Just Another Someone
   

     I’m trying to focus, but my brain just won’t budge. It’s almost as if someone locked it up and threw away the key.
     Right now, I am in my seventh grade seventh period science classroom and I couldn’t care less about how ecosystems work. Our class has been working on this essay for about four days and I haven’t started it at all. I’d better pick up the pace on this.
     “What are some important ecosystems around us that we take for granted?’ Okay, this should be pretty simple,” I mutter to myself.
     The bell finally rings at 2:35 PM. I race out of the classroom and to my locker. I stuff my light blue backpack full with my papers, folders, and binders and sprint out the front doors. Sunlight blinds me and a wave of humidity from last night’s rain crashes into me.
     I can’t stand the feel of that school. To me, it smells like stinky sweat socks with a hint of strong celery. The walls are grey with no signs of color or pictures except for few black scratches here and there where people’s instruments have rubbed against the wall. I think the principal (or whoever’s in charge) should at least let us try to work some magic and turn those walls into something a little more welcoming.
I hurry down the sidewalk and into my apartment building a block away from school. I race up the stairs and stop at our apartment door. The keys are at the bottom of my bag. I put it on the ground and shuffle through my crowded backpack. Finding the keys under my science textbook, I unlock the door and walk inside.
     I drop my bag near the entrance to the living room and flop myself onto the couch. It lets out a soft moan. I can hear the noise from the streets below me and think about how many times I’ve fallen asleep to the never-ending sound of cars that continuously speed by our apartment. I breathe in the familiar smell of the leather couch and then the strong smell of lavender that has wafted out of my mom’s bathroom. I wish I could stay right here forever.
     I go in the kitchen and pull out an apple and peanut butter. I cut up the apple and pour myself a tall glass of milk. I walk to the table and sit down. Crunch. Crunch. The apple and milk slowly disappear.
     My parents are going to be getting home later than usual because of some work banquet. So, it looks like it’ll be grilled cheese for dinner. Again. Sometimes I wish that I could have a normal life with normal parents that have time for their daughter. When my parents are home, their attention is on their work more often than it is on me. I wish that they would get fired sometimes, so that maybe, without all that work stress they have, they’d be able to spend more time with me. But I guess that’s just how my life is meant to go, always yearning to be able to ask for help, but not having anyone to turn to. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since moving to Los Angeles, it’s that life is hard, and you’ve got to make the best of it.
     This apartment’s rooms and hallways feel even more barren than the last few that my family’s lived in. There are no pictures of me smiling when I won the spelling bee in the china cabinet, or beaming about striking the winning goal for my team’s soccer tournament. My parents used to pay more attention to me, but ever since we moved here, I’ve hardly seen them at all. Who knows, maybe my parents could be the switch that turns the light on inside my head. I’d finally start doing better in school. I might not be so shy. I might raise my hand in class. I might even make friends. This is all just wishful thinking though. I doubt it’ll ever happen.
     Once I clean up my snack, I walk over to the couch and open my backpack. I grab my science textbook, a pencil, and paper and stare at it all.

     “Don’t be giving me any trouble, now,” I say to them. They don’t say anything back, so I guess that’s a good sign. “Good. Let’s get this over with then.”
     I finally stop working at 6:08 PM. I glance at my two page essay. I’m not very proud of it, but I know it’s too late to start from scratch now - especially since it’s due by the end of the day tomorrow. I walk into the kitchen and turn on the light. Circles appear on the ceiling from the circular lights hanging a few feet from my head. I get out all of my ingredients, put a skillet on the stove and turn on the burner. I spread butter around the pan and put some on each slice of bread. I put it all in the pan so it’ll start cooking-I don’t see the towel right next to the stove.
     The phone rings as I’m flipping my grilled cheese over. Its crisp golden brown crust makes my stomach rumble. I walk over to the counter and answer the phone. “Hello?” I ask.
     “Hello, this is Kate, from Mary’s Trims, I am here to verify an appointment for,” she pauses. “Naomi Zolland?”
     My mom must have scheduled a haircut for me. “Yes ma’am, when is that again?”
     “Tomorrow at 4:00 PM,” the hair lady says.
     “Okay, thank you!” I hang up.
     I put the phone on the counter and walk into the kitchen. I make sure my grilled cheese isn’t burnt and walk into the bathroom. I stare at the reflection I see in the mirror. My hair is long, wavy, and a nice auburn brown – which makes my blue eyes look brighter. More out of habit than anything else, I check to make sure my hair looks okay. I look at it from the left side, the right side, and from the back. I guess it does need trimmed. Suddenly, I hear a loud beeping noise. It seems to echo throughout the entire apartment.
     I spin on my heel and run to the kitchen. The sight almost makes me jump back. There’s grey smoke covering the entire ceiling. Directly next to the stove, I see a kitchen towel on fire. Our gas stove’s flame has disappeared, but I know that the gas is still flowing. I turn off the burner and hope that too much of it didn’t escape. I can smell the strong stench of the gas now.
I race to the pantry and fling the door open. I look everywhere. Top to bottom, I don’t see a fire extinguisher anywhere. There’s got to be one somewhere. I turn back around to find that the cabinet above the stove has caught fire. I sprint to the hall closet. I can’t find one there either. I race to the sink and fill up a large bowl with water. I throw the water onto the base of the fire, like I’d been taught in my science safety class, but the fire’s too big now. Roaring flames eat at all of the cabinets now. I start to cry.
     I race to the phone, but hesitate. Who do I call? Is this a real 911 emergency? Shouldn’t I just call my parents? I finally dial three numbers. 9-1-1. My body is shaking violently, and my heart is beating like I’m in the front row watching the drum line. I run out of the kitchen, afraid the ceiling will collapse. The tears are falling heavier now, my face burns and my head is pounding. I start running all around the apartment, turning on fans and opening windows while I desperately wait for someone to answer my call. There is a muffled sound on the other end of the line, but no other sound is audible through the crash coming from the entryway.
     “Please come and get me,” I plead. I race to where the crash came from. Rubble blocks the door. Even from the front entryway, I can hear dishes falling through our burning, unsteady shelves.
Now, I hear the operator ask loud and clear, “What is your emergency?”
I try to tell him that the kitchen was on fire, but all he probably hear was, “My apartment just caught - ” there was another loud crash as I say ‘on,’ but the word ‘fire’ comes out loud and clear.  “I can’t get out! The door’s blocked, and I’m too high up to go out the window, I’m on the ninth floor, please come and get me!” My panic takes over and I continue crying, my face drying as fast as it gets wet. The air is thick, as if I’m breathing through a small paper bag.
    I run away from the entryway and as far away from the fire as I can get.

