Phoenix Reborn (5 page)

“You will do so much, so many things,” he said. “And when you do, it’s going to be incredible.”

Just as Ashling opened her mouth to speak, a crew member grabbed Hawke’s shoulder. The actor’s eyes closed in submission, his disappointment palpable.

“I have to go,” he said. “But if you want to watch, you can. I’m afraid you’ll have to be off the set, though.”

“Okay, maybe I will for a little.” Ashling pulled her hand away as she backed up. It felt almost painful to let go, to lose contact with him. Something in the man’s flesh made her feel stronger than she was. He was special.

And everyone in the world knew it.

She watched him from the other side of the barrier. The scene was one in which he was to stroll down a street next to a seemingly shy young woman while the two engaged in conversation. The concept seemed simple enough, yet the director asked for take after take of the same thing; it seemed as though something wasn’t working between the two stars.

Ashling heard little in the way of instruction, except for the words, “You need to be really into her,” at which point she was convinced that she saw Hawke’s eyes look towards her, and possibly even a wink. Finally he shrugged as if to say, “What can I do?”

So he wasn’t convincingly excited about his co-star, as he seemed about Ashling herself. Maybe, after all, it wasn’t entirely an act. Maybe he would ask her on a date sometime. Maybe she could even find a way to say yes.

She walked away after a time, feeling something close to happiness. It was a rare and wonderful emotion, and she hoped it would stick around, at least for a little.

T
hat evening around seven, her cell phone rang. This was unusual; it always shocked Ashling to think that anyone used phones as speaking devices anymore. But there it was: a strange number lighting up her screen. For a moment she considered not answering it, allowing it to go to voice mail to check a few minutes later, when her heart had settled. But if it was him, she would never have the courage to call back. She should answer it.

“Hello?”

“Ashling.” The voice spoke the name like a statement, full of confidence and certainty.

“Yes — who’s this?”

“It’s Hawke. Hawke Turner, I mean. You know, the guy you smashed into near the Observatory. Then he tripped over a chair for you.”

She managed to keep her chuckle internal. Of course she knew exactly who it was.

“Oh, hi,” she said, longing for the gift of eloquent speech and cleverness. “What’s up?”

“Ranach gave me your number. I hope it’s okay that I’m calling.”

“Well, you do realize that the bulk of humanity no longer uses phones as phones, right? Talking into this thing is like carving pictures onto cave walls.”

“True. But this is a much more effective way of saying this: listen, I’m wondering if you’d like to do something with me tonight.”

“Tonight? I…do something?” Yes, she’d pretty well mastered the art of speaking like a cave dweller. “I mean, I’m sort of busy tonight.”

“Oh, okay. No problem. You’re probably making jewels for the royal family or something.”

What the hell was she doing, telling him that? She wasn’t busy in the least. She wasn’t even
sort of
busy. And he was actually asking her out. If she said no, it might mean she’d blown her only chance at a date with him.

But a yes would mean opening up old wounds, ones that were currently protected under a thin layer of scar tissue. It would mean concealing truths from him. Or worse, having him bring up that night. If he asked her what she’d done to that boy and why, she would have had to answer. And what could she possibly tell him?

Still, she wanted to say yes. More than anything, in fact. For once, maybe she should just throw caution to the wind. Or at least to a mild breeze.

“But tomorrow,” she added quickly. “Maybe I could do something tomorrow evening.”

“Hmm, I’ll have to see. A couple of producer-types are in town tomorrow and I’m supposed to meet them at Fibber’s to discuss a few upcoming scenes.”

“Ah.”

Fibber McGee’s was the local watering hole and a frequent meeting place when visitors were coming to Woodland Creek from out of town. It had been years since Ashling had set foot inside its door.

“But maybe you could join us there?” added Hawke. “Or come afterwards? We’re meeting at six, so you could show up around eight.”

“That sounds good,” she lied. An evening around strangers who were far more important than she could ever be. That sounded unpleasant at best. “Do you want to text me?” she said. “To confirm the time and place, I mean?”

“Do I?” he asked. “Hmm, let’s see. I’m…not…sure.”

Silence.

