Fire Lois Fogg Email: SireneCall@hotmail.com Rated PG-13 [AuthorÕs Notes at the end of Chapter Six] Chapter Five: Correspondence Darien, What happened yesterday, just before you left? I couldnÕt really get to sleep last night, thinking about it. You confuse me so damn much, do you know that? One moment I think you love me, the next you hate me. What are you thinking? DonÕt you trust me by now? It doesnÕt matter that IÕm Ken JohnstonÕs daughter, does it? If itÕs any consolation, I disagree with practically everything he thinks about politics. I probably wonÕt even vote for him, although I wonÕt tell him that. I would so much rather be with you than here. IÕve never been on a farm, well not since I was six years old, anyway. IÕd like to never have to dress up again, to never have to kiss up to imbecilic VIPÕs, to just be myself. I bet that I would enjoy it, especially during peach season. I thought I hated my world before, but now itÕs become practically unbearable. Yesterday, after I got off the plane, my dad practically had an entourage to greet me. I havenÕt dared look at the papers, but I know my picture is probably glaring from some back page. I was *so* angry at him for using me like that, but he wouldnÕt listen to me. I know that he tipped those reporters, so they would catch him in a ÔfatherlyÕ moment. I should have just taken the train in, like I wanted, and not told him about it. I should have gone home with you. Darien, the thought is making me unbearably lonelyÑI wish that I could spend Christmas at your farm. It sounds so romantic. Do you cut down your own Christmas tree? Here my mom just breaks out the same fake one weÕve used for years. ItÕs top of the lineÑat least, thatÕs what dad always says to the guestsÑbut IÕve always wanted a real tree. I like the way they smell. But the fake tree is just one more aspect of this entire charade. Sometimes I think that I really hate politics. Why canÕt you be a real person and still be president? ItÕs not like I think my dad would make a bad president, heÕs a good person, but I think that he is so far removed from real people. He surrounds himself with other political yuppies like himself, and then pretends to understand the Ôcommon manÕ. It doesnÕt work, you know? I know that youÕll probably laugh at me, but I always think of your life as the way mine ought to be. I know itÕs hard to be a farmerÑI know politicians donÕt help them muchÑbut at least itÕs *real*. None of this glittering, glamorous, fake lifestyle. Sorry, my mom is bugging me to get dressed nowÑI have to go to another one of those interminable cocktail parties. I love you, Darien, but you already know that. Serena P.S. I just thought of the perfect Christmas gift for you! DonÕt worry, youÕll love it, I swear! Darien, I feel so silly, writing to you every day, but I canÕt seem to get you out of my head, and even when IÕm not holding a pen, IÕm thinking about the letters. I hope that youÕre thinking about me, because I donÕt want to be alone in this. Well, let me tell you about what happened last night. The cocktail party was a complete disaster, first of all. I swear, IÕm going to go insane if dad pulls anymore publicity stunts like this! So, first of all, it was one of those super-important Christmas parties that everybody and their mother throws, and my dad forces me to go to all of them. Even the president and his wife were at this one, though, so I guess that it was pretty important. Anyway, I was just sitting in the back cornerÑwell, all right, I was next to the desert tray, but you have to give me a break, if you knew these parties. The only good thing about them is the desert tray. I always gain several pounds over Christmas. Anyway, my mom walks over, talking to this ugly, dorky looking guy. And IÕm getting pretty nervous, because it has occurred to me that she might be trying to set me up again. They hadnÕt given me the chance to tell them about you, and besides, I would never date anyone they set me up with anyway. So this kid turns out to be the Vice-PresidentÕs son, and heÕs in law school at Harvard, and he was just *dying* to meet meÑwell, thatÕs what mom said. I was about to gag. She knew what I was thinking, because she gave me this look that made me know I had to talk to the idiot, even if I didnÕt want to. It makes me so mad, thinking about how they treat me. I am not a baby; IÕm not even in high school anymore. They donÕt have a right to force me to talk to these stupid people! But no matter what, I listen to them. So the guy smilesÑand I saw that he had braces! Imagine, braces at his age, I wanted to puke! So he pulls out a chair for me, even though I really didnÕt want to sit down, because then I really would be forced to talk to him, but my mother glared at me, so I did. I feel like such a wimp, I really should have splashed the wine in her face and stalked out of the room, at least then I wouldnÕt have had to talk for three hours straight with Vance Jr. He was so remarkably stupid, it was so obvious that the only reason he got into Harvard was because of his father. Every time I made to get up, mom or dad looked at me and I had to sit down again. I swear, Darien, it was pure torture. No one, not even the most ruthless Chinese prison guard, could have devised a more horrendous punishment for a girl. He kept downing wine like it was water, and by the end of the three hours, he was leering at me in a way that made me want to slap him! His arm had somehow sneaked around me, too, and his breath smelled terrible. And then, just as I thought I would be able to get out of it, my dadÑwho, of course, had surrounded himself with reportersÑturns to me and Mr. Creep, and says, as loud as he possibly can: ÒWell, of course I have to get used to my daughter growing up. But I couldnÕt think of a better match for her than Vice President WilliamÕs son. Just look at them together!