Her name was Flare, a bit of an unconventional name, but I had always found it charming. Perhaps it was the redness of her hair and the way it danced in the occasional updraft: vivid, much like her namesake. In any case, her name bespoke of passion, and that was certainly appropriate.

I don't remember when we first met. It must have been when I was quite young as I can't remember ever being separate from her. However, my first memory was from the summer of '02. It was the warmest day of the decade—I loved to explore and still stayed indoors. Such was the extent of the heat.

Flare knocked on my door at noon, drenched in sweat and giving my mother a shock. I remember Flare marched right through the den and planted her ruby eyes before mine.

"Aren't you bored?"

I was indeed.

"I've found something amazing."

"What is it?" I put down my book.

"Magic... You need to see!"

"Magic?"

"Yes, it's magic! I can't explain it—you need to see."

"But my mother says there's no such thing."

"There isn't." My mother had appeared at the doorway. "And Orson isn't going out in this heat. Neither should you."

"It's summer," the little Flare responded. "It's supposed to be warm."

"Look at you. You're halfway to a heat stroke."

"I'm fine!"

My mother was a strict woman and wouldn't have any of it. "Sit put. I'll be calling your parents." She swept through the kitchen and produced a glass of lemonade.

"But I'm fine!" Flare whined but flopped onto the lounge and drank.

My mother left after that, probably to make the call, and the moment she was out of earshot, Flare's pouting went back to excitement.

"C'mon, Orson." She gave a smile. "I want to show you."

"But you heard my mother."

Flare pointed down the hallway, past the kitchen, and at the unguarded front door. "No one'll catch us. Let's go on an adventure."

I had always been an obedient child. I went to bed on time, did the chores, and got good grades. So, I was surprised when I found myself following her into the forty-degree summer. There was something about her that drew—always drew—me in.

My youth was spent in the countryside of Fitzroy Harbour and this day was no different. We crossed Canon Smith Drive and meandered alongside the Carp River. Within fifteen minutes, we were amongst the white pines of the Ottawa Valley.

Flare dragged me with her sweaty little hand to our usual stomping grounds.

It was a clearing maybe fifteen meters in diameter. Lined with river stones, Morson's Creek coursed through, and it was where we'd dip our feet or capture tadpoles. That day, where a pillar of sunlight broke through the trees, a sphere could be seen resting on a stump.

"What is that?" I wiped the sweat off my brow.

"It's our magic sphere!" Flare piped.

Upon closer inspection, I found the sphere to be lacklustre. It was a plastic 2L bottle fashioned like a football, a knickknack for the FIFA World Cup that year. And I told her as much.

"But it's magic," she insisted.

"No, it's not. It's just a bottle."

"Look." She picked it up and cradled it as if reading the label.

I craned closer. "What are you doi—"

Where the sunlight pierced the water, the rays moved... converged out through the other side, and focused onto a leaf. It was smoking.

"What..."

The leaf puffed into ash and visible flame.

"Oh, shoot." Flare stamped it out beneath her shoe.

I gawked. "How... d-did you?"

Flare met my gaze with a brilliant smile; she brushed a red lock out of her red eyes. "Magic."

I later found out that it was not magic, but rather an optical phenomenon wherein a spherical lens acts as a magnifying glass. In fact, the manufacturer eventually faced legal repercussions.

However, thinking back on it, I feel compelled to agree with the little Flare, regardless of the physical facts. There had been a spark of magic.

I recalled we spent the rest of that day in the creek, setting countless leaves and the occasional ant ablaze. I went home with quite a few spot burns. Flare did too, although she never seemed to mind the heat.

We hid our magic sphere from our parents; we spent that summer, and many more, casting magic until the bottle could hold no water. By that time, we had found substitutes in regular magnifying glasses although we still mourned the loss.

Of course, Flare and I were inseparable even during the school term. The other children mocked us like children often do, but I didn't care.

We went to Stonecrest Elementary, a fifteen-minute bus ride down the street. An L-shaped building built on an intersection, the school was where we spent eight years of our childhood. I was fond of the teachers, in particular, Miss Abien, the young immigrant teacher with a passion for instruction.

