Girl Who Cries Fire

“Julie, dinner will be ready in 5 minutes!” The smell of her father’s creamy pasta sauce tugs at the peach fuzz inside her nose. Her favorite meal. She wonders if he purposefully planned this meal to coax her into the house. It is always a fight to get him to let her stay in her own home, where she has everything she needs. Her parents finished building the treehouse weeks ago. Julie recruited them to hold the ribbon for the grand opening. Franny, the family dog, was the only audience member present to see Julie cut the ribbon. The ceremony was “delightfully quaint” in Julie’s words. 

It was everything she dreamed of. A rope ladder she could pull up to prevent any intruders, a small porch, two windows, an entrance with double doors, bookshelves, and her favorite part: a skylight. After the grand opening Julie promptly moved all of her beloved items up the ladder and began to nest. Her mother giggled to herself as she watched Julie struggle to pull the beanbag up the rope ladder. She looks like drunk Santa Claus, she thought to herself. In the past, Julie’s mother felt anxiety rushing from her C-section scar, through her chest, down to her fingertips upon seeing Julie attempt such tasks. She learned to bear the thought of her only child, her “mini-me”, experiencing pain. She learned to appreciate her daughter’s determination to be the most independent 8 year-old in the tri-state area. She learned to be prideful in her daughter’s willingness to fail. Encouraging this will make her a stronger woman, she tells herself. 

Julie mimics her father after completing any kind of DIY project by planting her hands firmly on her hips, letting out an audible sigh. Round belly extended, back arched, the corners of her mouth softly float. As if to say to herself, for fucks sake now what?, another habit she picked up from her father. 

Still standing over the closed trap door, she feels the rhythmic tap tap tap tap tap before it reaches her ears. She responds with two stomps and opens the door. Just a crack. This is her house after all. She deserves some goddamn privacy. More language picked up from the beloved adults in her life. “Honey dinner’s ready” Her father flashes his goofy smile at her. Eyes full of expectation. Expecting her to relinquish time in her sacred space to sit still for 45 minutes. Expecting her to sit idly as she listens to the adults use words that she hasn’t studied in the 3rd grade. Julie knows the rules. Her parents have not let her eat in the treehouse so far. They claim that she will never be allowed to eat up there. It will attract animals, they say. But Julie loves animals. She wouldn’t mind. “I will have my dinner in my own home thank you very much!” Julie, hands steady on her hips, jolts her chin to the side in protest. Her father is prepared for this reaction. “Jules, you know that isn’t an option. Your choices are to come with me to eat or we can stand here and wait for you to be hungry” Julie was already hungry. She had been hungry since she ate that sweaty, lukewarm cheese stick three hours ago. She thinks about how exhausting yesterday’s tantrum was. She evaluates her body and decides she does not have the energy for another one. She concedes that her best option is to get it over with. She’s no dummy, afterall. 

Julie twirls the world’s largest ball of spaghetti around her fork. Attempting to fit as much in her mouth as possible she studies her mother’s glass of red wine across the table. She has always loved the rich odor it gives off. She imagines the smell reaching toward her, wrapping her in its warmth. Perhaps Julie feels such comfort from the smell of red wine due to the fact that her mother has drunk a single glass of the same brand of Malbec every night with dinner since Julie could remember. Julie has learned to associate the smell with the safety of her mother’s embrace, which is always received just before her goodnight kiss. 

“Julie?”, Julie focuses her gaze beyond the glass, meeting her mother’s hazel eyes across the table. The same hazel eyes she sees in the mirror every morning. “Julie, honey you finished your food. Would you like to be excused? Or would you like dessert?” Before her mother could finish the sentence Julie was already sprinting to her treehouse. Upon closing the trap door, Julie turns on her battery powered lantern and pulls her notepad and crayons from the shelf. She dives into her beanbag, which she strategically placed under the skylight. According to Julie, she has observed the constellations a bazillion times with her parents. Her mother has guided her in ways to spot the Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Ryan’s Belt, Aries, and others although she always forgets the names. Her father loves helping Julie to chart the stars as they sit on the back porch on summer evenings. Ever since her parents agreed on the skylight, Julie has dreamed of being able to chart the stars from the comfort of her very own home. And so, she begins. 

