Blaze (7 page)

He starts to protest, but then shrugs, probably realizing that returning the comic will at least mean I’ll have to talk to him again. “Yeah, it’ll be cool to hear what you think of it.”

A few weeks into our awkward friendship, Ryan stumbled upon the fact that if he can get me talking about comics I’ll go into geek mode and prattle on without meaning to. For some reason, just having me talk at him makes him pathetically happy. He’s gotten more and more knowledgeable over time and actually has pretty good taste in artwork. Or maybe I just think that because he likes
my
artwork. He happened to see my sketchbook one day, and he fawned over my drawings in a way that wasn’t just sucking up. Or at least I don’t think it was. Well, who am I kidding, he was probably sucking up, but it was nice to have somebody appreciate my talent.

Not that I think my drawings are anything special. It’s just something that keeps me from poking my eyes out with boredom during soccer mom duty. I must admit, though, I’ve gotten a bit attached to drawing
The
Blazing
Goddess
.

Her newest shtick is a spray that acts as a physical truth serum, revealing people’s authentic selves. I got the idea one night when Josh and I saw this cheesy commercial for some perfume that claimed spraying it on your skin would reveal your “inner goddess.” Josh teased me that I should go to the store and steal a squirt to see if it made my boobs grow bigger. Of course, I gave him a dead arm with my middle knuckle. But then I got to thinking about how cool it would be if the goddess-spray stuff really worked.

I drew a version of
The
Blazing
Goddess
with a holster for holding a magic perfume bottle that acts as a spray-on makeover. Now she goes around all the time spraying nerdy kids to reveal their inner gods and goddesses and turn them hot and save their lives. I know, I know, total chick comic. But I like doing it and, as I said, it does prevent me poking my eyes out.

Looking over, I realize Ryan is still walking beside me and is practically hyperventilating trying to think of something to say. I wonder for a moment if I should give him Ajay’s inhaler.

“Okay, well thanks, Ryan.” I wave
Daredevil
at him, and he blushes back at me.

“Uh, okay, so bye, Blaze.” He flicks his chins toward me. “See you later in the lot.”

I give a tense nod and pick up my pace to get to class
and
away
from
him
. Just to clarify, Ryan and I do
not
have a standing date to meet and talk in the parking lot after school every day. But since Josh is just too darn popular to leave the middle school grounds across the street without saying good-bye to about a million people and my friends either have over-protective parents who don’t trust any drivers under the age of 21 (Amanda) or have track practice daily after school (Terri), I’ve become Ryan’s personal captive audience in the parking lot every day. Let me tell you, it has not helped the whole non-image I’ve got going on.

The rest of the afternoon buzzes past my brain in a blur of monotone lectures, a quiet whisper or two about Mark and I, and a little covert scribbling of
The
Blazing
Goddess
in awesome action poses. The one time I glimpse Mark between classes, he gives me a completely unreadable nod. What I’d really love is a super-awesome new identity as Mark’s Girlfriend.
I
wonder
how
I
can
upgrade
the
whispers
Terri
started
into
a
full-on rumor we’re dating.

Finally, the school day ends with me sitting sideways in Superturd with my door open to the student lot. I’m working on my sketchpad, waiting for my popularity’s arch-nemesis, Ryan, to pounce.

“Blaze!”

My head shoots up in surprise. Besides the voice being too deep to be Ryan’s, it isn’t at all the way he usually greets me. Ryan always approaches Superturd slowly from the front and waits for me to look up and catch his eye. Then he’ll look fake-surprised at seeing me, as if I don’t sit here waiting for my brother every day. But today, Ryan’s approach is completely different because today it isn’t Ryan approaching me.

It’s Mark.

By
Thor’s Mighty Hammer!
I think, as the cutest boy in the universe walks directly toward my minivan with a big grin on his face.

“Fun night Saturday,” he says, placing himself just inside Superturd’s door. “I liked the private party you and I were starting in your basement before your little brother shot me down.”

I smile as my heart
badda-thumps
. “Josh can be a little protective of me.”

“I get that.” Mark moves his face closer and bops his head slightly. “Guess we’ll just need to keep
us
on the down-low.”

I nearly black out at Mark’s use of the word “us.” With my peripheral vision, I spot Ryan, on his usual approach trajectory, except that he is frozen mid-stride and staring directly at me and Mark.
POW!
Guilt hits my stomach like a sucker punch, but when I look back into Mark’s eyes my mind is swiped clean.
I
never
agreed
to
be
Ryan’s buddy.
Mandy and Terri have been telling me to ditch him. Maybe they’re right.

