Sparks

By H. M. Hershberger

The night air smells like cinnamon and fryer oil from the cart vendors down below. Swing jazz floats on the breeze from the club three shops down. I tap my fingers moodily on the rusty edge of the fire escape. It’s Independence Day, but I don’t feel much like celebrating.

Tomorrow, my brother leaves for war.

For as long as I can remember, we’ve been Davie and Jo. The Baxter twins, the matched set. Chaos on the rocks, shaken not stirred.

The man who delivered the call-up papers looked sorry, but the ruler-straight creases in his pants and the spit-shined buttons of his jacket belied that. He’s government and my folks don’t trust old Uncle Sam farther than we can throw him.

See, my people are magic—well somethin’ like that. It’s really some sorta subatomic manipulation I can’t make hide nor hair of, but magic’s a simpler term.

Not me though, I’m about as Gifted as a rock, but Davie’s got pyro-somethin’-or-other. My idiot twin brother with his snarky, lopsided grin––who’s only ever used his sparks for fireworks—is being sent off to die.

The messenger tried to make a joke about charbroiled Nazis, but it wasn’t funny. War’s not a funny thing. Tonight marks the last time we’ll be in the same place for who knows how long.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.

The Cordell’s oldest boy was in Italy. They got a telegram two days ago and haven’t come out since. The star in their window is gold now, gold like Midas’s daughter. Dead.

I don’t want to put a gold star in our window for Davie. I don’t want to lose my best friend and other half. I don’t want to be just Johanna Baxter, the poor girl whose brother went to war and never came back.

Ma’s apple cake sits like a stone in my stomach. She scrimped and saved our sugar rations for weeks to make it, to have a treat for Davie’s last night. It tasted like ashes instead.

The fire escape creaks all of a sudden.

“Ya’ know,” Davie drawls from behind me, “you’re actin’ like I’m already dead.”

“Feels like it,” I mutter.

“Have a little faith, Jo,” he says indignantly. “I’m not that clumsy.”

I snort softly, but don’t respond. The lights of the shops that line our street twinkle in the dusk, sending the alley shadows swinging like they’re doing the Charleston.

He drops beside me, sending the fire escape groaning dangerously. “Hey, I’ll be fine. I survived the Incident of ‘36, remember? No way Ol’ Sauerkraut can top that.”

I shake my head at the memory. “How could I forget? You nearly leveled the Polka’s shop.”

Davie grins, lopsided and smirky. “Still here, ain’t I? You’re not gettin’ rid of me that easy.”

“Promise?”

He holds up his hand solemnly. “I’ll even pinkie swear.”

“You swear to come back, David Baxter?” I stab my finger into his chest. “Cause if you don’t, I’ll come get you myself!”

Davie snorts. “War’d be over in a week if we let you loose on the krauties.”

“Davie.”

“Fine, fine. I swear, on pain of being dragged back from Germany by my ear.”

We link little fingers and shake on it.

“And don’t you forget it,” I warn, flicking his nose for emphasis.

Davie shakes his head and stands. “Geez, what’d I do to get saddled with such a deadbeat sister?”

“Dolt.”

His eyes sparkle with mischief. “You know you love me.”

I raise an eyebrow and haul myself to my feet. “Do I?”

“Yep,” he says with another crooked smile. “Come on, we’re going to the roof.” He snags my hand and drags me up towards the top of our apartment building, the ancient stairs threatening to disintegrate the whole way up.

The roof is oddly deserted for a holiday, but then the whole building knows that Davie’s been called up, so maybe it isn’t so strange. The people of 647 Chester Street are good folks.

Pushing up the grease-stained sleeves of his tatty work shirt, Davie rubs his hands together like a magician preparing to perform some grand trick.

“What does the lady request first?” he asks with a bow.

I roll my eyes and aim a halfhearted kick at his knee. “A flower.”

“What type? Rose, petunia, lily—”

“Pick one,” I say, chuckling. “I don’t care: any’ll do.”

Copper gold sparks erupt from my brother’s palms and shoot skywards, falling back to Earth in the elegant petals of a lily. They light up the roof with a rich glow, chasing away the shadows and turning the evening rosy. The early stars disappear under the brilliance, and I stand open-mouthed in awe. Davie’s an artist every day, but this is something special.

“Beautiful,” I whisper.

“Yeah?” Davie asks with a secretive smile. “Watch this.”

A cascade of sparks leaps from his hands into the night, and I watch transfixed as firebirds flit to and fro and dragons soar past weeping willows. In the sparklight Davie appears ethereal, a sprite or fairy lad from another world entirely.

The music down the street picks up and he holds out a hand. “Dance with me?”

I take it with a grin, and we bob and weave to the cheerful sound of the trumpet under the light of sparks and stars. I close my eyes and spin, a laugh spilling from my lips with the joy of spending time with my twin.

I memorize every sensation, the warm July breeze on my skin, the flap and snap of my skirt, the tune the band plays. The smell of machine oil and the way Davie’s chestnut curls dance to their own beat as he spins me ‘round and ‘round.

I engrave this moment into my heart and two months later, when we hang that awful golden star in our window, I dance alone to the trumpet’s refrain under a sparkless sky and try desperately not to cry.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

H. M. Hershberger is an aspiring teen author with a deep-seated love of fantasy and science fiction. A bit of a world traveler, she is currently somewhere in the time space continuum deep in the middle of her latest project. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found reading or loudly singing show tunes in the middle of the kitchen.

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