Firefly

By Suzannah Blattner

From the moment they met, the two didn't want to spend a moment apart. No one would ever understand them like they understood each other. 

Curious, headstrong Tori and g

• Language: English
• Publisher: Psithurie Press
• Release date: Jun 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986363615

Book preview

One

The evening after my world collapsed, my head brought me back to the day we met. And the look in his eyes when they met mine.

The sun beat down on my shoulders. I remember wiping my brow and looking down at my sweat-soaked palm. That August day didn’t promise us a thunderstorm like most did, so we were forced to spend our recess outside running around lethargically, playing tag, and avoiding getting near the sandbox that radiated heat. I tucked myself away in a corner to avoid the sun’s glare and my classmates’ screams. 

Oda sat next to me, perched on the side of the garden box that sat at the edge of the yard. She begged me to go play tag with the others, pulling on my arms and whining. Her complete disregard for the heat made me want to slap her. I kept shaking my head and looking back at the clock at the front of the school building, counting down the minutes until I got to go back into the gloriously air-conditioned classroom. Oda finally gave up on me and ran off to go play tag with the rest of the kids in our class. I settled back in my chair, switching my gaze between the clock and my classmates.

As I waited for lunch to end, a scene took place about five yards away from me. A girl, who I knew as the daughter of one of my mom’s good friends and my dad’s boss, stood over a small boy who looked strangely unfamiliar to me. The girl, Hally, sneered at the boy and then turned to her friend behind her. Something about her eyes held the poor boy down. He couldn’t move away and she hadn’t even laid a finger on him. The boy grimaced and his fingernails scraped desperately at the asphalt as he tried to back away from her. 

It was quite odd for there to be someone in school I didn’t recognize. The closeness of our small town didn’t allow for much anonymity. News traveled fast. Although, I did know someone this boy could be. Over the summer, I heard my mom mention that a woman and her son had moved in just a couple of blocks away but, for some reason, my town didn’t treat them the same way they treated other people that moved here. Usually, the busybodies in the neighborhood organized a large gathering and the new people in town would be paraded around by their neighbors for everyone to meet. No event had been organized for this boy. 

I mulled it over as I watched them until the boy turned his head and caught my eyes with his. They were tired, unlike those of any kid my age, and full of fear and forsaken optimism. That look in his eyes will forever be engraved in my mind. Those vivid green eyes that would become so familiar, but in that moment, stricken with an emotion which, soon, I would no longer recognize in him. Not after that day. Not for years after that day. Not as long as his eyes were filled with hope. Not as long as we could be together.

As Hally skipped away with her friends, I peeled my damp thighs off the plastic of the chair and walked over to the boy. Something about his desperation made my heart ache and our town’s disdain for him made me want to talk to him even more. I stuck out my hand to him, I’m Tori.

He took my hand and shook it. I’m Quentin.

Almost a year after we met, we took a bike ride. It was nearly dusk when we set out. The sun had just gone below the horizon, but if I squinted my eyes just right, the vibrant colors of the sunset didn’t blind me, they faded into the greys and blues of the night. I pushed harder with every circle around the pedals to go faster up the hill. The wind blew across our faces, and we let out whoops as our bikes accelerated up the hill. My long brown hair, which my mom always tried to braid, and I refused to let her touch, flew out behind me and got in my eyes as I turned corners. The sky continued to change and the tiny lights on our handlebars became the only lights in our path. 

Hey wait up! Quentin yelled from behind me.

You have to catch me! I laughed, my voice echoing back to him.

His strained breaths appeared next to me and, with a grin, I forced myself to pedal even faster. We slowed as we turned the corner, just enough to wave at our friend Oda, who sat on her porch swing with her parents. 

Hi Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, Quentin yelled at our neighbors, an elderly couple sitting on their lawn, sipping drinks, and watching the sunset over the neighborhood.