Mark’s eyes drop to my sketchbook, and his eyebrows jump nearly to his hairline. “Hey, you draw?”

Looking down at my hand holding my pencil mid-stroke, I think again,
He’s so pretty.
I cover my drawing with both hands and claim, “No, not really. Just a little.” Never mind the fact that I’ve been sketching on the sidelines for an eternity and he never noticed. He is noticing me now.

I glance back up and see that Ryan is gone, which makes me feel both glad and lousy at the same time. As Mark leafs through my sketchbook, he gives appreciative “hmms” at my drawings until I can’t even picture what Ryan looks like. Not that I really want to, or honestly try all that hard. I just float in my blissful state of
Mark
really
likes
my
sketches
, until Josh interrupts us with an accusatory, “Hey
guys
!”

“So, you mind if I catch a ride with you Saturday?” Mark asks as Josh climbs into the seat next to me.
Saturday?
Did
he
not
plan
on
speaking
to
me
for
the
rest
of
the
week?
I know our schedules don’t exactly include a convenient bumping-into-each-other place, and we are keeping ‘us’ on the down-low, but with a little effort, I’m sure we could connect at some point before Saturday. And then I realize he’s probably just acting aloof to throw Josh off our scent.

“Sure,” I say casually while Josh eyes me suspiciously. Mark moves out of the way and I pull Superturd’s door shut. His face stays in the window for a moment, smiling at me, before he turns toward Stuart’s vintage “cuck,” which is what the girls and I call those half-car-half-trucks that guys in this town are in love with. I spot Stu making his way toward the parking lot, and Amanda is notably not with him. She told Terri and I that she fully planned to ride home with him today. “I’ll just tell my mom I missed the bus,” she said while applying mascara in the bathroom mirror before last period. I wonder if he even talked to her today. If he did, I doubt she let things end without knowing where she stood with him. The way I just did with Mark.

“Did I interrupt anything back there?” Josh gives me a hard look.

“Nope.” I keep my face blank as I pull out of the lot. “You didn’t interrupt a thing.”

“Did your grandmother call yet?” Mom asks as she walks through the door two hours earlier than usual. She’s been trying to work more regular hours since our little gamma-ray-blasted showdown, but that’s not why she’s home early today.

On top of Christmas and Easter, Mema Sissy usually calls the first day of every month, plus on our “name days.” Name days are the Catholic feast days for the saints we’re supposedly named after. Mema acts like they’re better than birthdays. Nevermind that my true namesake is a motorcycle-riding comic book superhero with a flaming skull for a head. Mema still calls me every February third for the feast of St. Blaise, some kooky dead monk who talked to animals and apparently healed people’s throats. As if my dad would name me after
that
guy.

Trust me, Mom didn’t pick “Josh” to commemorate some ancient holy guy either, but the phone still rings for him every September first so Mema can wish him a happy Feast of St. Joshua. He gets annoyed by her phone calls, but I figure at least she’s happy to do most of the talking. And besides, it’s better than driving in the car for four hours to Ohio to visit her in person. We used to drive to Ohio nearly once a month, but since Dad’s been gone we only go once a year. Our annual Let’s Listen to Mom and Mema Bash on Dad Extravaganza. This year’s visit is coming up soon, and I’m dreading it.

Mema is always insisting we should force Dad to drive us to her house the next time he visits. I always tell her we will, but I don’t want to get her ranting by pointing out that he never visits anymore. I will say it’s pretty convenient that she doesn’t realize I’m driving now, or she’d probably start pressuring me to come more often. I put enough miles on the minivan rushing around to Josh’s games without volunteering for an eight-hour round trip odyssey into Old Lady Land, where everybody’s named after saints and arguing with your little brother will get you doused with a bottle of holy water. (True story.)

They’re no longer in-laws, but Mom totally got Mema Sissy in the divorce. I think having his mother on her side makes Mom feel like she’s somehow winning the ongoing battle with her arch-nemesis, my father. I just wish they’d all call a truce already, because I’d honestly like to have a real relationship with my dad.

Mom steps in to set the table with glasses of water and tidies randomly, but she can’t help but run her fingertips across the surface of the phone each time she passes it. When it finally gives a smooth
BRIIIING!
Mom freezes and holds up a finger, as if Josh and I are scrambling to answer it. After the phone has sounded twice, she pounces on it and pretends to be all casual as she says, “Oh, Sissy, what a surprise. Is it really a new month already?”

