Her

41

PHOENIX

Wednesday. I just came home from school, going to my room, walking past my mother's office. The door is open. And she's in there, apparently working.

"Mum?"

She looks up. "Phoenix. Hey," she says. "How was school?"

I stare at her. I can't remember the last time she asked me how my day was. Or well, the last time she asked me anything.

"It," I stare at her, "it was good."

"Really? Did something good happen?"

"Kind of. We got the marks for our English projects. We got an A, Aza and I."

"That's great," she smiles.

I don't know what to say. I wait for her to say something about yesterday, to ask me where I was. But she doesn't mention yesterday.

"Come here," she says. "I want you to take a look at these."

I step closer. She shows me what she's working on; some fashion sketches, kept in mainly red, orange, and yellow. They're bright, fiery colours. They remind me of that drink, Flying Phoenix, which Aza ordered me.

"It's the autumn collection I'm currently working on," my mother says. "What do you think?"

As usual, I'm amazed by my mother's skills. The drawings are breathtakingly beautiful. They look like they were done quite quickly, yet they look very detailed. The colours give them a lot of life, making them appear vivid and alive. The images are very pretty; each individual, yet unmistakable part of the same. I'm sure once they are turned into actual outfits, they'll look even better.

"I like them," I say. "The colours go very well together. They look... powerful. Very nice." Very nice doesn't even come close to describing what they actually look like. But I'm not used to my mother asking me about my opinion, and, as sad as it sounds, I'm not used to complimenting her.

She nods. "I'm trying to focus on boldness, on strength - hence the colours." She looks at me. "I thought you'd like them. Remember second grade? You had a phase where you'd only use these three colours whenever you drew something."

She smiles, and it is almost bizarre to see her smiling, and even more bizarre to see her smiling because of me. I remember Aza saying my green eyes looked serious, yet very different when I smile. I think I see it, looking at my mother right now.

"Well, I should go over the looks again," she says, and I take it as a hint to leave.

"Okay. I'll go to my room, do some homework."

I'm at the door, when she says my name, making me turn around.

"I booked a table at Le Moment. I thought having dinner there tonight would be nice."

I stare at her, close my mouth. "Yeah. That's nice."

I leave her office, wondering if this is a dream, and head to my room. I walk past Xander's room. And then I stop and walk back. I walk inside. I look at Xander's room. Except it isn't Xander's room. The walls are empty, and so is the rest of the room. There is no bed, no desk, and no closet. The posters are missing, the photographs are missing, and so is every other personal object which once belonged to Xander. It's completely empty.

I get back to my mother's office, now even surer that this must be a dream.

"Mum?"

She looks at me. I know that she knows where I've just been, and what I've just discovered.

"What happened to Xan's room?" Though my emotions are a mess right now, my words come out calmly. There's no fury, accusation, or any other emotion audible in my voice. There's nothing.

"I cleared it out," she says, in a voice you'd use explaining some equation to a child.

I say nothing.

"I donated his things to charity," she says. "I thought he'd like that."

I don't know what to say. I want to say that what she did was wrong, and at the same time I know that she's right. He'd like that. But does that give her the right to do it? She pretty much gave away every physical thing I had left of my brother. I can't just accept that.

"Yeah," I say, and swallow down every other word I want to say.

We look at each other, my mother and I. Then, I look away.

"I should go find something to wear," I say. "For dinner." It's a lame excuse; there are still hours until dinnertime.

I leave again, and my mother doesn't stop me. I walk to my room, taking deep breaths and trying to convince myself that what happened is okay, that I am okay. I'm not sure it works. I reach my room, still taking deep breaths. I get on my bed, grab Cat - the stuffed cat Xander got me -, lay down and close my eyes.

Some time passes.

I open my eyes, sit up. I notice a carton box, sitting on my window seat. I get up, go to the box, taking Cat with me, holding him like he's a real cat. I open the box, my fingers shaking a little because I know what's in there and at the same time I don't. The box is opened. Inside is some of Xander's stuff, including his favourite book and favourite T-shirt. It's not all he owned, but it's all that meant something to him. It isn't everything. But it is enough.

_____

PHOENIX

Dinnertime.

"So... SAPs - have you applied yet?"

I choke on the water I'm drinking.

"I..." I cough. "No, I haven't," I say.

"But you will, right? You always do."

"I thought about it." I pause, then say, "I'm working on something. But... Well, it's a lot of work and I still have some school stuff to do."

"What kind of school stuff?"

"Um... There's this drama project, where I basically have to tell a story by photos." I pause again. "Aza said she'd help me."

"Did she?"

"She likes to take photos. And she's pretty..." ...amazing. "...good at it."

"Hm," my mother says. "You did that English project with her, right? The one where you got an A?"

"Yes, I did," I say. And because I can very well imagine what's going through my mother's head, I add, "She's smart, you know."

I'm not expecting her to say anything nice about Aza. And she doesn't. She says nothing, but it's not necessarily a bad nothing.

"So," I say. "When are you leaving on Friday?"

"I have to get some stuff done before I fly. So I think around 12."

"Then I won't see you before your flight."

"No, you won't," she says. "But I think you'll see Mary. She has to do some stuff in my home office before she gets to the airport."

"Hm."

She doesn't ask me if I have any plans for while she's gone, and I'm actually glad about that. Somehow, I don't think she'd be very delighted to hear that my weekend plans are basically taking photos with Aza and making out with Aza.

"You know," she says, "that drama project - if you want to, you could use one of my cameras."

"You want Aza to use one of your cameras?"

"If she wants to." A shrug. "They're pretty good cameras; the results would probably be quite good."

I wait for her to add, if that Aza is any good at photographing, or but if that punk breaks my camera, I'll break her bones - or something like that. But she doesn't add anything. I think my mother might actually be starting to accept Aza as my friend. And I think she might actually be starting to treat me like I am her daughter.