#( a tragic computer death means i lost my old icon folder

[stagtic]

( GOD hazbin was well worth the wait. genuinely had such a good time watching the first two eps. i'm very excited to see where the show goes from here! )

[kdinthecity]

Confessions of a Teenage Sugar Queen: Soulmates

Zuko retrieves his laptop bag from his room and heads for the kitchen table. I linger in the hallway, trying to focus long enough to make sense of his mom’s article, but the words are blurring together.

Damn you, tears.

I take a minute to collect myself before joining Zuko in the kitchen. He fishes something out of his pocket and places it on the table while he types in his login password. It’s a tube of chapstick, and I would be lying if I said I haven’t noticed that slight bulge in his pants before. He must carry it with him all the time.

I’m so wrecked. If I don’t kiss Zuko soon, I might die of thirst. I don’t like the taste of his particular brand of chapstick, though.

I figure this moment is yet another lost opportunity when he snaps the cap off, but it isn’t chapstick at all.

It’s a USB drive. Oh, yeah. He was going to show me something. Right.

When it loads, I can’t help but say the name out loud, “Ursa.”

“These are my mother’s files I found on my father’s—“ Zuko presses his lips together like he always does when he’s said too much. His hand is shaking when he double clicks on the disk icon.

I read through the folders, silently this time. “Anthology… Articles… ENG101... ENG110… Grades… Lectures… Notes… Painted Lady…”

“What’s in the Painted Lady folder?” I ask, ignoring the lump that has formed in my throat.

“I can’t open it. I’ve read through everything else on this disk, but that folder is password protected.”

There is only one other folder, “Pictures,” and it piques my curiosity. “What’s in there?” I point at the screen.

A deep sadness passes over his face, making the scar seem more pronounced than ever. He obliges and opens the folder to reveal one single image entitled “Beach.” It’s an artfully composed silhouette of a woman and a child walking along the beach at sunset. I can only assume it is Ursa and Zuko, but the figures are too shadowy to tell.

“That’s it?” Surely he has more photos of his mother somewhere.

“There were at least a hundred photos in that file. But that’s when the data transfer was interrupted. That’s when… I got caught.”

This is the story of the scar. I just know it. But I have no idea what to say next.

I don’t get a chance before he redirects. “Katara, I’ve tried every password I can think of to open this file—my name, Azula’s name, our birthdays, Mom’s nicknames for us, and all of that in every combination. I was wondering… what if the file came from your mom? What if… do you know of a password she might use?”

It is too much. I am suddenly my nine-year-old self sorting through a box of Mom’s stuff that Dad has refused to touch since she died. All I ever wanted was something like this—a collection of her writing, notes, and pictures. Instead, all that came back from the coroner was assorted jewelry, cosmetics, and other typical items from a woman’s handbag.

“Katara? Are you OK?” Zuko breaks through my reverie.

No, I’m not. I can’t do this right now. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

His shoulders drop in disappointment, but when our eyes meet, we come to a silent understanding. It’s the tide pool scene all over again but with our roles reversed. The impact of the triggered memory hits me hard, and it is easier to choose distance and distraction over the pain of pushing through it. I no longer blame Zuko for his reaction that day.

I also acknowledge that he did try to talk about it. And neither of us has to bear our burden alone. We have each other.

I tell myself that only this moment is lost, not everything—not yet. And then I leave.

I refuse dinner and hull up in my room. I can’t exactly describe what I’m feeling—confused, yes, and maybe a little angry. Or perhaps I’m just jealous that Zuko somehow ended up with access to my mother’s work when all I’ve ever gotten is my father’s gruff response, “Katara, just let it go.”

I’ve read all of her articles in back issues of The Modern Times, of course. Gran Gran secretly gifted me with an online subscription last year. Dad makes comments like, “It’s old news anyway, so we need to focus on moving forward.” Sokka says that Mom’s writing will probably always represent suffering and loss for our family.

Sometimes when I feel… like I don’t know what to feel, that is when I write. But that hardly seems like a therapeutic option right now given the circumstances, so I decide to watch Netflix instead. I really should catch up on Crossroads of Destiny because the new season starts later this month. I don’t want to miss out on Uncle Iroh’s premiere party.

When did I start referring to him as Uncle?

This episode is about Phaethon, son of Helios, the sun god. As his tragic story unfolds, I wonder if this is the plotline Zuko had confused with Icarus. The boy certainly tries to prove himself to his father and to the world, but only brings fire and destruction, eventually falling from his chariot in the sky to his untimely death. I can’t handle the images of scorched landscapes and dried-up riverbeds in my fragile state, but before I turn off the show, the earth goddess says something that strikes me.

“Help us, great Zeus! Is this the end of earth? Even the heavens are burning. The past turns to ashes, and the future is fire!”

The future is fire—the slogan for Ozai’s company. I don’t even know what Future Fire Technology does, despite Azula’s constant bragging. She asserts it’s the “way of the future,” whatever it is. So, I look it up on my phone. They make virtual reality components such as headsets, gloves, and even a full exoskeleton for an “immersive experience.” The website is vague on what their products are actually used for, though.

