Five Flame by mariacomet
Notes:
I know a few of you have been wondering where I am cause...Garden of Heroes. Well, I have been working on and finishing this story for something called SQSupernova. My plan is to post a chapter of this story every other day and somewhere near the end of this story, a new part of GoH will also go up.
This flight to Swanqueenland will include the usual turbulence, though it starts a little bit earlier than usual. Also banter, always banter. My promise as your captain on this plane remains to get you safely home. There's a bin of plush toys for snuggling available under your seat.
Most writing is deeply personal to the author in some way. This story, however, dips into some of my own pain and hope. I discovered things while writing this. Good things. It is my fondest desire that you do too. There's lots of romance, of course, and there's characters confronting their flaws and challenging one another.
Also, did I mention the banter?
Important Notes:
David Nolan is deceased in this world and there's one more major character death, however, it is not anyone in the Five Flames. Who are the Five Flames? Well, they could be a rabid team of LGBTQ+ tv/movie reviewers. They totally aren't, but they could be. If I told you, what fun would that be? I can say that, though, Emma and Regina are in the Five Flames.
Kudos and comments are more encouraging than you realize. I think it was Jane Austen that said, "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single writer, in possession of a good muse, must be in want of kudos." Lastly, my plug for you all to come visit me on the "the twitter". I'm Mariacomet there too. Come say hi.
GIANT "Thank Yous" to:
Hope - the best cheerleader in the whole world who listened to my mini-freakouts on this story with patience and encouragement.
Wifey - For everything. All the discussions, hugs, moments when you showed me the grace usually exhibited only by those who have a halo and more. I love you. Every day.
Sheona - Who had a ton of stuff happen all at once in real life and checked in with, offering her betaing and perspective and overall sanity checks.
AnotherShipper - Whose amazing art captured the heart of this story perfectly (take a look on AO3 if you have a second).
Chapter 1: Wrestling and Refusals
Apple Valley, Ma
The Past
October 2007
"Coach Michaels pulled me aside at school today," her mother said, basting raw chicken in brisk, agitated movements. Her mom, Mary Margaret Nolan, taught history at Abigail Adams High School. "He told me you keep showing up to wrestling practice demanding a try-out."
"I didn't demand."
Emma Nolan spent the entire summer before her sophomore year of high school deciding if she should join the boy's wrestling team or the boy's football team. She decided on wrestling, though she didn't think about it again until early October, two weeks before tryouts for the team.
No matter how she looked at it, her reasons for wanting to join remained the same. So far, this year at Abigail Adams was nearly identical to her freshman year: it faded, unmarked by anything significant. She drifted through the drove of students, headphones on and music blaring, except during class. She ate lunch a few chairs away from everyone else in the cafeteria or in the back stairwell of the library, reading whatever struck her fancy. She took taekwondo after school on Mondays and Wednesdays. She jogged a couple of miles every morning. Despite enjoying the predictability, she found herself growing restless.
So, in mid-October, a couple of weeks before Homecoming, Emma Nolan attempted to try out for the boy's wrestling team. The coach laughed it off and refused to let her. Emma showed up the next day too. He told her "no" again. It only increased her stubbornness.
"I thought we talked about sports," Mary Margaret said.
Like most teenagers Emma adhered to the letter of the law and not the heart of it. "You didn't tell me I couldn't try out."
She turned to her daughter in exasperation. "I said that I wanted better for you than to be a mindless jock. Sports take a tremendous amount of time and energy. Not to mention that these high school coaches don't care about anything but winning. Kids get hurt all the —"
"Mom, do you need help with dinner?" Emma said it lightly so as not to truly interrupt. She was used to them relying on one another to keep the house in order. Emma's father had been killed in action in Iraq three years ago, so it was just the two of them.
"It's fine." Mary Margaret dipped her brush in barbeque sauce, wiping the excess carefully on the side of the glass bowl. "I know you need a positive outlet for your energy, that's why I pay for taekwondo. They have competitions, isn't that enough?"
Emma held herself still and stiff. Her mother didn't get her. It was useless to fight about it. Mary Margaret believed in mental acumen and the power of being well-spoken. Emma wanted to move. Not talk. Not change the world.
"You're smart," her mother said. "I asked the coach how many hours a week you'd need to invest. Practices alone are two hours each day, six days a week. Aren't there other things you could do, more worthwhile things, with that time and energy?"
"It is worthwhile, and not all jocks are brain dead, Mom."
She set the brush to one side. "Okay, so make a case. Help me understand what this means to you."
Emma shrugged, a rebellion. Her mother loathed silence. She had been a history teacher at seven or eight schools throughout Emma's life. Her friendliness and ability to communicate always won her the adoration of peers and pupils. Emma didn't have the same talent for talking that her mom did. She was more like her father: quiet and good natured instead of fiery.
