Beauty from Ashes, 9-10, pp. 8
      A surge of excitement courses through me as I park my Honda Echo in the driveway of my house in Cloverton.  I pull the keys out of the ignition and step out into the windy winter day.  I hoist my backpack on my left shoulder and throw my purse over my right.  I take quick steps up the cobblestone driveway as if to outrun the frigid gusts of wind.  I type in the garage code and watch the garage open its gaping mouth to let me inside.  I walk into the house as warmth envelops me.  
	“Mom I’m home!” I shout through the seemingly vacant house.  I toss my backpack onto the slippery hardwood flooring.  Kicking off my Converse, I scurry to the basement, where my art studio is.  I let out another “Mom!” and still do not hear a response.  I look longingly at my art studio sitting in the far back of the basement.  I’d been looking forward to finishing my painting all day.
	I hurry upstairs yelling for my mom when I see her slowly walking down the stairs from the second floor.  “Mom,” I think that is the only thing I’ve said since I came home.
	“Hey Delaney, you’re home from school early.”  Mom has her blue satin bathrobe over her clothes.  Her makeup is slightly smeared from obviously sleeping on it.  She gives me a lame excuse for a hug and shuffles towards the kitchen, apparently not fully awake and expecting me to follow her.
	“No I’m not, it’s almost four.”  I argue.  I twirl my loose golden-blonde curls as I watch her groggily attempt to start dinner.
	She massages her forehead and just stares at me.  “So whaddya need, Del?  I need to start supper before your dad gets home.”
	I give her my best irritated look.  “Well, I was looking for you to tell you I was home.”
	“Oh, that wasn’t necessary,” She pulls a pan out of the drawer.  “I don’t worry about you, you’re sixteen, a responsible adult.”
	I bite my chapped lip to keep from saying something I’ll seriously regret.  But my teeth slip, and out it comes. “I’m so glad that you care about my safety.”
	“Delaney,” Mom scowls. “It’s not what I mean and you know--”
	I cut her off, ashamed to start an unnecessary fight. “Just forget it. I’ll be in the basement.”  I turn sharply and go down the stairs into my haven.
	I slip an old camp shirt over my tan and gold cropped tee. I examine the canvas that was once white and barren but is now my colorful opus.  It’s a scene I saw on a trip once.  There’s a grayish-blue sea with jade-colored waves ever-so-faintly brushed on the sea.  There’s a green meadow dotted with many flowers and blossoms that the sea overlaps into when a big tide comes in.  There’s a tiny wooden row boat with holes in the shafts, but some of the flowers caught on the protruding mahogany wood.
	I still have to add some detail to the expansive gray sky and I’d also like to add a patch of  deep plum Lacy Phacelia and maybe some asters. I dip my brush in the perfect blend of off white, a touch of bright white, and some bluish gray, letting the invigorating feeling of creating a masterpiece be the only source of energy.
	I stay down in that cold room until I hear Mom shouting at me to get my sorry behind upstairs.  I guess she’d been yelling for quite some time, but it’s like when I’m painting every noise in the world is blocked out.  I throw off my painting shirt and go upstairs where the scent of provolone chicken wafts throughout the first level of the house.
	Dad yanks off his tie and kicks his shoes off.  “Next time Walter Torre decides to tell one of my clients to go with him, I’ll wring his neck!”	
	Whoa. Dad usually is not this mad.  Anyone who knows my dad, knows he is the softest, mellowest guy ever.
	“Darien,” Mom sets the three plates on the table, and then holds up a dishrag as if it was a weapon. “Calm down!”
	Dad plants a kiss on her forehead and sits down at the table. “Sorry, but I think it’s completely ridiculous that he sees one of my clients and woos them over to his office. That’s horrible business.  Of course, I confront him about it and he says it’s great business and that I know nothing about the business world.”
	“Alright, alright, alright.” Mom motions for me to join them at the table. “Hon, it’s never happened before, just relax.”
	After dinner, I finish my painting and then go to my room.  Later, I can hear my parents watching an old movie downstairs.  I do not really mind spending the evening by myself.  I actually get tired of seeing all my friends at school.  I know it seems completely odd for a sixteen-year-old to not want to be around her friends all the time.  
~*~*~*~*~
	After a long day at school, I am relieved when the clock mercifully strikes three.  I say a, “later” to Deidra Holmes, my best friend, get in my car and leave. 
      Once again the winter breeze nips at my face as I track a clump of mud into the garage. I scrape the chunks off my Vera Bradley flats and walk into the house.  My mom stands in the entryway examining the top of the door frame.
      “Something wrong…?” I follow her gaze to the wood paneling. 
