Memories of Christian (I)

At fifteen, Brian and I loved comics, and we often spent afternoons with various issues spread out on the carpet, with cartoons showing on TV. His sister always made fun of us; Brian would try to annoy her back though I never minded it.

On one occasion, Jennifer walked through the living room, her honey tinted hair flowing. I gazed at her doll-like features, the t-shirt of a cute smiley face with razor sharp teeth, forgetting all about stories of crazy super Earthlings and aliens who fought for world domination (again).

“Brock, get a girlfriend…” and there she goes, off to her sanctuary somewhere away from our comics, just as a semi-witty retort finally arrives in my mind. Brian chuckles.

Her British (though sometimes I suspect Australian) boyfriend Christian patted me on the back. Both at eighteen, I suppose they were old enough for things like ponytails, ear rings, and making fun of younger people.

“It’s OK dude, she’s just playing with you,” Christian tried to sound comforting.
“What? Oh please, I wasn’t gonna cry or anything,” I tried to laugh hoping that my eyes looked dry.
“Oh sure, if you say so,” Brian busted out laughing.

I needed to change the subject, “so what kinda stuff do you do all day, Christian?”
“Now THAT entails a very wide range of activities, Brock,” he looked at the watch, then back at me.
“Tell us about that trip you took to England a while ago,” Brian’s eyes brightened with probably genuine interest. Christian brushed his stubby chin, grabbed his jacket and grinned with a particular brand of immortality, “Let’s go outside, I’ll tell you about it over a cigarette.”

An early January evening, swarms of crimson cloud raced through the sky. The tainted glow washed over the streets, my flesh along with Brian’s. Christian remained alabaster pale, as if the evening light traveled through him.

The Trudeaus owned a cozy three bedroom house with square front and back yards just enough to require an hour of lawn mowing every couple of weeks. Brian closed the gate as Christian leaned against the fence, and held the butt of a cigarette between his teeth.

“Fuck…” his lighter had run dry, and he looked annoyed.
“Um, don’t British people say ‘bloody hell’ or something instead of ‘fuck’?” Brian asks, scratching his head. The smell of his freshly mowed lawn has mesmerized me; I cared little for Christian’s vacations.

With the cigarette still between his teeth, he chucked the lighter into one of Brian’s garbage cans on the curb. Christian closed his eyes for the moment, and I wondered if he had fallen asleep standing up.
“Well, I think there’s some matches in the kitchen…” Brian turns toward the house. And it happened.

Scorching, sizzling, the tip of his cigarette burst into flames, and Christian opened his eyes once more, smiling. Back in those days, I did not even know the term “pyrokinesis”, only “OH what the… what the hell was that?”