We made our way to the hill that loomed above our houses. That night wasn’t the first time that we climbed the hill on our bikes. We always went on the same loop, starting from my house and riding the two blocks past Quentin’s, turning left on Linn, three blocks, right on Bell Street, left at Oda’s, and right at the Christopherson’s, up the hill, then round again back to my house. As we turned back into our neighborhood, we commenced our routine again, circling each other and our town like specks of dirt going down the drain. 

At the bottom of the hill, I inhaled sharply and let it all out, readying myself for the incline, but as I did, Quentin took the opportunity to pass me. I yelled out behind him, Hey, you can’t have a head start!

I’m not starting ahead of you, you're the one that stopped!

I couldn’t waste any more breath yelling after him. I focused all my energy into my thighs and willed them to propel me up the hill faster than him. When we got to the top of the hill, we let go, speeding down the slow decline, heads tilted back with laughter, the wind billowing through our clothes. We lifted our arms in the air when we could find a moment to balance our weight perfectly and allow the bike to sweep us down the street on its own.

Around our loop again we went. The three Pfeiffer boys and their dad had taken out their football and were playing two versus two on their lawn. Oda’s family, now deep in conversation, sucked on lime popsicles. When Oda saw us, she waved her popsicle around in her mom’s face, her mom batting her hand out of the air. Mr. Sullivan picked up his hand and swung it back and forth at us in a wave. We made our way up the hill again, my bike passing Quentin as we went. He yelled from behind me, Hey! No, you don’t!

He pedaled even harder, catching up with me, I could hear his strained breaths as he struggled to keep my pace. Don’t push yourself! I laughed, Your mom might get mad!

Shut up! I heard him say before the car came barreling down the street. I didn't see it until Quentin yelled for me to stop, and it was already too late.

We got more freedom than we should have at the age of eight. Maybe because my parents cared more about how our family looked in society than what their kids were actually like or because of all Quentin’s mom had to deal with, so young and alone. The bike ride we were on the evening of the accident wasn’t unique to all the other ones we had taken in the year prior. When Quentin and I both got bikes for our birthdays, no one could stop us from riding all day if we wanted to. 

That day began no differently than any of the others. I woke up early to my mom fussing with the dishes in the kitchen, had a breakfast of something I can’t remember, probably scrambled eggs or cereal. I found my window of opportunity to escape my family’s grasp, so I ran out to the garage to grab my bike and rode as fast as I could to Quentin’s house. 

We spent the morning in the park with Oda and her parents playing games and running around. Oda’s parents brought us a basket of peaches which we devoured, the sticky juice dripping down our chins and arms as we ate. 

Oda left with her parents around one in the afternoon, so we biked back to my house to collect some things to put in a time capsule. I explained to Quentin how I’d seen in a TV show a bunch of friends who put mementos in a box, buried it, and dug it up 10 years later. He shrugged when I told him my idea because he didn’t like that we had to bury it in the ground. So, we made up our version of the time capsule. We would put objects and memories in it now, store it on top of Quentin’s bookshelf, and throughout the years we would add things to the box without looking at its contents. Much to his chagrin, I made him agree not to look inside of it until we graduated high school, and then we could look inside whenever we came back home.

It won’t just be memories from now, but from our whole lives, as long as we are friends.

Okay! Like a friendship box, he agreed.

Yes, I nodded, our friendship box.

From my house, Quentin tore my soccer ball keychain off my backpack, and I grabbed Quentin’s favorite Lego man out of my little brother’s Lego sets. I would just pretend I thought he lost it if Cole asked me. I pulled out a baseball cap that Quentin had splattered paint all over when we were making signs for a project at the end of the school year. The stains on the fabric didn’t show any signs of coming out.

I gathered the few things we found in my shirt and put the baseball cap on my head. As we walked out the door my mom yelled after us, Where are you going?

We’re just going to go to Quentin’s house!

My mom walked into the entryway and tapped my hat. Oh, don’t wear that, she scolded. You have plenty of other hats.

I’m just taking it for a project. I didn’t want my other hats to get dirty.

She frowned, Alright. Be at the park by four-thirty to help set up for the barbeque. 

