As children became teenagers, so too did summer become fall. High school had started, and my fears became reality.

We attended West Carleton Secondary School, and it was in Dunrobin, a short drive from Fitzroy. It was also big, modern, and far more populated than Stonecrest had ever been.

I remember the first day as an overwhelming mess. I couldn't find my classes, couldn't find my locker, and couldn't find any peace of mind. On top of all that, the class structure changed when you entered high school: students each had their individual schedules that often differed between friends.

This was doubly true for Flare and me.

My parents wanted me to pursue academics, and I was enrolled in enriched mathematics and French immersion. Flare was more attuned with the arts, and I was left alone to make new friends.

At the time, I was in the midst of my growth and acne had erupted like mushrooms after rainfall. It was imaginable that I would be bullied, but that wasn't the case. School was never that overt. Few were cruel, but many were indifferent.

I didn't perform poorly, top of the class, actually. But it was uncomfortable when classmates asked for help more than for a simple conversation. Much of the day became of longing for the bell's final chime.

My one solace was the compulsory arts elective where I was fortunate enough to be slotted with Flare. Even then, I was shocked to discover it was Studio Arts, which included photography, sculpting and ceramics. I had no aversion to these subjects, but it sapped time from what Flare and I really enjoyed.

What's more, the teacher was disimpassioned and strict. Mrs. Kidde felt no love for her work and never permitted our collaboration.

My ineptitude was in contrast to Flare. To her, time was generous. School favoured the bold and beautiful. Flare was nothing if not bold and she only grew prettier by the day.

Maybe, I felt a bit jealous.

However, when we returned to the forest, the fire equalized us. I relaxed whenever we set pinecones and twigs ablaze, and it was into the second semester when I felt comfortable enough to open up.

"What's up, Orson?" Flare prodded the burning shell of a pinecone.

I drummed my fingers against my leg. "I just wanted to talk."

She looked up.

"I-II... Look, I don't really know. About the whole high school thing."

"Sorry, I'm not sure what you mean."

"It's just, you know... I mean you know right; you see it right?" I stammered and froze when she cocked her head.

"You'll have to explain," she said.

That was my damn problem, always was. I was a stubborn, dumb kid who had never faced an ounce of adversity. I was the idiot who expected others to read my thoughts and respond appropriately, angering when nothing went my way.

"Let me start again," I said.

She blinked with her red eyes. "Go on."

We sat against a snowy log, hands warmed by the fire, as I told her everything. I'll never forget the unfaltering focus of her gaze. Flare was the kind of person that would always smile or joke, but to me, she was more thoughtful than anyone.

"And... That's it."

She bit her lip. "Thanks for letting me know."

I exhaled. "Thanks for listening."

We continued with our little shenanigans through the night and into the weekend. I had desperately needed an ear, and I felt that the next week would be bearable. I thought nothing would come of the conversation.

That belief was shattered during Tuesday's science class when Mr. Kinins introduced a new student. "Alright, class, we have a new student joining us from the Applied course. Go ahead, introduce yourself."

I had been working on the nomenclature exercise and looked up.

"Hello everyone!" Flare gave a polite curtsey. "My name is Flare Andelion. Nice to meet you all."

To that, the class erupted into chatter and Mr. Kinnins was forced to hush them. Under the commotion, Flare snuck into the empty seat beside me.

"What are you doing?" I hissed.

"I am..." She noticed the sheet of inorganic naming conventions. Flare looked at me. "Learning some science things."

"But why are you here?"

"Cause I... Err—like science?"

"But what about your parents? What about regulation?"

Flare shrugged. "It's only the third week, we can still drop and change courses."

"But..." I sighed. "Interest aside, are you sure you can keep up?"

Flare stared to the side. "Well, I was hoping you could help me..."

And so, I did.

I would help her with the homework or reteach key concepts. I had helped many peers with their studies, but this was different. Flare put in genuine effort and cared more for the act than the knowledge.

It took away time from our forest adventures, but I found that I didn't mind. It was sufficient to spend time with her.