      “Dad got his paycheck this morning so we can get some decorations for the house. I’ve really been wanting to put a metal swag above this doorway.” She scribbles something on a yellow notepad. “And downstairs I wanna incorporate the beachy-sea feel in the TV room. Like get some turquoise, mosaic coasters, and maybe a pretty blue saucer chair for you. It’ll complement the brown couch and the deep tan love seat. Don’t you think?”
      I admit, I kinda tuned out most of that, but I offer a smile. “Whatever you want, Mom.”
      “Do you need anything for yourself or your room?” Mom always gets excited when Dad gets his paycheck. They take out the money they need for bills and groceries, and then she usually gets a couple things for the house or us for fun or something.
      “I need one of those mini pencil skirts to go with that blouse thingy I bought a few weeks ago.” I shrug. “And maybe some mascara and some conditioner.”
      Mom nods and taps a fountain pen she got for Christmas. It’s a dark magenta marbled color with a single, real amethyst jewel on it. “Dad gave us a budget this time, so no over-spending.”
      No, he gave you a budget.  I just grin and tell her I’ll be upstairs doing homework.  I sit down at my desk and pull out Geometry homework.  Being the geek that I am, I start that first.	
      I sit at my desk for about an hour when I begin to smell something unusual waft through the air.  I feel pretty settled in my swivel chair with my legs curled up, criss-cross applesauce. I set aside my American Government book and slink down the steps into the entryway. “Mom, you smell anything…like almost smoky?”
      I don’t hear anything. That’s when I start to panic, and once again, I’m shouting her name throughout the house.  The smoke alarms are screaming their shrill warning.  I know I need to get out of here, but I cannot just leave my mom in this house.  I check the garage to make sure no gasoline has spilled and all looks well. That’s when I peek into the kitchen. My eyes widened, horrified as I look as the Tuscan-style kitchen is engulfed in orange flames.  It’s blinding.
      I scream again for my mom. I run to the door and look just in time to see her coming downstairs. “I’m coming!! What’s going on? What?!”
      “The whole kitchen and dining room is on fire!”
      She screams and as if on cue, the embers have made their way towards the living room, grabbing at the furniture and leaving it in a shadowy black ash. “There’s no salvaging this, Delaney. Get out of the house!”
      We run out into the front yard.  I watch as our beautiful home is being swallowed by the claws of fire and Mom is talking to 911 on her phone that she managed to get out of the house.  All of a sudden I can see black spots in front of me, my head is dizzy and heavy, and my knees are weak.  Just as I’m about to warn my mother of these symptoms, I collapse onto the ground; my head slams against the grass, and the only thing I can see is absolute darkness.
      ~*~*~*~*~*
      I feel groggy and out of sorts as I sit up on a very sticky leather sofa. I blink several times until the picture becomes less fuzzy.  I’m in my grandma’s house.  
      “You’re up.”
      I turn around sharply to see my Mom sitting in the rocking chair behind my head. “Mom, was that all real? Please tell me everything that’s happened was just a dream.”
      I never see my mom cry, but I watch as she quickly wipes away a stray tear on her cheek. “I so wish I could.”
      “What’s going on? I’m so confused.” I attempt to sit up, but an unexpected surge of exhaustion overtakes my body, and I lay back down.
      “Currently, it’s about six p.m., Dad is in Grandma’s study room, sorting things out with the insurance company. Our house is a pile of black ashes and Grandma said we can stay with her until it can be rebuilt. Or the insurance company can buy us a house for the same value or less than our old one. Buying one would be faster, though.” Mom cocks her head at me. “You wanna know what happened to you?” I nod at her.  Mom rubs her chin. “You passed out just as I was calling 911.  I was already freaking out, but the police and fire trucks got there extremely fast.  A paramedic was with them and took us into the ambulance to make sure we were burn free, and he woke you up.”
      “I don’t remember being woke up.” I frown trying to collect my distorted cloud of a memory.
      “He said you probably wouldn’t.  He got you up and had you count to ten and say your name and your favorite color to make sure there wasn’t any damage.  He also tested your motor skills and you seemed fine.  Then you went back to sleep and he said you probably wouldn’t have any recognition of what just took place.” Mom heaves a deep breath and releases it. “Any more questions?”
      “Did they salvage anything?” I think of all my beautiful paintings and artwork hanging on the walls of my art studio being turned into another black pile of ashes.
      “No, honey, I’m sorry.” She bites her lip, something she does when she’s stressed and upset. “They don’t quite know what caused the fire. It has to be kitchen-related, but I didn’t have anything on. So it’s remained a mystery, I suppose.”
      I look up to see Dad walking into the room. “Hey.” He mutters, his face seems completely lifeless and bare.  Sort of like my mom’s and also like my heart. I do not feel any surges of happiness at all. It’s all covered by a dark and depressing smoke cloud, and I cannot feel any relieving water spraying on me to rid the fire.
