I remember the day I burned the house down.  I was four and half years old.  I remember that half being very important to me in the years after.  I remember my parents reading me a bed time story although I don’t remember what that story was.  My father used to have this trick where he would snap his fingers to turn the light off.  A clapper it was.  They used to be on TV a lot.  I remember that too.  I was four and a half and my father showed me magic every night by snapping to turn the light off.  But this night was different from the rest because this was the night I burned the house down.

                Most people burn the house down by having faulty wiring or a match in the wrong place at the right time.  Things were always different in our house and burning down the house was no exception.  No matter what I knew about our family and myself I still could never pin down what it was that made us different.  No matter how many times I thought about it I always circled back to burning down the house. 

                My father maintains that it wasn’t my fault but he is wrong.  I remember.  I remember being under the soft pink blanket, the last useful remnant of my babyhood, waiting for sleep to come.  I remember the wind and the sound the tree outside made on my window; the way I’d mistakenly interpreted the eerie scratching as a monster.  The way I got scared.  The way I got brave.  If my father could use magic to turn off the light, maybe I could use magic to turn the light back on. 

                Sure I could have called my parents but I didn’t.  Instead I burned the house down.  Me. I did it. No matter what my father says.  I know the truth.  Maybe if I hadn’t burned the house down my mother would be here for my college graduation day and I wouldn’t be sitting here remembering the day I burned the house down.  I wouldn’t remember the first time I got the courage to snap my own fingers to turn on the light.  There’s nothing inherently wrong with snapping your fingers unless you’re me, in which case you would probably have burned the house down at four and half yourself. 

                I remember being scared as confused as the fire spread across my blanket.  I remember thinking about how much trouble I would be in.  I watch as the rows slowly make their way across the stage until it finally gets to my row.  We line up to have our names called.  I go to a school too big to have assigned seating.  Instead we hand them a card with our name and degree.  The line slowly inches forward, my anxiety building as it gets closer to me.  I scan the crowd for my father.

                He was the one who found me first hiding in the corner of my room trying to stay away from the burgeoning fire on my bed.  That was a moment of pure fear.  The fire alarms had started going off by this point.  What I don’t remember was leaving the house.  After that all I remember was watching my parents pick through the rubble while I sat on a swing that hung from a tree in the back yard because it was too dangerous for me to go through the rubble.  A few more steps forward.  My parents must have found what they were looking for because they seemed happy enough when we left the property we never went back to.  Shortly after I burned the house down my mother left.  I never really knew why she left us but I do remember it was right before I turned five. 

                I should have never snapped my fingers that night.  I didn’t know how powerful I was.  No matter how many times I tried to tell my father what really happened he wouldn’t hear it.  It didn’t matter though because the truth is true whether you believe it or not. An I know what happens when I snap my fingers.  Fire happens; every time.  Left hand or right hand, it doesn’t matter.  

                I hand my slip over to one of the announcers.

                “Elizabeth Zamora, Bioengineering.”  And that was it.  I walk across the stage, shake a few hands, take my fake diploma head down the front stairs and smile for the camera.  A picture I wasn’t prepared for in the least but I think it’ll come out fine. 

                As I follow the line back to my seat I feel the tips of my fingers rub together inadvertently and a small flash of warmth pools between them.  No fire but it could still be dangerous.  I did burn the house down.  I remember the day it happened.  I remember it all.   

                These are the things I thought about while I waited for my name to be called on what could conceivably be my last day of adulthood since I’m moving back into my father’s house until I get on my feet. 

                The first order of business in moving back home was figuring out how and hell I was going to get my stuff back in order after being away for four years.  I’d gotten new things and the old stuff I didn’t need so much anymore.  When was the last time I even slept with a stuffed animal?  I don’t remember but it was before I went to college.  Usually they ended up being tossed on the floor so they’d be out of the way and I could sleep.  I had posters to bands that were no longer important to me, movies I barely remember liking and teenage Hollywood hunks that looked like a bunch of little boys now.  It was definitely time for those to come down.  These days I’m not much of a poster girl.  Four years of semi picky roommates stripped me of the desire to have eyes staring in my direction all day every day.  But this was the least of my worries.  I could always get a storage.  The question was: how would I pay for a storage?    

                The second order of business is to get a job.  I’ve been trying to line something up since the spring semester started but I can’t quite seem to get anything.  No matter how many places I apply to, and I’ve applied to all of them, I can’t seem to get anything.  That’s why I moved back in with my father.  After four years of living on campus working in the dining hall and volunteering at a lab I should have the experience to do something, but somehow I’ve reached this dead zone of being over qualified for a normal part time job and underqualified for a full time job in my field.  I turn to my last resort.

