Spell Fire (2 page)

Like a surgeon who had just scrubbed, I kept my hands raised as I climbed out of the car. Mom released a long sigh and quietly closed the door. I waited until she opened the door to the kitchen. Once inside, I inhaled the calming scents of mulled cider and the Douglas fir Christmas tree.

We trudged up the servants' stairs —
left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right
— to my suite on the second floor.

"Where would you like these?" Mom held up my backpack and pouch.

"On my desk chair, please." My voice came out small and reedy. I rushed into the bathroom and washed my hands. Mom waited in the bathroom doorway and stared over her shoulder at my spotless white-and-gray bedroom. It differed from the rich greens and gold threaded throughout the rest of the enormous house, probably because I hadn't allowed the interior designer to strong-arm me the way she had Mom and Dad.

I elbowed the faucet handle and reached for a fresh white towel. Mom had placed my backpack and pouch on the chair. I could tell from her wiped-out expression she needed a hug. I wanted to give her one, but I clutched my torso instead.

"Good night, baby."

"Night, Mommy." I wished she had seen me stand up to Mister Tanaka. Then maybe she wouldn't look so defeated.

****

Saturday morning, I slept until eleven-thirty. Curled up in the fetal position beneath my white down comforter, I listened to the rain patter against the bay window above my built-in window seat. If I could get through the weekend without a panic attack or overt display of OCD, then my parents wouldn't fight and they'd be less inclined to divorce. Resolved, starving, and in desperate need of the bathroom, I forced myself out of bed.

The only pops of color in my moonscape-hued room were framed photos from the Hubble Telescope, my posters of Gong Li and Maggie Q, and on my desk, my favorite family photo. Before going downstairs, I straightened the frame, angling it so the green and purple Swarovski crystals caught the most light. Dad and I resembled Vikings with our eyes as gray as stormy seas, our dark eyebrows, and our wind-tossed, honey-blond hair. Beside us, Mom appeared tiny, fair, and Irish with her pale blue eyes and shoulder-length raven hair. Joy and adventure lit our faces. Our arms encircled each other, the Costa Rican rainforest lush and green behind us.

No way could they get a divorce.

I snuck down the servants' stairs —
left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right
— to the deserted kitchen. Heat blared from the wall vents and the newspaper was on the table, so at least one of my parents had been up. Since there were no dirty dishes in the sink, I presumed it had been Mom. Dad's car was in the motor court. He must have made it home safely and had snuck in the front door instead of raising the garage door in Bay Two.

Inside the sub-zero, stainless steel refrigerator, Mom had stuck a sticky note to my milk carton:
Morning, Baby! Dad and I have couples' counseling. We'll be back in time to take you to Angel Tree. OXOXO, Mom.

"Good luck." Extracting a pen from the drawer, I added another
X
to her note before throwing the small neon paper in the recycling bin. The enormity of the restaurant-sized kitchen weighed in on me. I felt abandoned and edgy, like a small dog left alone with too much house to guard. My granola tasted like loneliness. The front section of the newspaper half convinced me the world was chaos theory's petri dish.

The house creaked, like a skeleton rising at sunset and shaking its bones. No one had flipped on the Christmas music, and the silence in the huge house strained my ears. I pressed my forehead against the French door leading to the patio. The cool glass eased the tension building above my eyes. As the rain pelted the French limestone pavers, accident images wormed into my brain. What if Mom and Dad argued while driving in the downpour? What if something happened to them? Whom would I live with?

To distract myself, I switched on the Christmas carols, then approached the grand staircase. Polished brass runner rods gleamed at me as I ascended at a jog —
left, right, left, landing, left, right, left, right, left,
second floor.
Maybe if I tackled my to-do list, the anxiety would dissipate. Then I could show my parents I had everything under control.

After I showered, brushed my teeth, and dressed in skinny jeans and a burnt-orange sweater layered over a floral long-sleeved tee, I tackled the first item on the list: Angel Tree presents. A few weeks ago, social workers had conveyed the holiday wishes of county foster children to the Angel Tree coordinator. The coordinator had entrusted me with the wishes of fifty teens. I had cajoled every student I knew at Athenian Academy to fulfill a wish list. Even the boarding students from Korea, Kenya, and Thailand had contributed.