“Yes, Ashling. Of course I want to text you. I mean, I’d rather see you in person. Hell, I’d come over to wherever you are right now, if you’d just invite me.”

“I’m sorry, Hawke — it’s just — I have all these projects.”

“I understand. Can’t make time for the movie star.” Hawke let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. “Story of my life.”

“Shut up,” Ashling laughed. “Look at you; you’ve gotten all cocky in your old age.”

“You don’t know the half of it. But I’ll be in touch. You’re not escaping my talons this easily.”

“Good. Okay then. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

She hung up, wincing, wishing that her foot were capable of kicking her own ass properly. What kind of a woman puts off a chance to spend time with a handsome movie star who’s shown nothing but genuine interest in her?
Her.
That’s who.

Sitting around her apartment wasn’t exactly the “work” she’d insisted that she had to do, so she threw on a jacket and wandered outside, turning up Main Street to head towards Ranach’s place. When she arrived, she let herself in through the back door with her key, climbing down the steep staircase to the basement before her mentor had a chance to detect her presence.

She sat down at her work table, turning on the small lamp to her right. In front of her sat various lumps of metal, reminders of how unproductive she’d been these last few days.

The one completed piece that sat on the table was the firebird that she’d created. She picked it up, eyeing it. The feathers seemed to flow in streams behind the creature, burning ribbons left in its wake. It really was beautiful, and she wondered if it came from her preoccupation with her own cursed ability.

She put it down and turned to face the opposite wall of white concrete. Painted since that day so long ago when she’d turned it, and everything else, black. All of her fear of going out with Hawke, of getting close to anyone, was directly tied to her strange, destructive ability. But maybe if she could somehow learn to control it, to stop letting it rule her life, she could eventually have a chance at a normal existence.

It’s in your hands,
she told herself.
Literally.

For a moment she focused her thoughts and energy on one particular spot on the wall, trying to imagine what it might be like to burn a hole through it.

But nothing happened.

She tried to recall what she’d felt that night in the woods; to become angry, to create hostility towards the concrete barrier as she’d felt towards the boy she’d nearly killed. But still, nothing. Well, it had been years since she’d actually started any sort of fire. Maybe her powers had reduced themselves to a talent for melting silver.

And then her parents came into her mind. Thoughts of their faces, now fuzzy in her memory. Of how they’d left her behind without a word. How they’d deserted her, as though she were nothing more than an old newspaper.

Spiced tears welled up in her eyes and she felt her face contort into a combination of rage and hurt. The betrayal, the desire to scream at invisible people whom she could never access.

Seconds later, her arms were extended, palms up. Her hands glowed a series of orange, red and yellow streams. Ashling cried out.

“Why did you leave me alone?”

With that word, she flung her right hand towards the wall. A ball of flame flew at it, temporarily igniting the concrete.

“Why?”

It was her left hand now, flinging another red orb which exploded in a circle of flame against the wall.

She looked to her right and then her left. In each hand, another fireball had formed, hovering silently over her palms.

All her life she’d feared this. This power, uncontrolled. And yet in that moment she was learning to control it. Curiosity overtook rage. She stared at the orb, which rotated in slow, delicate circles, waiting for her signal.

And then she sealed her hand into a fist, cutting off the supply of oxygen. Then the other hand curled into a tight little ball.

They were gone. The fire was gone, and with it her rage. Ashling was at peace, if only temporarily.

In Drake’s Diner, Ashling found herself sitting the next afternoon, a book lying open before her. Her date with Hawke was several hours off, and this was her best attempt to distract herself, to calm her nerves.

She pretended to be absorbed in the book’s pages even as her ears wandered to the nearby conversations of people far more sociable than herself. For whatever reason, Drake’s was the afternoon gossip venue of choice for women in the same way that bars were for men — though men liked to pretend that they weren’t gossips; they were “shit shooters,” and their own subject matter tended to be more grave and important than women’s. Or so they liked to tell themselves as they discussed how the football team’s newest quarterback was doing.

The place was abuzz, women chattering in every corner. Their eyes were wide, voices animated. Every female in the joint, regardless of age or marital status, was excited. This was the best thing that had happened in Woodland Creek, well, ever.