Josh rolls his eyes and flings his hands over his chest in mock excitement. I can’t help but laugh. Behind Mema’s back we make fun of her for being so religious, but she’s fairly sharp for an old person, and she’s always so tickled to talk to us that it’s impossible to really dislike her. Except, that is, when she starts harping about Dad. I have no trouble disliking her then.

Mom is telling Mema about some random quiz that I forgot I even took that I got a one hundred on. “And Josh is doing so well in soccer,” she brags. “They’re heading into the playoffs already.” You see, that’s the other reason I kinda don’t mind when Mema calls. It’s nice to hear Mom recite all our positive qualities and actions, edited for her ex-mother-in-law’s sake. I pretend that, deep down, it’s how Mom really thinks of us.

Finally, she calls to me, “Blaze, your turn to talk to Mema.” She hands me the phone, and Mema launches into one of our usual one-sided conversations.

She begins by asking how I’m doing, and before I can answer she says, “I understand you’ve finally begun to find your voice.” She carefully explains the reason finding my voice is so significant. Which I already know. She’s explained it to me before. Several times.

“Your namesake, Saint Blaise, performed a miracle and saved a boy’s life,” she tells me.
Again
. “The boy was choking on a fish bone and Saint Blaise came along and healed him, although I suppose he was just Blaise at that point since he wouldn’t have been canonized without performing the miracle first, or
dying
, for that matter…”

“Mema.” I cut her off. “I’ve told you before. I cannot sing. I think you’ve got the wrong Blaze.”

“Very funny, child, but I’m not talking about singing anymore!” She sounds excited to have something new to add. “You just need to find your voice. I mean your viewpoint.” She pauses. “Blaze. Voice is associated with the throat, but it can be so much more. You do have opinions don’t you?”

“Um, yes?”

“Oh, pshaw. Not ‘
yes?
’” She mimics my voice in an unflattering way. “Tell me you will work hard at finding your voice.”

I croak, “I’ll try, Mema.”

“Your mother tells me you’re learning to speak up for yourself.” I glance at my mother, but her back is turned to me as she sifts innocently through the mail. “She told me you’re showing real strength of character. Unction. Lord knows you did not inherit that from my son…”

And that’s my cue to tune her out. My Mema can rant on about my dad as harshly as my mom does, except it’s one thing for an ex-wife to hate a guy, but his own mother? Particularly his bible-wielding, saint-loving mother.

You wouldn’t expect her to have a mean bone in her body, but trust me, when the topic of my degenerate father comes up, she has a whole adamantium skeleton of mean bones that Wolverine would envy. Then again, she is rather fond of gossiping in general. I smile as I picture her at some spa in Ohio, her hair up in silver rollers as she dishes about everyone. All of a sudden she ducks out from underneath the hair dryer and delivers Wolverine’s classic line, “I’m the best there is at what I do. But what I do best isn’t very nice.” It sends a little shiver up my spine, and I’m glad Mema’s rant is winding down when I tune back in.

“Becoming a father is the only worthwhile thing he’s done his whole life,” she says. “You and Josh represent the best of that man.” Dad doesn’t talk to Mema all that much since he “let everyone down” by “chasing his wild dreams,” but she’s still way harsh for a mom, if you want my opinion. “Speaking of Josh, is he around?” she asks, and I’m finally released.

Josh is in the den watching some
Disastrous
Crashes
Caught
on
Video
show and tries to wave me off as I hand him the phone. He refuses to take it from my hand until I hold it up over my head, wielding it like I’m about to pummel him with it. When he instinctively puts up his hands to protect his face, I slap the phone into his open palm. Defeated, he takes the phone and gives a half-hearted “Hey there, Mema” as he slumps into the living room.

Checking the clock, I figure I have enough time to read my email before the Tater Tot casserole I flung together from
The
4-Ingredient Cookbook
finishes cooking. “Take the food out of the oven when the buzzer goes off,” I call to Mom as I take the steps three at a time up to my room.

Ducking my head, I hit the power button on Dad’s old laptop. I don’t dare hope that Mark would’ve actually gotten my email address somehow and written to me. But I realize I’m sort of dreaming that could happen when I feel disappointed by my empty inbox. That is, empty aside from an ad for improving body parts I don’t even own plus four forwards from Mema Sissy. I could murder the person who taught that woman how to forward emails. Most of them are so lame I don’t even bother looking anymore, but every now and then I’ll be bored enough to read one of the cheesy stories and find myself tearing up over an angel stopping a guy from killing himself or some stupid cat surviving a fire.

I’m not even finished deleting my crappy emails when I hear the chime of my IM box popping up. I swear, Amanda must just sit and stare at her computer from the minute she gets home.