Mary Margaret's lips pressed in a weary line as the quiet stretched on. "Well, I told the Coach that there's a world of difference between you not being good enough and not letting you try. And that I am fairly sure that we could find a lawyer to press that point if needed."
Emma's body relaxed. It wasn't surprising that her mom, despite disapproving, stood up for her. Her mother's sense of right and wrong never faltered and fairness was a hot button with her.
"Thanks, Mom," she said quietly.
"One of the local theatres is doing a production of Twelfth Night. We could go."
"It's not my thing."
It used to be, they both knew it. The summer before her freshman year, Emma began to refuse these kind of invitations from her mother. Going to art galleries, poetry readings and plays felt loaded now, part of a pressure Emma felt to be someone else, someone her mother would like and approve of.
Mary Margaret's hopeful gaze dimmed, but she recovered and started on dinner again. "Dinner will be ready in forty minutes or so."
Emma trudged upstairs to her room, guilt clutching at her insides. She wanted to slam the door behind her so hard it shook every inch of their small two-bedroom house. She didn't, closing it with little more than a click. Other kids didn't have to battle like this to play sports. She didn't think she should have to explain. It should be enough that Emma wanted to, shouldn't it?
If she joined the wrestling team, if she could somehow get a fair chance at it, her mother would subject her to a lecture every few weeks. If she was injured, as she had been in martial arts once, it would mean a fight for Emma to keep going.
But when Emma pushed her body to perform, the world made sense. The more physical the activity, the better. She didn't have a better explanation and she doubted that one would satisfy her mom.
There were other questions her mother asked that she had no answers for: why Emma didn't care about the news and what was going on in the world; why her grades were barely Cs, and why she didn't make more of an effort to be social and make friends.
She liked to keep her world simple. Trying to get on the wrestling team would make waves in her tranquil life, but she believed it would settle into her routine in time. Taekwondo had.
The next day, the coach waited till the end of practice then, with a mocking smile, invited her to wrestle the smallest guy on the team.
When she pinned him, the match should have ended, instead the coach let it go on for a few more seconds. The boy kept fighting, panting. Emma strained, muscles burning to keep him there, to make sure there was no doubt about her win.
"Okay, enough."
Her opponent froze, waiting for the coach to say more.
She jerked away from him and got to her feet. The entire team and the coach stared at her with a mix of surprise and anger. The coach paced back and forth, steaming, hands on his hips.
Her triumph soured the longer she stood there in the silence, their hatred pushing at her.
It didn't feel like she'd won.
Instead, it reminded her of the awkward interruption that happened when someone opened the door to the wrong room. The people inside, who belonged, staring, waiting for them to leave.
She decided not to belabor the moment. "See you tomorrow, coach," she called, and walked toward the girl's locker room, shoulders back and chin up.
By the next day, the story of Emma trying to join the wrestling team got around school. She tried her best to ignore the eyes on her and the jeers of guys wearing letterman jackets in the hall. Her iPod and headphones dutifully let her escape most of it.
She began to suspect that she'd greatly and naively underestimated how much of a challenge she was taking on.
The day after, as she neared the cafeteria, a hard shove between her shoulders made her scramble to keep her balance. Members of the wrestling team and the football team crowded around her. Surprise beaned her like an errantly-thrown baseball.
One of them flicked her headphones off her head, and they clattered to the ground, the wire still attached to the iPod at her hip. She bent to pick them up, but the circle of jocks closed in, stopping her.
"You don't belong on any of our teams. We don't want you there." A tall guy with hair so short it could barely be called hair poked her with two fingers.
She checked the hall for adults...none. Her pulse pounded behind her ears. Danger, her body screamed at her. They didn't know, couldn't know about her background in taekwondo. She could use it to surprise them and get away.
She just needed to stay as calm as she could. She willed her muscles to loosen.
"What do you think is going to happen? You think someone's going to let you wrestle in a match? You think we're going to let some girl make us lose just so she can claim equal rights bullshit?" His fingers closed around her arm, yanking her closer. "You need to quit. Today. Understand?"
She saw the move in her head — step to the side to gain some ground, pivot her hip, then bury her heel in his solar plexus. She knew there were better techniques she'd learned over three years of study, but she couldn't think of any of them. Kick, then run and hope they couldn't catch her. The administrative offices were at the end of the long, dingy hallway she stood in. She might be able to make it.
She started with her feet together, moved one, stepped together again, started to raise her leg...
Fuck, this wasn't going to work, they were going to catch her within a few steps.
"Excuse me," called a cool voice. A brunette, dwarfed by the jocks, snapped her fingers at the largest one, eyes brimming with disdain.
