Feeding the Fire

by Amy Waeschle

  “Let me try,” Jessie said, and tried to take the bag from his hand.

  He pulled the bag up, out of her reach. “Nope.”

  Jessie tried again, this time pushing off from his shoulder to try and reach it, but only managed to crash into him instead, coming down on his foot as she lost her balance so that they both tumbled to the floor together.

  She landed on Cam’s chest, giggling, but then she caught the freaky look in his eyes—like he broke her mom’s favorite glass or peed his pants.

  Jessie pushed back from him, and Cam quickly scrambled to his feet. “Uh, I better go,” he said in a weird voice.

  “Oh, right,” Jessie said, remembering his date with his dad in the city.

  The awkwardness seemed to pass, but at the door, Cam turned back. “I hear Stef’s gonna be there tonight.” He slid his pack over one shoulder.

  The hill bomb. Jessie’s stomach fluttered. “So? I’m not scared of him.”

  Cam gave her his quiet stare. “Watch your back,” he said, and slipped through the door.

  By that night, Jessie was so keyed up for the hill bomb that she almost gave it away during dinner, when her mom noticed Evan’s longboard on the porch. After finally going to bed, Jessie watched TV alone with the volume down until it was time.

  At a little before eleven p.m., she tiptoed to her mom’s door and listened for sounds, but there was nothing to indicate she was awake. Satisfied, she moved towards the front of the house, careful to avoid the squeaky spots. After a deep breath she slid past the dining room table, her school backpack and the egg baby outlined in shadow, to the front door. She stepped through the screen and closed it silently behind her. Outside, the moist air tasted of the sea.

  Evan’s longboard felt heavy tucked under her arm. She cut across her neighbor’s yard to the sidewalk, then continued toward the bus shelter where they were meeting for the hill bomb.

  Jessie willed Cam to appear out of the dark but knew he wouldn’t come. She thought back to that mixed-up look he’d given her when they’d ended up on the floor. And what he’d said at the door: watch your back.

  Jessie neared the top of the hill, the shapes of several skaters coming into focus. Teagan and a few other kids she recognized, plus Stef, his arm still bent into the sling, and two other ninth graders she recognized from the skate park. They all gave her a head-nod in greeting.

  “Let’s do this,” Stef said after a long look at the road in both directions. He stepped to the street and tapped the tail of his board to the concrete.

  Jessie jumped onto hers and pushed off the curb beside Teagan.

  Their wheels growling, the group flew down Sixth Avenue, streaking past dark houses and the glow cast by the streetlights. Jessie concentrated on a straight course, using the faded midline on the pavement. She passed Teagan. Then, Stef was the only one ahead, carving long turns. She realized he wasn’t wearing a helmet and for the first time in her life wondered why she hadn’t left hers at home. The wind rushed past her ears, ruffled the loose fabric of her hoodie. Her nose burned with the cold. They passed the halfway point and Jessie heard the thud and scrape of someone crashing but didn’t turn around.

  Please no speed wobbles, she thought. She gained on Stef, who was in a half-crouch. They neared the bottom of the hill, where they would need to execute a long turn onto Lemolo Shore Drive. Jessie’s leg muscles quivered with the strain of holding her line.

  Then she heard the siren. Her skin jumped. She carved her long turn and when her wheels slowed enough she pumped furiously for the section of undercut bank that they could duck under. Stef pumped next to her, and they hurried to the place and jumped off their boards to take the stairs down to the beach. Neither of them spoke, their breaths loud in the darkness.

  “They’re not after us, are they?” Jessie said after catching her breath. “Hill bombing isn’t a crime,” she added.

  “No,” Stef said, grimacing. He rubbed his injured shoulder. “It’s for something else.”

  “Does it hurt?” she asked, pointing to his injury.

  Stef shook his head, his eyes on the street level just above them.

  They heard the sirens fade off in the other direction.

  Jessie felt shaky with relief. “Where did the others go?” she asked. She hadn’t heard any other wheels go by. “I think I heard someone crash. Do you think they’re okay?”

  Stef shrugged.

