I was indoors but surrounded by snowflakes, my heart pounding. Did a blizzard wreck the roof? No, I was in a theater and about to perform in The Burton School of Dance’s 1995 production of The Nutcracker.
My best friend Jasmine was the Snow Queen. “Snowflakes together!” she stage-whispered, pumping her fist.
Moira turned the knob on the dashboard, silencing the radio. She sat quiet for a minute, listening. Funny. She could’ve sworn she’d heard something. She shrugged and leaned back in the passenger seat, singing a little under her breath. Dad was taking forever. How long did it take to pay for the gas and grab a soda?
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“It’s hopeless,” I moaned to the windowpane.
Rain trickled down outside, like the glass was sobbing sympathetically. A small comfort, but I didn’t really want company in my misery. What I needed was time and inspiration. The window could give neither.
I’d tried using it for inspiration already, but there’s usually a severe lack of windows in dungeon cells.
Penny grins. “Today’s the anniversary of our first official date.”
“The day I nearly lost you.” I clutch my heart dramatically.
“What?” She squints at me. “I don’t remember that, Odie.”
I mirror her expression. “You don’t?”
***
I pulled my reluctant girlfriend into the church—Wow, how cool is it to call her my girlfriend?
The other thieves whisper that I’m cursed. Dangerous, like all unknowns. They say I’m cold as ice. Heartless. They call me Sixth—a nickname I’d earned in my initiation into their gang—not the name my mother gave her son.
To them, I’m nothing more than the mask I’ve presented.
They might be right.
Logbook Entry. October Fourteenth, in the humble year 2568.
Just last month, I gazed upon the old weapons and hovercrafts from the Great War. And I finished reading the faded copy of The Art of War two weeks ago. Never could I have imagined it was preparing me for my fast-approaching conscription.
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The ringing of cold steel reached my ears as I ran through the torrents of people. This had to have been the stupidest thing I’d ever done. I mean, who charges wildly through sword-wielding maniacs just to take on the man who taught me everything I know?
“Asterin will do as she’s told.”
“Éclairs.”
“Angel food cake,” I counter, crossing my arms and staring my little sister down. “We haven’t had that in forever.”
“Well why don’t we just do both?” Sophie flips through Mom’s gigantic recipe book. “If we make them at the same time, it’ll be really quick.”
I contemplate that. She has a point.
Every year, I tell myself I’m never baking for the fair again. It always ends in disaster. When I tried making a gingerbread house, the walls wouldn’t hold together and the roof caved in. I struggled on, until Mama paid me to give up on it. Another time, I made pies.
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Blood sits heavy on an empty stomach, I thought bitterly as the crimson pool around me expanded. My insides howled with pain, yet I lay motionless, listless in my doomed state. The sticky sand embalmed me while the turmoil in my intestines raged in a battle between empty, gnawing pain and boiling, tumultuous nausea.
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“So, Aedan, I’d like you to take care of the place today. This will be an opportunity to get your feet wet managing the business.”
“What?” I glanced up from my phone, sipping my rapidly-melting milkshake. Uncle Johnny didn’t usually bother me on my lunch break.
He sighed. He looked frazzled, and his white hair stuck out at odd angles.
“For first place in the Camp Conniption popsicle stick sculpture competition, we have two winners!” Camp Director Naomi Addison addressed the auditorium of middle school girls. “Our judges gave both Melissa Logan and Zinnia Zunk a perfect ten.”
The girls clapped as Zinnia and I came up on stage to accept our ribbons.
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