      ~*~*~*~*~*
      It has been exactly a month to the day since the fire on February 20th.  We’ve tried to build back up our lives, but the insurance company isn’t helping much. We get a sum of money to cover everything that we lost inside the house. But honestly, it barely covers the half of it. 
      We don’t want to waist our money on new clothing, so we make it simple and get cheap clothing from Wal-Mart and Goodwill.  Friends and family have been generous with whatever things we need to recuperate.  I suppose, our family has been on the stressed-out side lately.  I’ve been bummed out that I lost my painting and artwork and everything else that meant so much to me in the fire.  I’ve slowly, but surely, been recuperating.
      I groan at the sound of the alarm clock screaming at me just like the smoke detectors did.  Today after school, we are signing off to buy a new house.  The insurance company is paying for the first year of mortgage.  The house is definitely a down-size compared to our old spacious house that’s now just dirt and ashes in a landfill I’m sure.  I slap the alarm clock with my hand and enjoy the silence until it begins screaming again. Breep-a-Breep-a-Breep-Breep-Breep-a.  I sit up, sure that I’ve woken everyone up in my grandma’s house and unplug the defective clock.
      After I’ve showered, dressed, had breakfast, and applied a minimal amount of makeup, I turn to the mirror to put on my strawberry Chapstick when I notice something about myself.  I look completely plain.  My eyes are lifeless, and my forehead has broken out into an ugly array of acne.  Stress.  I glob on some foundation, which only worsens it; making it crusty and cake-like. Never mind.  I sigh and grab my backpack and purse, sick to death of having all this energy and happiness being drained from me.
      At school, Deidra welcomes me in the front lobby.  I’ve always called her my best friend and ever since the fire, she’s been even more of a friend than ever.  “Hey!”
      I heave a big sigh. “Hey Dee. What’s up?”
      “I hate to be critical since I know you’re going through a lot, but do you wanna borrow my acne medicine? I have a huge Proactive tube in my gym locker.” She says warily, knowing that stress is making me snippy and snide.  Although, it’s my choosing to act this way.
      “Great. I’m not the only one who see’s it?” I toss my stuff into my locker, not even caring about what it looks like.
      “It’s even more apparent with that hideous foundation job.” She cringes at her own words, like she thinks they’ll make me angry, but she has to say them anyway.
      “Lead the way.” I try to give a smile, although Deidra knows better than that. I’m still upset and stressed and honestly I don’t know why I am.  My parents have been all upset about this and I guess it’s rubbing off on me.
      Deidra helps me wash off the cruddy makeup job on my forehead and applies a soothing medication to it, telling me it’ll get rid of the acne in a couple days.
      “I’d suggest you get some bangs to cover it up until it goes away.” She frames my hair around my face. “Besides, you’d look hot in bangs.” 
      ~*~*~*~*~*
      We’re all moved and settled into our new home.  It’s small and homey, and I think I’m starting to like it better than all the space we had before. Three weeks into this place, and I’m starting to get used to calling it home. The insurance company is still being a pain in the rear, but my parents are civil people, and I’m not too concerned.  I’ve realized over the expansion of weeks, that I am overreacting.  I really should be grateful for the fact that we are all safe and healthy.  I should be thankful for the fact that we can re-start our lives (well not really…but a new home and less money is definitely an eye opener).  I feel more pleased and happy now.  I can’t explain why, I just have ever since we moved into 245 Cottage Brink Street.
      Today, I’m especially excited.  With the money I had in savings, I still have a great amount in there for college, as well as to buy art supplies.  I hop out of the rental car and up the cracked cement driveway.  We have two rental cars, one for Dad for work and one for my mom and I to share.  I announce my entrance like I always do and turn to my right to see Mom curled up on our faded navy blue couch with her corduroy jacket draped over her like a blanket.
      “I’ll be in the basement.” I say as my Madden Girl high heels go flying across the entry way. Like my old house, this house has the pleasure of having my little dinky art studio in the basement.  This new house we live in is a small, yellow, split level house, with the tiniest basement in the world.  But I’m proud to call the small storage room in the back my new studio.
      I can hear the sounds of the TV blaring an old re-run of “The Bachelor”, slowly fade away as I close the door to my art room.  I pull out a crisp new canvas I picked up on my way home from school and set it on my cheap easel (I can’t afford the $250 one that I used to have).  I mix some acrylics together to form a stormy blue color.  As the tip of my brush touches the textured canvas, the gray blue follows the direction of the brush.  I can feel a smile tugging at my lips.  I may have to start over with my paintings and adjust to some new things, but one thing’s for sure…This is a new beginning.  And I intend to make the best of it.
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