                I push the door open to my old stomping grounds, the MeNEds near my house where worked when I was in high school.  If I remember correctly the owner is usually here on Monday mornings.  I hope much hasn’t changed.  I’m standing in front of the sticker machines feeling like I’m home when someone taps my shoulder.

                “Lizzy?” the familiar voice asks.

                “Miguel!” It’s the owner, thank God.  “And you know I don’t like being called Lizzy.”

                “I know, I know.  ‘I’m more of a Liz,’” he says in mocking tone.  It’s amazing how high pitched a man can make his voice for the sake of making fun of someone.   Although I bet guys sometimes thing that about women lowering their voices to do the same but whatev.

                “Exactly.  See? You understand.” 

                He starts to walk back toward the office so I follow him because I’m here on business. 

                “So what’s going on with you? Did you get that fancy college education you wanted?” He probably means to be polite but it doesn’t sound that way.

                “Yes.  It was grander and fancier than I ever imagined.”

                “That’s great!” He laughs but I can tell he’s laughing with me.

                “However it wasn’t fancy enough to land me a job right away.  So…” I let my voice trail off hoping that he’s getting what I’m trying to say here.

                “So you need a job.  I understand.  It’s tough out here. Everyone needs a job.”

                “So can I have one?”  Might as well just throw it out there. he stands there considering this for a minute.  No seriously a full minute of shifting his weight and staring me in the eye when he opens his mouth to talk but no words come out.  “So?”

                “Ok,” he says after a little hesitation.  “I can schedule you for Mondays and Saturdays and then you can always pick up more shifts.  Just make sure you approve it with me first, got it?”

                “Got it.”  I try to contain my excitement but I can tell my eyes are beaming.  You know when you can just feel the sheen on them? That’s how I feel right now. 

                “You start this Saturday morning.  I’ll have a shirt for you, wear black pants and…”

                “And non-slip shoes.  I know the drill.”

                “And don’t forget the part about getting other shifts approved.  I remember how you used to snake shifts all the time.”

                “That was different.  I was in high school and I wasn’t supposed to be working as much as I was.”

                “You always were ambitious.”  He has a weird tone when he says this.  Like I can’t tell if he’s complimenting me or if he’s means it with an eye roll.  Either way it’s the truth.  It’s why I picked bioengineering over straight biology.  In any case, I can rest knowing I finally have a job. 

                Back at home I lay in my bed, not really soaking anything in.  It feels like it’s been a long job hunt and I finally have something.  Still I can’t help but feel like a failure.  I’d gone through four years of college in one of the toughest majors available and here I was ecstatic to have my high school job back.  Was.  Now I’m just laying in bed studying the ceiling.  I could read all those books I never had time for but I can’t help but feel like my brain is decompressing or something.  Like it’s been stuffed so full it needs more space.  All I can think about are joints and sockets and how cool it would be to build the next mechanical leg.  Better slimmer or maybe more natural.  I mean you never really know until you talk to an amputee what he might need. 

                Not to mention the fact that in college I always had someone and now it’s a Monday and I don’t have any concrete plans until Saturday which is a far cry from the life I’ve gotten used too.  Lunch with friends, dinner with the roommates and weekends finding fun stuff to do in between work school and volunteering at the lab studying neurons.  And now here I am staring at the ceiling.  Did it always look like that?  Even in high school I was always busy with something.  I’ve always had a plan and goals and they’ve always worked out.  This is the first time I’ve had to try really hard for something and of course the first job I get out of college is the first job I had ever:  MeNEds pressing pizza dough and answering phones and dealing with customers.  The stuff of nightmares, but it would help me save money to move out of this place if I ever did get a job working on artificial limbs.

                I prop myself up on the bed to a sitting position and feel the locket around my neck shift.  Absentmindedly I pick it up off my chest and press it to my lips.  My locket is the only remaining thing I have of my mother.  It had been given to her when she was in high school by her mother, a woman I’ll never remember meeting since we never spoke to her after my mother left.  I feel the cool transform to warm as the locket absorbs my body heat.  Even though my parents aren’t together I still love this locket because it has a picture of both of them when they were young and they look a lot like I do now.  A perfect meld of their features I always look like whichever parent I’m nearest too whenever someone makes the comparison. 

