Phoenix Rising by Cynthia D. Grant

happy; that was all that mattered. So what if none of it was true? For a few minutes she forgot that her life had been shattered; that she would never again see the daughter who wore her face; forgot her brokenhearted husband, stranded in a sand trap, beating golf balls to death; forgot the angry alien masquerading as her son, who plays his guitar just as loud as he can, to fill his mind with music, to drive out the pain; forgot the tangle-haired tightrope walker who is losing her balance.
    â€œI ran into Mrs. Maxson today,” Mom said. “She used to work at the library, remember? She hadn’t heard about Helen.”
    â€œWhat did you tell her?”
    My mother’s eyes probed my face. “I told her she’d died.”
    The last time that happened to me, I lied. I said, “Helen’s gone away to school.”
    Death is hard, Dr. Shubert says, but life is even harder. Jessie, she says, you must face the truth.
    I said, “I’m going upstairs.”
    My mother’s face collapsed, her happiness a crumpled mask. I had not fooled her.
    â€œIt’s bad enough we’ve lost Helen!” she cried. “Now we’re losing you!”
    She ran from the room. I should’ve gone after her. Instead, I went up and fell asleep on my bed, curled around Helen’s journal.
    I open my eyes. Pitch blackness. Where am I? In my room, in my bed, in the middle of the night. My bed is a boat in a dark sea.
    Why did I wake? The smell. It’s smoke.
    Fire! The bedroom door is outlined in orange neon.
    I get out of bed and touch the door. It’s hot; it burns my fingers. In sixth grade the fire chief talked to our class. He said, “Jessie, don’t open that door.”
    I run to the window. I can’t get it open. It’s stuck where Lucas painted it. I’ve got to get out. I can hear the hungry flames devouring the living room, licking up the stairs.
    I pick up my school books and smash the window. The glass shrieks and chatters. I climb out.
    Neighbors line the lawn, in robes and pajamas. They see me and gasp. “Jump, Jessie!” they shout. “You have to jump! You have no choice!”
    I’m falling through space. I land in a shrub. Thorns rip my skin. Someone’s pulling me out. It’s Bambi’s mother, her eyes full of the flames, the red light flickering on her face.
    â€œLook at all the people,” she says, calmly, as if she were announcing the time. “Two A . M .,” she adds, reading my mind.
    The crowd is enormous. A man sells hot dogs. “Red hots!” he shouts. “Red hots!”
    Dad is beside me. He takes my arm. “Come on, honey,” he says. “Everybody’s waiting.”
    The Ford’s parked in the street, Mom up front, Lucas in the backseat, his face turned away from me.
    â€œWhere are we going, Daddy?” I ask.
    â€œTo our new house. You’ll like it, Jessie.”
    â€œBut all our stuff—”
    â€œWe’ll buy new stuff.” He opens the car door. “Get in, honey.”
    I slide in beside Lucas. Then I remember.
    â€œHelen’s in the house!”
    I can’t open my door. Very gently Dad says, “It’s too late.”
    â€œHelen’s in there!” I’m screaming. “We’ve got to save her!”
    But we don’t. We drive away. I look out the back window. The house is blazing. Tongues of flame stick out the windows, flames as orange-blue as veins. The walls shudder, then collapse.
    I am screaming Helen’s name.
    My eyes snap open. Pitch blackness. Where am I? In my room, in my bed, in the middle of the night. The clock glows like a jack-o’-lantern. Two A . M .
    Helen’s bed is empty. My father was right.

9
    March 23
    Bloomfield and I drove to the ocean today — after an hour of instructions from Dad: Drive slowly, wear your seat belts, don’t pick up hitchhikers, etc. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if