Eyes of Summer

"One of these mornings
You're going to rise up singing
Then you'll spread your wings
And you'll take the sky…"
- Summertime, from Porgy and Bess

I glared across the fence at my best friend Sandy, who was apricating gloriously on a lawn chair in her backyard.

"Bess, your idea of a July bonfire party is ridiculous," she said, lowering her sunglasses to give me one of her looks. "It would be far too dangerous to be stirring up infernos around here. And it's probably illegal."

I shook my head, reaching around to peel my wet, sticky T-shirt away from my sweaty back.

"Listen, Sandy, it'll be fun. I just wanted a little fire, nothing humongous. Like a camp-out. We can dance around it and roast marshmallows and eat ice cream as the sun sets. It'll be an estival festival, sort of."

"A what??"

"Estival refers to things pertaining to summer," I said with a note of pride. "I found it in the dictionary."

"You're the only girl who reads the dictionary for fun…" Sandy rolled her eyes. "I suppose there's a fancy word for setting the whole neighborhood on fire?"

"Well, calefaction, but mainly that's the act of heating, like boiling water or something. And anyway, we'll be using an apyrous burn barrel—we'll be fine!"

"Oh, all right." She waved a hand languidly and adjusted her glasses. "I'll be there with a cooler full of treats. Can't argue with roasting marshmallows."

***

"Hey, weirdo!" Fred, one of the older boys from school hollered at me as I rode my bike to drop off books at the library. "How many books have you read this week?"

"Fifty-five, to be exact," I responded quietly, pushing the final one into the slot.

"You're crazy," he jeered. "Who reads so much? And what is it with the fire in your eyes? Bob showed me that picture he took of you when you were mad at him—you must be possessed!"

"He was being a bully," I said with a rush of frustration as I flashed back. Bob had been throwing pebbles at me and one of them nearly hit me in the eye. I'd swung my book bag and yelled at him to cut it out. The look of horror on his face didn't seem to match the circumstances. He'd whipped out his phone, snapped a picture and took off screaming like a toddler.

"And what were you being?" Fred jabbed a finger at me.

"I was acting in self defense," I snapped. "I don't know what you're talking about with my eyes. I have perfectly normal eyes."

"Yeah, until someone goes like this—" Fred lunged at me with a clenched fist and his phone in his left hand.

I leaped back from him and mounted my bike. He kept trying to see my face.

"Get away from me!"

"Look, there it is again! You see those eyes, everybody?" Fred shoved his phone at me.

He must be live streaming this. Good grief. I pedaled furiously, trying to put as much space between us as possible, my knuckles white on the handlebars.

***

By the time I collapsed in my bed at home, Fred's video was going viral. I stared at it on loop for an hour, mesmerized, unable to dispute the fact that my mild brown eyes had indeed burned red as I yanked away from him in a panic.

I remembered another word I'd found in the dictionary: Pyrosophy, or the knowledge of fire. My mom's voice echoed in my head, a refrain over many years: "I can't light candles around Bess—the way she stares at the flames, I'm terrified she's going to put her hand in it! One time I caught her playing with the gas stove. I swore I would never have natural gas in my house again! She scares me."

Once before, only once, I'd seen that look of horror on someone's face. My late father. A man of swift temper, he'd raised his hand while we were fighting about something. Then he staggered back, the color draining from his face. We never argued again. I tried to ask what happened. He refused to say and died in a car accident soon after.

Who am I?

***

I was breathless and quivering as the burning yellow sun sank ever so slowly towards the horizon that evening. There was no thought of not going through with my plan; some primal force compelled me, an unexplainable urge to set a fire, like an ancient cultic ceremony.

I stuffed a backpack with matches and old newspapers. I rolled a burn barrel out of the backyard onto the street. The sudden, unavoidable clangor of metal hitting pavement made me jump. But it was too late to turn back. I could barely keep pace with the barrel as it hurtled down the slight slope like a kicked tin can. Surely people were peering in alarm from behind the curtains as I passed by. What was I doing?

The sultry air pressed against me like a heavy blanket, thick and muggy and humid enough to make my breath even harder to catch than my nerves or the exertion of chasing the barrel did. Spanish moss dangled limply from the live oak branches, and a lone cicada let out long, piercing motorcycle bursts of noise.

Finally, I made it to the empty lot at the end of the street. I hoisted the barrel upright, now in a febrile flush and as damp and sticky as a used sponge.

The stifling heat only fuelled my fervid desire to get the ceremony started, especially since there was a good chance someone would show up to stop it at some point.

Sandy came along, rolling a cooler. She waved.

"Well, here we are," she said, her voice somewhat uncertain. "Bess, are you sure you're going ahead with this? You look kind of strange."

"I'm fine. Did you ever wonder who I am?"

"What a question!" Sandy laughed. "I think the heat's getting to your head. The last thing we need is a fire."

"Yes, it's the last thing I need," I repeated, staring into the distance. The enormous orange sun was slipping away, staining puffy thunderheads dotting the horizon's edges a bright glowing pink.

"You've always been a strange kid, you know?" Sandy's forehead wrinkled. "What are we really doing here?"

I paused, clutching a handful of scrunched newsprint, and looked into her blue eyes which were darkening with confusion and suspicion.

"You're my best friend, Sandy. My only real friend. I want you to be here when I do this in case something strange happens. I feel it in my bones… like a calling."

"Gosh, you're scaring me now…" she stepped back a couple paces. "Are you going to blow something up?"

"No. I just need to—"

She leaped forward and grabbed my arm.

"Don't do anything crazy!"

"No, I'm not. It's just… a ceremony."

"Okay, okay. Hurry and get it over with so we can go back home. I don't want to be out here after dark."

She squirmed and shuffled from one foot to the other as I finished setting up the burn barrel. I pulled out a match and struck it on the side of the box. A single flame flickered. I tossed it into the barrel just as the last orange glow of sunlight faded away.

Flames began to play in the barrel, sending a living light of their own out onto Sandy's face. The growing warmth penetrated my bones. I spread my arms wide and held my face up to the light. For a brief moment the burning heat was unbearable.

Sandy let out a bloodcurdling scream as fire-toned feathers burst out from my sweaty skin. I waved my arms and found they were now wings, lifting me a few feet into the air.

"Bess! You're a phoenix!"

I looked down at my befeathered body as my transformation completed. I had never felt so normal, so empowered, so free. Sandy reached out to me, tears running down her face.

"Don't leave!"

"This was never my home. I didn't know who I was. I must go discover my powers and my true family."

"I'll miss you…"

"I'll miss you too. But I'm a child of the sun."

With a flash of fiery light I rose into the sky, heading west, where birdlike clarion calls drew me. Glancing down, I saw the burn barrel fizzle out. Sandy stood in the evening shadows, waving a final goodbye as I soared over the horizon.


Notes ▼

Word Count: 1423.
Written for "Shorts in July Contest" 
Nine keywords in bold.