Ignite the Shadows. Ingrid Seymour
there, whatever friendship we’ve shared will die. We’ve been through too much together to ruin everything over something like this. I can tell he’s thinking the same thing, but maybe his anger will beat his common sense.
Sensing we’re at the brink of making a huge mistake, I walk away without saying a word and head north toward our neighborhood. I don’t look back. Xave can limp home for all I care, even if this is my fault. Maybe I am selfish, after all.
Keeping to the shoulder, I move at a steady pace. I’m fuming, wondering if I could have handled this better. The air is crisp with winter’s bite. It makes every deep breath count. There are no street lamps on this side road, but the moon is full, the sky cloudless—a rarity in this damn city.
I haven’t been to this small wooded area in years, but I can see why Xave and I used to like playing here. It’s quiet and hidden from prying neighbors and their objections to BB guns, baseballs and fireworks. God, that all seems so long ago. We were inseparable then and now it seems some huge wedge is making its way between us. He’s become so moody and sullen with me. I don’t get it. I fear things won’t ever be like they used to. The thought hurts.
The smell of crushed pine needles wafts in the breeze, bringing back memories of happier times with my friend—many of them in these woods. I huff, thinking of the time he dared me to kiss him. He must have been ten and I, nine.
“Now there’s a scary dare,” I said. “I’d rather kiss a slug.”
“Not so brave, are you?” he said.
“Oh, I’m brave, just not that brave.”
He smiled wickedly. “All right, here’s another dare. Climb that tree.” He pointed at the tallest tree in the patch of woods.
I was afraid of heights, afraid of anything that could trigger an attack, for that matter, but I wasn’t about to let him show me up, so I climbed the tree. The problem was, once I found myself fifteen feet off the ground, I panicked and lost all my courage. I started crying and fearing my mind would go blank. In seconds, Xave was by my side, perched on a thick branch.
“Don’t worry. Don’t cry. I’ll help you get down,” he said.
He tried to tell me where to place my feet and hands, but I was too scared to follow his instructions. When he realized it wasn’t going to work, he had me wrap myself around him, a little monkey on his back, and painstakingly climbed down. A few feet off the ground, his arms gave out and we plummeted to the ground. His weight knocked the air out of me.
He hovered above, as I lay there inert. “Are you okay? Are you okay? I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
When I opened my eyes, his nose was inches from mine, worry etched on his face. He was making sure I was still breathing.
“You’re alive!” he exclaimed. “Thank God, you’re alive.”
“You silly goose,” I said, using the endearment Dad often used with me. “Of course I’m alive.” Then I kissed him on the cheek.
His eyes widened in surprise and after that we both rolled on the pine needles, laughing like idiots. I guess things have to change. We’re not kids anymore. I just wish we could still laugh about our misadventures. Instead, we’re yelling at each other.
After a few minutes walking, I hear gravel crunching behind me. I try to ignore it and pick up my pace. The crunching is followed by a shuffle.
Crunch, crunch, shuffle.
Reluctantly, I look back and see Xave, pushing the bike forward a couple of feet, then dragging his right leg. He repeats the process, looking as pathetic as one of those dogs with wheels for legs.
Damn it.
I stop and hope Xave doesn’t make me regret doing so. I wait for interminable minutes for him to catch up. Surely, he’s taking his sweet time on purpose. When he reaches me, we say nothing and just stand there looking at anything but each other.
“I’ll push the bike,” I tell him.
He nods. We walk without exchanging any more words. Enough has been said already.
Awkward. Awk-ward.
All the way home, Xave and I stare at the ground, mouths zipped. I should apologize, but after he dragged my family into the argument, I’m too mad.
His limping is worse.
He deserves it!
I’m not sorry for him, not when he assumes the worst about me, like everyone else. I expect more from him. I don’t care if he has no way of knowing I’m possessed, crazy or whatever it is, he should treat me better than this. He’s known me for nine years. “He feels my pain,” like he often says. Maybe he doesn’t.
Our street comes into view. A few lampposts cast weak light on the cracked sidewalk, but it’s mostly dark in spite of the clear, moonlit sky. Too many large trees line the street and few people keep their floodlights on once they turn in for the night. It helps keep the electric bill low, Mom says. I don’t argue; it helps me sneak out when I need to.
I slow down as we approach Xave’s house. The split-level looks gloomy, spotted with shadows from the nearby trees. A shudder goes down my back, making me wary. I’ve seen his house in this light before. Why is it spooking me all of a sudden?
I’m contemplating the question when a male figure steps from behind the largest tree in the front yard. His face is obscured, but the silhouette and swagger let me know it’s Xave’s brother. I stop and exchange a quick glance with Xave. There’ll be no lying our way out of this one. We never got our story straight. Besides, Clark’s not blind. He saw us from the alley. Why else would he be waiting for us?
Still wary, even though it’s just Clark, I look around. A faint buzz begins in the back of my head for the second time tonight. I frown.
Clark plants his intimidating six-three, muscular frame a few paces from us, arms crossed. I can see his face better, and it isn’t pretty. Well, it is pretty, but in a Dirty Harry kind of way. Intense eyes, tight lips, strong jaw.
“Hello there, X-avier.” Clark says the name as if he’s referring to pond scum. He pauses at the “X” and says the rest with a sarcastic British accent.
Xave’s eyes shift from one crack of the sidewalk to another. He hates being called by that name, has heard enough jokes about gay mutants in tights and will pretty much beat up anybody who dares call him by the full name his comic-book-obsessed father gave him. Clark’s the only one I know who still dares call him that. If you ask me, he’s just lucky his dad didn’t name him Louise instead of Clark.
“You’ve got some explaining to do, bro,” Clark says.
“It was my fault,” I say.
Xave gives me a dirty look. I match it. So he’s gonna be ungrateful like that? Well, in that case, I hope his brother kicks his ass. Clark turns toward me, very slowly. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, stamping his biker boot down. The heavy heel taps. He takes in the full length of my body.
“So what are you saying?” he asks. “That my sissy brother has no more sense than a wet-’round-the-ears gal?”
What did he just call me? Not like he’s all mature and experienced with only four years on me and three on his brother.
“Told you to stay out of it, Marci,” Xave mumbles through the corner of his mouth.
Very slowly, I inhale, closing my eyes until my lungs are full. I let go of the bike and give it a shove toward Xave. It catches him off guard and he scrambles to keep it from falling on him, favoring his injured leg. I’m about to turn and