Incinerate

Chapter 19 - Rain, Part 2

Coming out of the bathroom after my shower, I spy Cujo laying under my bed. Resting his head on his paws, he sleeps soundly in the safety of the close quarters. My phone atop the tall and black end table buzzes with a new notification. Cujo wakes up as I draw near, looking up at me with curious yet still sleepy eyes.

Elliot: Good morning, Ash! Do you want a ride to school today? Since it's cats and dogs out there today. lol

Me: Yeah that sounds good, thanks!

Elliot: Cool! I'll text you when I'm there.

Me: Sounds good, see you in bit

"I don't know how long the storm is gonna last," I tell Cujo as I get dressed. "You think you'll be okay?"

"I hide. Safe here," he gives me a reassuring smile.

"Do you also want cartoons?" I ask.

"Duh," he rests back onto paws.

"I apologize ahead of time in case the power goes out," I reach down and pat his fluffy head. He gives my hand a lick.

"It's okay, I'll suffer in silence."

"Big baby," I chuckle.

It doesn't take long to pack my bag with homework needing to be turned in today. Down in the kitchen, I prepare a bowl of Lucky Charms in relative silence. Only the rhythm of the rain and occasional rolls of thunder play their music as I eat. After I'm done and have washed my bowl, my phone goes off again with a text from Elliot. Grabbing my jacket and pulling up the hood, I head out.

The passenger door of the black sedan is unlocked by the time I race to it. Jumping inside and shutting the door fast, I catch my breath. In the driver's seat, Elliot tries but somewhat fails to hold in her giggle. Once I'm buckled, she pulls away from the curb.

"It's just rain," she teases. "It won't kill you. Unless you're the Wicked Witch of West. You're not secretly the Wicked Witch of West, are you?"

"Don't worry, I won't be defying gravity anytime soon," I smirk to her, letting down my wet hood. You feeling better today?"

"What do you mean?" There's an air of obvious avoidance in her tone; she tries too hard to make it sound like she genuinely doesn't know what I'm talking about, but in doing so makes it sound forced and fake.

"Yesterday," I tell her. "In English. You looked all flustered and out of it. Said it was family stuff."

"Right," she nods slow. The sound of the rain and windshield wipers feels too loud in the gap of the conversation. "I was kinda hoping you would've forgotten about that."

"We don't need to talk about it if you don't want," I offer.

"It's fine," she sighs, turning onto the school's road. "It's just complicated, ya know? Like, my mom is big on hunting on the weekends. Her side of the family has been doing it for generations. And I'm into that concept. It's important to carry on traditions, right? But hunting isn't all that fun for me. My mom knows that, but she keeps pressuring me to go with her. She says I need to learn how to do it, because if I don't do it, who will? You know what I mean?"

"Kinda," I try to tie everything together in my head. "But one could argue that it's a good life skill to have. You never know when the world is gonna crumble and we're thrust back into the hunter-gatherer days."

"Whose side are you on?" she asks with a slice of sarcasm. "Better watch it. I might be so kind as to pick you up when it rains next time."

"I'm just saying, we all have our reasons for doing what we do. Your mom is taking you on these hunting trips for a reason, and it's probably more than just so you have the experience. One could argue that she's trying to bond with you. Isn't that a good thing?"

"I think one needs to stop arguing so much," she answers after a quiet moment.

We pull into the parking lot. Of course, all the closest spots are already taken. We take a space toward the back and prepare ourselves. With a determined exchange between us, we bolt from the car and through the parking lot. Elliot has a lead for a brief moment, but I overtake her soon enough. I beat her to the front doors, sliding to a stop under the safety of its overhang. She arrives not long after, and I hold the door open for her.

"Jesus, Ash, you really are fast!" she compliments as she catches her breath.

"People keep saying that," I follow her inside. We wipe our feet on the long black doormat just inside the door; it's already damp from other students' shoes.

"Yeah, Timbo told me about that last night," she says as we make our way past the atrium and down the halls. "Said Harley wouldn't shut up about it at practice. You really got him worked up."

"I take it he considers himself the fastest kid in school, then?"

"Has been since we were kids," she confirms. "Except for seventh grade. Some newbie came and showed him up then, too. Harley threw a massive hissy fit, got the kid kicked off the track team, it was a whole ordeal. But he's chilled out since then. Well, a little."

"I'll watch for daggers in my back," I joke as we bounce down the stairs to our hallway. Part of me wants to tell her about Coach Bloom's invitation and what Mom and I agreed upon. But the other half of me tells me to hold back on it. Nothing is a finalized deal, anything can change at any moment. I don't want her getting too excited or too bummed out over anything.

"Alright, this is my stop," she says as she hovers around a locker. "If it's still raining when school lets out, I'll give you a ride home."

"Didn't we already make an agreement about after-school transportation?" I tease her with a smirk.

"I'll see you at three," she rolls her eyes and turns her back to me.

Making my way down to my own locker, my shoes squeak every now and then with the remaining rain. Others around me seem to be in the same boat, with their own little squeaks sounding off here and there. Some even stand in their own little puddles as they stow away their sodden jackets and backpacks.

When I arrive, I find my neighbor. I don't think I've ever seen Sera here in the mornings; normally she appears in the middle of the day. But what grabs my attention even more is how dry she looks. Not a drop of rain lingers on her black leather jacket, in the messy bun that shows off the back of her neck, or pooling at her feet. I feel drenched in comparison.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer," she lets loose that snarky tone as she puts away her things without even glancing my way.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, spinning my combination and unlocking my locker door.

"You were staring," she says. "I could feel it."

"Is that so?" I slip off my backpack and unload its contents onto the shelf.

"Your gaze betrays your presence often," she tells me before snapping her locker door shut. "It's louder than those squeaky shoes of yours."

"Well we can't all dodge raindrops," I joke. "How did you manage to stay so dry anyway?"

"Teleportation, duh." She makes it sound so obvious, as if I should have already known. Her straight face bolsters her sincerity, or her bluff. But she doesn't stick around long enough to elaborate or come clean. She's soon off to whatever first class she has for the day, and I'm left wondering if she has a habit of leaving mid-conversation with everyone else.