Burn Before Reading

by Sara Wolf

  "Yeah - strong feelings for me to get sent straight to hell."

  He laughed. "You're so forward. I like that. Here's what I propose; you, Miss Cruz, will observe my sons."

  "Uh -"

  "I'm aware they aren't the most public of people," He amended. "But they do frequent all the numerous parties your classmates throw over the weekends when their parents are away. And considering most parents of the students here have two or more properties, they are frequently away. You will report back to me what my sons do at these parties. This includes drugs, or any sexual activity, or any gambling."

  "But -"

  "I'm under no illusions that you'll become friends with them," He continued. "They are barely friends with each other. But they never speak to me openly, anymore. Their concerns, their pain, their joy - they hide it all from me. It's been like this since their mother died. Truthfully, I think they blame me for her death still."

  Sadness creeped into his eyes, deep and colorless and dark, a sadness I'd seen in Dad's eyes, some nights. A sadness I could only describe as hopelessness, in all its vicious emptiness. Mr. Blackthorn recovered though, and cleared his throat.

  "If you could hear even their slightest heart's worry, and report it back to me, I'd be infinitely grateful."

  I was silent, stirring my water with a spoon. "You want me to snitch."

  "Yes."

  "For how long?"

  "I'd like it to be at least for two months."

  "And you'll keep my scholarship intact if I do it for two months?"

  "Yes, I think that will be sufficient. As long as you continue to maintain your grades and submit your monthly essay."

  "I don't know if you noticed," I gestured down at my dress. "But I'm not exactly Lakecrest-popular-kids-party-acceptable. I don't even know how to - how to, erm, party. I put my hands in the air or something and take shots of bad vodka, right?"

  He laughed. "Fret not. Kristin Degal - do you know her?"

  "O-Of course," I stammered. "She's legendary. I've looked up to her ever since I got in. Senior, captain of girls' varsity volleyball, and president of the student council. She has the highest GPA in Lakecrest's history, and she's got early acceptance to -"

  "- MIT next fall," He finished for me with a nod. "Yes. That Kristin Degal. Ambitious and bright as a button. I wrote her recommendation letter for MIT, you know."

  He said it knowingly, like I was supposed to pick up on something deeper.

  "Oh, so -" I struggled. "So she'll....bake you a cake?"

  "She'll get you into those parties."

  "Kristin Degal will - into those - for me?" I flapped my hands around like an incoherent idiot until I realized something. "Wait - she parties?"

  "Of course," Mr. Blackthorn's eyes glimmered mischievously in an exact copy of Fitz's. Or rather, Fitz was the copy. This was the original glimmer. "A girl in high demand like that has to unwind somehow. She owes me, and she'll be fulfilling that debt, just as you will."

  I frowned. "Sorry, it's not like I don't believe you - but how do I know you'll keep your word? I could snitch for you, but you could just turn around at the end of two months and throw my scholarship in the dumpster, and I wouldn't be able to do anything."

  "It is a rather unbalanced proposal, isn't it? Risky, too. That's why I have this."

  He proffered a document, thick with fine print and clauses and points A, B, C, all the way to L. A space to sign two names sat at the bottom, and he pulled an expensive-looking pen from his pocket, uncapped it, and signed one of the spaces with flourish.

  "This is a document that seals our agreement. I had my lawyers draw it up - it's fully legally binding. It says in exchange for reporting on my sons for a minimum of sixty days, I will keep your scholarship intact. I'll have our waiter be our witness, shall I? And, of course, you will keep this document, so that if I should renege on our agreement, you will be able to provide evidence of my word to a court of law, should you so chose."

  I looked down incredulously at the paper. My experience was in reading psychological textbooks and medical thesis’s, not legally binding contracts. But If I was going to go through with this, I had to be thorough. I'd seen the way he'd easily had two people escorted out of a restaurant just for offending him - who knows what clever ruse he could hide in a document? I scoured every inch of the words, over and over, until I could make sense of it. Or, almost sense. By the time I looked up, Mr. Blackthorn was eating his pasta elegantly. He wiped his mouth.

