Fire Girl

This is your power, Mother said, cupping my small hand in both of her own. She seemed unafraid of the spark of flickering flames in my palm, like nothing could ever burn her. What do you want to do with it?

I want to burn down the 1-C Math Building, I muttered under my breath, still sullen over my failed geometry test.

The amused crinkle of my mother’s brows showed she perfectly heard me.

Still, she asked, What was that, Sophie?

I want to save people, I said, and meant it.

I was always this way, with hands that sparked and smoked and smelled strongly of ashwood, ever since I was a toddler. The kids in my preschool used to make fun of me for it, pinching their nostrils and sprinting around making fire truck noises whenever I asked one of them to play, but I just ignored them. I had bigger things to do.

I burned myself raw until I was finally able to do it; I could summon flames in my own hand, and I could grow it or shrink it or throw it however I wanted.

Mother was elated. She always had a sneaking suspicion I’d develop these powers. My late father had had them.

How come he died, if he was a superhero? I asked her softly one night.

He died saving a lot of people, she told me. Powers don’t make you immortal, Sophie, but they do make you strong. And the strong’s job is to protect those who don’t have that strength, because no life is worth more than another. No life is determined by strength alone.

I wanted to be just like my father—a hero. A hero who saved others.

Valiantly, I walked into school the next day and left 1-C unscorched.