Fire With Fire

by Jenny Han

  Sure, our house isn’t in the best shape. Not when you compare it to the other homes on the block. This part of Jar Island has the oldest houses; almost half have been officially designated as landmarks. And some people take that designation super seriously, making sure that every detail is true to the period and that any renovations are done with special materials that would have been used at the time, like slate and cedar.

  But old houses take a lot of upkeep, and that’s never been Aunt Bette’s forte. Mine either. The whole place could use a fresh coat of paint. One of the wooden front steps has rotted through. And yes, our yard catches all the dead brown leaves from our big oak, but I don’t see what the big deal is. The ground is covered in snow; everything will stay white until March.

  Not to mention that all of this stuff . . . it’s not hurting anyone. And it’s none of their business even if they do want to make it a landmark. This is our house, part of the Zane family since Jar Island came to be. I watch the two ladies retreat slowly down the steps.

  But like anything you don’t deal with, they keep coming back. We’re going to have to do something about them; otherwise they’ll just keep coming around.

  I plan on saying exactly that to Aunt Bette as I walk through the back door. But I don’t, because she’s talking on the telephone.

  “She’s upset all the time. I don’t think she knows. There’s no reasoning with her. I tried to tell her that she needs to not focus on this Reeve boy. I never told you this because she swore me to secrecy . . .” Aunt Bette pauses. “No. No, of course not. You don’t need to come. I’ve got it under control.”

  Oh my God, she’s talking to my mother about Reeve. I run in the room and stand right in front of her and stare daggers. Aunt Bette’s eyes go wide. She’s surprised to see me at this time of day.

  “Erica, I . . . I have to go.” And then she hangs up.

  “I can’t believe you just did that. You promised me you’d keep that a secret!”

  Aunt Bette falls into her seat and starts rubbing her temples. “What does it matter now?”

  I completely resent how exasperated she’s acting, like my very presence is taxing. “Are you serious? I trusted you!” I say, curt. “And I come home to find you talking about me behind my back? How do you think that makes me feel?”

  Aunt Bette shrugs. “I’ve stopped trying to guess how you feel, Mary. I’m staying out of it.”

  I point at the phone. “That’s not staying out of it!” I am quivering with anger. “And now I’ll have to explain everything to them at Thanksgiving.”

  “Your parents aren’t coming for Thanksgiving.”

  “Why?”

  She looks at me and says, “Your mom doesn’t have such happy memories of this place.” She says it with more than a hint of bite, which I guess I deserve, but it still catches me off guard.

  “Call Mom back. Call her and tell her that everything’s okay, that they should come for Thanksgiving. Tell them I’m okay.”

  Aunt Bette stands up. “Nothing would make her happier, Mary, than to know that her daughter is okay. But I’m afraid we both know that isn’t exactly true.”

  * * *

  After my thirteenth-birthday-party disaster, when the only kid from my class to show up was Reeve, my parents became very concerned. Concerned and smothering.

  Dad had the idea to throw me another birthday party, as if the first one had never happened. This new party would be somewhere on the mainland. He had it in his mind that the ferry ride was too much to ask of people. He refused to believe that no one came because no one wanted to be associated with me. He casually suggested that we make it more mature, cooler for a group of budding teenagers. Either roller skating or bowling.

  I told him no way.

  Mom wanted to start riding the ferry with me, to and from school. She said it would be fun. She’d bring the newspaper with her, or a book. I wouldn’t even have to talk to her if I didn’t want to. We could sit quietly with each other and enjoy the scenery. I refused, of course. The ferry ride was my time with Reeve. It was the only time I was happy.

  Around them I made an effort to not eat as much food at dinner, and they’d look so hurt when I’d tell them to please not give me so much pasta.

  They were trying so hard it made me feel worse. I started shrinking into myself. I didn’t want to hang out with my parents or do fun stuff on the island on the weekends. I hated how hard they were trying to fix this for me. It couldn’t be fixed. Not by them. And I hated seeing them hurt. I wanted to shield them from the hurt. I could take it. But I didn’t want them to suffer.