With about fifteen hundred students, the school was big enough that plenty of kids were lost in the crowd, except within their own cliques. But everyone knew Regina Mills. Her friends were the popular kids, and within them she occupied the upper echelon: a junior, editor of the school newspaper, president of the student council and the debate club and member of the National Honor Society. She came from a well-to-do family, polished in what she wore and regal in how she carried herself.
Regina's air of superiority trapped No Hair in place. "Is there some reason you are stopping me from getting lunch?"
Despite towering above Regina, he shrank back. "We were just trying show this —"
She talked over him. "It was hypothetical, Charles. You're in the way. Move." She turned her eyes to Emma. "You're Emma Nolan, correct? Mrs. Nolan's daughter?"
"Right."
Since Regina was a junior and Emma a sophomore, they didn't share any classes and never would. Emma had seen her around, but had never given her a second thought. Until now. Their eyes met and it slammed into her gut like a punch.
Self-preservation pushed her past it. She didn't know yet if Regina's presence would make things worse or better.
Regina flicked her eyes back to No Hair. "You do know she is a teacher's kid? Harassing her is an impressively fast way to get yourself either suspended or kicked off the football team. You don't mess with the staff's kids." She bent, picking up Emma's headphones and giving them to her, then she laid a light, stroking hand on No Hair's chest. "Why don't you escort me to lunch?"
He grinned down, drunk on her attention, and opened the door for her with a flourish.
"See you around, Nolan," Regina said to Emma. Her brow flicked upward, stressing that she'd just done Emma a favor and she might ask to be repaid at some point.
As the jocks dispersed and followed No Hair and Regina, one of them shoulder-checked her.
She didn't care. Relief warmed her and she freed a long breath. She shook off the encounter as best she could. She kept her headphones on, but with the music very low, for the rest of the day, just to make sure the danger had really passed. No one did more than glare at her.
She asked herself how much she liked wrestling - enough to outweigh the resentment she had to deal with? She tried to figure out when the scales would tip, when the abuse would be so heavy she could feel justified in giving up. As usual, the process of making a decision about something serious plodded along in her head.
The rest of the week passed without incident.
On that Friday, her mother, who always ascended to become the most popular teacher in any school she taught at, started a club called "Arts into Action." Emma didn't intend to join; she'd never become a member of one of her mother's clubs before.
However, Emma sort of checked on the sign-in sheet, just to see if people were going to come and how many. There were a couple of names and they seemed like real ones. It satisfied her need to look out for her mom. She started toward her next class.
She spotted Regina, a large neathandral jock at her side, sauntering her way.
It wasn't that they parted like the red sea when Regina moved through the halls, it was more that they clamored for her attention; ten people or so specifically waiting for her blessing. She smiled (it didn't diminish the cold in her eyes) and granted each of them a few moments.
Emma heard some of the questions they asked her: Was she coming to X party or Z get together, what about practicing for the next debate, or going to the mall or whatever. Almost everyone either greeted her with fawning adoration, even if jealousy hid behind it, or avoided looking directly at her.
Emma, bemused, did neither of those things and therefore, gained the attention of the queen herself. For just a beat of time, Regina's eyes pressed against her own. Zelena, Regina's sister, trailed behind her and Regina glanced over her shoulder once to check her progress.
"Hey Regina, the principal still owes us an interview for the paper," an underclassman called as she passed.
"I'll take to him later," Regina said, not stopping.
At Regina's side, a cheerleader reclaimed her attention. "The vote is tomorrow. People could still write you in as Homecoming Queen."
"This is the second time you've pointed that out." Regina gave a long-suffering sigh as if she were asked this kind of question all the time and tired of repeating herself. "If I wished to, I could have run. However, I have no desire to spend my time campaigning for what are, at best, temporary accolades." She shrugged. "I'll mention to Cindy that I am voting for you. It should travel through the grapevine by the end of the day. Is that acceptable?"
Emma couldn't remember ever hearing someone talk that way before, not someone their age, anyway. She sounded not only like an adult, but like the boss of some huge company.
Regina glanced at the bulletin board, then paused before wandering closer to it. "I'll see you in the class," she told the lug with her who kissed her cheek. Regina's forced smile dropped into oblivion the moment he moved away.
Emma tracked what had caught her attention.
Her mother's signup sheet announced the name of the club, "Arts into Action," then under it "Defy Limitations". After a moment of thought, Regina signed with a flourish and released the pen held to the bulletin board by a pin and a string.
"Are you going to sign up or are you staring for a reason?" Regina said, twisting around to face Emma.
Emma still kept her music low these days but she didn't want to appear rude so she slid her headphones to her neck."That's my mom's club. I was just checking on things."