AmandaSweetie68
: blaze! waiting to hear bout u and mark! terri says her sis saw u 2 talking aft school (!!!)

I sigh, realizing I’d love to hear about me and Mark too. As in, could somebody
please
tell me if there even
is
a “me and Mark.”

Blazefire22
: Nothing interesting to report. What’s up with you and Stu?

AmandaSweetie68
: lol I’m hoping mark says sometng 2 u! stu and i talked a few x today + he snuck bhind n tickled me once. think he likes me?

Blazefire22
: Ummmm let me think… of course he likes you!

AmandaSweetie68
: n mark likes u!! wheee! we can doubledate!

Blazefire22
: Easy there, Down, Girl! Mark wasn’t hitting on me—just asking about a ride to soccer.

AmandaSweetie68
: ouch!

Blazefire22
: But he is being really nice too. I don’t know. He says he’ll see me Saturday.

AmandaSweetie68
: but thats 5 days away!!

Blazefire22
: Yeah, I know. *sigh* But then, we don’t run into each other during the day like you and Stu. Our schedules are totally different.

AmandaSweetie68
: blaze, there are 150 kids in our grad class. u can c him if u try

Blazefire22
: *deeper sigh* Thanks

AmandaSweetie68
: sorry! who knows? things may work out for u 2! maybe hes just acting shy?

Blazefire22
: Right. Mark the Shark is secretly shy.

AmandaSweetie68
: well it cld mean he really really likes u

Blazefire22
: Doubtful.

AmandaSweetie68
: well, u no i’m pulling for u. i never dated the friend of a friend’s boyfriend… fun!

Blazefire22
: Well, I hope Mark and I work out for YOUR sake then

AmandaSweetie68
: lol

Blazefire22
: Where’s Terri?

AmandaSweetie68
: oh, god, she and I were im-ing and her stupid sis had 2 hog the comp 4 homework. i don’t no how she lives with those people.

Blazefire22
: Speaking of living with people, time for dinner. Gotta dash xxoo

AmandaSweetie68
: fine, u can abandon me 2 xo

I laugh as I sign off, picturing Amanda waiting for one of her other friends to sign online. Of the three of us, Amanda is the one with the largest supply of other friends. I wouldn’t even say Terri and I are her closest friends, but she’s still ours. At least Terri understands the concept of family duties eating into social time. I glide downstairs to turn off the incessant timer, put on the oven mitts, and picture Terri’s house with all those girls gathered around the table.
At
least
two
of
her
sisters
love
to
cook
, I think as I pull dinner out of the oven and let it slam onto the stovetop. It’s the second time in a week I’ve made a meal prominently featuring Tater Tots.

“Don’t worry, I got the food out,” I call sarcastically. I’ve been trying to force some changes around here, and one way is to delegate more work, but I’d rather not eat burnt casserole just to make my point. It tastes bad enough when it’s cooked perfectly.

I’ve just crossed the kitchen to call Josh and Mom to come and eat when the phone gives a fresh
BRIIIING!
Josh is re-perched in front of the television, so I naturally accuse, “Did you hang up on Mema again?”

He shrugs, making me suspect the worst. I answer the phone with a repentant, “Sorry about that, Mema.” Mom and I have cell phones, plus Josh and I talk to our friends mostly online, and that means Mema and the school are about the only ones who call the landline. Well, and Dad, I suppose, but he just called two weeks ago. So Mema is the only person who could be ringing us. Except that she isn’t.

“Hello? You’re sorry about what, and who’s Mema?” I’m shocked when a male answers. It takes my mind a minute to place the voice, but my heart must recognize it right away, since it starts palpitating like crazy. My mind finally catches on and starts screaming
Mark! Mark! It’s Mark calling me!
like my brain is some sort of hysterical woman.

I mentally shove my hysteria into the refrigerator and approximate calm, “Oh, hey Mark, how’s it going?” Then realization dawns. “You looking for Josh?” I can’t believe I got all excited over Mark calling our house when meanwhile the stupid soccer-phone-chain is set to the home number. He obviously wants to speak to his star player. I’m just the idiot sister who answered the phone and called him Mema. “Hang on. I’ll get him for you.”

I head toward Josh, but I don’t make it to the den before Mark cuts in with, “Uh, actually, Blaze? I’m calling to talk to you.”

Mark! Mark called me!
And there goes that hysterical woman brain all over again. The only sound my throat can manage to generate is an insubstantial, “Oh.” That “Oh” dangles on our connection for a few moments before it gets swallowed up by a nice awkward silence.