Flare and I had her during fourth grade and her best subject was Art.

With a studio in the southwestern wing, the classes were always well-prepared and enthusiastic. Miss Abien pushed us to be passionate but also wanted us to have technical skills, encouraging the use of references and perspective in our works.

I remember an assignment about colours.

"What do colours make you feel?" Miss Abien had asked. "For instance," She beckoned to the sun outside. "What emotion does yellowy sunlight invoke?"

The class came to a quick consensus. "Happiness?" a boy answered.

Miss Abien nodded. "That's the usual feeling. And how about the blueish bounce light?." The room had windows on both sides and a blue cast was prominent from the northern face.

The class took more time with this response. When the answers did come out, there was more variation: calmness and sadness were common.

Abien nodded again. "Colours are often associated with feelings," she stated. "It's a great tool to add feelings into your work. For instance, an artist might see this classroom and paint about the variation of emotion that people may experience at different times."

Rightfully, this flew over the heads of most of the class, but Abien seemed to find that acceptable. She then shared various works that exemplified colour use. She ended with a red painting.

"And what does a reddish-orange make you feel?" she asked the class.

Someone gave the obvious answer. "Warmth."

"Appropriate. Anything else?"

To no one's surprise, the ever-active Flare raised her hand. However, her answer was more surprising.

"Friendship."

The response drew some thought. Miss Abien then spoke: "Well, that's somewhat unconventional. But I can see how that might be the case..." She bit her lip. "Regardless, I'm glad you shared."

I remained silent.

Abien proceeded to give the week's assignment. It was a free-ended painting exercise: exaggerate colours to induce emotion into a subject of choice. Many students choose to reference classroom items, and I had planned to do the same until Flare beckoned to me.

"What is it?"

"Come," she urged.

"But why?"

"You'll see."

We drew up to the front of the class where Miss Abien was rifling through papers. She noticed us. "Ah, Flare and Orson. How can I help you?

"It's about the assignment," Flare answered. "I was wondering if we could be a group."

"It was supposed to be individual," Abien started. She bit her lip. "Oh, why not. I'm sure the two of you have some plans."

Flare beamed.

Abien exchanged her gaze between us. "By chance, were you two going to choose a red composition?"

"Yes'm!"

"Well, I'd love to see how reds may represent friendship." Abien seemed to say that to me.

I was still confused by the whole situation, but I trusted Flare. I gave a nod.

Miss Abien dismissed us, and returning to our seats, I shifted my desk against Flare's. "Do we have a plan? What are we going to paint?"

Flare displayed an enchanting smirk.

She gave no reply but rather had us slather the canvas with an ivy-green wash. We had been taught that underpainting was often used to set a foundation. Burnt sienna was a common choice for painting skin tones, but I was stumped about the green.

The answer came when we were returned home that spring afternoon. It was on the bus when Flare told me to meet her at the usual spot. So, I devoured my supper and double-timed it down Canon Smith.

I found her crossed-legged on a stool in the middle of our clearing. Another stool and an easel were already prepared, and Flare had donned a beret.

I snatched the seat beside her. "So, what are we going to paint?"

"Take a guess, Orson," she chirped.

"A nature scene?" We were in the middle of a forest after all. But there were no autumn leaves that would possess the reds we had promised to employ.

Flare shrugged. "More or less."

She mixed a palette of warm tones and passed it to me. She sprang from her seat and approached a single leaf that had been fastened upright. A lens emerged from her pocket.

"Do your best," Flare encouraged.

With that, Flare lit the leaf ablaze and I struggled to capture the fleeting moment. And it was damn hard. How were a couple of fourth graders supposed to paint something like fire? But we tried... many times.

"A bit to the left."

"You sure?"

"Yes. More... and light it!"

It took several dozen leaves and a lot of switching of roles, but the two of us managed something half-decent.

I was more adept with the details: I understood the values and worked the smoky details with the bristles of the brush. Flare had the passion: each of her strokes dripped with emotion and laid out the colours of the greater painting. I still remember the red strokes, spirited, like the red of her eyes.