I regret leaving Zuko. I should have tried to help him with the password instead of freaking out. Our mothers are obviously connected somehow, and he put himself at risk just to get those files. Mom took all kinds of risks to get information in her line of work. I never wanted to be a journalist, but I do want to be like her.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m pulling the box of her things out of my closet. I used to look through it nearly every day, but I haven’t now for a few years. I wipe the dust from the lid and carefully lift it to reveal an odd collection of treasures. I hold up a pair of pearl earrings, and a shaky sound escapes my lips, almost like laughter, but not. I remember begging Dad to let me pierce my ears so I could wear them. He said I had to wait until I turn 16. Here I am, almost 16, and I don’t really care about that anymore.

Next, I run the pad of my thumb over a necklace I had also hoped to wear someday. The pendant has a wave carved out of whalebone, attached to a blue velvet ribbon. Dad gave it to Mom when they got married, and I’ve always figured it would be too painful for him to see it again. Maybe I could ask him.

Maybe I could ask him if he knows Mom’s password, too. I will have to explain that I’ve found a file of hers, and he might not like that. I understand if he doesn’t want to dwell on the past, but surely he doesn’t want to forget everything?

Finally, I pull out a tube of bright red lipstick, and this is when I lose it. It was her “power paint,” she called it. When I pretended to be a warrior princess as a young girl, she would paint the Aleut symbols on my face and tell me stories of our people.

“Katara, are you OK, dear?” Gran Gran calls from the doorway.

I sniff and wipe my face with Zuko’s sweatshirt. Yes, I still have it. “I-I-I’m fine, Gran Gran.”

“Can I make you some chamomile tea? Or run you a relaxing lavender jasmine bubble bath? You’ve been working so hard lately.”

“No thanks. I’ll just… go to bed early, I think.”

“OK, dear. Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Gran Gran.”

“Oh… and Katara? Your mother would be very proud you.”

I wait until she leaves before fully releasing the tears I’ve been holding back. I suppose a good cry is long overdue. I throw myself on the bed with Zuko’s sweatshirt balled up like a pillow. I don’t realize that I’m still clutching the lipstick. The cap pops off which means I’m probably making a huge mess on my sheets, but I don’t care. Besides, I’m a laundry expert. Mom even used to call me Moonpeach.

I wake up the next morning drowsy and disoriented. Strands of my hair are stuck to my face and my throat is raw—this is why I hate crying. I stand up and brush the wrinkles out of yesterday’s clothes. Mom’s lipstick falls to the floor with a clank, and I say out load to no one in particular, “OK, I’m awake, I’m awake!”

I groan when I look at my phone. Zuko will be here in thirty minutes to pick me up. I scoop up his sweatshirt and laugh. At this rate, he’s never getting it back. I give it a squeeze, a pathetic part of my morning ritual these days. As I scan the room for my shoes, a glint of silver catches my eye.

No. Fucking. Way.

Mom’s lipstick is a USB drive, too. All this time I never knew.

I am cursing our old school computer for how long it takes to boot up. My stomach churns so violently with nerves that I consider calling in sick today. I even taste bile in the back of my throat when the icon “Kya” shows up on the screen.

I don’t know where to start. The “Pictures” folder? There is one called “Fiction,” too. Did my mom write stories like I do? There is also “Case Files,” and that one scares me a little. My hand hovers over the mouse, paralyzed by indecision.

Then, I see it. “Blue Spirit.”

And after years of wishing I had all the rest of these files and only weeks of knowing Zuko, that is the folder I decide to click on first.

Of course. Its contents are encrypted and require a password.

“Zuko is here, dear!” Gran Gran calls from the entryway.

Shit. I can’t process any of this, so I quickly eject the disk and secure it in the zippered part of my bag. I haven’t even changed clothes, but at least I’m in uniform, so it’ll have to do. Both Gran Gran and Zuko eye my disheveled appearance with some concern, but I simply brush past them and head toward Zuko’s car.

I don’t talk to Zuko right away, and he respectfully heeds the silence. He probably thinks I still need my space after yesterday which is partially true. I’m actually dying to tell him what I found, but I’m also reeling from it. His mom has one of my mom’s files, and my mom has one of his mom’s files. What does this mean?

After I fix my hair into my usual braid for the day, I text Dad to ask him if he knows Mom’s password. He confirms what I already suspect—that it should be derived from my name, nickname, or birthday just like Zuko suggested.

I cast a sideways glance at Zuko who unsurprisingly has a death grip on the steering wheel and laser focus on the road. He always does that when there is something left unspoken between us. Is he this easy to read to everyone… or just me?

“Hey Zuko?”

Predictably, he lets out a huge sigh of relief since I finally broke the tension. “Yeah?”

“Can you come over after work today?” I ask.

“Sure.” He stares straight ahead, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

I look down at his lap to confirm he still has the chapstick in his pocket. No, I am not ashamed of this in the least. “Great. And can you bring your laptop?”