In the end, her success was limited. But Flare was not dumb; she just cared little for the subject. Regardless, I was grateful that she had joined the class. It was someone to talk to, not to mention the countless glances I stole.

Tenth grade was much of the same. Flare still joined me in the Academic-level science course, and I looked forward to it every day.

We had another common course in Civics and Careers, a pair of half-credit courses that felt half-assed. The teacher cared little for discipline, and we cared little for the content. In a tacit agreement, the class was spent at the back of the room talking about whatever Flare and I felt like.

This was also the year I adapted to high school.

It may have been the confidence that Flare gave me, but I pushed myself out of my shell. I made a few good friends in Ron and Jason who were as apprehensive as I was. We had come together, common in our parental pressure.

This meant enrollment in academic level and higher-year courses. Eleventh-grade computer science and precalculus became our homerooms, and I remember we were the gurus who convened in the back of the room, topping the class with next-to-zero effort.

Perhaps it wasn't the most desirable clique, but things were... actually kind of nice that year, by far the best of my high school career.

However, there was a side-effect. My course load did not permit Studio Arts. Although it had never lived up to my hopes, it was still time that I lost with Flare.

That precious time further scarcened throughout the year.

We were encumbered by schoolwork and extracurriculars—Flare partook in lifeguarding and tennis. When we did visit the clearing, we mostly talked and burnt whatever lay around, tired by the commitments of every day.

This status quo continued until summer. Summer was always the best, where desert became a forest, a white pine forest. It was two months where we did whatever we damn well pleased.

It was just the two of us, and I could not believe how pretty Flare had become.

She dressed simply, favouring T-shirts and shorts cut a hand's length above the knee. She never wore make-up and was often sweaty. Despite this, something was maddening about the twin reds of her hair and eyes, about her unfaltering smirk as we kindled our campfires.

That damn smile spawned no small number of indecent thoughts, and at midsummer, I finally understood it—I was in love.

It made me terrified.

How would she react if she found out? What would happen to our friendship if she rejected me? I thought about the kiss she had planted on my cheek... and thrice as much about the words that had followed.

Forget that.

In hindsight, it was obvious that she had liked me too. A girl doesn't kiss you for no good reason. But at the time, I stuffed my feelings as deep as I could, horrified something might slip.

It was perhaps my dumbest decision, and little did I know, the eleventh grade would make me regret everything.

It was a year of crossroads.

The first decision was about science class. Grade eleven would split science into Physics, Chemistry and Biology. Despite our efforts, I knew Pre-AP would be unsustainable.

"I can handle it," Flare insisted.

"Maybe you can. But at what cost?"

Her stare wavered.

"Flare, it's three courses, all Pre-AP. Three times the material, all with higher difficulty."

Her eyes shimmered.

I tightened my jaw. "You're busy with lifeguarding. You have your other courses, and we still want to spend time together. How hard will you need to work for this new addition?"

Flare's red eyes watered, and she turned away.

I put an arm around her. "It's not your strength."

"I-I know it isn't." Flare sniffled. "It's not about that... I'm worried for you."

I nearly laughed out in relief. I had tried to persuade her for her own good, only for her worry about my own.

"Flare, you need to be a little more selfish." I smiled. "It's not like I'm going to war. And I'm not going alone. Jason and Ron have it just as bad as I do."

But Flare wasn't convinced: she shook her head. "And I'm worried about us..."

At that moment, I realized. Flare was just as anxious I was. High school had built her up to be so perfect. Bold, popular, and gorgeous—all along, Flare Andelion was actually worried about something so simple.

Flare was wiping her eyes, and I remember she looked so honest I could bite.

In the end, we came to a compromise. I persuaded my mother to let me take college-level Chemistry, something that Flare would be able to endure with some hard work. My mother didn't like it, but she eventually obliged when I feigned a stress overload.

"Ready?"

"What's there to be ready for?"

On the first day of eleventh grade, Flare and I entered the chemistry room together. The class turned out to be a lot better than we had hoped.

Captained by Mrs. Elrod, the class covered chemical bonding, solutions, and gases. She was a driven teacher who helped digest theoretical concepts, supplementing them with practical demonstrations: brilliant crystallizations or fluorescent solutions.