     I hear the operator ask “What is the location of your emergency?”
     I tell him my street address and area code. I hear another loud crash from the kitchen.
     “Where are calling from?”
     “I’m inside, and I can’t get out! Please help me… Come get me out,” I plead.
     “Can you tell me your name?”
     “My name is – cough – Naomi Zolland,” I manage to say. The smoke is in all of the rooms now, but the fire has only spread into the living room. I run to get my backpack out. A roaring red and orange monster lunges at my feet, missing me by inches and hitting the tan carpet instead. It gobbles the carpet up gladly. I snatch my backpack and sprint out of the room. The operator is talking to me, but I can’t hear him. All I can hear is a loud, high pitched ringing coming from my ears. I don’t know what it is, but I buckle down and cover my ears, trying to calm down so the ringing will stop. The phone drops from my sweaty hands.
     After a few minutes, my vision starts getting blurry. I blink to erase the misty fog that has settled in my eyes. My throat feels three times its size. I try to keep my eyes open, but my mind says differently. I will never complain about science class again if it means getting me out of here. My eyes shut and I drift into a daze-like sleep.
     After several minutes have passed, or maybe even hours, I see three figures appear through the smoke and flame. I can barely make out their shape. I am conscious, I think, but it’s like I’m in a daze, like none of this is actually happening. They rush toward me and put me onto a bed that I hadn’t noticed them carrying. It feels cool against my burning skin. They rush me out of the burning building. The cool air greets me like an old friend.

     My throat burns and I close my eyes all the way, not caring about where I am taken to. I am so tired. I hear loud sirens, but I’m underwater. I can hear noise, but it's all muffled. Blurry, unfocused scenes of white walls and white uniforms streak by. I see bright lights then, slowly, the lights dim, getting darker and darker until there’s complete darkness.
     I wake up in a dim white room. What am I doing in here? My throat burns. Suddenly I remember. I remember it all now. I remember the towel, the operator, the backpack, the monstrous red flame lunging at me. All of the things I could have done and all of the things I didn’t. I start to cry. I look down to see my right arm wrapped in a white bandage. It didn’t hurt, and it seemed to be the least of my problems at the moment.
     How could all of this happen? How could I have let all this happen? Did anyone else get hurt? My mouth feels dry. My throat yearns for something cold to put out the fire that seems to have settled inside. A woman walks into the room wearing blue hospital scrubs. Her hair is in a tight bun and she carries a glass of ice. She walks over to the desk and pulls a rolling stool out from under it. The woman sits next to me.
     “Hey there, kiddo, my name is Madeline, and I’m a nurse here in the children’s wing. You must be pretty tired after all that you’ve been through tonight.”
     Madeline shakes her head, spoons an ice cube out of the cup, and puts it in my mouth. At first, I feel like a baby being fed, but my throat feels a hundred times better from just a little bit of ice on my tongue. The ice disappears faster than lit paper. Suddenly I’m craving the cold sensation on my tongue, welcoming it to help put out the fire. She puts more ice in my mouth.
     “Your family should be here any minute now…” She gets up puts the cup of ice next to my right hand and the spoon in my left hand. Then, walks out of the room, humming.
     The silence left in the room is nearly unbearable. Except for the occasional footsteps outside the door, my room seems completely soundproof. I continue feeding myself ice. The fire slowly disappears.
     Minutes later, the door opens, and my parents walk in. My mom turns away immediately, muffling the sound of her shaking sobs.
     My dad, being the humorous type, says, “You should avoid setting the kitchen on fire, you know.”
     My eyes are overcome with rivers. I smile through the tears streaming down my cheeks, then stand up. My parents walk toward me. My mom comes and gives me a kiss on my cheek and my dad just chuckles with his deep voice and gives me a big bear hug just like he did when I was little.
     “I’m so sorry… I should’ve paid more attention. I should have been able to put it out. I’m so sorry.” I cry and cry and cry, my eyes keep flooding with tears and they won’t stop coming.
     “We should have been there with you anyway… We should have been there a lot more than we were. I’m so sorry…” I can tell that my mom is struggling to choke back tears.
     “It’s okay,” I manage to say. “I’m okay,” I hug them both so hard. “So,” I say after a while, “I guess I’ll be needing that haircut now…” I say, smiling. My parents laugh.
     The next morning, when my parents are out getting food that isn’t hospital food, I ask Madeline for a pencil and paper.
     “Sure thing, it’s a good thing you’re left handed!” She says as she nods at my right arm, and then skips out of the room to get the supplies. I now know that I got a second degree burn on my right arm - which I probably got when I grabbed my backpack out of the living room, and I just didn’t feel it because of the adrenaline rush. But, I have no time to worry about that now because I have a report due today. I think I know what I’m going to write about now.