Julie tucks her tongue into the corner of her mouth, a tell-tale sign of ultimate concentration. She is plotting the constellations most familiar to her by memory after just a few seconds of peering up through the window. This must be how it will feel when I work at NASA one day, she ponders to herself. The point of her yellow crayon breaks under the weight of her focus. Julie lets out a groan. She knows what this means. She is going to have to go inside the other house to find a new one. With the reluctance of an 80 year-old grandpa taking out the trash, she throws the door open, marches down the ladder and into the house. Her parents try to spark up conversation, however she is much too busy. They notice this and continue watching their grown up T.V. show. As she gallops through the grass she notices her chart has been taken hostage by an unexpected gust of wind, carried out the window, and relocated in a bush at the back of the garden. “For Pete’s Sake!” Julie calls up to the wind, hands stretched out in desperation. Give me a break, she thinks as she stomps 20 feet to the back of the yard. When she arrives, something startles her. Right next to her unfinished chart, she finds a dead mouse. Juile has seen roadkill before. She likes to make a tally mark on the upholstery of the minivan for every dead animal spotted on family road trips. However, this is the first time she is seeing a dead being this close. She remembers when her fish died last month her classmate Kevin told her that the fish went to Heaven. What is Heaven like?, she wonders. Why did it have to die? I don’t think I will die. Mom and dad neither. She pauses to study the mouse, Is the body just another part of our yard now? Will it be here forever? She gasps to herself at the next idea, Will it turn into a mouse tree?! 

The wind began to pick up so Julie tiptoed over the cool grass and shimmied up the ladder. With her chart in-hand and fresh yellow crayon, she was ready to get back to work. After finishing the final constellation she gets started on the navy blue night sky. “Oh this is coming along soooooooo nicely!” She shouts to herself in a british accent. She picked it up from watching Pirates of the Carribean one too many times. The sound of light tapping reaches her ears. It begins slowly. Then, the taps fall harder, more frequently. Julie glances up to see rain splattering on the skylight. She didn’t even notice the clouds rolling in. Excitement floods from her heart through her fingers, dripping to her toes. Her first rainy night in her home. She is learning the novelty of ‘firsts’. Her excitement turns to dismay as she notices the skylight is far too easily persuaded by the forceful drops. For it is letting them squeeze past its’ seal, allowing the raindrops to find solace in the warmth of her beanbag. Her bed for the last several nights. Julie bursts into tears. Not the soft, sweet kind. Julie’s tears shove past her eyes and down her cheeks like wildfire. Her cries explode from her belly. Like most wildfires, it is near impossible to contain her emotion. It rules over her. She has no choice but to surrender. 

Julie’s father bursts through the trap door. Her cries had reached the couch a few minutes ago. Although time does not exist for an emotional Julie Bennet. “Honey, what happened?” He speaks softly, with concern and patience. Julie screams “My beanbaaaaaaaaag” Her mouth is gaping up at the leak, eyes closed. Her father suppresses a giggle. She always looks like a bullfrog when she cries like this. “Let’s go inside my love. We will bring the beanbag inside and tomorrow we can see about that leak” 

Julie is cradled back to the house and transferred to her mother. Her screams have converted to soft sobs, catching her breath as her mother floats her up to her bedroom. The nightlight is already on. Overhead lights off. Just how Julie likes it. Julie’s mother decides to sit with her. Cradling her as she rocks in the antique rocking chair. She stares down at her creation. Julie lies there, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Rhythmically. 

Julie’s mother contemplates what will become of her daughter as she outgrows her mother’s arms. Her sweet, bold, independent child. At 8 years-old she already stands out from her friends for her uniqueness. This fills her mother with as much pride as it does concern. Julie’s stubbornness is something her mother tries to encourage. Better to raise a strong woman who knows what she wants than a passive one. This is her way of protecting her daughter. She thinks about all of the women in history that have lived their lives boldly. Many of those same women ended up being unvalidated and misunderstood. Images of Monica Lewinski, Kerri Strug, and Princess Diana come to mind. Strong, capable, powerful women in their own way. Women who had everything at their fingertips. Who used their voices and actions to display their intelligence, athleticism, heart. Women who, still, were shamed. Were taught to push forward with breaking bodies. Were killed. She hopes she is a mother who gives her daughter every tool to success. She already sees drive and focus in her 8 year-old. She prays to a god she stopped believing in long ago that society does not infiltrate her brain like a parasite. That she will know when she is older that she can say “yes” and “no” whenever she pleases. That these answers will not require any explanation, no matter how disappointed the person on the receiving end could be. 

Julie’s mother feels her own tears running down her face. She decides it is time for her to go to bed as well. She lays Julie in her bed with the same tenderness she used with her as a newborn. Before crossing the threshold of her bedroom she peers over at her daughter once more. Julie’s mother has already grown through the patriarchal system of this world. Where the fire inside of a woman is more likely to burn herself than to burn paths for others. She feels determination in her gut. She is ready to navigate this system again through the eyes of her daughter. Her daughter, who will ultimately be her sister in this fight for gender equality. Her daughter, who already has it better than her. Because of her. Because of the women who have spoken out, who continue to speak out. Because of the women who are willing to risk being burned at the stake for the sake of little girls born into this world. Girls who are independent. Girls who speak their mind. Girls who cry fire. Girls like Julie.