Feather Scars

Oh God, this assembly is so boring I could die and not notice it. Not to mention the giant shed thing we’re in barely has a breath of breeze to go blow it and the metal it’s made of is actually cooking us alive. Okay, not literally, but it is harder to think when you have to wear full school uniform, including a blazer, on a way-too-early-to-be-summer day. There is no reprieve. Zoning out of Mr Carter’s speech probably isn’t the best idea. He’ll probably ask me about it tomorrow in the school captain meeting we have every Friday lunchtime.

It takes everything in me not to take out my phone and scroll mindlessly through something, anything, to make the time go faster. Losing my badge isn’t worth a few likes on posts I won’t even remember tomorrow. I worked hard to earn that badge, and nothing, nothing will take it away from me. Not even-

Brrrrrinnnnggg!

Brrrrrinnnnggg!

The reason everyone’s eyes are now turned to me buzzes in my pocket too loudly for anyone to hear Carter finish his speech, and I fiddled with my pocket zip to turn the damned thing off. Carter gives me a pointed look before going on with his speech, much to everyone’s sheer delight. Not. How the hell did my phone’s sound turn on? It must’ve happened when I changed the cases over this morning, bumping the stupid little button so quickly I didn’t notice.

After I turn the sound switch off, I check who called me. It could’ve been Mum, accidentally butt-dialling me from work. Or Tina, ringing to ask if I needed picking up from school on the way home from uni. It wasn’t either Mum or Tina. It was skull-face emoji DO NOT PICK UP UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES skull-faced emoji, more commonly known as Blaze Kearney, or the guy I kissed once in the out of bounds area and became his girlfriend for 6 months before everything went up in a blaze of glory (the pun was too good to give up). I must be staring at Blaze’s number at the top of my recent missed calls list for too long because Mrs Fitzgibbon taps me on the shoulder and my head snaps up to meet her gaze.

“Do you want me to take your phone off you, or do you want to take that call somewhere else?” she asks, her voice low and kind, far more than I deserve right now.

“Can I please go to my locker?”

“You have five minutes.”

I stand, shoving my phone back in my unzipped pocket, not caring to rezip it, and barely put my hat on properly as I leave. The good thing about being school captain is that I’m in the front row and the ‘everyone watching as I escort myself from the premises’ only lasts about thirty seconds. Shoving past people in the rows behind would give me harsh stares and grunts of annoyance for at least a full minute. I’m still staring at Blaze’s missed call when I get to my locker, using my door as a shield against onlookers. Surely it was an accident. He wouldn’t call me on a random school day unless it was really important, or a complete accident. It’s not like he has parents to turn to in such a situation. But I’m sure it was an accident. I make up my mind that if he calls again it isn’t an accident, and I’ll answer it.

Watching the time tick by at the top of my phone is the worst thing about waiting for him to call again. I only have another three minutes before I have to be back in my assembly seat. Fuck it, I’m calling him. I press his number before I can change my mind and the dial tone only plays once before the line picks up at the other end.

“Thank fuck, Sasha,” Blaze’s all too familiar voice whispers down the phone.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, crossing one arm across my chest, my hand grasping the crook of my elbow.

There is silence on the other end for far too long for this to be a mistake. Seconds stretched into minutes as I waited for the quickened breathing to slow, for words to follow.

“It’s Josh,” he says, and my stomach flips over.

“Again?”

“It’s not like he can control it!” Blaze’s voice rises by accident, which he then lowers to a whisper. “Sorry.”

“What d’you want me to do? I’m in school right now, assembly’s on and I’ve got a speech in five minutes.”

“Fuck the speech.”

“Can’t you call an ambulance?”

“How do you explain this to ambos?” I imagine him gesturing to Josh, writhing on the floor in silent pain, and sigh in defeat.

“I’m on my way.”

“You never could say ‘coming’, could you?” A vague smile returns to his voice; I tell him to shut up; he laughs.

I’m at the Kearney house just as first break starts, and I can almost hear the bell going from inside the car. The Kearney’s live only a few streets away, but that didn’t stop them from dropping out as soon as their parents were out of the picture.

Here, I text Blaze as I lock the car, shove the keys in my pocket. I shucked my blazer off and left it in my locker before I made a bolt to the car park. Teacher’s permission be damned; there’s a life in jeopardy and a yes or no isn’t going to stop me now.

Were in his room

He never did get good marks in English.

I race inside, letting the screen door smack against the house’s outer wall. Taking a deep breath, I slow my pace to a fast walk, so I don’t upset the dog, or Josh, for that matter. Blaze is waiting in Josh’s doorway when I approach and his face visibly softens when he sees me, and he half lifts his arms for a hug before remembering himself and letting them drop to his sides.