The result was beautiful beyond our years, a depiction of a burning leaf, contrasted against the peace of the white pines.

Miss Abien must have thought the same, as she showered us with praise, insisting it was magic. She hung the original in the school's atrium and even submitted a copy to the school newsletter who put a modest article in their next issue.

But the whole time she kept nagging us: "How did you mean for the flames to portray friendship?"

Flare would always respond with her mysterious smile, and when Abien turned to me, I couldn't do much better. The painting did represent Flare and me, but it was a subtle, unconscious thing.

In a way, Miss Abien had hit the nail on the head: it was magic.

Anyhow, that painting was the first of many, the majority of which retained our fondness for fire. Our reputation preceded us in the upper years at Stonecrest, and all the teachers gave us freedom in their art classes.

This freedom was perhaps a shortcoming in sixth grade.

It was the week after our EQAO standardized exams. Unlike me, Flare had a poor academic aptitude and was notably sullen. To cheer her up, our teacher gave us special permission to the teacher's lounge.

It was enormous for the school's size and came with a fireplace that was—for whatever reason—left on year-round. Mr. Taker had thought we'd enjoy painting it and he was right.

We set up an easel adjacent to the hearth and got to work. Flare and I were practiced by that time and our work drew the appreciation of on-break teachers. We painted into recess, and when the chimes of the clock came, so did Miss Abien.

"My, what mastery!" she said from behind us.

We both spun. "Miss Abien!" We had seldom seen her in the past years.

"It's Mrs. Scout now." She grinned, rubbing her tummy.

I was confused, but Flare was quicker on the uptake. "Congratulations, Mrs. Scout!"

"Many thanks." Scout looked back at our work. "But let's look at this painting of yours, you've gotten so good."

Flare blushed. "Thank you. Orson and I do our best."

"It shows."

"And it's due to your class. You taught us so much," I added.

Mrs. Scout laughed. "All my colleagues say I go into too much theory with the pupils. I'm glad that it was interesting for you two."

"And you gave us feedback. That was always so helpful," Flare said. "It would be great if you could give this piece a look."

With a nod, Mrs. Scout dissected our work. She loved the feeling and detail we captured. At the same time, she pointed out points of improvement like the colour variation of the floorboards under the firelight.

She concluded with some kind words. "I hope your friendship lasts and maybe even strengthens." She was rubbing her belly again.

Flare blushed like a tomato.

I was confused at the time. Flare seemed to have understood, although I recalled sex ed started in eighth grade.

Giggling, Mrs. Scout deposited some belongings on the coffee table and left us alone in the staff room.

We continued our work, but as I added paint splatters, I noticed Flare's distraction. "What are you looking at?"

Following the line of her gaze, my eyes came upon Mrs. Scout's trinkets. Amongst them were a pack of cigarettes, some white packets, and a lighter. I later learnt that the packets were nicotine patches, and that beautiful individuals still have their struggles.

But at that moment, Flare was transfixed on the lighter.

We knew what it was, but our households were strict on substance abuse, and we'd never seen one up close.

Flare snatched it before I could object.

"What are you doing?" I hissed.

"Relax, Orson. I just want to try it."

"Ahhh..."

She flicked the spark wheel and depressed the fork. A wisp of flame jumped out, blue at the base and orange near the apex.

"Why is it blue?" Flare tilted her head.

I shook mine in response.

Flare scanned the room, and making sure the coast was clear, she whispered: "Maybe it's magic."

Of course, she wouldn't have believed those words at that age. Regardless, her teasing was enough to loosen my nerves.

She played with the mechanism several times, flicking the flame on and off. She then passed it to me, and her excitement surged when I discovered the adjustment valve.

We switched the lighter to the max, sat closer, and compared it with our painting. It struck us how different the colours and vorticity had been.

But the shock was far greater when the two flames became one...

"Oh shoot." In her concentration, Flare had ignited the canvas.

We leapt from our seats as the fire consumed our painting and blackened the easel. The smoke detectors began to sound, and Mrs. Scout appeared in the doorway.

