Abigail

  I can hear the echo of our cheer routine still pounding in my head as I flop onto my bed, face-first into my pillow. The faint smell of hairspray and sweat clings to my uniform, and honestly? I love it. There’s something about being under those bright gym lights, the music blasting, everyone moving in perfect sync–it’s the one place I feel completely me.

  “Abigail!” Mom’s voice slices up the stairs before I even have time to breathe. “Don’t forget, you have to run your lines tonight!”

  I groan into the pillow. Lines. The dreaded script. Ember and Frost. Can’t I go one day without looking over the script again? I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll recite the dialogue for me. “Yeah, Mom! I will!” I yell back, though we both know that’s a lie for at least ten more minutes.

  The house smells faintly of lemon cleaner and whatever “healthy” thing Mom’s boyfriend, Greg, is cooking downstairs. He’s one of those guys who uses the word “macro” unironically. Nice enough, I guess, but he looks at me like I’m a complicated math problem he’s still trying to solve.

  I grab the script off my nightstand–the pages are already crinkled from being shoved into my cheer bag. The title stares up at me: Ember and Frost. Three characters, one scene, and I got the role of Selene. Mom thought drama class would “broaden my horizons.” What it’s actually broadening is my list of after-school obligations.

  I mumble the first line, half-heartedly, then stop. My throat’s dry. My brain’s fried. I can memorize eight-counts in my sleep, but a page of dialogue? My eyes glaze over halfway through.

  The door creaks open. “You practicing?” Mom asks, leaning in with that look–part hopeful, part judgemental. Her hair’s tied back, her work blazer still on even though it’s seven p.m.

  “Trying,” I say, flipping the page so it looks like progress.

  “You know, if you put half the energy into your lines that you do into cheerleading–”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’d win an Oscar,” I interrupt, a little sharper than I mean to. Her lips press into a thin line. Instant regret hits me, but I don’t apologize. Not yet.

  She steps into the room, picking up one of my pom-poms from the floor like it’s some foreign object. “I just wish you’d focus on something with a little more…substance.”

  I sit up crossing my arms. “Cheer has substance. You just don’t see it.”

  “Sweatheart, I’m not saying it’s not fun, but it’s not–”

  “Serious? Real? Worth it?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “You think drama class is gonna change my life, but I’m not even sure I want to act. I just…I like performing. I like being out there.”

  For a second, she softens. I see it–that flicker of understanding she doesn’t want to admit. Then Greg’s voice floats up from downstairs: “Laura! The quinoa’s ready!”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Mom sighs. “Just promise me you’ll be ready to run your lines after dinner.”

  “Sure,” I mutter, staring back at the script as she leaves.

  When the door clicks shut, I drop my head into my hands. I know she means well, but sometimes it feels like we’re living in different worlds–hers full of plans and expectations, mine full of noise and light and split-second jumps.

  I glance back at the script, picking it up again. “Ember.” I read aloud, “doesn’t need anyone’s permission to burn.”

  A slow smile creeps onto my face. Maybe I don’t either.

  The next afternoon, the gym smells like rubber mats and adrenaline. The kind of air that hums with movement.

  This–this is my real stage.

  “Alright, girls, from the top!” Coach Rivera claps, her voice echoing off the bleachers. The speakers blare our mix, bass thumping through the floor, and suddenly I’m not Abigail the daughter who’s forced into drama. I’m Abigail-the-flyer, the girl who soars.

  “Five, six, seven, eight!”

  We launch into the routine–jumps, twists, transitions–everything moving like muscle memory. My ponytail whips against my shoulders as I hit the next count, my grin automatic. The world narrows down to rhythm and trust. I shout the chant with the squad, breath syncing with theirs, and when I’m tossed into the air, I feel weightless–untouchable.

  For two perfect seconds, there’s nothing but light and air.

  The hands catch me, solid and certain. I land in the cradle, heart pounding.

  “Nice, Abby!” Tasha calls out from below, flashing me a grin.

  “Thanks!” I laugh, still catching my breath. “Let’s run that again!”

  Coach raises an eyebrow. “I like that energy! But maybe channel some of that for our showcase next week instead of just practice.”

  I nod, though my stomach tightens a little at the mention of the showcase. Mom already said she might “have plans” that night with Greg. Plans that didn’t sound negotiable.

  We run the routine again, and by the end I’m dripping sweat, high on adrenaline. My legs are trembling, but I don’t care. I live for this.

  As we’re packing up, Tasha nudges me. “You’re killing it lately. You going to the after-practice hangout?”

  I shake my head, slinging my duffel over my shoulder. “Can’t. Gotta run lines for drama class.”

  Tasha groans. “Ugh that thing again? You should just quit.”

  “Tell that to my mom.”

  She snorts. “Yikes. Good luck with that.”

  I grin. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  Back home, I drop my gym bag by the door, sneakers thudding on the tile. Mom’s car isn’t in the driveway–just Greg’s. Great.

  He’s in the kitchen when I walk in, wearing one of those fitness tanks that shows off too many muscles for a guy making salad. “Hey, champ,” he says. “Practice good?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, grabbing a water bottle. I don’t feel like small talk, but Greg never gets the hint.

  He gestures toward the table, where the Ember and Frost script sits–open, like a trap. “Your mom said you’ve got lines to memorize. She’s really proud of you, you know.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure that’s not the word she used last night.”

  He laughs awkwardly. “She just wants what’s best for you.”

  I twist the cap off my bottle a little too hard. “What’s best for me is doing something I actually care about.”

  He hesitates, like he’s deciding whether to argue. “Maybe you can care about both.”

  I don’t answer. Instead, I pick up the script, head upstairs, and shut the door. For a while, I just sit at my desk, staring at the lines again. I think about how it felt to fly today–to be lifted, supported, unstoppable. I whisper a line under my breath.

  “The fire doesn't ask permission. It just burns.”