Regina scrutinized the board. "I don't see your name on the sheet."
"Right."
"You're not going to support your mother's group?"
When put that way, guilt hammered a nail into Emma's gut. "It's not my thing."
"But joining the boy's wrestling team is?" Regina asked, her expression cool. They stood there, regarding each other. "What exactly are you trying to accomplish?" She eyed Emma with distaste. "Are you some kind of crusader or...?"
"I just like wrestling."
Regina's eyes narrowed, her neutral expression remaining as she inspected Emma more closely. "And you haven't considered that your liking it and wanting to be on the boy's team is odd?"
Emma ducked her head and glanced at the nearby orange lockers. "Okay, well...so?"
Regina took another step towards her, like she wanted to force her to back up. That move, bringing their conversation into a more physical realm made Emma square her shoulders. It invigorated her, instinctively making her want to engage and to counter.
"What do you mean 'so'?"
"If I want to do it then I should, right? I mean aren't you joining Arts into Action 'cause you like art?"
The shield of iron in front of Regina never seemed to let up. "I have decided to evaluate the club because it might help me achieve my goals."
"Besides just being in a club?"
"Some of us aspire to greater things. Diverse activities look good on a college application, and I intend to apply to some of the best in the world." She explained it to her as if speaking to a young child.
It again sounded so businesslike and grownup that Emma couldn't help but chuckle. "Okay."
Regina's eyes flashed with anger. "If you wish to make a spectacle of yourself at this school, that's your business. Likewise, you may be content going to whatever decrepit community college or trade school will take you, but I intend to have a vast array of choices."
"Right now, I just want to finish high school. Just take things a day at a time. Besides, I'm only a sophomore. I don't think I need an array yet."
Regina's jaw tightened. "Do enjoy your mediocrity." She turned on her heel to go — she literally wore one-inch designer high heels.
"Hey," Emma called, voice gentle. "I wasn't laughing at you. Having all that shit together is kinda amazing. I admire it, even if I don't entirely get it. For the record."
Surprise flooded Regina's features at the soft words, and the intensity in her eyes loosened.
A hint of smile lifted one corner of her mouth. "I am well aware of my strengths, including having 'my shit together'. And despite thinking your pursuit of wrestling is strange, foolhardy and doomed to failure, I — I think it would be interesting to see you succeed. For the record." She pointed to Emma's neck. "What are you always listening to on those things?"
"A little of everything. Today it's Otis Redding."
"I have no idea who that is."
"He's an older artist from the 60's. He sang raw, powerful R&B ballads. People called him the King of Soul. He did the song, "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay."
"You sound like an encyclopedia entry."
"That was from an oldies music message board, actually."
"I continue to find your interests odd."
"But not boring."
Regina conceded the point, curiosity and interest simmering on her face. "I suppose not."
"So what type of music do you listen to?"
"Classical and popular music. I enjoy excellence and prefer to be aware of current trends."
"Part of your plan to conquer high school?"
"Are you asking if I am purposefully honing my interests to support my desire for success? "
They spoke in a rapid back and forth rhythm; an impromptu two-person jam session. They traded the lead back and forth, dueling for the enjoyment of it, with nothing really at stake.
The conversation ended as someone called Regina's name. She put her liveliness into a case, clicked it shut and replaced it with haughtiness. Regina didn't bother to further comment or say goodbye, she just crisply marched past Emma when she chose to.
The small, secretive amusement in Regina's gaze and the tempo of their banter sauntered into Emma's thoughts the rest of the day. Her concentration suffered in multiple classes.
Emma couldn't help herself. She didn't do the usual hours of processing before taking on even a semi-commitment. Instead, on the appropriate day, right after school, she showed up in her mother's classroom. She settled into a desk at the very back of the room and ignored the curiosity flooding her mother's expression. Emma rested her head in her hand, trying to appear as bored as possible. No need to seem too interested in anything or anyone in particular.
Archie Hopper came in, smoothing down his curly red hair. His trousers were so long he kept stepping on the cuffs with his well-worn brown loafers. Emma knew him, much as she knew Regina, by reputation. The popular kids used him to work out their aggressions and cruelty. He sat on the lowest rung in the high school clique system, targeted by everyone, claimed by no one.
Regina and her sister Zelena filed in, Regina pausing by the front of the room. Upon seeing Emma, she regarded her inquisitively before turning her attention back to Mrs. Nolan. "Will we be doing community service in this group, Mrs. Nolan?" Her voice was smooth and respectful.
"Well, we'll talk about that."
Regina's brow creased at the enigmatic answer. "Isn't that a yes or no question?"