We escaped out the front door and walked our bikes the two blocks to Quentin’s house. As we walked, Quentin picked up a rock from our neighbors’ yard and put it in his pocket. 

You know that’s stealing right? I asked him.

It’s just a rock.

It’s still stealing, it was on their property.

He looked back at me, But I want to put it in the box.

Why, it’s just a rock.

He shrugged, I just want to. He leaned down and picked a dry twig off the sidewalk. This too.

I laughed at him and continued to walk down the block, swaying in the heat with each step. Why does it have to be so hot? I sighed.

Because it’s summer.

The heat is only good because summer means we don’t have to be in school.

I like winter better. The snow is so much more fun.

I shook my head, But we can’t ride our bikes in the winter.

We could if we wanted to!

I jogged down the street, careful that the swinging pedals of my bike wouldn’t scrape my ankles and calves. Quentin ran after me the rest of the way to his house. 

When we got there, we placed more tokens of our friendship at the bottom of the box. I went into their kitchen and twisted the top off the bottle of pills Quentin had to take, ignoring the fact that I wasn’t exactly supposed to be able to get into it considering the childproof top. I rifled through the drawers in their kitchen until I found a roll of plastic wrap, tore off a small piece, and placed it on top of his pill bottle. 

I handed the cap of the bottle to Quentin, Here, put it in the box.

Why? he asked.

Because it reminds me of you.

He shrugged, knowing that if he didn’t let me put this in, he wouldn’t be allowed to put his rock in. I picked up the cardboard shipping box we found and swished the objects around in the bottom. There weren't even enough to cover it, and my hat took up most of the space.

It’s okay, he told me, We’ll put more things in it later.

I nodded, Yeah.

For the rest of the afternoon, we took refuge from the heat in Quentin’s house. His mom made us a plate of fruits and vegetables that we ate while talking about a book we both had just read. Quentin spent what felt like hours drawing the characters from the book while I finished mine in 10 minutes. The hairs on my forearm prickled when he showed me the finished product and I forced myself to tell him I liked them while grimacing at the pictures I was proud of only moments before. At four, Ms. Flasch made us get up and walk our bikes to the park with her for the neighborhood’s annual summer barbeque. 

Oda’s family never came to the barbeque which meant that most years Quentin and I just sat with the adults and tried to understand what they were saying. Most of the time, they talked about politics, but my parents were never willing to explain to me what it meant afterward. The other kids ran around in the park and played catch, but we never joined in. Not because we didn’t know how to play; I made sure they all knew that I knew how to play by pulling my brother out of their games and playing catch with just him. I would throw the ball way too hard at his chest so he would drop it and then catch every single one of his throws.

Once the adult’s conversations got too unbearable, Quentin and I went to our parents and begged for them to let us leave to ride our bikes. It didn’t take much to get their consent, so we gleefully hopped on our bikes and rode away from the barbeque. 

That’s how we ended up riding in our circle that night and how we ended up in the hospital nearly an hour after leaving the party. That’s how Quentin and I became inseparable, or at least we thought we were.

Waking up in the hospital, my mind immediately jumped to Quentin. The possibilities of what might have happened to him filled my head. Was he able to stop his bike in time? Of course, my mind spun to my bike, my precious bike, my freedom. On my birthday, my dad put his hands over my eyes and led me onto our front lawn where, when he lifted his hands, my eyes were greeted with the sight of my brand-new bike. I grinned at the purple lines streaking down the pastel blue color that covered the rest of the bike. I ran my hand along the slick frame, its metal pinching my skin in the frigid air. When the snow finally melted a few weeks after my birthday and the streets were finally dry, I wrapped my face up in a scarf and brought my bike over to Quentin's house, where we took turns riding it around his block. He got a bike of his own for his birthday in May.

The doctors told me that I had a broken leg, elbow, and a concussion. The skin on my right shoulder had suffered serious damage and they were going to have to graft skin to close the wound. Quentin only had a broken wrist from falling off his bike after I got hit. His mom scolded us because it should have been worse considering Quentin’s health. We were lucky that time, but she couldn’t bring herself to imagine something like this happening again. 