Ó Of course, my face turns beet red, and I look away from the cameras, as they flash at me. I really couldnÕt believe it. I mean, dad has pulled some stunts before, but nothing like this! I could have killed him. In fact, I wrenched away from the creep and walked out the door, I didnÕt even bother to grab my coat. All I could think about was that I really wanted to be with you, Darien, and that I wish you had come with me so dad would stop trying to set me up. IÕm afraid, though, that stupid Vance Jr. is going to stalk me back at Harvard. Well, youÕll just have to protect me, then, I hope. That thought, at least, makes this whole situation bearable. Wait, my father is finally home. IÕm going to have to talk to him now, so IÕll go. IÕm telling him in no uncertain terms that I am off limits for matchmaking and any other forms of publicity he may have in mind. You may find me on your doorstep in a couple of days if he doesnÕt let up! Exasperated, but (of course) very happy to be writing to you again, Serena Darien, This is terrible! Dad didnÕt understand at all! He practically ordered me to go out with the creep. And when I told him about you he said some horrible bigoted remark about keeping to our class, and different lifestyles. I told him, succinctly, to shove it. I couldnÕt believe that he said that. I told him that I was planning to leave this stupid ÔlifestyleÕ of his as soon as I possibly could, so he wouldnÕt have to worry about unsuitable boys. I always thought that deep down, my dad believed in the type of social equality our country is based on, but now IÕm beginning to wonder if he is exactly like the rest of the career politicians that I know. I donÕt understand how he could judge you when he doesnÕt even know you, just because I told him that your grandfather was a farmer. It doesnÕt make any sense! I tried to explain, to both him and mom, how wonderful you were, but they didnÕt even listen to me. They actually said that no peach farmer would date their daughterÑthose exact words! I thought I knew them, but I never would have thought them capable of thinking something so bigoted. I donÕt know how they could possibly stop me, though, Darien. I donÕt have to listen to them. I honestly donÕt know why I bothered to for so long. ItÕs about midnight now, and I think that IÕm going to have to leave the house, and cool off. This life isnÕt for me. I always knew it wasnÕt, but I really canÕt handle it anymore. IÕm going to my friend MollyÕs house, the address is at the bottom of the letter. Write me there, she can give me the letters, even if I do decide to come back home after a while. I think that mom and dad need to understand how serious I am. And, who knows, if anything will convince them, itÕs the threat of bad press. I might pull one of my fatherÕs tricks, and tip a reporter. Actually, I donÕt think that I will do thatÑI canÕt stand publicity. It would be nice to be home for Christmas, though, if I canÕt be with you. IÕll just have to see what happens. Missing you (why donÕt you write?) Serena Darien, ItÕs been a week since IÕve seen you. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Why havenÕt you written to me? I want you so badly that I can taste it. Sometimes I look at someone on the street, and for one brief second, itÕs you, smiling at me. CanÕt you at least write? Tell me that something has happened, that the post has broken down, that the mailman has forgotten to give you my letters. DonÕt tell me that you are ignoring me, that already you have forgotten me, stopped loving meÑ if you ever did. Here is my gift. I wanted a little piece of me to be under your tree this Christmas. I hope you like the present. I noticed that your copy of The Taming of the Shrew was getting a little dog eared, so I knew that this would be perfect. The picture on the cover is one Mina took of us. I think that it actually *is* of our first argument. I think we look so funny, but I couldnÕt think of a more perfect picture. We look like fighting lovers, donÕt we? You never explained to me how you know Japanese. IÕm curious, but IÕm beginning to get a bit afraid. There is something that is pulling you away from me. I can feel it. I donÕt know what it is. You never tell me these things, Darien. I donÕt know why youÕre afraid of me. Serena Serena, I know that you will probably get this after New Years, since the post around here is pretty slow, so merry Christmas and happy new year. IÕve read your letters, and for a while I could not bring myself to answer them, no matter how much I wanted to. But when I saw your present, I