  The worst of it was when the two of them knocked on my bedroom door late one night. The semester had ended at Montessori. I’d brought home a crappy report card. I never got bad grades.

  Dad sat on my bed; Mom leaned against my desk.

  He said, “Do you have any interest in changing schools?”

  Mom said, “You could go here in Middlebury. You wouldn’t have to do the ferry anymore; you could have a brand-new start.”

  Vehemently, I shook my head from side to side. “I don’t want to change schools.”

  Mom zoomed right along, fixing a bright smile on her face. “Or we can move. Your dad and I have always talked about going back to the city someday. Picture it, Sunday afternoons at the art museum, picnics at the park.”

  I said it louder. “I don’t want to change schools!”

  Dad patted my leg. There were tears in his eyes. “We want you to be happy. That’s all we want.”

  “And all I want is to stay at Montessori,” I said. With Reeve.

  * * *

  I fall on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Time and time again, I pick Reeve over everything and everyone else. And it’s always the wrong choice. It’s like my life is a broken record, and even though I can see it coming, I can’t seem to jump the scratch.

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  * * *

  LILLIA

  NADIA AND I ARE LYING on the couch watching TV, and my mom’s on her computer working on her Thanksgiving spreadsheet. It’ll be a small Thanksgiving this year. My dad’s brother’s family is coming from New York City, and our California grandma was supposed to come, but she decided at the last minute she didn’t want to make the trip, which upset my mom. Next year, she keeps saying, we’ll go to California instead.

  A couple of times we’ve had Rennie and her mom over for Thanksgiving. Last year it was super awkward, because Ms. Holtz kept trying to flirt with my dad’s divorced friend from the hospital. Rennie asked me afterward if I thought her mom had a chance with him, and I didn’t know how to tell her that he only dates twentysomething Estonian models. I wonder what she and her mom are doing this year.

  “Can we have mashed sweet potatoes this year instead of sweet potato casserole?” Nadia asks.

  “You love sweet potato casserole,” my mom protests.

  “All that cream and butter and sugar?” Nadia shudders. “Rennie says it’s pure fat.”

  “You only have sweet potato casserole once a year,” I tell her. “You’ll live. Besides, Mommy already ordered it.”

  “I think our family should be eating healthier,” Nadia says with a shrug.

  My mom sighs. “I can check and see if it’s not too late to change it,” she says, and goes off to call the caterer.

  “Thanks, Mommy!” Nadia calls after her.

  Casually, I ask, “What is Rennie doing for Thanksgiving?”

  Nadia motions for another throw pillow. “She’s having dinner with Ms. Holtz’s boyfriend and his son. She says that Rick has a friend who’s a fancy chef and he’s going to cook for them.”

  I roll my eyes. Rick owns a sub shop and he lives in a one-bedroom apartment right above it. He’s a nice guy, but somehow I don’t picture him hanging out with fancy chefs. This sounds totally made-up. “When did Rennie tell you this?”

  “She gave me a ride home yesterday since you were at the library,” Nadia says.
>
  I don’t like the way Rennie’s been glomming on to Nadia one bit. Twice now she’s called the house phone asking to speak to Nadia about yearbook photos or something. I know her; she’s doing it to get under my skin. I nudge Nadia’s foot with mine. “Don’t listen to Rennie on everything. Sometimes she says stuff just to say stuff.”

  With wide eyes Nadia asks, “Are you guys in a fight?”

  “No . . . we’ve grown apart.”

  “But did something happen?” Nadia presses. “To make you grow apart?”

  “Why?” I ask her, thinking back to our fight in the graveyard. “Did Rennie say something?” She wouldn’t dare.

  Nadia hesitates for a split second, and then she shakes her head.

  “Nadia!”

  “She didn’t say anything,” Nadia insists. “But I’ve noticed you haven’t been hanging out as much.”

  “Well, nothing happened specifically. We’re different people, that’s all.”