  Jessie felt unsettled by the thought that the cops may have noticed Teagan and the others.

  Stef shot her an intense look. “You wanna do something cool?”

  A flutter tickled her insides. Watch your back, Cam had said. But what was the harm in sticking around? She didn’t feel like going home, not yet. “Okay,” she replied.

  They climbed the bank up to the street. That’s when she noticed Stef’s narrow backpack, cinched so tight it blended in with his black coat. He stepped onto his board and pumped down Lemolo.

  Jessie thought of her mom asleep and Zach at work, maybe never coming back. With one final look back toward Sixth, Jessie followed.

  Chapter 13

  Jessie

  They pumped along the shore, away from town. The moon emerged from behind a thin cloud, outlining Stef in a silvery shadow that floated over the pavement. They passed the rickety stairs leading to a faded red deck. Sometimes she and Cam hung out there beneath the shade of a big fir tree. A floating dock bobbed offshore, and when it was hot enough, they sometimes swam to it. Though this past summer Jessie refused to put on a swimsuit. She always managed to make some excuse—one time an ear infection, another time she said the seal poop on the dock grossed her out. One really hot day, Cam went in without her. Jessie had watched in agony, hating the way her body felt. She thought again of his weird look in her kitchen. Why couldn’t things just stay the same?

  Then Stef hopped from his board and disappeared down a path to a small boathouse. A KEEP OUT sign hung between two posts guarding a warped platform.

  A breeze shivered the tall, dry grass, making an eerie sound in the darkness.

  Stef stepped over the chain and disappeared around the corner of the boathouse. Jessie looked around but the road and dark houses were still. The cool night air chilled her cheeks. She shrugged deeper into her hoodie.

  Jessie walked with careful steps over the kind of boards that would give her feet splinters if she’d been barefoot. Below her, the low tide had exposed chunky pebbles and mud made glossy by the moon.

  The weathered walls of the boathouse were posted with more faded KEEP OUT signs. She glanced into the side window; the inside looked empty.

  Jessie rounded the corner to see Stef holding a large metal tool with his good hand. His backpack sat open near his feet. She stifled a gasp as he cut the padlock on the shack’s door.

  “What are you doing?” Jessie asked. But Stef was already inside. Jessie followed, her steps tentative. Inside it smelled musty and gross, like dead rats. She had a sudden fear: had he brought her here to hurt her? She watched him with wary eyes, bracing her legs to flee at the slightest wrong movement. He slid a dark-colored glove over his good hand then wiggled the fingers of the hand in the sling into the matching glove. From his backpack, he removed a small metal can, a baggie full of what looked like white sand, and a white cup from his backpack.

  Stef held out the cup for her to take.

  “Whoa,” Jessie said, realizing she sounded scared. She thought back to what Cam said about him blowing up a science lab.

  Stef placed the gloved finger against her lips. The gloves were sticky and cold, not like the soft, fleecy one her mom wore for gardening. “Watch,” he said, pouring some of the sand onto the middle of the floor.

  They shouldn’t be here. This was someone’s property. Sure, it was falling apart and practically abandoned, but they couldn’t barge in and mess it up. But her curiosity was gaining the upper hand. What was the harm in a little sand? And what was in the can?

  “Here,” Stef said, holding out the c
up for her to take.

  A rush of goose bumps prickled her skin. She looked out a side window at the pine bough shadows dancing over the deck.

  “I thought you were cool,” he complained. “Do you wanna see this or not? Go on home if you don’t.”

  She glared at him for a moment, a shiver stirring her insides.

  She took the cup.

  With an awkward maneuver, using the hand that was in the sling and his good hand, Stef unscrewed the cap on the can. An acrid smell hit her nostrils and she stifled a cough.

  Stef steadied the cup and their fingers overlapped. His thin fingers felt strong, confident.

  “I’ll pour.” He eyed her. “Don’t drop it.”

  Jessie exhaled slowly. Were her fingers shaking?

  Stef filled the cup halfway.

  He wouldn’t do something dangerous, would he?