Emma's mother eyed her. "I get the feeling you're going to be a great addition to this club," she said, but her voice ordered Regina to sit down and be patient. "I promise you'll get your answer. I just prefer to make my 'this is what this club is about' speech once."
Regina's mouth twisted, agitated, but she didn't ask anything else, taking a seat instead. She linked her fingers before her, back ramrod straight. Today she wore a blue blazer over a floral print blue and white tank-top. From her ears dangled long earrings that matched. On her lapel, a gold crown pin with a single topaz gem at its base.
Emma considered her own red henley and hoodie. She and Regina were on different planets.
Eventually, one more person, who Emma had seen around but didn't know, joined them.
Her mother sat at the edge of her desk. "The idea of sanctuary was first conceived by the Greeks. They believed that people needed somewhere they could communicate with the gods, a place between earth and the divine." She motioned to the door. "Out there, all of you are assailed by pressure to fit in, to live up to your parents' expectations, to figure out who you are. In this club, there are only three rules" — she counted them off, raising a finger after each — "Honesty. Respect. Confidentiality." She slid the signup sheet on her desk closer to her and looked down at it. "We seem to all be here. Let's break the ice with a question, and you all can introduce yourselves as you answer."
She paused and met the eyes of each student. "Does true love exist?"
Regina, programmed to raise her hand, did so. "Regina Mills." She said it as if it were a title. "The term 'true love' is only used in fairy tales, television and movies. Regular people don't use it." She lifted her hand again. "When will we be going over what kind of activities we will be doing? I'm not seeing the relevance of your question."
"Must you try and control everything?" Zelena grumbled under her breath.
"Give me another few minutes, Regina." Mary Margaret said. "So it's simply not a reality? It's something people made up?"
"Jefferson Hatter. It's like dinosaurs. Existed once but extinct now."
He flicked his bowler higher on his head. It covered the top of his spiky black hair but not the back. He wore a black t-shirt and leather jacket, two belts and tartan patterned pants. He carried a sketchbook but nothing else.
"People are greedy and kind of suck. I think Aristotle said that." He stretched his legs out onto a second desk. Mary Margaret gave him a death stare and he straightened. "Fifty percent divorce rate. That's real. And I'm pretty sure cheating is the number one reason."
Archie raised his hand, too. "I'm Archie Hopper. Should I take notes or...?"
"That won't be needed," Mary Margaret said.
Zelena Mills slapped her hands on her desk. "The problem is that men are ass — sorry, a-holes."
"Cussing in this environment is allowed," Mary Margaret said.
"Assholes then," Zelena said cheerfully, relishing the word, "who don't care about true love half as much as they care about how they can get girls to spread their legs."
All of their eyes snapped to Mary Margaret expecting a correction or a reprimand. None came.
"But that's not all men. I don't think all of us are a-holes." Archie said, a nervous smile playing against his mouth, inviting a conversation or even a connection.
"And I don't care what you think," Zelena said. Like Regina, she ran with the popular kids, but not on the highest levels, just the fringes. There were lots of rumours about her drunken behavior at parties. After every large gathering came a new tale of Zelena destroying something, sleeping with someone, or getting in some kind of altercation.
Mary Margaret advanced till she stood directly in front of Zelena's desk. "Apologize."
Zelena balked. "To him?"
"Three rules. Honesty. Respect. Confidentiality," she reminded them. "Now, please apologize." Their gazes clashed in a brief battle of wills before Zelena sighed.
"Fine." She gave the barest of glances in Archie's direction. "Sorry."
Mary Margaret's features relaxed again. She returned to her leaning position. "Now that that's behind us, you were making an interesting point about gender. Please, continue."
Zelena faltered, as if the last few minutes and the aftermath were a math problem she didn't have the answer to. "The idea of 'waiting for love' places plenty of expectations on women, but very few on men. Besides, true love is tied to ideas of princes rescuing maidens, which is a victim role. Some of us don't need rescuing."
The corners of Regina's mouth tightened, but she didn't face her sister. "And some of us need constant rescuing. You didn't introduce yourself, Zelena."
"Please, they already know who I am. If I can finish my point? I know two types of girls. The ones who are too smart to keep turning to old, weak ideas. And the ones who chase after them and wind up barefoot and pregnant, sometimes right after high school or college, without bothering to explore anything else in life."
Archie half-raised his hand then, as if debating the right thing to do, let it drop awkwardly. "My parents seem to be happy, and they get along. I don't think it's a magical force and I don't think I'd call it true love." His volume jerked up and down, into a mumble then out. "I mean, they work hard at communicating. They were married when they were a little older so maybe they understood what was involved in a relationship. Maybe love doesn't have to be this large, amazing thing. Maybe it can be kind of quiet. I'm not sure they need one another, but they like each other."