“Did you hear? He’s come back. Hawke Turner is here, in town.”

“They say he used to come in here to eat. Maybe he’s looking for a coffee. Oh my God, we could get his autograph.”

“If he gave me his autograph, I’d never wash my pen again.”

This last sentence was uttered by a young woman that Ashling recognized as Jennifer Mitchell, who was a year older, had been a cheerleader in high school and who would have sold her soul for a chance to sink her teeth into the most popular boy around. Still, in her mid-twenties, she had the mentality that popularity was the key to gaining the unwavering respect of her peers.

Unable to resist, Ashling turned and stared at her.

“You went to school with him,” she said. “We all did. Why on earth would you want his autograph?” She realized how antagonistic the question was as soon as she’d uttered it, but it was too late to take it back.

“Because he’s famous,” Jen replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I knew him when he was a nobody. Much like you’ve remained, Fire Girl.”

A few nearby pals snickered.

“Fire Girl,” said Ashling. “It’s funny; my name used to be Ashling, but I’ve now changed it legally to Fire Girl. It’s on my birth certificate, even, though the state made my parents spell it with a P-h instead of an F. They said it made it more exotic.”

Jen sneered. “Didn’t your parents run off years ago? I seem to recall that they left you with that weird old geezer, Ranach.”

“My parents are dead, if you must know,” said Ashling, rising, her coffee in hand. She made her way to the door, exhaling as she opened it. The temptation to dump the coffee into Jen’s lap was great.
Control,
she reminded herself.
Control.

“If you do see Hawke,” said Jen, ignoring the statement, “Send him here for a chat. Not that he’d ever speak to
you
.”

“No,” said Ashling, her back to her attacker. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. I’m sure that he’d never ask me on a date, either.”

With that, she allowed the door to close behind her, smiling broadly. It was the first time in her life that she’d managed a proper dig at one of the “pops,” the popular girls who’d made her life miserable through the interminable high school years. The girls who were now women, and no kinder than they had been eight years earlier.

Unfortunately, they brought out the worst in Ashling. She hated herself for replying or acknowledging the unkindness. But the alternative was to say nothing, and that wasn’t an option, either. For too long she’d allowed herself to hide from people like that. And now she was seeing that they were to be pitied, not feared.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and, clicking on Hawke’s number, wrote a text that went utterly against her shy nature:

A moment later she was walking down the street, her heart and mind each a little lighter. Finally, she was moving forward with her life. Finally, she could let the past start to disappear.

For one evening, at least.

At seven-thirty p.m., she looked in the mirror, ready for her “date,” or rather, to meet some important people she’d never heard of and try not to make an ass of herself. Everything seemed in place, though Ashling had always felt inadequate when it came to things like makeup application. Her long hair curled softly around her shoulders, her eyes as always bright. She’d always considered them too big, as though too much of her might escape through them — her soul rushing out via its own window.

But this was as good as it was going to get: a dark red dress, a little lipstick. After all, this was a bar, not a Hollywood gala.

She stepped outside in her flat shoes, making her way quickly — too quickly, as she was in no rush to be early — to the bar. The air was once again crisp and clean, the sky shades of dimming oranges and blues.

Few people wandered through Woodland Creek at this hour; most had retired for the evening in front of their televisions. So Ashling gratefully found herself alone as she strolled. She caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window and even admitted that she looked rather like a normal human being. And inside her, all felt settled for once. The usual churning of a hidden stress seemed to have been put to rest. Could it be that Hawke was responsible for this?

After a block or so, she saw the first pedestrian: a tall man with dark hair, leaning against the wall of a closed storefront across the street. His arms were crossed before him and he wore an old leather jacket, his shoulders hunched. In his mouth were the remnants of a narrow cigar, which he extracted and threw to the ground when he saw her.

Something in him was odd; his eyes were too prying, too eager to stare at her, and Ashling found herself picking up the pace. But he was far off, and no doubt he only looked at her because she was the only creature stirring on the street.

As she passed him, though, he began to move. She could hear the footsteps crossing the road behind her, keeping pace. Pursuing. But perhaps he too was headed to the bar; it was only a block or so away. She could see its sign from her current location: Fibber McGee’s. So close now.