I checked the list against the presents. Then to be sure, I went over it again, examining each tag against the names on the clipboard: Cristina K., Latisha M., Grover M., Manuel M., Ashley B., Travis N., and so on. Every year, I search for Sophia P. or Hope H. My parents think I'm torturing myself, but I can't stop. To stop would mean accepting the unthinkable.

Bay One rumbled open as I completed my third check of the presents. My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and I glanced up at my posters of Maggie Q and Gong Li. Hand-to-hand combat and OCD weren't a great match, but I could hit a bull's-eye every time with a throwing star. That is, I could until my parents confiscated mine because they are illegal in California. Jazmin had dug them out of the trash for me. Our house sat on five acres, with several oak groves where I could practice in secret. I figured if the mansion ever came under ninja attack, I'd unearth my throwing stars and pray muscle memory kicked in. I knew it was seriously wrong to keep them. But after what had happened to Sophia — what I
believed
had happened — I needed something.

"Hey, beautiful," Dad called up from the kitchen. "Ready to load those presents into the sleigh?"

"Are you my designated driver?"

"Yep." Dad jogged up the grand staircase and leaned against my doorframe. His eyes twinkled. "No eggnog until after we're safely home. Promise."

"Eggnog." I snorted. "As if you would ever drink alcohol out of a carton."

"Don't underestimate him." Mom joined Dad in the doorway. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. It would have been a good sign if she hadn't tensed.

"Good session?" I asked.

Their heads nodded up and down and then teetered side to side like tops about to crash. I took it to mean there had been no definite progress. They exchanged a quick look.

Mom said, "Lots to think about."

"Good."
I hope.

"Let's do this." Dad picked up a stack of presents and carried them down the stairs.

"Be careful. Don't let the tags come off." I bundled into my warmest raincoat and pulled on my striped rubber boots. "Are you coming?" I asked Mom.

"Sure. Let me put down the mail first." She placed a handful of envelopes and gift catalogues on the high, narrow table in the hall outside my door. "Okay. Ready."

I loaded up her arms with presents. She was halfway down the stairs when she met Dad coming back up. They passed each other without a word or smile.

For my second trip down, I shouldered my backpack before picking up the last of the presents and handing them to Dad. He pressed in behind me on the stairs, pressuring me to hurry.
Right, left, right, left, right, landing.
"Shoot." I pulled off to the side as if I were headed to the music room instead of down to the front door.

Dad halted on the landing. "What?"

"I forgot something," I lied. "Go ahead. I'll meet you in the car."

"No. I'll come back and set the alarm and lock up."

"Okay." I whirled, faced the stairs, and recalibrated.
Left, right, left, right, left,
second floor.
I lifted my right shoulder, then my left, to realign myself. A square yellow envelope atop the catalogues, bills, and Christmas cards fanned across the table caught my eye. After a quick glance over the banister, I checked the return address on the card. Palm Springs. I recognized my Aunt Terra's expansive handwriting from the birthday cards she had sent me over the years. The envelope was addressed to Mom.

"Ainslie?" Dad sounded annoyed and anxious to be on the road.

I did a one-eighty and rushed to the stairs.
Left, right, left, right, left,
landing
.
Whew.
Left, right, left,
floor.

"Have everything?" Dad asked.

"I think so. Maybe I should check again."

"No. I'll check."

"But—"

"It will be faster if I do it. Wait for me in the car." His expression — arched brows, tight lips — warned me he could see the OCD leapfrogging my nerves, and he refused to wait while I made endless trips up and down the stairs.

I capitulated. "Fine. But can you grab me a handful of protein bars on your way out?"

"In the pantry?"

"Yes."

"Will do." As soon as he closed the door behind me, I whirled and peered through the stained glass until he disappeared up the stairs. Still anxious, I dashed to the car. I had just clicked my seat belt when he strode out of the house.

"Do you remember how to get there?" I asked after Dad had settled behind the wheel and handed me the carton of protein bars.

