Stained Glass Souls (Wattys 2014, Collector's Dream Award Winner)

Ariel: Lovers to Burn

(Ariel: unedited)

She knew, if she got close enough to the basement doors, that she could find Jewel.

But there were fifty-some children and around twelve teenagers and adults crowded around her, screaming and crying and clinging to one another. It was a mass of human bodies, and it was inescapable.

They had smelt the smoke during craft time. A preschooler with pigtails had been coloring by Ariel’s right elbow; a little girl in a plaid sweater set glued buttons on construction paper to her left. Mercy, the supervisor, had gone running up the stairs when she heard noises in the sanctuary.

And then the smoke alarms sounded – piercing, flashing red lights into the terrified eyes of the children. Everyone had rushed everyone; a chaos that trumped the planned methods of escape. Ariel had scooped up Pigtails and taken Plaid by her chubby wrist, getting them both to the double doors as quickly as she could.

The smoke was thicker outside. From her vantage point at the edge of the crowd, Ariel could see around the edge of the church. Huge chunks of stained glass lay shattered on the pavement. The portrait of Jesus was destroyed, grey clouds billowing around the empty spaces in the window frames.

There was nothing to do but stand and watch an unexpected fire destroy a peaceful January morning. It was a bittersweet kind of terrible, that stung in her stomach and reminded her immensely of Katrina, who was still lying sedated in a mental ward.

“Hey, Ariel?” Mercy had been at her elbow as soon as she exited the basement, scattered and nervous. “Can you do a head count for me?”

Ariel had tried to smile. She pulled her arms across the bulk of her ribcage. “Sure.”

She moved through the crowd relatively unnoticed. The twelve adults and teenagers were present – from plump, put-out Karen to glossy-haired Stacy Gwinten, whose beauty made her a likely candidate for writing nasty things about fellow students on bathroom doors. Even Sylas King, who rarely volunteered at such events, was standing off to one side, mannerisms distracted.

Forty-eight children down, and Ariel was still looking for Jewel. She found the forty-ninth, another Barbie miniature, holding hands with Pigtails. “You make forty-nine,” she told her.

Pigtails scrunched up her button nose. She looked seconds from bursting into a category five meltdown. “Are we gonna get cookies for this?”

“Of course,” Ariel said. She straightened and spotted Mercy, the familiar blue cardboard box cradled in her arms, already passing out consolations. “I’ll grab you a couple.”

She sidestepped a wailing brunette and an anxious teenager volunteer to find Mercy, who promptly handed her a plastic sleeve filled with Oreos. “Distribute, please. How was the head count? We should have fifty kids.”

“I know.” Ariel tried to shake off the encroaching panic. Maybe she had missed one child. One familiar, white-blonde head of brooding. “I got forty-nine.”

“Forty-nine?” Mercy shifted the box to her hip. “Do you know who’s missing?”

“Jewel Olsen.” 

“Oh, Lord. Well, count again. The fire department are on their way.” Mercy glanced at the basement and took a deep breath. “You probably just missed her. If not…”

“I have to find her.”

“Ariel, count again. You can’t charge into a burning building.”

Desperate, she left Mercy and passed off the whole roll of Oreos to Pigtails and her companion. She ran around the side of the building, dodging broken glass. The pieces looked sharp enough to slice through the soles of her threadbare sneakers, and she tried to stick to the grass flanking the parking lot.