Ignite (Ignite 1)

I clung to him like white on rice. He was disturbed by my clinginess at first, and ran off whenever I drew near to him, but after many school days of relentless stalking, he succumbed to the realization that I was not going to go. After coming to terms with this, he was fine by it – but only because he saw an advantage to this. I was declared his gofer friend, fetching him what he wanted, waiting hand and foot for his requests, and he never stopped requesting!

“I want a cup of water,” he demanded.

“Where do I get a cup?” I asked.

“Sara,” he started in irritation, “don’t give me questions, give me results!”

I’d pretended to go to the toilet, stole my teacher’s coffee mug from her desk, emptied it and filled it up with water. He was very pleased, although not so much by the faint taste of coffee in his water.

“Go tell Max I hate him,” he said next.

Max, who was not on good terms with Jaxon as of lately due to playground politics, was hiding somewhere remote and I had to track him down. After asking around and running from one side of the school field to the other, I found him sitting beside the fence against the parking lot, alone, digging sticks into the mud.

“Jaxon says he hates you,” I stated breathlessly after a long five minute run.

“I don’t care!” Max screamed, throwing a stick at me.

I ran off to report the news to Jaxon who was unsatisfied. “Guess I have to beat him up,” he muttered. “Go tell Stacey she has a big butt.”

After I delivered the news to Stacy - and after getting shoved to the ground - I returned to Jaxon to carry out more requests.

As time wore on, he grew tired of my services and the requests became less and less. The shine wore off and I was happy he’d stopped. I was frankly sick of having things thrown at me, and for telling many girls horrible things about their behinds.

I still followed him everywhere; I was practically his shadow, and I think he was quick to get used to that because he came knocking on my door one day when I was absent at school after catching the flu.

My parents were passed out in their bedroom and, frightened they’d hear the sounds of his knocking, I tip toed to the door to answer.

“You weren’t at school today!” he hissed at me when I opened the door.

“I’m sick,” I said, shamelessly wiping the snot from my face. I wasn’t the most delicate thing around.

He pushed past me and entered the house. He wore a deep frown on his face, clearly unsatisfied with my answer, and looked about the living room with a weird look. “Why is your house so ugly?”

I followed his gaze to the tiny living room: old stained green couch against one wall, semi cracked glass coffee table riddled with cigarette butts, beer bottles all over the floor – some on their sides oozing out remnants of beer, and a tiny television in the corner on a moving box because we didn’t have a stand for it.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, feeling suddenly ashamed. I’d never had a friend over before.

He looked around some more. “My mom puts pictures up and cleans every day,” he said. “Must be cool that your parents don’t care about being clean.”

No, they didn’t. I looked at our bare and dirty walls. Not one photo was up, and I couldn’t recall the last time my own mother cleaned.

“What does your room look like? Can I see?”

“No,” I quickly replied. If he thought the living room was bad, I didn’t want him to see my room. All I had was a tiny dresser, a mattress on the floor, and two old dolls I’d been given at a charity Christmas event at school a couple years ago. He could see my reluctance and didn’t press me about it.

He tucked his chin length sandy hair behind his ear and said, “It was weird you weren’t at school today. I felt like I didn’t have a shadow.”

“I’ll be at school tomorrow.”

“Good, because I’m going to beat Max up and I’m going to need you there.”

“What for?”

“For support!” he said irritably at my question, as if that was so obvious.

I didn’t want to let him down, so I said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”

“And tell your parents to stop cutting your hair.” He eyed my boy-like do before turning to make his way out. “You look like a boy.”

I nodded. “Okay, Jaxon.” They still cut my hair. It kept the lice away, they said. Only it didn’t. But to their credit it made it easier for me to clean on my own.

Jaxon lived down the street from me, and he was in the same kind of old townhouse as me. He had a cheery mom, but I never saw his father when I went around there. I remember thinking that was very odd. When his mother had seen me waiting for him to come out and play one Saturday afternoon, her eyes had widened in dismay.

“Come here, child.” She beckoned me inside the house.

She had long sandy hair, like Jaxon, and even his blue eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. She didn’t have his nose or the shape of his face, and his height certainly wasn’t from her gene pool judging by her small frame. I remembered thinking she was very pretty, and very young looking. As I entered the house, I looked about it with great fascination. There were photos of Jaxon of all ages on every wall, and when I felt carpet below my feet, I rushed to take my dirty shoes off.

“Don’t worry about that, darlin’,” she told me. “I can just vacuum that up.”

The house, small like mine, felt homely. She had nice furniture. And there were toys everywhere. And her house smelled of chicken roast wafting from the kitchen causing my stomach to grumble.

“Would you like to eat, darlin’?” she asked me after hearing the tiny stomach of mine roar in aching hunger.

I smiled timidly and nodded.

“You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?”

She led me to the kitchen and had me sitting down on a dining table chair while she opened the oven and removed a large pan of sizzling roast chicken on top. I gazed at her movements – so graceful and calm, not tripping over her feet or slouching when she stood. She was even more perfect than the teachers at school.

“Jax!” she called.

I could tell Jaxon had come out of the shower because his hair was dripping when he walked into the kitchen wearing jeans and a black sweater.

“What do I tell you about drying your hair,” his mom scolded him. She grabbed a nearby tea towel and hauled him to her. “Bend your neck down so I can dry you off!”