Mary Margaret nodded at him, then pushed off her desk. "So, in all cases, you're following the pack. Society has defined your views on love. Either because of what you have seen directly or what you have been told."
It got their attention. No self-respecting high schooler liked to think of themselves as sheep, whether it was true or not.
Emma watched her, heartwarming. This was the teacher everyone eventually grew to love, burning with her desire to reveal new thoughts and unchain everyone around her from mediocrity. Her mom. Emma sometimes wondered, since she shared her mom with everyone, if jealousy bulked up the muscles and mass of the strife between them.
"We let the majority define almost every aspect of our lives. From letting others decide what is safe, normal or logical to believing that if it's true for most people, it is true for everyone. E.E. Cummings thought about love this way; 'yours is the light by which my spirit's born: /yours is the darkness of my soul's return / -you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.' "
Mary Margaret's face glowed; the pleasure of rediscovering and sharing a poem she loved. "He argues that for him, love is all-encompassing and infinite and it touches every part of him.
"Art — paintings, music, poetry, books, movies — challenges psychological and emotional boundaries. If you let it, it will expand the universe and all its possibilities. It will dare you. That's what this club, 'Arts into Action,' is about."
Mary Margaret walked down the aisle, making sure to meet the eyes of each of them, even her daughter. "When someone, even you, tries to say what can't be done because the majority doesn't think that way or hasn't done it, you need tools to find your truth. What you believe. You have to be comfortable challenging conventional thought and yourselves. You need to be willing to defy limitations."
"Does true love exist?" Mary Margaret asked. "That's up to you." She smiled at them, warm and generous. "Amen and Hallelujah."
Emma expected Regina to march out, declaring the club unworthy of her time, but she seemed transfixed, like the rest of them.
Mary Margaret explained the kinds of art that would be permissible — any kind, really — then asked the students how they wanted to proceed.
"Maybe we could all bring something in next time," Archie said, voice barely audible.
"Does anyone disagree?" Mary Margaret asked.
No one said a word, though a few looks were exchanged. High school herded everyone everywhere using a bell and hall monitors. In some of her classes, Emma even had assigned seats. Total structure overload, most of the time. Emma figured that none of them could sort out the rules in this loosely organized environment.
Mary Margaret closed the meeting by saying, "I shared my vision with you. But part of my vision is that this group will be yours. I will guide and coach you, but you own what this becomes. This is your space and time; it will be shaped by each and every one of you. Use that power wisely."
Afterwards, just out in the hall, Emma heard Zelena ask her sister, "Are we actually going back to that club?"
"It's different," Regina said slowly. "Worth another meeting. Besides, Mother and I agreed that more diversity was important for my college aspirations. You don't have to come with me."
"Oh but Mother likes us to be in the same clubs whenever possible, doesn't she?"
Regina ignored her sister and glanced over her shoulder at Emma. "You. Are you always so quiet?"
Emma, startled, paused her iPod and jerked her head up. In her entire life no one had ever called her out on her lack of participation. "I didn't have much to add."
"Well, not all of our minds operate at the same capacity, I suppose."
The barb should have pissed her off, but instead a bubble of amusement grew inside Emma. "I learn a lot by listening. Also, it takes less energy."
"I thought art wasn't your thing."
Emma placed her headphones over her ears and grinned. "I hear diverse activities look good on high school transcripts. You listen to any Soul yet?"
"I didn't actually agree that I would. Besides, I've been far too busy."
"Right. I still think you're missing out."
Regina smirked before continuing down the hall.
"Who's that?" Emma heard Zelena ask. Instinctively, she listened close.
After a long pause, Regina said, "No one."
###################################
Apple Valley, Ma
The Present
During the deepest part of her dreams she saw a circular, brightly lit ring. Around it, in the darkness, stood a crowd. Small groups of them chanted her name, but the bulk of them screamed for her opponent. Some shook signs: "Brains vs. Brawn."
The advertising had done its job; people were interested in this fight. They'd hyped it for months. A lot of people were here; even more paid to see the match on pay-per-view.
Emma, her manager, and her crew lined up at the back, waiting for her music and a spotlight to hit her. When it did, she strode in short, easy steps, eyes on the ring without deviation. Right before she entered the cage, she spread out her arms like wings, silently declaring "here I am."
Fuck the crowd and them cheering so loudly for her to lose. Tonight she'd make it all come together. All the hard work. All the pain that boiled inside her that she needed to exorcise once and for all.
Tonight.
Her opponent's music sounded. Dakota "Disaster" Domingo, "the Brawn" in this equation of muscles and will played out before a mob.