                I keep my hair long like my mother did.  It’s down to my waist. Not my natural waist but my low rise jeans waist.  It’s dark like my fathers and curly.  Every day I put some collection of goop in it so that it looks like I brushed it.  I have fair skin like my mothers, her hanging ear lobes and my father’s dark brown eyes.  My body is slender, hardly requiring the queen sized bed I’ve stuff into my small eleven by twelve room, but by no means fit.  My aunts call me one of the lucky ones.  I can eat anyone under the table without gaining an ounce.  They’re just jealous.  Years of starvation diets have ruined their metabolisms and there’s nothing that can be done for them at this point. 

                My eyes shift to my wall of fame.  Pictures of my father’s family and my friends ranging from childhood to my college years.  God, it’s only been a week and I can already refer to my life as having college years.  I let the locket drop and reach for my phone.  I want desperately to text someone but I never really felt like I made a connection with anyone in college.  I had roommates and study buddies but no one I really confided in.  It was easier not to form tight bonds after the way I had to leave all my childhood friends to chase my dreams of being a doctor.  One day of shadowing a doctor and I realized I was more interested in medical gadgets.  Plus I was pretty ok with computers, so bioengineering it was.

                  “Liz!” my father calls out to me.  I hear the front door opening.  My father is home from work.

                “Yes?” I call back.  I get out of bed and head toward my door but before I can get to it he’s standing in the doorway. 

                “Liz. Good, your home.  I bought us a pizza.”

                “Oh ok. Cool.”

                “It’s MeNEd’s.  I know how you like to have it when you visit.”

                It hardly feels like a visit to me since I brought all my stuff and oh yeah I got a job.

                “So,” he prods, “how was your day?”  He gives me a look that shows more than his voice does.  He never was the kind to let me be lazy.

                “Um well I kinda sorta got a job.” I’m not sure how he’s gonna take this.

                “That’s great news!” he says, putting a slice of pizza on a plate and handing it to me.  Pepperoni and olive, my favorite. “Where did you find it? What city are you off to now?”

                “Don’t get too excited.  I haven’t found anything in my field yet.”

                “Then where are you working?”

                “I went back to MeNEd’s actually,” I say through a mouthful of cheesy goodness. “Miguel let me have a couple days a week and I get to pick up shifts.”

                “Oh.  Well at least it’s something.  That’ll give you some time to save up for your next job.” Yeah, sure. If there is a next job. 

                I don’t mean to be so cynical but seriously I’ve been trying for a few months now and I have yet to hear more than regrets from anywhere I’ve applied. 

                “Well, at least it won’t be a gap in my work history.  Right?”  I’m looking for reassurance.  I’m not sure how a summer job after college looks to a recruiter when it’s not an internship.  Unfortunately I can’t afford to work for free.  I don’t doubt my dad loves me, but I know he can’t support two sets of bills just so I can fetch coffee or whatever interns even do.

                “Right.  That’s always good.  It shows you have a good work ethic.  Hell, your degree can attest to that!” He’s always gonna be proud of me for doing that.  I’m the first in the family to graduate college.  “Besides it’s all a numbers game.  The more places you apply to the more likely you are to get something.”

                “Or if I knew anyone.”

                “Yeah, well, you don’t.  So just be glad that at least you have something right now.” He kisses my forehead with pizza lips while I fight the urge to back out of it.  It’s a pimple waiting to happen.  “Just remember that daddy is proud of daughter.  So when do you start?”

                “Um,” I say as more of place maker so that he knows I’m not trying to not respond while I chew my food.  “I start Saturday.  My scheduled days are Monday and Saturday.”

                “Well it’s a start like I said.  At least you won’t be doing nothing this summer.”  See he doesn’t want me to be lazy.  Ever. “And someone needs to help me clean this house.  I’m getting older and working all day and cleaning all night is just not what I want to do.”

                “Dad, there’s only two of us.”

                “I know.  I’m just sayin’” He’s always just sayin’.

                “Ok, ok.  I’ll help with the cleaning.” It’s easier to just back down on this one.  Besides I only have maybe eight to ten hours of solid work a week anyway.  What’s a few dishes going to do to me?

                “Well I wish I’d known you got your job back.  I would have gotten something else for dinner.”

                “It’s ok.  You know I never get sick of this stuff.”  It’s true. I worked there for two years and still missed the food when I left home.

                “When do you start again?”

                “Saturday morning,” I say quickly in between bites.

                “Good.  That’ll give you some time to catch up on sleep after those finals.”

                I guess I get to be lazy after all. 

                I saw her coming before she tapped my shoulder.  The new girl.  I knew she would be here because Miguel told me, yeah but this was different.  I always usually know when someone is coming up behind me.  The strangest part isn’t always knowing, it’s that no one seems to think it’s weird.