That summer is not one I like to remember, especially the time I had to spend in the hospital. Even when I got home, I had a constant watch by my mother and felt her resentment that she had to tolerate my pain and frustration. Relief came in the afternoons when Quentin would come over to my house and tell me about the camps he went to. One day he brought me a card signed by most of the kids in our grade, which I forcefully handed back to him. They didn’t actually care about me; they just were forced to sign it by their parents.

The urge to jump out of that bed and run away buzzed under my skin. Quentin telling me all those stories and trying to make me feel a part of everything only succeeded in making me more jealous and upset that I didn't get to participate in all the fun. On the day I went home, Quentin rushed over to my house and into my room with a soggy box of popsicles. While we ate them, he played with my toys as I bossed him around and told him which one to put where and exactly which direction it should be facing and scolded him for doing the wrong thing.

But shouldn’t the dog be playing with the other stuffed animals? he whined while waving a stuffed dog in the air.

I shook my head firmly, "Quentin, you know that dog is way smarter than all the other dogs and she should obviously be with the Lego men; in fact, she should be the king of the Lego men."

She can’t be the king of the Lego men! She’s a girl. Girls can’t be king! he fought back.

Girls can do whatever they want, I retorted, then winced in pain after trying to cross my arms. 

He reached into the box of popsicles and pulled one out, Here, you can have the last one, he smiled.

I reached out my arm, Why thank you.

He pulled it away, But only if the dog plays with the other stuffed animals.

Fine, I said with chagrin at his smile, you can have the popsicle. 

Before he could respond we both heard my mom yelling at my brother in the room next door. I think she is mad that she can’t yell at me anymore because I’m injured.

She yells so loud, Quentin said, as we heard my mother scream at my brother.

A muffled, Pick that up, came through the wall, along with a very loud cry from my brother.

This is my fault, I said and turned my head away.

I heard Quentin sigh and looked back to see him placing the dog in front of our mini army of Lego men. He turned to me with a fake concerned smile on his face. Shut up! I yelled and threw the stuffed elephant next to me at his head.

Hey, hey, he said jokingly, the bones in this skull are very fragile!

Shut up, I said again and threw my pillow at his head.

His goofy smile softened the corners of my frown and soon we were in uncontrollable fits of laughter. Quentin rolled on the ground, and I held my shoulder in bed.

Most of our days that summer went the same way. Quentin came over after whatever day camp he had and kept me company until dinner when he would walk back to his house. Before the summer ended, the day came when the skin healed enough that I could crutch to our car so my mom could drive me the two blocks to Quentin’s house.

I jumped out of the car and crutched as fast as I could up the steps to the front door of his house.

The first time I came over to Quentin’s house, my mom stood behind me, waiting for them to respond to the doorbell. After a couple minutes, she decided that the doorbell didn’t work and pinched the handle of the screen door with two fingers to knock on the front door whose white paint didn’t peel like the paint of the rest of the house. When Ms. Flasch answered the door, my mom told her the house was cute, which we all knew meant she thought their one-story, two-bedroom house had nothing on our two-story, plus a basement, five-bedroom house, whose paint would never even imagine peeling. 

I rang the fading yellow doorbell that Ms. Flasch got fixed a few months earlier and waited until the front door swung open. Quentin looked at me with a huge smile across his face. He pushed open the screen door. Who might you be? he said in his fake proper voice.

I stuck out my hand while still leaning my arm on my crutches, My name is Victoria Lucas Bowen, but you can call me Tori if you’re nice.

He grabbed my casted hand and shook it vigorously up and down, I am Quentin Isaac Flasch, but you must call me Quentin.

Okay, Quentin, are you going to let me in?

Well, the only Tori Bowen I know isn’t able to walk around like you, so I’m not sure about that.

Well, I am clearly not her. Now let me in, kind sir.

Okay Madam, he said and made a sweeping welcome gesture with his broken arm. 

