Fireblooms

29

Sebas


We walk in silence for about ten minutes. I know the burn scar is coming up in a little bit on the left, and I kind of want them to see it before I say anything about it. But I also want to run my mouth and explain things. I manage to keep silent until Lu stops in their tracks. They slip their phone out of their pocket and start snapping pictures. I watch them framing images, taking notes, and imagine the words they’re pulling together.

I found out about this place from a short posted on the UCLA film school account—I immediately thought of Lu and the night we drove to the cell tower, when they recited that little piece of a poem, Now let the night be dark for all of me. This place seemed to have the same vibe. Maybe it will inspire their own poems. Maybe inspire Lu to share some with me someday. Or not. But I’m convinced that they’re happiest when they’re shifting words around in poems, not counting them or saving them.

I walk up close beside them, and they jump a little.

“Sorry, in my own world. This is so beautiful. I haven’t seen a recent burn scar in person before. It’s like another planet.”

“I thought you’d like it. It’s, like, poetic, right? But that’s not actually what I wanted to show you. Follow me.”

I’m insanely nervous, like irrationally, out of proportion. As if I’m about to show them a film I made, or a script I wrote. I want them to love it. I want it to make them happy.

I walk into the path of the burn scar, where the ground gets crunchy, looking for the telltale patch of green grass, because that’s where the field should start. When I see the grass, I stop and wait for Lu to catch up. When they do, they’re still taking pictures of the burnt ground, the twigs and stuff. I wait for them to see the field of orange blooms.

Finally, Lu turns to face me, and I know I was right. Their eyes are shining like fire, and the look on their face, it’s like Christmas morning. The sun makes their hair even more golden, their green eyes sparkle like sea glass. I’m lost. Shit, I think, looking at their beautiful face, and then, I’m in trouble.


30

Lu


Sebas stops next to a patch of green grass. Weirdly, it’s not a relief to see the green stalks, it’s an affront. Like the green, living things are mocking the land that surrounds them.

Then I see the dots of orange, first just a few, then more and more, floating on the river of green grass that extends far down the slope. The orange-gold petals tremble, like the breeze compels them to dance. In the middle of the burn scar, a ribbon of flowers. It feels like a gift. I turn to Sebas because I realize it is a gift. He’s giving this beautiful thing to me.

He looks away down the hill. “Um, uh, they’re fire poppies. They’re like the coolest flowers ever. The seeds can lie dormant for years, decades, just waiting for a wildfire to wake them up. The smoke and the heat, like, turn them on, make them active, so that a year later, you get these fire poppies showing up right where the hottest parts of the fire were. And they only last a few days, then they disappear again. Waiting until the next, you know.”

“Catastrophe?”

“I was going to say wildfire, but your word is better.”

I bend down to get as close as I can to the fire poppies. They’re spindly and papery. They look like they can’t last, like it’s a mistake they’re here, and yet, here they are. The waved edges of their petals shiver just from my exhaled breath. I take so many pictures of the flowers, the spring green of the stems, the filaments, or whatever they’re called, that poke out of the base of the flowers.

“Got enough pictures there, Lu?”

I’m lying on the dusty ground, getting close-ups of the flame petals against the backdrop of charred ground and green leaves. I feel like it’s a dream, like it will disappear as soon as I stop looking at it. But I pull myself away and stand up.

“Not really. I could look at it forever, you know?”

“But they’re not built for forever. Tomorrow or the next day, they’ll be gone. And before you ask, it’s against the rules to take a wildflower out of the park. Also, there’s a fine.”

“Me? Break a rule? It’s like you don’t know me.” I look down at my clothes. Bits of gravel, burnt wood chips, and dirt cling to the front of my clothes.

“Let me help,” Sebas says, brushing the leg of my jeans to get some of the dirt off—which just makes it worse. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, really. Let’s get back to the car before they close the park,” I say.

“We still have a few minutes,” he says, looking uncharacteristically shy. “Will you do something for me?”

“Sure.”

“Will you read me some of your poetry?”

That makes me blush hard, I don’t know why.

“About the fire poppy?”

“About anything. I love making things, but I’m not good at describing things. Like, how would you describe the fire poppy?”

“Uh, so just riffing, like, making it up on the spot?”

“Can you do that?”

“Maybe?” My voice cracks a little, probably because I thought I was going to say no, but I didn’t.

“Could be fun,” Sebas says, showing me his smile, the one that hooks me, reels me in.

“I’ll try.”

I take a deep breath and face the patch of green among the blackened earth. I open my mouth and pour my words out.

Black glass basalt
Shards of earth melted and pressed
Burned away everything but shadow
Until a seedling wakes up to alarm and heat and tragedy
With the message to grow like a weed
An anti-shadow of color against black stains
A firebloom
To show the world that flame can heal
And heat can melt apathy
And danger can . . . can . . .

“Um.” I falter, running out of steam. For a while, the words were just there, like I was reading them, but then I felt like they weren’t right, or they were almost right but not yet, and I started hunting for better words—that’s why I stopped.

Sebas tucks his hair behind his ears with a rueful little laugh.

“I would really, really like to kiss you,” he says. His words echo in my head, and there’s a drowning sound in my ears.

“Do you think that’s a bad idea?” he asks.

His onyx-and-silk hair glows blue against the gold of the sky. How could kissing Sebas not be a good idea?

“We should find out,” I say, and reach through his cool hair, cup my hand against the curve of his neck, and pull him to me.