  Nadia absorbs this. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. Rennie’s so . . . sparkly. She makes everything feel like . . . an event. I don’t even know how to describe it.”

  I frown at her. “If Rennie’s so sparkly, then what am I?”

  Hastily she says, “You’re fun too. In a different way.”

  I don’t say anything, but I’m still thinking about it hours later. Am I boring compared to Rennie? It’s true that I’m more cautious than she is, and I’m not the life of the party the way she and Reeve are. But if I was so boring, why would she have been best friends with me all these years? Because there’s nothing Rennie hates more than being bored.

  I hate that Nadia puts her on such a pedestal. Like she sees Ren as this magnetic force of nature, and I’m her goody-two-shoes older sister.

  If Nadi only knew the trouble I’ve gotten into this year. She wouldn’t think I was so boring then.

  * * *

  My mom always tries to make us get dressed up at Thanksgiving. She says that if we eat this fancy meal in sweats, it won’t feel special. We go along with it to make her happy. Nadia’s in a strapless green tartan dress with a poofy skirt and a cardigan on top. I have on a mauve knit miniskirt with a sheer blouse tucked in.

  My dad’s in a dress shirt and slacks; my mom has on a wine-colored knit dress with a cowl neck and a gold cuff. I make a mental note to ask her if I can borrow that cuff, maybe take it with me to college.

  The adults are in the living room drinking the wine my uncle brought, and us kids are hanging out in the TV room. We have two cousins on my dad’s side—Walker, who is Nadia’s age, and Ethan, who is ten. Walker and Nadia are pretty close, even though we don’t see them often. Ethan’s a brat, but it’s not his fault. His parents are always telling him how great he is because he’s a violin prodigy.

  “How’s Phantom?” Walker asks Nadia, adjusting her headband. We’re all lying on the sectional, and Ethan’s playing video games on his phone.

  “He’s good! I’m going to show him next month.” Nadia spreads cheese on a cracker and pops it into her mouth. “He’s the best horse in the world.”

  I nudge her with my toe. “Don’t forget whose horse he is!”

  “You hardly ever even ride him anymore,” Nadia says. “He’s basically mine now. I bet he wouldn’t even recognize you.”

  I frown at her. “I was there last week!” Or was it the week before? She’s right; I’m like an absentee horse parent. I’ve been so busy with swimming and Reeve and my college applications I’ve totally been neglecting Phantom. Tomorrow. I’ll go out there tomorrow and bring him a whole bag of baby carrots and spend the afternoon grooming him.

  “Pretty soon you’ll be at college and he’ll be all mine!” Nadia fake cackles, and Walker giggles.

  “You’re right,” I say. “You have to take extra good care of him when I’m gone.”

  “I already do,” Nadia says, stuffing another cracker in her mouth.

  Dinner lasts forever, with everybody making toasts and the dads having a brag war. My dad tells everyone I have a good chance at valedictorian, so they’ll have to come back for graduation to hear my speech. I have to correct him and say it’s salutatorian, and it’s not like that’s a guarantee. My uncle starts quizzing me on which colleges I’m applying to.

  “Boston College,” I say. “Wellesley. Maybe UC Berkeley.”

  My dad frowns. “Berkeley? We never talked about Berkeley.”

  I take a bite of turkey and stuffing to buy myself time. When I’m done chewing, I say, “It’s something I’ve been thinking about.”

  Luckily, my aunt saves me by bragging about Ethan winning some violin competition and maybe getting to do a performance at Juilliard.

  After dinner, everyone’s all cozy watching old black-and-white movies in the TV room. I’m sitting next to my dad on the couch; he has his arm around me, and I have my head on his shoulder. It is nice to have him home.

  I’ve got my phone in my lap, and when it buzzes, I nearly jump. It’s a text from Reeve. My dad tries to read over my shoulder, but I scurry off to the kitchen. The text says, What are you up to? I write back, Watching TV with my family. He writes back, Same. Wanna come over?

  I read the text over and over. Does he mean come over and watch TV with our other friends? Or does he mean watch TV just us, up in his room by ourselves?