knew that I had to explain myself. You probably wonÕt forgive me for this. I donÕt even know if youÕll understand where IÕm coming from, but I have to try. You are right, you at least deserve the right to know what is pulling me away from you. My parents were diplomatic attachŽÕs, stationedÑwhen I was bornÑin Japan. I do not remember them, but I will get to that later. I was educated in an English school until I was seven. Then, while taking a road trip one day, we were in a terrible car accident. I was the only survivor. I suffered complete amnesia. I could not remember my former life, only my name. It was only much later that I discovered who my parents were. I spoke Japanese fluently, and because they did not know of any living relatives, I was placed in an orphanage. I donÕt really know why I remembered English as well as I did. Maybe it was because I read every book I could findÑand lots were in English. It was hard in the orphanage, I suppose. Not because we were mistreated, but because we were never given any real affection. The warmth of a family was denied to us. I had no friends, growing up. I never really spoke to anybody. I was driven, determined to succeed to spite everyone who had forced me down. But when I was fourteen, a social worker came to the orphanage, and told me that a man in the US had contacted her about my parents. He had been searching for me for years, she said, and had only just found me. He was my grandfather. A grandfather I had never known, but was being gratefully shipped off to. I resented his intrusion on my life, I suppose. I was independent. I did not need loveÑor so I thought. I had not really learned what love was. The last thing I wanted was to live with a farmer who claimed to be my grandfather. And then I met him. He was the only person in my life who had ever truly loved me for who I was. He loved me, even when I was rude and ungrateful. He made the most incredible sacrifices for me. We were poorÑfarmers usually are not very well offÑbut he used every extra penny on me and my education. I came, despite myself, to love him. But I always knew that our world was a different one from the rich, and glamorous lifestyle made popular by televisionÑyour lifestyle Serena. As I got older, I knew that there was always going to be a divide between those like my grandfather, poor just struggling to survive, and those like you, with wealth that could feed a small nation. I knew that I would never be able to understand people like that. That much, I owed to my grandfather. One of the wealthiest nations in the world, and the politicians only protected their own: the rich and influential. I knew I couldnÕt change that, but I refused to be a part of it. Serena, I still refuse to be a part of it. ThatÕs why itÕs so important that you are Ken JohnstonÕs daughter. He is the embodiment of every aspect of the US government that I despise. You are his daughter. I simply canÕt throw away where I came from. Your father said that we come from two different worlds. And we do. I would like to be able to love you, Serena. I came extremely close to doing it. But I canÕt truly love someone born to privilege like you were. I canÕt, because we are fundamentally different. You will understand, if not now, later, why I canÕt love you. We will go our separate ways and forget about each other. I am so sorry, Serena. Darien I read and re-read the letter, as if doing so would change what he had said. It didnÕt. He still hated me. Not because of who I was, but because of what I stood for. The tears started quietly, burning hot tracks down my cheeks. My mouth opened convulsively, trying to utter a sound, trying to vocalize the extent of my loss, but nothing came out. He had said he loved me, and now he didnÕt. He had called me Usako, and now he called me Serena. I loved him! I loved him so badly that it hurt me, and he had washed his hands of me. Breaking from my throat, an incoherent cry escaped, and I collapsed to my knees. I was alone in the house, sitting in front of the fire. My grief was all-encompassing. It ridiculed my love, but made it all the more inevitable. ÒDarien.Ó I whimpered, over and over again, my tears making the ink unreadable. It did not matter, the words were etched in my brain forever. How could he do this to me? How could he? And yet I felt an unbearable sympathy for him. How could I have complained of my rich life when he had lived through that? How could I? Perhaps that was why he hated me. Because I was spoiled and did not understand what I had been given before it was too late. With a violent cry I ripped the letter apart, and tossed the pieces on the fire. I watched the flames leap up as they fed on my tears and his rejection. It seemed as if the fire was laughing at me, mocking my pain. Angrily I picked up the envelope, ready to toss it into the fire as well, but stopped, when I felt something inside. Numbly, I turned it over, and something fell out of the bottom. I picked it up, and turned it over carefully in my hand. It was a small ivory bunny, attached to a silver chain. On its stomach, with painstaking care, someone had carved ÒUsakoÓ. I stayed in front of the fire, late into the night, calling his name like a prayer.