The word flammable had sparked something in Pyro's mind. A little flame, soon eating away the wall of her infantile self-control, became a raging monster. The five-year-old trundled to the bathroom, an enlightened look on her face. Rummaging through a medicine cabinet full of pills that shouldn't have been in her reach, she withdrew a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and nail polish remover.
The renovators said that bathroom repairs would take two weeks.
To Pyro, it couldn't have mattered less. It was only a mild inconvenience for her to have to walk up the stairs to use Mrs. Ryien's private bathroom. Even if everything from the curtains to the toilet seat was fluffy and pink, stinking of some artificial perfume. For Mr. Ryien, however, it seemed to be a major problem. His wife absolutely refused to let him use her bathroom, lest "Daddy miss the potty and pee on something."
This lead to an argument as the whereabouts of Mr. Ryien at certain hours, the amount of alcohol consumed by Mrs. Ryien, and the proper position of the toilet seat. After this, Mr. Ryien was condemned to using the bathroom of the next-door neighbor, Mr. Patterson. Mr. Patterson was a homosexual closet pervert, who secretly liked to watch drag and pornography from his dial-up Internet connection.
Needless to say, Mr. Ryien was not pleased.
Two weeks later, the bathroom still was not repaired. Apparently, some new problem had arisen during reconstruction, and the work would have to go on for twice as long as expected.
Mrs. Ryien fumed around the house, staring in dismay at the bathroom from time to time. Pyro, pointedly avoiding her mother, looked for things to burn in secret. She relentlessly stole paper or cloth of any kind. Newspaper, dishrags, and even magazines, though the smoke from them burning hurt her eyes.
As soon as the curtains went up in flames, Pyro's mother decided it was time for school.
Kindergarten. Most think of it as a friendly, peaceful environment where small children can feel safe and play with one another. That was a dead wrong assumption, at least according to Pyro. She was less than pleased as a flustered Mrs. Ryien dragged her into the classroom. She was small, in unfamiliar surroundings, and wearing a flowered yellow dress that her mother had picked out for her. Her hair was in two equally disgusting little braided pigtails that she intended to destroy as soon as said female left, and she had been practically strip-searched for fire-starters of any kind. A few words were exchanged between mother and teacher, and Mrs. Ryien left the premises, with a smile that was perhaps too wide.
Pyro made her way to a corner, sat down, and resolved not to move as she pulled off the scrunchies and rubber bands that confined her hair. She hated this place already, with the odd, tactless drawings neatly taped to the walls and the paint and glitter covered macaroni sculptures drying on a table. The scent of paste and old food wafted around the classroom, making Pyro slightly sick. An obviously fake smile on the face of the nervous young teacher irritated her, and the children were smelly, loud, and covered with various booger-stain-scabs combinations.
The first mistake made by Ms. Kenny was trying to integrate Pyro into the stinking, crying mass of overgrown toddlers who messily smeared paint on bargain brand canvas-size paper in the center of the room. One of the pieces of paper was unoccupied. Apparently, set up just for her. Pyro could approve of that. The paint was set before her in cheap plastic cups. White, black, red, yellow, blue. Pyro immediately pushed the blue aside. Now…just how was she supposed to paint? There were no brushes, none at all. She looked back and forth among the inferior children, but they were all moronically dipping their hands in the paint.
At first, she had assumed that they were soiling their hands because they were stupid, but her second notion was that they were all too idiotic to ask for paintbrushes. Pyro had never learned the art of raising her hand, so she simply took herself, hideous yellow dress and all, to a slightly preoccupied teacher.
The second mistake made by Ms. Kenny was calling Pyro by her given name.
"I'm sorry Patrick, you have to paint with your fingers like everyone else." she said, slightly wrinkling her nose at the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Ryien had inconsiderately given such a name to a female child.
"Patrick" narrowed her eyes in a way that the teacher found distinctly frightening. Ms. Kenny was extremely relieved when the small child wandered back to her piece of paper, though there's no doubt she wouldn't have felt the same sense of security if she'd known that the girl had hastily rummaged through her desk to produce a ruler, and a pair of office-quality titanium scissors that had absolutely no business in a kindergarten classroom. Snipping part of a ponytail from one of the ingrates, she fastened it to the ruler.
The third mistake made by Ms. Kenny was disapproving of Pyro's artwork. After about fifteen minutes of painting,five happy six-year-olds,eight happy five-year-olds, six happy seven-year-olds, and one broody four-year-old proudly waved their mediocre paint scribbled in the air. Mainly, they were just splatters of paint and handprints randomly splattered on the page. A few had actual subjects, like the blue smear with eyesthat the owner claimed was a "dynosaw."
However, the most detailed piece by far was that of an Arcanine, settled neatly on the floor. Blobby, yes, but it had a distinguishable nose, eyes, mouth, and stripes, and most of the markings were in the right places. It was in a pure black background, with a smeary-looking yellow and orange fire coming out of its mouth. Pyro stood above it, sporting a small smirk.
True, not very impressive, but it was advanced for a five-year-old. Pyro was duly upset about having nothing to burn, but at least she'd been able to create something that looked like fire with her fake paintbrush. Instead of giving praise where praise was due,Ms. Kennysimply said;
"That's horrible, Patrick! You were supposed to use your hands!"
Pyro's smirk quickly disappeared, replaced by a blank, tight-lipped look. The raven-haired child immediately designated one Harriet B. Kenny as her number one enemy.
