She had friends now. More than just one; Elaine, Samantha and Ckyler ate lunch with her more often than not at the table on the outskirts of the cafeteria. They studied together after school in their own corner of the common room. Ckyler was even an avid reader, and could spin her own mythologies out of the mundane that kept Aiva enthralled. She tried to do the same for the other girl, and had missed this kind of benign fun in Mabry’s absence. School life could never be boring for Aiva.

              She shifted in her seat and gazed for a few moments out the window. Snow was falling gently, piling upon branches who’s leaves had abandoned it weeks ago. She watched a robin whose red breast bobbed bold in the otherwise graying world on the other side of the glass. The small bird launched from a lower sill onto a tree, seeking the warmth of any shelter. Aiva ignored the pang of guilt she felt, instead wondering why it had not yet migrated.

              After her accident—making the robin vanish—she seldom used her powers again. Once, she deleted homework that Samantha was complaining about. She had been apprehensive of what Mr. Medlock would do, but he didn’t even remember that he had assigned it. Nor did anyone else besides Aiva. She’d even checked her own bag and found no trace of it.

              She hadn’t just erased it, but the memory as well. It had been a disconcerting discovery. With each use of her new capability, it scared her more.

              Another unexplained aspect of Aiva’s life was the rash on her arm. Which didn’t hurt, itch or otherwise bother her. In fact she could feel Nothing in the affected area. She wouldn’t let anyone see it—had not even mentioned it’s presence. Though she had been debating if she should show the school nurse. The girl didn’t want her parents to be called—or worse—for them to call in a doctor. Or even pull her completely out of school. She could see her mother using any small excuse.

              The bell rang, signaling the end of history and startling Aiva out of her reverie. Ckyler met her in the hall and wheeled her to French to drop her off. They talked and waved each other goodbye as passing period ended.

              “Bonjour mes Fleurs, j’ai de bonnes Nouvelles pour vous!”

              Aiva and the others who understood him looked up while the few less studied in the class sat puzzling over what he said.

              Monsieur Basil flourished a stack of envelopes, which brightened Aiva up considerably. Usually he would make them wait to read the letters as homework and continue the regular lesson, but Thanksgiving break was just around the corner. Aiva quickly slit open the side using her pencil. The classroom was silent save for the tearing and rustling of paper. She began to read her letter from Angelique, her eyes whizzing back and forth behind her glasses.

              Because Aiva had not been able to think of anything to write, her first correspondence had been very short. She simply listed facts about herself and it hadn’t even filled a whole page. Ckyler laughed at how preoccupied her young friend was and over what. She’d asked why, but Aiva was reluctant to share the contents of her letter at first. It felt too much like asking for help.

              After Ckyler pushed enough times, wearing Aiva down, she explained how simple letter writing could be. Ckyler described it like writing in a journal that could write back. Aiva didn’t quite understand what the girl had meant by that until she received her first reply from Angelique.

              By now she’d learned so much about this girl from France in the few letters they had exchanged thus far.

              The first thing she’d noticed was Angelique’s handwriting. It was the most beautiful penmanship; tall, slanted and flowing over the page like a song. Every letter started with ‘dearest Aiva,’ every time Aiva read that she felt so wonderful and warm inside. Angelique’s English was impeccable. She was sixteen years old and had been playing the flute since the age of seven. She lived with her grandmother who was a seamstress. She had many friends who were all excited about graduating next year.

              Amazed by the girl’s personality she better understood Ckyler’s advice. Still though, had trouble writing back. She was not as impressive. She had blocky handwriting that stumbled over the page. Her written French was as clumsy as her spoken.

              Miss Juliet taught her how to play the piano long ago. Or at least attempted too, but her chubby fingers fumbled over the keys. Her own grandparents were as distant as the rest of her relatives and she still had no idea what any of them did for a living. She didn’t believe a talent like sewing existed within her family.

              Aiva’s eyes lingered over the end of the letter, signed in thin cursive.