"Flare! Orson!"

But we were frozen in the middle of the room, in awe of the heat and fire. Scout was forced to rush through the room and extricate us with great difficulty.

Flare and I spent the afternoon sitting side by side on the football pitch. She had gripped my hand in our flight and refused to relent. It wasn't of shock but of the mischievousness between partners in crime.

The fire was extinguished by Mr. Peters with little damage and the whole thing was deemed a freak accident, something about a spark igniting some papers. Mr. Taker was put on paid leave for a month, and the two of us were later offered counselling which we declined.

When the bus came to take us home, Flare and I were laughing. The day had been exhilarating—and I'm sure Flare enjoyed it more than I did—all without so much as a reprimand.

Well, we weren't entirely unscathed. Flare sustained a minor burn across her forearm.

The blemish faded as we entered eighth grade. So too did our youthful purity. Eighth grade brought about our teenage years and the oddity called puberty.

It was when I really started to notice Flare, and not just as a friend. She grew taller, even overcoming my height for a bit, and well... fuller. She shed the plumpness of her cheeks and took on sharper features that played with the vibrance of her hair.

Flare was still cute, always had been to some extent, but there was something more.

I changed too, and not in such a pleasant way. I had always been somewhat reclusive, and I became aware of her at all times, awkward, leading to discomfort despite our extended friendship.

This caused plenty of unfocused paint strokes and misread conversations. But still, I enjoyed our time together.

We painted from imagination: stylized scenes of landscapes and characters and great fires. We frequented the woods of Fitzroy: the clearing had become something of a campsite; we erected fires and played for long hours.

In fact, we probably spent more time in the forest than we ever had before. It was not without good reason. Our time at Stonecrest was drawing short and secondary school could not guarantee we would be in the same class.

And so, our last year as children were spent being the biggest children we could. We were reckless, we played, and we made the best paintings we had yet made.

The graduation ceremony only proved our achievement.

I remember it as an ordeal, dreary and full of pomp. Stonecrest Elementary had appropriated the local theatre for the ceremony and the pupils—dolled up in too-big suits and dresses—were sequentially summoned onstage.

"Why aren't we with the others?" Flare asked.

We were in a smaller group, offside from the greater class, most of which had already taken their turn.

I poked her in the side. "Maybe you're special."

"Maybe, I am." A smug grin sat on her lips.

As it turned out, the notion wasn't far from the truth.

The first of our group, Abel Thorsten, was called forth. His anxiety only dissipated when the teachers presented an award for mathematic achievement. Next was Connor Mai for being most likely to be successful. The ceremony continued as such until a familiar name was called.

"Flare Andelion—"

I watched as she rose up the stage's steps. Although many of the students' clothes were poorly fitted, the same could not be said for Flare. I still recall her sleeveless gown, well-tailored and dyed in pink-red.

But my appreciation soon turned to surprise.

"And Orson Timberland... Please come to the stage."

I remember walking on shaking knees, watched by hundreds of adults. The principal gave little mind to my trembling. "To these bright youngsters, I present the award for artistic mastery."

As applause thundered, Flare visibly radiated.

But the principal was not finished. "—for two recipients, two awards are only fitting. Flare and Orson were also voted the most likely to change the world..." He smiled at the crowd. "For better or for worse."

The applause was joined by laughter, and Flare grabbed my quivering hand, raising it into the air.

How was Flare so charismatic?

After an eternity of my embarrassment, we were allowed to withdraw. Retrospectively, the whole graduation ceremony was not all that special. It was the standard, overdone ceremony, complete with questionable awards... that somehow stayed with me for years.

The dull event was followed by a dull field trip to end the year. I usually loved field trips, but this one was to Parliament Hill. It was an hour's drive from Fitzroy Harbour, a great big building with a bell tower—the Peace Tower, it was called—at its heart.

I was never one for architecture, patriotism, nor politics. And so, I was horribly bored by the guided tour.

"The House of Commons is the lower chamber of the Canadian Parliament. It... Errr..." The fifty-some-year-old guide seemed equally disinterested as he drawled on and on.