And we were allowed to participate directly.

It was half-classroom, half-lab, with beakers and test tubes and Bunsen burners—Flare and I were enthralled by that last item. A month into the class, Mrs. Elrod felt we were sufficiently trained to run a fun experiment.

She handed out trays, each topped with three samples of unlabelled salts. "Does each group have one?"

The students, grouped in pairs before Bunsen burners, all nodded.

Mrs. Elrod returned to the whiteboard. "Alright, we'll be doing flame tests today." She drew out a set of concentric rings. "A quick reminder on the theory. When metallic ions are excited by heat, their electrons may jump to higher energy levels. The return of these electrons to the ground state can release light, the magnitude of the drop correlating to the colour."

Most of the class nodded again.

"This colour can sometimes be used to identify the cation." She pointed at a chart. "So, I thought we'd play a game. Each group has three random salts from this chart, which you all have a copy of. The goal is to identify the cation in each of the three salts."

I turned to my partner who was obviously Flare. I remember how sharp she looked, wearing goggles, hair tucked into a bun.

Elrod kicked us off. "And as an extra challenge, you can try to completely identify one of your salts. You may begin."

"Ready?" I asked.

Flare gave a modest smile. "If you are."

We began by noting our observations. I remember two white salts, one of them flaky, and a blue salt, likely a copper compound.

Flare then turned the gas valve.

"Quickly," I reminded.

Flare fumbled the striker and took a few seconds to light it.

"Oh shoot."

Some gas had built up and it burst into a small fireball. It was nothing dangerous, and we stared at each other wide-eyed, trying not to laugh. I adjusted the air hole before anyone could notice.

"What's next?" Flare asked.

"Solutions."

We poured a finger of water into three tests tubes. Adding in the salts gave two colourless solutions, the copper salt forming a cyan blue. I rinsed a nichrome loop with hydrochloric acid and handed it to her.

"Do the honours," I said.

For a moment, her ruby eyes met mine. "Thank you."

She dipped the wire into the blue solution and thrust it into the flame.

And... All I remember afterwards was laughter.

Flare and I laughed like absolute lunatics. It was blue-green! It was magical! We had played with more fire than anyone else, but we could not stop revelling; we drew the attention of the class, but we could not care less.

Flare did it several times and got the idea to try another salt.

And it was purple! To us, it was sorcery, burning a lilac as deep as the nastiest bruise. In truth, it was a well-documented phenomenon, but it might as well have been arcane devilry.

"Orson!" Flare tugged at my lab coat. "You do the last one."

I accepted the nichrome and, rinsing it in acid, I tried the last salt.

This one was far more subtle: it burnt reddish-orange, not too different from a wood fire. However, in the flame of the Bunsen burner, it felt uncanny.

I performed the test a few more times and turned to Flare.

I remember that some of the classroom lights were dimmed to better reveal the flames. In that murkiness, the periodic red of the flame test splashed across Flare's wide-mouthed grin.

"Shall we pick this?" I asked.

Flare was still mesmerized.

"Flare?"

She snapped out of it. "Oh shoot, sorry."

"This one? I mean to completely identify?" I thrust the nichrome back into the burner.

The red puffed up again and Flare answered: "... Let's."

Reddish-orange belonged to the calcium cation.

The chart of salts was short, and calcium chloride seemed to be the most likely answer. I was able to confirm it by knocking out the chloride with dilute silver nitrate. We were then able to verify a dihydrate through an action of heat test.

"Calcium chloride dihydrate," Flare finally muttered.

"Looks to be."

Flare stuck out her tongue. "What a stupid name."

However, I knew that she had etched it into her mind.

We spent the rest of the period performing flame tests. Reds, purples, greens, yellows: we sampled solutions from other groups and burnt them fanatically.

In the end, we were the only group to fully identify a salt, and Elrod gave us each a bonus mark. However, she kept asking us a question: "Why aren't you doing Pre-AP Chem?"

Each time, Flare and I would laugh in response.