MILA Origins 2.0 - The Fire

tiny thing? I have no idea.” She shrugged. “Maybe I pricked it with a needle in my sleep—hoping I’d fall into a coma and wake up somewhere besides Clearwater.”
    From across the table, Ella sighed. “Don’t forget the prince and the magic kiss.”
    “As if.” Kaylee’s overzealous snort made Ella burst into laughter, and even I couldn’t hold back a smile.
    Ever since the day I first met her four weeks ago, Kaylee Daniels had operated at that same breakneck speed. She’dbeen the first person at school to introduce herself: a leggy, freckled dynamo in high-heeled boots. After latching on to my arm in homeroom, she’d practically dragged me to the desk next to hers.
    I remembered the exchange verbatim.
    “You’re Mia Daily, right? The one who just moved into the guesthouse at Greenwood Ranch? The one from Philly, which, oh my god, has to be a billion times more exciting than here? I’m Kaylee Daniels, and I’m going to tell you everything you need to know about Clearwater. Which, unfortunately, isn’t much. First and foremost—we need more boys here. More. Boys.”
    Once she paused to take a breath, I’d corrected my name—my parents had shortened Mia Lana into Mila as a nickname years ago—and then let her babble flow over me, even welcomed the distraction.
    “So, what’s the emergency?” Back in real time, Parker’s Vanilla Skies perfume preceded her clomping, platform-shoed arrival. She carelessly tossed her fringed purse onto the table, almost taking out Ella’s Butterfinger Blizzard before she collapsed into the booth next to her.
    Parker? Kaylee had invited Parker? I tried not to groan.
    Beside me, Kaylee’s Purrrfectly Pink index nail tapped her Coke float cup. “Um, hello—ice cream?” But out of the corner of my eye, I saw her not-so-subtle head jerk in my direction.
    “Ahhh,” Ella said knowingly. Just before a trio of pitying smiles landed on me.
    I scuffed my Nike on the sticky floor under the table, wishing I could slide down and join it. Kaylee had tricked me. This trip to Dairy Queen wasn’t really about her satisfying a sudden urge for ice cream. It practically screamed intervention.
    Mila Daily, charity case, that was me. Those pitying smiles followed me whenever people found out about Dad, along with awkward silences. As if they were terrified the wrong words would crack me like a broken mirror—and nobody wanted responsibility for picking up the pieces.
    My sneaker rubbed the floor again while I tried hard to look uncrackable. Since I wasn’t sure I succeeded, I did the next best thing. I deflected.
    “I like your haircut, Parker.”
    Parker’s hand flew to the ends of her long, painstakingly flat-ironed blond hair. But instead of the smug preening I expected, she frowned. “Okay, single white female. Leslie only trimmed it a quarter inch.”
    Kaylee waved away Parker’s snark. “Oh, whatever. You’d be pissed if no one had noticed,” she said, elbowing me. She pushed a Diet Coke across the table. “Here. You must need the caffeine.”
    “You’re a goddess.”
    “I know.”
    As I watched the exchange, the grateful smile I shot Kaylee for her save faded. What must it be like, to have friends who knew you so well they could order for you? At this point, I could barely order for myself.
    “So listen—” Kaylee started.
    The squeak of the door interrupted Kaylee. For a moment, the smell of asphalt and manure mingled with frying chicken and grease. Two teenage guys walked in: one blond with a small U-shaped mole on his forehead, the other dark haired with a tiny red stain on his shirt collar.
    That made customers ten and eleven since we’d been here.
    “Ugh, just look at Tommy…those scruffy old work boots?” Kaylee said, scrunching her slightly crooked nose and talking loud enough to be heard over the whir of a blender. “Atrocious. An affront to feet everywhere. And Jackson isn’t much better. Did you know he plans to stick around once we graduate, so he can help his parents run their store? La-ame.”
    Ella and Parker nodded in agreement.
    “Plus Jackson dresses like he’s the founding member of the Carhartt shirt-of-the-week club,” Kaylee continued in real time, shaking the booth with one of her typically over-the-top shudders. “Logo shirts—also lame.”
    I tried to drum up similar disdain for the yellow logo on Jackson’s shirt, but instead saw my dad cheering on thePhillies from our old living room. Wearing his red tee with the