  “Now bring it here,” he said, motioning to the pile of sand, which she realized looked like nuggets—sort of like dishwashing crystals. “Careful,” he coaxed as they both lowered to a squatting position.

  “You want me to pour it?” she asked, truly afraid now.

  “No!” he hissed.

  Jessie froze. Her pulse whooshed in her ears.

  “Just set the cup on top.”

  She carefully seated the cup on the mound of crystals.

  “Let’s go,” Stef said, popping up.

  Jessie jumped up too but was torn between wanting to watch whatever it was and afraid of it. What was about to happen?

  “Come on!” Stef hissed from outside the boathouse. Jessie broke away and sprinted around the doorframe to the weeds. They scooped up their boards and jumped on, pumping hard toward town.

  “Why aren’t we staying?” she said over the grind of their wheels. She knew it was wrong, whatever they’d done, but it seemed weird to leave. I thought you were cool rattled around in her head.

  “Just trust me,” he said.

  They flew past two other boathouses on a long curve of road then Stef hopped off his board and slid down the grassy bank to the beach.

  “Come on,” he said, moving farther away from the boathouse. Jessie picked her way over the cobbles and the roots of a large madrone she knew led to a massive canopy and a tattered rope swing she’d never seen anyone use.

  “Perfect,” he said, pausing.

  Jessie came next to him and followed his gaze. “Perfect for what?” Her forehead felt slick with sweat. She unclipped her helmet and wiped at her face with her sleeve.

  Just then a bright orange glow appeared in the darkness. The boathouse.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed, watching bright red flames light up the windows. A huffing, crackling roar reached her ears. Her skin tingled and her jaw seemed stuck open.

  The yellow and orange flames danced higher, reflecting tongues of light across the dark water. Dry wood cackled and popped, embers arced and spit from the source onto the beach and into the bay like fiery rain.

  The sound of his breathing brought her back to her senses.

  “What did you do?” she whispered.

  “Nuh, uh,” he said, his grin spreading. “What did we do.”

  Jessie shook her head. “We have to call the fire department!” she hissed. This was someone’s property. What if the fire spread to someone’s house?

  Just then she heard the sirens.

  Chapter 14

  Zach

  Zach and Brody were on their way back from transporting a patient to the hospital when their pagers sounded. Zach had been sincerely looking forward to returning to his bunk, but the call got his attention: Fire. Lemolo Shore Drive. All units.

  “Shit, isn’t that close to Dana’s?” Brody asked.

  Zach felt the blood drain from his face. He flipped on the lights and sirens and in minutes, they were turning off the highway and streaking past dark trees separated by simple homes. As they coasted down the hill, the fire’s red light glowed in the distance.

  “Whoa,” Brody said as the scene opened up before them. Flames leaped into the dark sky from a small waterfront structure bordered by giant evergreen trees.

  Zach’s blood surged with an old, familiar feeling.

  “I don’t like this,” Brody said, echoing his thoughts. “Three fires in less than a month.”

  Once on scene, Zach and Brody joined the firefighters preparing to attack. Zach carried hose while another crew member moved into position to hit the flames with water. Other teams duplicated the attack and the sound of the hoses blasting the flames cut through the night. A giant cloud of smoke curled skyward, obscuring the shapes of the trees lining the shore.

  The fireboat arrived, red lights flashing through the smoke and washing over the silent neighborhood. Zach could see a few of the homeowners gathered at the edge of the police barrier, squinting at the bright lights.

  The fire took longer to knock down, and Zach wondered why. He didn’t smell accelerant, but that didn’t mean something hadn’t been used to make the fire burn hotter. Within twenty minutes of their attack, the structure was reduced to a smoldering, black shell.

  After his crew had stored all the gear, Zach returned to the ambulance, noting the presence of Fire Marshall Stuart Green on his way. Stu and the Chief were engrossed in a conversation so they didn’t see him when he passed. Whoever set this fire didn’t stand a chance. Stu was a seasoned investigator with the highest conviction rate in the state—almost ninety percent.

