Katherine Belt

Iona is a weird name. I get that a lot. Eventually you get tired of explaining that it’s the name of some little town on a little isle in a little niche of Scotland. You get even more tired explaining that, no, you’re actually Irish in descent, not Scottish, and no, you don’t have the faintest idea why your parents named you that, and no, you can’t speak Gaelic, and no you don’t have an accent because you were born in America, and yes, please shut up. Maybe I wouldn’t get that so much if I didn’t live out in the deserts of Arizona. My name brings along images of water, cool and cleansing…and yet I’m stranded in the only place whose soil is cracked more than my own skin.

I remember this time I was at school, gazing out the window at a single cloud lolling lazily along across the horizon. Paradise, in my head, is the ocean. I could almost imagine the salty air burning my lungs, the water washing over me. I’d never actually been, of course, but I still liked to imagine it. The cloud disintegrated above me and I pouted. A paper airplane smacked me in the face.

“Meet me after class by the tree.”

This tree the note referred to is dead. But I went anyway. There was a boy my age; I knew his name was Tom, and he was quiet and always looked downcast. Nobody paid him much mind, which at the time I imagined must have felt really nice—he blended in, unlike me and my fiery red hair. I wonder what he wanted?

“Hello, Iona, right?”

“You should know. You’re the one who tried to give me a paper cut across my face.” I crossed my arms.

“Heh, sorry about that.” He stared at the ground a lot.

“So what did you want?”

“Actually, I saw this in a store the other day and it reminded me of you.” He handed me a small box before turning around and quickly walking off. I was too shocked to try and stop him.

Back