THE FIRE SAGA

SPARK 2 - SOCIALIZATION

"Your mother isn't dead," he deflects.

We've tried on a few occasions to have this same talk. He left the room each time, unwilling or unable to listen to my viewpoint. She isn't coming back, yet he refuses to move on.

"They have no father," he continues.

"You just said he works at the hospital."

"Their parents died, Sheyla." He swallows an emotional lump down his throat. "Both of them."

"Wonder what that's like."

A bit cold, even for you, Superego shames me.

He ignores the bait. "Ryan's their uncle."

"Looking for more strays, is he?"

"You have to go." He puts his game face on. "They did this whole party for you. Not going would be rude."

"When you say rude, do you mean rude like orchestrating a function I have no interest in attending? With no notice or prep time provided."

No time to talk your way out of it, Superego adds unhelpfully.

"Your behavior is a mutual concern. Ryan said Declan went through the same detachment in his transition, but they're perfectly normal now, wouldn't you say?"

I fold my arms across my chest. "If by normal you mean clonelike and superficial, then yeah."

"Easy on the judging," he admonishes. "They're good people."

"Sure they are," I tut. "Good for an unsupervised party. I don't do well unsupervised, remember?"

"Don't be so quick to dismiss the benefit of hanging around people your age." He coughs. "Or any people."

Hey there, Pot. This is Kettle. Radio check. Over, Superego muses.

"This is the opposite of a lead-by-example moment." Neither of us desires socialization. If he were lonely, he'd make some friends in our small town. As it is, he has no drive. His one piece of gravity, the one thing holding him down, is the lifeless shell that used to house my mother.

"You have zero clue what's best for me." That's unfair to say. He hasn't done a bad job raising me. Honestly, he's gone out of his way to do everything Mom would've wanted him to do. Presumably. Murdering her means living with the assumed expectations of someone I can't truly know, handed out by someone equivalently foreign.

"I haven't always done the right thing," he admits. "I've probably never done the right thing by you, but she would've wanted this."

There it is, the typical argument-ender. She becomes the scapegoat for rebuttal. Robot activated.

"What would she have wanted, hmm?" I challenge. "Would she have wanted the head cheerleader to be my fake friend? I find that highly unlikely."

"You need teenager experiences."

"Like utter humiliation and shame?"

"You're well past junior high."

"Same goal. Different tactics."

"This will help you, Sheyla." He genuinely believes that. I feel the sincerity in his words. Unfortunately, his words are garbage.

"Convenient a doctor is on standby. A trained medical professional for when things get too hot to handle."

We don't discuss my disaster potential. It's a dirty basement secret best left locked away. We don't really discuss anything. We don't communicate. We breathe the same air. That's the extent of our connection. This venture to the cove is the closest to a meaningful conversation we've ever had. We aren't exactly nailing the attempt, either.

When we pull into the driveway, I see the fire blazing by the open section they've carved out near the edge of the frozen water. What I don't see are bodies surrounding the fire. "Some party," I mutter.

He grabs an overnight bag from the backseat, chucking it at me. "They promised to keep it low-key."

"You're dumping me," I accuse. "Have the courage to admit it."

"I'm not dumping you," he contends. "I'm safely depositing you."

"Safely depositing me?" The heat inside me breaches my protection mechanisms. Robot armed.

"I don't have the energy to fight you, Sheyla," he whispers. "I never did."

I yank open the door, get out in a huff, and slam it closed. I'm not looking for someone to fight me, not him or anyone else, and I'm certainly not looking for someone to save me. That's on me.

The fire I've been keeping at bay is reaching critical mass. These people are playing a dangerous game. They want to win the prize for being the first to elicit a response. They will not enjoy the response. Not even a little.

When my traitorous father pulls away, I do the only thing that can stall a catastrophic meltdown. I hit the panic button, activating my emergency shut-off switch. Fingers crossed, I'll freeze to death.