  It made Zach think of the investigator that had finally caught Travis, and everything that had happened after that.

  The memory popped into his head and he saw his fifteen-year-old self sitting in the man’s office. He had greasy black hair and a pot belly. He smoked Camels, and back in those days he could smoke at his desk, and did. Zach sat on his hands, his stomach hurting, while the man leaned his hairy arms across his desk and stared at Zach through the smoke.

  “Why didn’t you tell someone?” he asked in his gruff voice.

  Zach couldn’t look at him. His hunched posture reminded him of a gorilla.

  “We’ve got him down for eleven structure fires plus the ones your mom told us about at the house.”

  Because they would have taken him away, Zach replied in his head. What were they doing to Travis right now? Did they know he sometimes couldn’t sleep? That he didn’t mean to wet the bed? His mom beat him every time, but it only made it worse.

  “The last one injured a firefighter. Were you waiting for someone to be killed?”

  Zach watched his feet swing over the carpet below him. You don’t understand what it’s like, he thought.

  Zach remembered his first visit to the hospital where they were keeping him, his feet walking the maze of the cold hospital’s hallways, his heavy shoes making hardly any sound. They had Travis on something, and he hadn’t even been able to make complete sentences. Zach left wishing he never had to come back. But he did, through the many different treatments and trial drugs and therapies until finally Travis was allowed to go free. But by then he was a different person. Whether it was from the electric shock they’d wrongly used to treat a personality disorder he didn’t have, or reliving all the bad things the boyfriends had done to him with the dozens of different therapists over the years, Zach never knew. Travis never set any more fires but the brother he knew—the sweet kid who brought his mom flowers and looked up to Zach with those hopeful eyes was gone.

  Zach knew that for Travis to survive on his own, he had to let go of the ten-year-old kid who idolized him, who he had failed. Otherwise, the pain of their past would continue to haunt them both.

  By the time they’d returned to the station, written their observation reports, showered, it was after three a.m. But Zach couldn’t sleep. He was too jacked up, and knew half the guys in the station probably were too.

  He tossed and turned, with memories of Travis floating to the surface. He remembered the boyfriend they called The Viper catching them in the act.

  Zach closed his eyes and the
scene returned: the man’s strong fingers yanking his arm as he was thrown against the wall, the sound of their mother’s wooden hairbrush smacking Travis’s bare backside until he bled. Zach had tried to stop him but the man just gave him a black eye. Two days later, Zach woke to find the twin bed next to his soiled with pee and Travis gone. Panicked, Zach climbed out the window and raced to a dilapidated garage a few streets over, where they had visited to throw rocks at the windows. Hoping he was wrong. By the time he got to the barn, flames were climbing the exterior walls and eating away at the roof, Travis’s figure a black silhouette standing in awe before it. Zach dragged his dazed brother into the woods as the whine of approaching sirens cut through the sound of the roaring inferno. The two of them dove for cover while the firefighters assembled, the pine boughs itching their skin and the damp seeping into their clothes.

  The next morning, Zach sat at the station’s kitchen table lingering over his second cup of coffee while reading about the boathouse fire in the Kitsap Sun. In the kitchen, a probie stood at the sink washing the breakfast dishes.

  Brody walked behind him and pointed at the news story’s picture of Tony Johnson working the pump. “Johnson owes ice cream,” he called out.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Johnson called out from where he was watching CBS News from the couch.

  The writer had closed the article with a mysterious “arson is suspected.” Duh, thought Zach. Empty boathouses didn’t self-ignite.

  “You’re up next with Stu,” Brody said, settling into the chair next to him with a full cup of coffee in his hands.

  Zach filled his cup on his way, feeling a beat of anxiety pump through his system. Even though Stu wasn’t the fire inspector who caught Travis, he couldn’t stop the download of memories pouring into his brain. More coffee was definitely a bad idea, but he felt the need to not show up empty-handed.

  Fire Marshal Stuart Green sat behind the lieutenant’s desk. His trim figure sat poised over a laptop, fingers tapping away. Supposedly, he was an avid mountain biker, but Zach had never ridden with him.