  I text him, Who’s coming?

  And he texts back, Just you.

  Wow. I wonder if his family will think I’m Reeve’s girlfriend.

  When my dad comes into the kitchen to get more water, I ask him, “Daddy, can I go hang out with my friends tonight?” I don’t tell him that I’m going to a boy’s house, and that he’s the only friend who will be there.

  My dad considers this. “Are you bringing Nadia and Walker?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Then my answer is no,” he says.

  “Daddy!” I make a face at him. My mom would have said yes. I shouldn’t even have asked him.

  Shaking his head, he says, “Final answer, Lilli. It’s Thanksgiving, and your family’s only in town for a couple of nights. Come sit and watch the movie with us.”

  “In a minute,” I say in a snotty voice. “I have to tell my friends I can’t come.”

  So that’s what I write back, and then I hang around in the kitchen waiting for Reeve to text me back, but he doesn’t.

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  * * *

  MARY

  I DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER GETTING dressed on Thanksgiving. I didn’t go downstairs and ask if Aunt Bette needed my help in the kitchen.

  But that’s where I find her now. At the sink, doing the Thanksgiving dishes.

  Or, should I say, lack of dishes.

  I never expected Aunt Bette would make a turkey, because she is a vegetarian. Thanksgivings with her usually mean a whole lot of vegetable sides. Sugar squash, green beans with almonds, roasted beets, creamy mushroom soup. But tonight she only made a salad. For herself.

  She’s spent the rest of the day in the attic. Painting. Alone.

  “So I guess there are no leftovers,” I say, snarky.

  Aunt Bette freezes. After a second she drops the dish back into the sudsy water. Then she spins around to face me. I can tell she’s mad too. “I didn’t make a lot of food, Mary, because you don’t eat!”

  It wounds me, her pointing this out. This is supposed to be a day of giving thanks, of being with family. It’s all wrong.

  I fall into one of the kitchen chairs. “My parents should have come. I don’t know why they’re punishing me like this. They never call me. Never.” Aunt Bette bites her lip, like she wants to say something but second-guesses herself. “What? Did they say anything?” Have they been calling and Aunt Bette’s not passing along the messages?

  She sighs, and I can tell she’s trying to choose her words carefully. “I don’t know this for sure, Mary, but if I had to guess, I’d say your mom’s still upset that you left in the first place.”

  “I did
n’t do it to hurt them!”

  “Maybe not, but it did. You’re her only daughter, Mary. She’d do anything for you! I used to fight with your mom and dad because I thought they spoiled you something rotten. Gave you everything you asked for. I said it wouldn’t be good for you. But they didn’t listen. They’d bend over backward to give you what you wanted. So can you blame your mom for missing you? You were her whole world!” She turns back around, probably because she can’t face looking at me.

  “I’ve been better, though. Since Halloween. Since you took that weird stuff down and quit with your weird spells.” I say it, even though it isn’t exactly true. I haven’t had any more freak-outs, sure. But other weird things have happened.

  Aunt Bette looks at me pityingly and whispers, “You don’t know what you’re capable of, do you? You don’t even know what you are.”

  A shiver rolls down my spine. “Then tell me! Tell me what I am! You’re scaring me!”

  Aunt Bette shrinks. “You need to calm down.”

  “You’re the one who’s making me upset!”

  Aunt Bette heads to her room. I follow her, but she’s fast. She goes to her room and slams the door. “Go to your room, Mary!” she calls through the door. “Go to your room until you calm down!”

  I do the exact opposite. I strike out into the night.

  * * *

  Main Street’s pretty dead. All the stores are closed; everything is except for the theater. A few of them are already decorated for Christmas. As people pile out of the theater, I stand by the double doors and watch. Am I really not like them? Am I not normal?

  Maybe something happened to me when I was in the hospital for all that time. Even when I try to remember, I can’t. Did they do something to me there? Electroshock therapy, or worse? Some kind of experiment or drug that messed with my mind?