I walked into the house that opened into their living room, where drawing paper was scattered all over the floor. Trying my best not to step on Quentin’s drawings, I hobbled over to the couch and flopped down on its brown cushions. 

Hey, Tori! Ms. Flasch said from the other side of the house where I could hear clacking sounds of dishes. Your mom called to tell me to make sure you sit down immediately and put your leg up. You two can watch whatever you want on the TV!

I sat down on the couch and put my leg up on the coffee table in front of me. Quentin plopped down on the couch next to me and flipped the TV on. The show we settled on featured a family who was very involved in each other’s lives. In the first couple minutes, we met an older man and his younger Colombian wife who had a son from before they were married. In the next scene, we met the man’s daughter who worked at her dad’s closet company and had three kids of her own. 

During the first ad break, Quentin turned to me, Woah, that was so good! he almost yelled.

I nodded my head vigorously back at him.

What are you watching? Ms. Flasch said as she walked in drying her hands with a towel.

I don’t know, Quentin said, and picked up the remote controller, hit the guide button, and looked up at his mom. "Modern Family," read the TV.

Oh, yes, she said knowingly, you like this?

Yes, Quentin said and shushed us both because the show had turned back on. It opened with a scene that showed the brother of the woman from the closet company and his husband. 

I had never seen two men together before, and neither had Quentin. When they got affectionate, both of us looked up at his mom with a questioning gaze. What is this? it seemed we were both asking.

She laughed a little at our inquisitiveness of this foreign concept, Men can marry men, and women can marry women if they want, she explained, I know here it seems a little strange. Ms. Flasch often had to explain modern topics like this to us, she often referenced the fact that she grew up in San Francisco as the reason she knew so much. But it is actually quite normal, she continued. Tori, I’d really like it if you didn’t tell your parents I am letting you watch this.

Why? I asked.

Some people don’t believe kids your age should be exposed to these kinds of things. It’s not my personal parenting style, but I don’t think your mom would appreciate you knowing these things.

Like men marrying men? Quentin asked.

That and other things, she sighed and left us to the TV.

We sat there, completely engrossed in the TV for the rest of the afternoon and spent many later afternoons that summer the same way.

On the first day of third grade, I showed up at school only to find that Quentin was not there. We had already been informed that we would be in the same class that year. When we found out we both stood up and jumped around the room, laughing. On the first day, I left my mom at the steps of school to get to class early and ask my teacher if Quentin could sit next to me. She reluctantly agreed and I sat in our place expectantly waiting for him to get there. When the first bell rang, and all the rest of the kids filed in and sat in their assigned seats, Quentin never came in, and never sat down next to me.

I squirmed in my seat until we got out for our lunch break. I ran to the main office at our school and begged them to use the phone.

The secretary narrowed her eyes at me, And why exactly must you use this phone?

I need to call my friend. I need to make sure he is okay, I whined at her.

She scowled at me, "Who is the friend you must call?"

His name is Quentin, Quentin Flasch, I pleaded.

She typed something into the computer on the desk, each clickity clackity noise seeming to take forever. I sighed dramatically and laid my forehead on the cold desk. It seems that Quentin’s mother called him in sick this morning, the lady said coldly.

I picked up my head and squinted at her, That’s exactly why I need to call him, you don't understand. The truth is, she really didn’t understand. Quentin had a genetic condition called thalassemia that gave him severe anemia. He had to be really careful about taking his medications and going to his regular doctor’s appointments. It also made sickness much worse for him than it would be for other people, and it made his bones a lot weaker than most people’s, which is why we were so lucky that I got hit by that car and not him; he might have died if he had been riding in my place. 

He had been pretty healthy that summer besides the accident as far as I knew. A few years later, his mom took me with them to one of his appointments to get a blood transfusion. It seemed quite odd to see someone else’s blood transferring into his body to keep him healthy. 

He didn’t always need the blood transfusions; his case being one of the more moderate cases of thalassemia, but I still worried about him every time he had to miss school.

The lady at the desk had said something to me, but my mind fluttered away from the sound of her voice and back to worrying. Can I just call him, please?

You may not.

I