I yawned and joked with some of my friends. I was so inattentive that I jumped when someone put their hand on my shoulder.

It was Emily, a classmate. "Hey, Orson."

"Yeah?"

"Come with us."

I noticed that there were two other girls from our graduating year. I frowned. "What's going on?"

"Flare wanted you to come with us," one of them answered.

"But where would we be going? We're stuck here in this tour."

Emily approached closer and whispered. "Flare asked: 'Aren't you bored?'"

It turned out that Flare had started feeling under the weather. A teacher had taken her outside for some fresh air. However, I had little doubt it was a ruse: Flare hated politics more than I did and her message was far from subtle.

I followed the group out through one of the side exits and emerged into the courtyard. A cold spell had befallen the city that day, and frost was present on the lawns.

"She's by the fire." Emily pointed. "See her?"

I nodded and the girls left to rejoin the class.

Parliament was a collection of buildings shaped like a box, open on one side to Elgin Street. The Centennial Flame, some sort of memorial, could be found near the road. Flare and Mr. Unger were warming around it.

"Orson?" Unger called as I neared. "You're Flare's close good friend, right?"

"Yeah. What happened?"

"She's feeling sick. Nausea, fatigue, sweating. I've called her parents already."

I nodded and took a seat. We waited for a reaction, but Flare remained hunched over. There was another moment's silence until Unger's phone rang and he left to answer.

When Mr. Unger returned, he bore a sheepish look. "Will you guys be fine alone?"

"What do you mean?"

"Emily scratched a window or something. Mrs. Liddleton's having trouble dealing with it."

"Oh."

"I'll only be a minute. Just keep an eye on her." With that, Unger left his overcoat to shield us against the chill and ran across the yard. I later thought about how irresponsible Unger had been. Mr. Taker had been disciplined just years ago for something similar.

Anyhow, that left me alone with Flare, and she was immediately reinvigorated. "How can someone be so boring?" she exclaimed, referring to the tour guide.

I chuckled.

"He couldn't have been slower if he tried! Weren't you bored?"

"Damn right I was!"

Flare mustn't have expected the outburst because she roared in laughter.

I remember it as if the cold day had warmed. It wasn't just the warmth of the Centennial Flame; it wasn't the overcoat that draped over our shoulders. It wasn't even the body heat that we shared—although that was great in its own right.

Mr. Unger eventually reappeared at the front steps and Flare's next move was magical.

A gust of wind ran through the Centennial Flame, and it flared. Veiled by the red of the blaze, Flare stole a peck across my cheek. She recoiled, tickling my nose with strands of hair.

"I..."

"F-Forget that... Please."

Mr. Unger was none the wiser as he relieved me of my stewardship. I returned to the tour on reluctant feet, and although passed, the scene replayed throughout the rest of the trip.

Parliament Hill seemed a little less drab.

That day, Flare and I spent our first overnight in the clearing. My mother hadn't allowed it before, but we were able to persuade her with the occasion of our graduation. But there was a condition, she would be supervising us.

Although we had an uninvited guest, we still enjoyed ourselves. We had prepared tons of food, which Flare and I burnt. We played games and fooled around with Flare's guitar. Then, we found something really fun.

"What's that?" Flare asked as my mother kicked something across the ground.

"Oh, it's just a pinecone." My mother picked it up and handed it over.

"I see." Flare fingered it, lost interest, and tossed it into the fire...

It exploded as if hit by a magic spell.

"What?"

My mother shrugged. "Pinecones do that."

I remember that Flare threw another one in, and we eyed each other after it popped. We spent a couple of hours gathering pinecones afterwards.

At bedtime, Flare and I entered adjacent tents—no way my mother would have allowed us to share—and slept by the warmth of the bonfire.

That summer, we proved my mother wrong: the overnight excursion would not be a one-time thing. By my persistence, we were permitted to spend many nights in the forest.

It wasn't always great. It was hot, sometimes it rained, and the mosquitos were voracious. But I still loved the late nights enjoying each other's company—and yes, decimating Fitzroy's population of pinecones.