"It's been a year." Dad started the ignition. "Remind me of the final turns once we're off the freeway."

"No problem." I unzipped my backpack, black with silver stars, and pulled out printouts from two map sites.
If I still had a smartphone, I could plug the address into its GPS.

"Santa Baby" blared from the Audi's speakers. Mom raised the volume and sang along, charmingly, pathetically off-key. Dad and I joined in. When "White Christmas" came on, we went major karaoke with dramatic hand gestures and, in Mom's case, torturous singing.

"Keep at least one hand on the wheel," I begged Dad.

Forty happy minutes later, we pulled into a church parking lot. Smiling volunteers, mostly kind-faced seniors wearing Santa hats, braved the rain to help us offload the presents. Inside, rows of long, numbered folding tables were piled high with gifts. I located the check-in table while my parents watched the network of Santa volunteers unload, stack, and check presents against lists on clipboards.

"Good to see you again!" the check-in volunteer said. My parents gathered beside me. The volunteer said, "We so appreciate the work your daughter does."

My parents beamed. Dad said, "We're enormously proud of her."

"Everyone wants to buy presents for the younger children," the volunteer added. "But the older ones are often overlooked."

"Ainslie is quite committed to helping foster teens." Mom slid her arm around my shoulders. Maybe the stiffness in my body warned her off, because she quickly removed her arm. I flashed my patented Junior Cotillion smile and tried unsuccessfully to glimpse the names on the other lists. A few minutes later we left, my signed community service form and a shrink-wrapped candy cane in hand.

"The rain has stopped," Mom said as we climbed into Dad's car. This was shaping up to be a stellar Saturday.

"Next stop?" Dad asked.

"Athenian. Performing Arts building, please."

"How are rehearsals going?"

"Don't ask," Mom and I said in unison.

I checked the time on my cell phone. "Can we get there in twenty minutes? Tanaka goes ballistic if we're late."

"Piece of cake." Dad eased the car out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway.

Relieved, I extracted my French book and notepad. Mom lowered the volume on the Christmas songs. Content we were all getting along well, I relaxed and immersed myself in conjugating French verbs.

I had filled three binder pages with handwritten notes when I realized we were crawling instead of Dad's usual push-the-envelope, speed demon driving. Glancing up, I spied four lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

"There must be an accident up ahead," Mom said.

Panic hit my system like a meteor crash. I flipped open my phone. Five minutes until rehearsal. I clutched the side of Dad's seat. "We have to bail. I'm going to be late."

"We're between exits." Dad clicked on his blinker and glanced over his shoulder. The red truck alongside us lurched forward, closing the gap between it and a SUV.

This will not end well.
Suddenly, the satellite stereo with its nonstop Christmas carols chafed at my nerves. Mom must have felt it too, because she shut off the music. Tension pumped through the Audi as Dad inched the car to the right. I clutched my French book, certain Dad would shear off the truck's side mirror. Mom scooted as far from her window as she could.

Dad punched the control panel and lowered her window. I opened my book and hid my face.
What will Dad do this time? Just yell? What if the truck driver exits? Will Dad follow him, cut off the guy and make rude gestures?

Dad honked. Not a polite, mind-if-I-cut-in honk, but a get-out-of-my-way blast. The truck driver gripped his steering wheel and threw Dad an are-you-crazy look. The man had nowhere to go. Any reasonable person (not Dad) would have realized this. Trapped, I worried the surrounding drivers would think I was as crazy as Dad.

A highway patrol officer had been gunned downed on this same stretch of highway last year. What if the truck driver or the guy behind him pulled a gun, instead of shrugging Dad off? A sick feeling churned my stomach, and I slumped as low in the seat as possible.

The truck driver stared straight ahead. Mom raised her window. Dad punched the electronic controls, lowered it, and leaned toward her. I could imagine the obscenities waiting to explode from his mouth the second the truck driver glanced our way.

I leaned forward. "Forget what I said, okay? We don't need to rush."

Dad ignored me and pulled so close I could see the hair on the truck driver's knuckles.

"The guy behind him will let you in," Mom said.