                “Um, Hello?” She was waving her hand in my face. Sure I knew she was coming but that didn’t mean I wasn’t busy.

                “Hey, what’s up,” I say.

                “So I guess we’re working together this morning, huh.” Usually that’s a question but she says its like it’s a sentence.  I like her already.  I like a woman who’s sure of herself.

                “I guess.”  I don’t mean to shrug her off but someone has to cut these bell peppers and so far it doesn’t look like she’ll be doing much more than talking my ear off all day.  Miguel calls it a morning shift but it doesn’t start until ten and lasts until two or four depending on your status. 

                “How long have you been here?” she asks. 

                “Long enough.”

                “I used to work here in high school.” So that’s how she got the job so fast.

                “I’ve been here about a year.”

                “That’s cool.  I guess technically I’ll be starting on my third year here since I worked here two years when I was in high school.  Zach, right?” Crap she knows my name.  I can’t even remember hers.

                “Yeah that’s right.  So listen, are you gonna work, or are you gonna just stand there and talk my damn ear off, uh…?”

                “Elizabeth.  I got your name from the schedule in the office.”  She holds our her hand.  Her hand that she hasn’t washed yet.  I set down the knife and wipe both of my hands on my apron before shaking her hand.  Of course she wants a hand shake, I heard she was a college girl.  They were always so formal. 

                “Zach,” I say shaking her hand more out of obligation.  I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to make money and that’s the only thing keeping me at a 30 hour a week job where my hours could get cut just for asking for a day off; even if I’m sick. 

                “I know, remember.”  Smart and a smart ass.  I guess that’s nothing new though.  My sister was the same way. 

                I asked her a question. “Well?”

                “I’m gonna work,” she says.  She rolls her eyes and lets out a heavy sigh before walking over to the sink and pushing the pump to the soap with the palm of her hand.  I pick up the knife to get back to work.  Time for me to roll my eyes, I just shook a dirty hand. 

                I walk over to the sink just as she finishes up and she leaves the water on for me so I can wash my own hands.  The place is quiet and it’s just the two of us.  It’s not like we can’t have music here, there’s a set up for it but we still aren’t allowed to listen to the radio.  Supposedly it’s too distracting to the customers which is weird because other locations have music and a jukebox to go with it.  I bet I’d get busted for playing the stuff I like. 

                “Is it gonna be slow today?” she asks.  She starts laying down a rag before slamming a cutting board onto the counter.  Everything else was pretty much set up before she got here.  I like to get here a few minutes early and like I said I’ve been here a year so I’m pretty fast.

                “I think so.  Summer Saturday mornings can be pretty slow.  It’s when college football starts up that we get busy on a Saturday.”

                “Oh. Ok.” 

                We work in silence me cutting the bell peppers and she pulling the plastic wrap off of the set up so we can actually make some pizzas.  It took her long enough to realize that everything was pretty much set up. 

                “It’s under that counter,” I say, pointing toward the dough press. 

                “Hm, what?”

                “The window cleaner, it’s under that counter.” 

                “Oh, uh…  Thanks.”  She sounds confused but that’s just because she doesn’t know me yet.  She doesn’t know that I usually always know things before other people do.  She doesn’t know that I usually always know where people are and what they’re doing. 

                While she cleans the window I give the tables and booths one last wipe down before we open.  I know they were cleaned last night since that’s part of closing but it’s nice to have the place smelling so clean.  Before I unlock the door I stand in front of the vending machines.  No one would ever get a real tattoo that looks like that demon whatever it’s supposed to be.  I do this every shift.

                “You know no one is going to come in for pizza at 11 in the morning,” she says.  Crap what’s her name again?

                “Yeah well it doesn’t matter because I don’t make the rules.  I don’t own the place.”  I definitely wouldn’t have hired anyone new.  Everyone hardly gets enough hours as it is.  “So, uh…”

                “Liz.” Maybe she has a little of what I’ve got.

                “Right.  Liz.  What did you do in school?”  It really doesn’t matter to me where she went because college is college as long as it’s not city or here in town really.

                “Bioengineering.  I want to get into prosthetics.”

                “Are there a lot of jobs for that?”

                “If there were do you think I’d be here?” I like her already. 

                “Is it good money?”

                “It would be if I could get the work.”  She’s got a point there.  We continue our shift with not a lot of talking until someone comes in at noon when we get to take our breaks before the late lunch crowd.  At least Miguel isn’t due in today.  The restaurant feels more free without him.  It’s easier to work when there isn’t someone fussing over the details for you. 

