I gaze astonished at the enormous hole punched in the wall. Fred, however, surrounded by three friends—Barney, Wilma, and Betty, I presume—doesn’t seem to be hurt at all. Nevertheless, Williams arrives at the scene, without hast or urgency, carrying a gigantic antique first aid kit, pushing gently through the mob around Fred. Judging by the twinkle in his eyes, he seems more amused than impressed. The corridor, however, buzzes with excited whispers and muffled voices. Fred’s defeat seems to be a big deal.
The boy who accomplished this legendary feat, however, has already disappeared into the classroom as if it has nothing to do with him. I decide to follow him, taking advantage of the chaos to secure a table at the back—the best spot to maintain a low profile.
But after wrestling my way through the scrimmage of students, I can’t help but feel dumbfounded when I walk into the classroom. It looks even older than the rest of the school. The walls, floor, and ceiling are as dark as the corridor. There are no windows, except for a few narrow horizontal slits near the high ceiling and the desks are rigidly arranged in pairs, their wooden tabletops worn down by decades of use, with holes for inkwells—long obsolete—still visible. There’s nothing modern or even electric to be found, let alone a digital screen or projector. In an unsettling way, it reminds me of the pictures Gran showed me from her high school days... during the war.
Inside, “Slug” looks at me with an open, friendly face from behind a desk in the dead center of the room.
“Don’t... worry... there... are... still... enough... tables... to... choose... from.”
“Yes, there seems to be a lot going on outside. Not a surprise after what you pulled off,” I respond, sharper than I intended.
“I... didn’t... do... anything...” Despite it obviously not being true, his surprise seems so genuine that I actually believe him—even though I have no idea how he could forget something so significant in such a short time.
Behind me, more students file in. I quickly move to the back of the room to secure a spot, but when the talking stops abruptly, I realize that entering first was a huge mistake. I can see them connecting the dots—a connection that doesn’t exist in reality but is now inevitable in their minds: two new students, the round one who mysteriously escaped annihilation by the school bully moments ago, and that girl... that girl from the fire they were warned about. For a moment, it’s completely silent. Then it starts—the slow-working venom of whispers.
“Isn’t that...?”
“Must be...”
“Really?”
“Do they know each other?”
“Of course... look at them.”
Outside, the teacher is still assisting Williams. Inside, all the students sit turned around in their seats, staring at me.
“Hey!” someone shouts from the front of the classroom. “What are you doing here?”
“Learning English, just like you,” is the only thing I can come up with.
“No… why this school?” hisses a girl’s voice closer by, but when I turn my head, I only see straight faces.
“There’s a school in your own village, right?” This time I see who said it: a boy with bright red hair and matching freckles, looking me right in the eyes, challenging me. I vow not to look away, but before we settle our stare-down, somebody else calls out.
“You burned down that farm.” Murmurs of approval.
“My father says you don’t belong here.” More approval.
“You’re dangerous, my mom says.” All the students start to talk over each other now. Voices merge into a rapidly growing sound balloon about to explode. I want to silence them all with a razor-sharp response, but nothing comes to mind. I want to tell them to mind their own business, but no words leave my lips. Inside me, I feel the flames growing. First, only a single one, but then another and another, multiplying with increasing speed. They lick at my intestines, move upwards, grow to my throat and hands, begging to be released.
I’ve never been in control of my fire “ability.” When I was young, I ignited with every mood swing or temper tantrum. The only thing I’ve been able to train, to some extent, is to block out the world. Make no emotional connections so I can’t get hurt, and when I can’t get hurt, I won’t burn anything down.
It has been an excruciatingly painful process of emotional amputation and isolation. It’s a bit like dying, slowly, but it works. It’s the only thing that prevents a disaster from happening right now.
So, that’s what I do. I cut myself off and withdraw deep into myself, taking refuge behind my gruff, I-don’t-give-a-shit-attitude. I slide down in my chair until I am almost sitting horizontally. Comments hardly get through to me anymore.
Vaguely, I register the classroom door opening and closing again. Everyone turns to the front. The noise subsides. I take a deep breath and crawl back up inside, just enough to register how our teacher addresses the class. Your first day at school, Tinderstick, what else did you expect?