Time sped up and the referee gave them the go-ahead to fight. Emma struck first, a jab to the chin. Her opponent's head jerked back with the impact, surprised. Emma closed in for another attack, knuckles knocking against Dakota's cheek, as she set up a combination.
Her night.
After this, she'd have a title, be the Flyweight division champ.
She glanced at the crowd to see her friends. She couldn't find them. Regina wouldn't be there and her parents were both gone, had died years ago. In the silo'd murky world of sleep, she expected them anyway. Especially her mother who would have hated this.
She could apologize to her tonight. Finally.
White light bloomed behind her eyes as a fist bashed into the side of her head. It tingled and floated afterward, no longer feeling attached. Another hit slammed against her ribs, and she sucked in a painful breath and gasped for air. She staggered then fell, bright lights overhead shining down as her opponent pounced on her. Fists crashed into her face over and over. Emma tried to defend herself, but it all happened so quickly. Grumpy, her trainer, screamed, but she couldn't hear him over the sudden exaltation of the roaring crowd who sensed an ending, one they wanted.
There must've been the usual count-out, but the stupor from the repeated blows drowned everything else out. Her opponent pulled away, and Emma could move again, a little. She struggled to one knee.
The referee blocked her in.
"It's over," he said, making sure he had eye contact before backing away.
She never lost consciousness, not really, not that it mattered. Her trainer helped her to her still-wobbly legs and walked her to her corner.
Dakota was already celebrating, grinning, hand raised in the air.
Shame, a ball of fire, ate away at her gut. Emma covered her eyes with her hand, trying to hide the tears, swallowing back a lump of disgust at herself.
Her heart cried an apology, I'm sorry, Mom. Sorry Mom. Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry Mom.
The fight had lasted one minutes and forty-seven seconds. Overnight, Emma's career had gone from promising to laughingstock.
Sometimes in her sleep, she saw the fist coming towards her face and couldn't stop it from hitting her.
She woke, head ringing from a blow that had only been in her imagination.
She glanced at her phone and saw she'd missed a few calls. She usually kept the thing on vibrate, and ignored it at will. There were people who, a year and a half ago, she'd talked to daily but now she only wanted to avoid.
Like Grumpy, who left a message saying, "Emma, I know you're still 'training' or whatever the hell it is, but we need to set something up and quit dicking around. It's been eighteen months, kid. Look, I got a call today and I think you should…" She skipped the rest.
The next message was from the instructor at her dojo. "Emma, this is Master K," came the heavy Brooklyn-accented voice. "We haven't seen you for a bit. I know we'd talked about you entering our coaching and leadership..."
Skip.
"Emma, it's Archie. We discussed you coming to the reunion tomorrow for your mom's birthday? Well, we mostly did before you asked if Regina was going to be there." Emma almost fast forwarded but her foster brother tugged harder on her heartstrings than most people did. She let it play. "Can we please talk about it a little more? Call me when you get a chance."
She wandered barefoot toward her barbells and half-heartedly lifted weights with one arm then the other for ten minutes. She fixed her eyes on the guitar across the room as she worked out. After the fight, she'd tried a series of hobbies, including taking music lessons. She'd quit after only a few weeks. Next, she bought a model airplane. It remained in bits and pieces on her small, round dining table. She turned her head only to find a stack of three books on her nightstand, checked out of the library about seven months ago and gathering dust.
Her entire apartment was littered with her lack of follow through.
Her feet were padding on pavement a half hour later, earbuds in her ears as she jogged. Her daily ritual of jogging five miles was the only part of her workout ritual she'd preserved.
After she showered, she put her hair up in a messy bun. She passed by the framed black and white photo in her bedroom that showed her throwing a punch in her MMA gloves, which covered her hands to her knuckles. In the picture, her muscles were toned, sculpted through hard work. She projected self-assurance. She completely believed she could win.
She grabbed a pair of jeans laying over a chair and pulled on a button-up shirt from her closet. She headed to the station, dressed, checked her gear, and attended the daily briefing.
The air conditioning in the conference room didn't work very well, barely circulating. Other officers shifted endlessly in their hard plastic chairs as they tried to listen despite the heat. She looked forward to retreating to the peace and A/C of her squad car. The first time she'd been a cop, before going pro in the MMA circuit, she'd had a partner on patrol. They didn't have the manpower for that now. Something to be grateful for.
Up at the front, the lieutenant presented tips and news they needed to be aware of. There was a lot of the usual stuff — a rash of car- and home-burglaries now that it was summer and kids were out of school. A streaker who kept running through local malls broke up some of the tedium. Apple Valley, Massachusetts had about a hundred thousand people in it. The police department had four districts and each had about sixty patrol officers. Not too big or too small, in Emma's view.