              ‘Love, Angelique Jonquil’

              As she contemplated how she would start, another part of her wondered what type of person would write ‘love’ so freely. Aiva only ever signed ‘from.’

              She put her pen to the stationary.

              Dear Angelique,

              Aiva tapped her pen against her chin, preparing an outline in her head like how Miss Juliet had taught her. She wanted to write a good one this time. Angelique never sent less that three pages.

              She finally had it ready to be inked, her first sentence repeating itself in the forefront of her mind and the promise of the bell looming over her, rushing her along. Aiva startled when an unrecognized voice spoke at the head of the class room.

              “Christina, Nichole, Victoria, Tomas, Nathaniel, Aiva and Jacob please come to the front of the building.” The student aid from the attendance office walked back out of the room once she relayed the message.

              Aiva stared, dazed for a moment; that had been every cousin in her class. Monsieur Basil had an eyebrow raised but waved the Corelyn’s out of the room. She stuffed her work into her bag. Saddened because her perfect greeting was now fading. She maneuvered her wheelchair out from under the desk and began making her way to the door.

              The snow had stopped and was already graying into city slush. Her group wasn’t the first waiting outside; it seemed as if all her relations were already lined up. Curiosity worked itself between her other thoughts. The younger ones were whispering in a smaller huddle adjacent to the assembly.

              Aiva leaned in closer to hear what theories they had when a boy, Justin perhaps, stated, “who cares why? Three extra days on break man!” he pumped the air with his fist to a hearty cheer as the others agreed.

              Aiva cared. It wasn’t like the family had Thanksgiving together. Her dad always worked through the holidays and her mother had parties to attend. She could have put her wonderings aside if the older cousins hadn’t gathered in a much tighter faction, their own murmurs as soft as falling leaves. Their gazes shifted around, glaring at their juniors who dared a closer listen. She tried to stay out of everyone’s way, guiding her chair through the crowd with difficulty she bumped into someone.

              “Sorr-“

              “Of course it would be you. Watch where you’re going.” She recognized Thackeray vaguely from around school. His hair was strawberry blond, a faded shave tapered up into longer, tightly curled and carefully coifed fringe. Eyes as cold as flint and sharing that color as he spared a disgusted look down past a hawklike nose at her. Leaving his words stinging in her ears.

              They were only waiting for a couple more minutes. Aiva sat alone as a silent island in a sea of gossip.

              Many black SUVs pulled up, all driven by Richards. The chatter died down as the intimidating figures herded them into vehicles. Aiva rode with two divas who’s names she could not recall. The sound of their softly spoken words paired with the stoic silence of the driver made the ride an uncomfortable one.

              It seemed to take a long time to reach their destination, wherever that was. Aiva sifted through her backpack, trying to push down her questions that all pushed up against her closed lips as she pulled out her letter from Angelique. She attempted to regather her thoughts, but it was no use.

              The constant stopping and turning had given her a headache. She looked out the window. Dragging her eyes away from her own blank paper, surprised to find them outside great grandfather’s colonial style mansion. The white pillars that flanked the front of his estate shone in the winter light.

              “Why are we here?” Aiva heard herself ask before she could think to stop herself.

              She wanted to apologize, but the Richard hadn’t answered nor appeared offended.

              By the time she was out of the car her cousins were already inside. Two of the Richards were talking as they wheeled her towards the double front doors. “Father was getting impatient. It was pure luck that we could even pull them all out this early.”

              “Mother and Dad are here?”

              One looked down at her upturned gaze. “yes miss Aiva, the whole family is here, but you can’t see them. Not yet anyway.”

              Puzzled by this cryptic message Aiva’s brows drew together. Why wasn’t she allowed to see them? Why was her dad impatient? Aiva rarely ever voiced her questions out loud before, and she was afraid to start now. So she kept her mouth shut and turned her thoughts back to the opening line for her next letter to Angelique.

