Imdalind 01 - Kiss of Fire

fabric that would make me stand out.
    For years my mom kept trying to convince herself that my choice of baggy dark-colored clothes was a stage that I would outgrow. I always found a way to hide myself; I kept my black hair long and falling in a sheet around my face, my clothes always dark and at least a size too big. It was all done in a way to help me blend in so people wouldn’t notice me. I felt comfortable inside my safety shield, hoping that no one could see me or figure out what was wrong with me. When the Goth kids showed up at school, it worked to my advantage. My mom, for once, thought I was trying to be cool, but I wasn’t overly emotional or narcissistic like they appeared to be. I just wanted to disappear.
    “Go on,” Mom prodded. “Open it.” I sighed before ripping off the paper. It was a deep red shirt, embroidered with some beads and fabric flowers. There was no denying it was pretty. It even looked like one of the things I wished I could wear – if only I felt comfortable doing so.
    “Just try it on, Joclyn.” My mom danced around in her white kitchen shoes; how in the world could I say no to that? I dragged my feet all the way to the bathroom, the red shirt sticking out of the arm of the hoodie my hands were hiding in. I put on the shirt; cursing the fact that my mother could tell what size I was, even through my purposely too big clothes. It was snug, but not too tight. I stared at myself in the mirror for a second, looking through the tunnel of dark hair. I looked so different in the shirt, almost pretty. Without thinking, I pulled my hair up into a ponytail, just to see what it would look like, but the mark stood out so vividly; its ugly shape stuck out right behind and below my right ear. I twisted my hair and pulled it around the side, down the side of my neck. The low twist covered it easily, but I still didn’t trust it. Part of me wished I could dress like this, but I could never tell my mother that.
    I sighed just a little bit before leaving the bathroom, knowing that Mette and my Mom would fawn over me. I looked in the mirror a second too long, trying to figure out a way to get out of this. Even if I said it was too small, my mom would insist I show her anyway. Best to get it over with. I closed my eyes so that I wouldn’t have to see my mom dance around with excitement again. The door clicked open, and I stood there, eyes closed, waiting for it to come.
    “Oh, Joclyn,” my mom said, “it’s beautiful.” I didn’t need to have my eyes closed, I could hear the soles of her non-slip shoes squeak against the floor as she danced in joy.
    “Mom, don’t...” I pleaded, but I knew it was useless.
    “That color... with your hair... Oh please wear it to dinner tonight - without that darn sweatshirt,” she added. I could feel her tug on the hoodie, but I hung on for dear life.
    “Mom. No.” My eyes snapped open in my attempt to retort, and I froze. Ryland stood right in front of me, a huge grin on his face. My jaw dropped as my heart went into overdrive.
    Ryland LaRue was the son of my mother’s boss. Ry was two years older than me and stood a good head taller. We had been friends since my mother first started this job when I was five, playing together in the kitchen and hiding on the grounds of the estate. Ryland would always be my very best friend, but lately it was hard to see past his dark curly hair, crystalline blue eyes and “private school Rugby muscles” without feeling like my heart was getting restarted. This heart slamming was for a different reason though: he hadn’t seen me wear anything other than a hoodie since I hit puberty. I felt uncomfortable, and Ryland’s appreciative grin wasn’t helping matters much.
    Mette and my mother broke out into huge bouts of laughter at their little joke. The look of surprise on my face must have been hysterical. Rather than join along, as part of me wished to, I squeaked and moved to put my hoodie back on. I slid into it as quickly as I could without revealing my scar. I had kept it hidden from Ryland for this long, thanks to Band-Aids and carefully placed hoods or hair. I didn’t need him seeing it now. It would only give him a reason to run away.
    “Ah, come on, Jos... It’s pretty,” Ryland pleaded.
    “No.” I spoke as sternly as I could, turning to repeat the word to my mother who was in stitches with Mette against the confection mixer. My mother’s laughter stopped.
    “Joclyn, you have to wear it