“What stage is he at?” I ask, pushing past him and crouching beside Josh, who’s stilled now, on the freshly vomit stained rug.

“Four, I think,” Blaze says, pushing his fingers through his hair like that’ll make a difference.

“Shortness of breath, got it,” I say, rolling Josh onto his back, his mouth lolling open like an unzipped school bag. “Have you tried CPR?”

“That’s not how it works. All his vitals are fine. You know that.”

“But you did check to make sure?” That gets me a withering look and an exasperated sigh.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I checked.”

A shiver goes down my spine when he calls me ‘Your Majesty’, but I don’t let him see it. Bloody hormones messing with my head.

“Josh,” I say softly, like a mother waking up their child for school. “Joshy.”

He gurgles and mumbles something, but he’s too out of it to make any proper words, so I try again, holding his hand and rubbing little circles into the back of it with my thumb.

“Go away-uh,” he mumbles, his mouth barely opening.

“It’s just me, Joshy. It’s Sasha.”

“My brother likes you,” he says groggily, his eyes starting to open.

“Does he?” I ask, a wry smile streaking across my face. “I couldn’t tell.”

I glance up at Blaze and he winks at me, giving me a crooked grin that must be a lady-killer at the… wherever he goes to get food for his not-so-average family. He laughs when I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling by the time I look back at Josh. His blond fringe is sticking to his forehead, slick with sweat, and I wipe my hand on my skirt after pushing his hair back from his face.

“Do you feel okay enough to sit up?” I ask softly. He nods.

I take both his hands in mine and he pushes up, screwing up his face with the effort. With my help, he scoots backwards so he’s leaning against the bed, next to where Blaze is sitting. He slumps sideways, his head knocking into his brother’s legs.

“That better?”

Josh grunts, but he smiles a little as well, and I smile back. He points to the water bottle attached to the outside of my bag and I practically scramble across the room to get it. I whisper “Cup!” up to Blaze and he runs up the hallway and returns with a blue plastic IKEA cup, handing it to Josh like it was made of china. I fill the cup and Josh holds it in both hands to take a sip.

“That better?” Blaze asks this time, checking Josh’s forehead for heat, then bops him on the nose for good measure. The measure, in this case, is a laugh.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Once we’ve tucked Josh into bed for a pre-lunch nap, Blaze and I take the dirtied rug to the back yard to hose it off. Blaze offers to hold the rug while I spray, and I can’t believe he’s letting me pretend-shoot him at close range. I “accidentally” get him in the face a couple of times, laughing every time. Blaze turns his head and tries to duck out of the way, only making me laugh harder. He’s hanging it over the fence to dry when I see how sodden his shirt is. It was light grey when I first saw it, but now it is closer to charcoal.

“Yeah, I agree,” Blaze says in response to me eyeing his shirt. He takes it by the hem and hauls it over his head. “This needs to hang up too.”

I keep my eyes trained on his face or the ground. There is no in-between. There is, however, a wolf on his bicep. I guess I look at it for too long, because Blaze laughs, the sound of summer and regrets all rolled into one. That’s what got me here in the first place.

“It’s for Mum,” he says, flexing a little bit, and I roll my eyes at the audacity. He turns so his back is facing me. “And this one’s for Dad.”

Stretching across the top of his shoulders is a rattlesnake, curving and coiling in a way that it almost looks like it’s moving. My fingers are tracing its curves before I can stop them. Blaze lets that slide as he turns back to face me, and my eyes go back to his face, mostly.

“None for Josh?”

“He’s not dead yet.”

“But a raven would be such a cool tattoo,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

Blaze leans down close to me, his face level with mine. His voice lowers in kind. “I’d get one for you.”

I stand my ground, even though our faces are centimetres apart and it’s hard to think. “What would it be?”

“A phoenix,” he says. “They always come back when you need them.”

I incline my chin at him. “Where?”

“Wherever you want,” he says, and I can’t stop myself any longer. I stand on my tiptoes and press my lips to his so hard he stumbles back, but his hands are at my waist before he falls. My arms go around his shoulders, my fingers playing with his tattoo.

“Blaze, my feather scars are itch-oh,” Josh says, bleary, then shocked. I pull away from Blaze faster than light and clasp my hands behind my back, my cheeks redder than a summer sunset. Blaze’s hands burrow into his jean pockets and he smiles nonchalantly. We head back into the house and Blaze puts another shirt on, then gets the pawpaw ointment out of the bathroom cupboard.

Blaze squeezes some ointment onto the angry red spot on Josh’s forearm, little white scars like beacons in the night. “If you’re lucky,” he says, giving me a furtive glance. “Sash might rub it in for you.”