He tilts his head in my direction and nods, but I don’t acknowledge this because I am still groping him with my eyes. OK, I may have a problem.

My problem is that I’m a fucking waterworks these days. I cannot stop crying! The bus driver keeps looking at me like I’m a dam about to bust.

Depending on the outcome of Zuko’s little meeting, I’m gonna bust someone’s ass for sure.

I can’t believe he’d agree to go meet with his sister! Ever since I connected the mysterious Ursa files with Zuko’s scar, I don’t trust the Kasai family at all. Except for Iroh, of course. Wow, how did the apple fall so far from the tree? In my Google search last night, I read an article about corruption within the company when it was an arms dealer under Zuko’s grandfather, Azulon.

Zuko says he will call me later. I text back that he should just come over. To pass the time, I read through a few of my mom’s short stories. Hers are not fantasy like mine, though. More like melodrama… and more than I can take right now. I pace between the kitchen and living room. Gran Gran gives me worried looks. I imagine Azula stabbing Zuko with skewers, and Ozai using him as a punching bag. I cry some more. I double check the freezer to make sure we have icepacks. Of course we do. Sokka lives here after all.

Dammit. I even miss Sokka, the big oaf. When we were younger, I had a stuffed penguin, and he had a stuffed otter. If I were crying at night because I missed Mom, he would put on a show to cheer me up—The Adventures of Otter Penguin!

I’m in the middle of composing a text to Sokka, complete with otter and penguin emojis, when Zuko calls.

“Hey, sorry it’s so late.” He sounds very tired.

“Are you OK?” I sound very motherly.

“Um, yeah. Mostly.”

Hmm, not the answer I wanted to hear. “What did Azula want?” I growl.

“She offered me a job at Future Fire. She said things were… how did she put it? Heating up. She could use the help… or something like that.”

Oh no. “Did you—“

“No, Katara.”

“OK, good.”

“It’s not good. I told her I’m happy at the Marine Center, but Azula doesn’t want me to be happy. I told her I’m already doing what Dad wants, but if she thinks I have his favor for any reason, she’ll fix that. She’ll report some bullshit story back to him. He’ll come by the Marine Center to check up on me. I’m so fucked.”

I can’t stand how defeated he sounds, so I deftly change the subject. “Hey, about that password…”

“Yeah? Did you think of something?” His tone changes completely—thankfully.

“Well, you could try Katara082800 or maybe KataraAugust2000 or something with my name and birthday which is August 28, 2000.”

“OK. Just a minute.”

Soon I hear his furious typing in the background. “No luck.”

“You could try Sokka’s, too. His birthday is September 6, 1998.”

I wait for what seems like forever. His frustration mounts with the continuous beating of the delete key.

“What about a nickname, Katara?”

I was afraid he’d ask this. “Don’t laugh, OK?”

“I won’t.”

“It’s… Moonpeach.”

A pause.

“Shit. Holy shit. Katara! That’s it!”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“Zuko?”

“Sorry.”

“Is it… stuff from my mom? In the file.” Because, dude, I’m dying over here.

“It’s uhhh—“

I have an epiphany. “Zuko, what’s your nickname?”

“What?”

“What. Is. Your. Nickname?”

“Oh, umm. Turtleduck.”

“Turtleduck?” I laugh but only because it sounds like a creature that would fit perfectly in my fictional world.

“Hey, I didn’t laugh at yours!” he whines. “It’s because I loved that Christmas song when I was a kid but called it a turtleduck instead of a turtledove, OK?”

I’m half-listening because I just typed “turtleduck” for the password, and the “Blue Spirit” file on my mom’s disk is now accessible.

Seriously, what does this mean?

“Zuko, if I can access my mom’s files with your mom’s password, and you can access your mom’s files with my mom’s password, do you think… were we supposed to find this together?”

Were we supposed to find each other?

Zuko doesn’t answer.

We should be doing this together.

“Zuko, can you come over?”

“I… I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

“What? I think… it was meant to be! How else would you explain it?”

“It could just be a coincidence. Maybe they used each others’ passwords to ensure no one would find out ever. Maybe we’re not supposed to know any of this.”

I don’t know what this is because I haven’t read anything, yet. I realize I want him here with me because I’m scared.

“Zuko, please…”

“Even if our moms wanted us to know, my father absolutely doesn’t. It’s too… dangerous. I shouldn’t… you should stay away from me.”

Another epiphany.

“Zuko, did your dad hit you because of me?”

“No! It was… I broke curfew.”

“You’re lying.”

Zuko lets out a noise of frustration, something I’ve never heard him do before. “ARRRRRRGGGGHHH. He just said it was a reminder. To not dishonor the family. He’s a fucking psychopath, Katara. Just let it go.”

I hate that everyone keeps saying that!

“No! I think… Ozai knew that our mothers were working on something together. Something big. A scandal perhaps… maybe it involved your father. So when he found out you were seeing me, he forbade it. And then beat you as a reminder.”

“Katara, have you read any of your mom’s files, yet?”

“No.”

“OK, so read them. And we’ll talk in the morning.”

Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt. 4 | Chpt. 5