                When my shift is up the not-so-new girl is already gone.  By the looks of the schedule it seems like I’m sorta training her since she’s working during my next night shift on Monday.  I’m so bad with names the only reason I know it’s her is because she’s penciled in at the bottom of the schedule.  It’s only six o’clock and the sun is far from setting.  Summer days in this town are so freaking long sometimes.  When I checked the weather app on my phone this morning it wasn’t supposed to be too hot.  At least it wasn’t supposed to be over a hundred so I decided to walk since I live about a mile away.  Even us uneducated people know we need exercise.  But that’s besides the point.

                The point is I don’t exactly have a car so when I got this job I was lucky my grandma a) lived nearby and b) had a room I could use.  I mean I help out with cleaning and stuff so it’s cool but I still wish I could afford to live on my own and have a car.  It’s just a struggle since every time I get more hours it doesn’t last.  Sure I have thirty hours this week, but next week with the new girl? I guess I’ll find out on Thursday how my next week will be. 

                The walk home seems shorter and shorter every day.  For a bit of it I walk alongside the canal until I reach the street I need to turn left on.  My grandma owns a house in this neighborhood.  She’s been there my whole life and longer even.  The sun beams into my eyes the whole way down the canal from the direct sunlight as I head west.  In some ways I feel kinda lucky we’re in a drought because that means the canal is empty and doesn’t reflect the sunlight back in my eyes. 

                I turn left and know that I’m almost home.  An old homeless woman pushes past me with her grocery cart full of recyclables and whatever belongings she has, even a Chihuahua.   

                “You have any spare change?  I’m thirsty out here.”  Her voice sounds like she’s had it rough. Really rough. 

                “No, sorry.”  I don’t know why I say sorry but it always comes out.  I’m not really sorry because I don’t actually want to give my money to some homeless lady.  I actually work for my money.  Plus I don’t even carry cash anymore.  It’s not like she has a bank account.  Maybe. She might.  As she walks away she waves me off like I’m the problem; like it’s us versus them.  Maybe it is but I gotta protect what’s mine.

                I continue down the sidewalk until I reach my street and make another left.  My grandmother’s house is white with those fake shutters stuck on either side of the front windows.  They’re some lighter shade of blue, what do I know.  I walk across the crunchy front lawn.  Our watering days were cut because of the drought so everyone’s grass is dying pretty much.  Before I walk in the door I use my special power to guess what’s for dinner.  It’s summer and all but I feel like my grandma is in the mood for soup so I guess posole.

                When I open the door I take a deep breath and I smell everything I needed to know.  I smell the fresh onion and cilantro.  I smell the warmth of the boiling soup on the stove and my grandma comes out to say hi and stuff.

                “How was work? I’m making posole.  But let me guess: you already knew that.”  She laughs a genuine laugh.  My grandma is the only person in the family who doesn’t get bothered by me always knowing everything.  I guess that’s what grandma’s are for. 

                “I had a hunch,” I offer playfully.  “Work was good.  We got a new person though so let’s see if my hours don’t get cut.”

                “You just need to find something that’s right for you.  Why don’t you go back to school?”

                “That’s the thing, this new girl, well she’s not really new, but she went to college and now she’s making pizzas just like me.  So what really is even the point?”

                “I don’t know, you could find something you really like.”  This was conversation I should have guessed we’d be having but I didn’t.  “You’re so smart, you could do anything you like.”

                “Being smart and doing schoolwork are two different things, grandma.”  I head to my room.  It’s so freaking hot in these pants.  The weather isn’t particularly bad if you’re in the shade, but being in the sun like I was for a full mile can really get to you.   

                “Yes but you were always a smart kid….” This again. I close the door before she can continue talking about my life and my future.  I don’t really know what I wanna do but I do know I’m not the school type.  I mean I used to work as a freaking landscaper before I landed this job with air conditioning.  I put on some basketball shorts and a white tank top.  Most around here call them wife beaters, but not me.  I refuse to call it that. Ever. 

                When I come back out of my room my grandma is in the kitchen setting out two bowls of soup on the kitchen counter to cool. 

                “Well anyway, here’s dinner,” she says picking up one bowl and heading to the table.  It’s not that I don’t like talking to her, I just don’t know what to do with myself.  I just keep holding out for legit full time, even if it’s just making pizzas.  They have managers and stuff so it’s not like I can’t move up.  Although I could end up in the same boat as Liz: college educated and still working in food service at the bottom of the food chain.