself and not as those who fuel me.” She
hasn’t yet looked at me, but she knows I’m here. She’s not ready, my mind
provides, not ready to face me yet.

 At this moment she is the girl with the chestnut hair, wide eyed, pretty
and innocent. She playfully tugs on a strand of hair.

 “Necessity is why I do this,” she rambles, still speaking only to
herself. “She senses when I am near, that has never occurred before, she must be
dealt with.” The woman speaks with erratic eye movements, as would a person not
all there in the head department.

 For another while she paces, still mumbling to herself, it isn’t long
before I tire of this.

 “Is there a reason why I’m here?” I ask impatiently, momentarily
surprised that the usual anxieties that cause me to stammer in the real world
don’t exist in my dreams.

 The woman, now a man with balding grey hair, well into his seventies,
whips her head around, and at this moment I realise that it is
her
eyes
in the old man’s face. Her true eyes. Big and unquestionably manic. They are
present no matter what body she possesses.

 “You will not
speak
until you are spoken
to
,” she hisses,
clasping her hands together and simultaneously changing form to a girl of my
age with a long dark ponytail and a curvy physique.

 “Sorry,” I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

 She quits her pacing now, and turns to face me. “You are causing
problems, little girl, you are causing too many problems.” She steps close to
me and reaches forward, as though ready to strangle me to death. After only a
second her eyes widen and she seems to think better of her actions.

 I muster the sweetest, most unassuming voice I can come up with, because
even though this is a dream, I am frightened of her obvious insanity.

 “How am I causing problems?” I ask sweetly.

 “You know when I’m there,” she replies in a quiet voice, “the last girl
knew when I
had
been there, but you know when I
am
there, that is
not good.”

 “I know…” I say and then pause a moment. She said I know when she’s
there, could she mean, no, it’s impossible. I decide to ask anyway, what harm
could it do?

 “Are you the one who’s been following me?” I ask, nervous of the answer
she might give.

 A violent storm of noise vibrates through the nothingness, the empty
space that is not quite a space at all. It is nothing and everything all at
once. The long ponytail of the girl whose form she is using tingles and shakes,
her body seethes with anger.