              But her focus was not in it anymore—even as a distraction, instead attention split into other silent girls in folklore and mythology. Ones who had to use their wit to solve puzzles even warriors and great men failed at.

              As they entered heat hit Aiva like a solid wall to ward off the chill November winds, which had become all but forgotten as they walked through the house. She was once again faced with a line of cousins, but they didn’t leave her at the end.

              The Richard rolled her between Cynthia and Bethany. Elaine was farther behind her. The rumors had taken on a different tone. It seemed like they weren’t allowing anyone to talk to their parents yet.

              Aiva wasn’t alone in her confusion. The older ones at the front who had previously seemed so confident now stood silently, trying not to fidget.

              Uncle Bridger was walking down the line, shushing the children, but even his stern command could not quell the curious banter. Whispers broke out randomly up and down the ranks, passing Aiva by. She tried not to listen, sitting quietly, staring down at her motionless hands and attempting to suppress her own growing sense of nervousness. Something was wrong. Any distraction would be better than this and so she grasped at the French language to create that darn first sentence. Maybe she’d ask what stories and mythologies were Angelique’s favorite.

              She wished that a friend was with her—Ckyler or Mabry, or even this Angelique girl who seemed so wonderful. Elaine was being no help, talking in murmurs to others farther behind her.

              The line began to move, though at a snail’s pace. Children trickled down the hallway and into a room through a door that Aiva could not see yet. N one came out. A couple of stray bits of hearsay worked their way down, a softly spoken truth creating more fear. Aiva only caught bits and pieces as they flew over her head.

              “Great Grandfather Joshua was in the room with Uncle Scott.”

              “No, Uncle Byron.”

              “Well I heard it was both.”

              “I’ve told you everything! How would you know?”

              “Other men too. I didn’t recognize them.”

              “They’re looking at our bellies.”

              “Why?”

              “That’s ridiculous.”

              Aiva didn’t want to hear anymore. What did any of this mean? It was all lost to her as they inched forward.

              Eventually the undertones died down as those gathered grew tired, bored, or hungry. She didn’t understand how any of them could possibly eat with all this tension. A choked feeling closed over her—tightening in her chest at this pulling and making it hard to breathe. She groped in  her backpack—looking for her inhaler. As soon as she gasped the medicine in the hallway opened back up, the crowd no longer felt crushing and the feeling lifted. 

Aiva couldn’t focus on any one task. Already she’d bounced between her latest anthology of myths and legends and her French homework. Now her tablet was sitting in her lap as she typed out the nightmare again. She’d had the same one a few times and was able to pinpoint more minute details as she wrote. Aiva was better able to follow the strange narrative that was forming in these connective dreams. Her attention grew so fixated that she no longer overheard the muttered chit chat still going on around her. She also didn’t realize she was next until Uncle Bridger pushed her roughly through the door.

              The latch snapped shut behind her. A single taper candle rested atop a raised podium at the front of the room, large and awash in light. The white walls added to the stark brightness. Her wheels glided over the wooden floors so smoothly after the carpet it started her.

              Joshua sat stiffly before the podium in a plain wooden chair with Uncle Scoot and Uncle Byron at his left. Four men that Aiva didn’t know stood too the right. They were all so rigid and sever looking that she found herself wishing that her dad was in the room as well.

              Even her great-grandpa had a horribly intense look upon his face; she could not meet his eyes for long and instead shifted her gaze to the floor.

              “Stand Aiva.” Came Joshua’s simple command.

              She flinched away from his voice, not used to that tone directed at her. She had only heard it used once before—at her party when berating those waiters. She struggled from her wheelchair, keeping her eyes down turned.

              “Unbutton your shirt,” uncle Byron seemed to be trying to sound as reassuring as he could, but it fell short, and was still an order.

              She raised her gaze slowly, eyes looking wide through the lenses.

              Scott took steady, deliberate steps forward, towering over her. A scowl contorted his face as he knelt. His stale breath hit her as he undid the top button of her blouse.

              “H-hey!”