"Nolan, someone for you up front," the desk sergeant said, stopping her at the end of the meeting.
She went towards the main heavy doors, which made a quiet buzzing noise as she passed through them. In the lobby, decorated with gray and white tiles of carpet and an oddly large amount of ferns, sat her foster brother. He smiled as he saw her and gave her a traditional hug greeting.
"I was in the neighborhood."
She didn't entirely believe him. He could be like a dog with a bone when he wanted something. "You don't have a client?"
Dr. Archie Hopper had two degrees, one in psychology and one in social work. His private practice did pretty well which didn't surprise her. Archie had always been a great listener and he was one of the most patient and genuinely kind people she had ever known. Which made it all the harder to say no to him about anything, and she suspected he knew it.
"Last minute cancellation." He smiled brightly, ignoring her doubting expression, and held up a paper bag. "I brought you a bagel."
She didn't take it — yet. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I need to go in about ten, okay? This is about the reunion, right?"
"Well, I did think I would mention it."
She shook her head, a small, fond grin breaking over her mouth. "I knew it." She snatched his offering from him. "You are the most unsubtle person in the history of the world."
"I accept that." His eyes twinkled, as he adjusted his glasses. "So, the reunion."
"Archie, I already asked you if Regina was going to be there and you said yes. That ends the conversation."
He sat down on a metal bench and patted the spot beside him. "Does it though? She used to be your best friend. You two can't get along for a few hours?"
She'd never told him or any of the others details about the rift. "I don't think it's a good idea for us to be around each other, okay?"
"Tomorrow is two days until your mom's birthday. I want to make it special. Really honor her."
Emma's teeth clenched together. A stabbing pain pushed deep into her chest. She swore he was trying to up the ante on her. As a fighter, one of the first things she'd learned was to use imagery to keep calm and level-headed. She used flashes of still lakes in her head automatically now — — mirror-like, not a ripple anywhere.
"I even have an idea," he said, excited and determined.
"What's your idea?"
"I'll tell you if you come."
"Archie," she said on the back of a sigh.
"Emma, please? How often do I ask you for things? Really ask you?"
The old gang got together every six months. The last four times, Emma had made up reasons not to go. Work or training, her entire basket of excuses was comprised of those two things. It was like there had been a divorce, and Regina got custody of the friends.
He'd never been this persistent.
"I talked to Regina," Archie said. "For what it's worth? She misses you."
Emma didn't let herself relive the thousand memories caged, wrapped in chains and padlocked in her heart.
He tried again. "Just stay for a couple of drinks."
She owed him. She always would. Shit.
"This is such a bad idea."
"Two drinks," he insisted, reading her weakening position, as skilled as any opponent she'd ever met in the ring. Always well-intentioned though, the jerk. "Come and hear my idea, then we'll toast to your mom."
She couldn't figure out a way to dodge either of his blows. Shit. "Fine. Okay."
"Really?"
"A couple drinks," she said firmly.
"I was thinking about visiting your mom's grave. If you want to go with me, I can —"
"No, thanks." She didn't visit her mother's grave. Not ever. "I'm sorry, I really need to go."
He opened his arms and embraced her. He always did. Despite him being a con artist with a heart of gold when it came to her well-being, or maybe because of it, she loved him.
She ruffled his hair in farewell.
Later that night, after her shift and when the paperwork was done, she headed home.
She pulled up Youtube on her laptop and searched for clips of Regina's television show, "Regal Desserts with Regina Mills."
"Healthy cookies, an oxymoron or a needed reality?" Regina looked directly in the camera; her kitchen was a little dark, with very little natural light. Maybe because it was just a local show and the budget was lacking. Emma watched every episode and she liked that it, at least in her mind, created a certain intimacy.
Regina talked to the camera like it was an old friend. "Everyone who has ever baked cookies, and yes, even those of you who stick to buying Pillsbury cookie dough, know that there are very few things that smell as heavenly as freshly-baked cookies. It excites all of our senses even before we bite into one. Mostly that's due to four ingredients." The camera focused in on each as she named them. "Sugar, butter, flour and…" She winked at her audience.
Something so small shouldn't sting Emma's heart, but it did.
"The extra something: chocolate, oatmeal, nuts and so on," The Regina on the screen went on, oblivious to the reaction of her audience of one. "Those ingredients we add to make the cookies ours and our families. But we also need to take care of our families. We need to help them develop healthy habits and learn that moderation can be a good thing. So today on Regal Desserts, two types of cookies that defy convention but are still heavenly." She said the last line playfully.
"Now, I can't play it for you because," she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, telling her audience a secret, "of licensing and cost, but I highly recommend listening to oldies while you bake. Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Etta James, Aretha…."
Emma wondered why she did this to herself.