  "Are you satisfied with the legality of the contract, Miss Cruz?"

  "I - I guess."

  "Guess?" He quirked a brow.

  "I am," I corrected, not wanting to seem inexperienced or wishy-washy. "This is fine. Do you have a pen?"

  He called for the waitress, and she watched. He handed me his pen. It felt too big and fancy for my fingers still covered in the remnants of a bad red nail polish job. I folded the paper over twice and put it in my pocket.

  "So. How exactly does this work?"

  Mr. Blackthorn smiled. "Every Wednesday night, you and I will meet here. You will report your findings to me then."

  "Can't we just, I dunno, Facebook? Email?"

  "Those are...unreliable," he said delicately. It hit me just then.

  "Oh, right. Fitz."

  "Fitz indeed," Mr. Blackthorn asserted. "He's very clever, and even more ruthless than I. But his way with machines - he got that from his mother. She was a programmer, you know."

  I watched his face; every time he mentioned her, he smiled so gently. He must've really loved her.

  "Of course, he'd never do any of it, if Wolf didn't ask him to," he continued with a wry smile. "Wolf's good at manipulating people. He got that from me."

  "And Burn?" I asked.

  "Burn is his mother - soft, kind, but afraid. So very afraid of losing those close to him. So when she died, he stopped talking as much. They all handled it in different ways. Fitz buried himself in computers. And Wolf -"

  Mr. Blackthorn stared into the golden liquid of his whiskey before sighing, deeply and resignedly.

  "Wolf perhaps took her passing the hardest of us all."

  I was quiet, unsure of what to say. Mr. Blackthorn seemed to notice the awkward, heavy air, and clapped his hands together.

  "Now then. I'll give you Kristin's number so that you two can text. Is there anything else you need, Miss Cruz?"

  I frowned. "Any advice? On, I dunno, what shows they watch? What ice cream they like? Anything? I sort of told them this morning that I'd fight them, so they're definitely not going to be friends with me, or even talk to me, unless a miracle -"

  "Burn runs," He said. "Every morning, at five sharp, he gets up and runs the length of the Diamondback trail. You know, by the -"

  "Old nature preserve," I finished for him. "Yeah. My dad taught me how to ride a bike up there."

  "He might not admit it, but he enjoys silent company. Fitz will catch on to you immediately, unless -"

  "Unless what?"

  "You'd have to lie," Mr. Blackthorn sighed. "And as we've previously discovered, you aren't very good at that."

  "I can be," I insisted. "I swear to you, I can be. Whatever it takes, I'll do it."

  He looked surprised at my vehemence. "You want this scholarship very badly, don't you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Very well. Fitz will see through any ruse you come up with. Unless, of course, you admit to him he's the smarter student, and you're never going to amount to his level. He doesn't like outright flattery, but he's a soft touch when it comes to people who recognize their limits and want to overcome them. So, you ask him to tutor you."

  I scoffed. "Mr. Blackthorn, do you have any idea how many girls do that on a daily basis?"

  "But you will be slow about it," He pressed. "You will feed him the lie bits at a time - miss a few key questions on a test -"

  "But my grades -"

  "I'm sure just one or two won'
t do much harm. We have to make it convincing, remember. And I'm sure you can always ask for extra credit - the faculty loves that sort of thing."

  I groaned, imagining how much extra work that would mean. But I could do it. I had to do it.

  "Fine. What about Wolf?" Mr. Blackthorn was quiet and still, so at first I thought he hadn't heard me. I cleared my throat. "Mr. Blackth-"

  "Wolf trusts no one," He finally managed. "Not even himself. You will never be able to become his friend. He will suspect you no matter what you do, especially since the two of you have butted heads before. He's egotistical, and young, and burns with a hatred for the world. I have no advice for you."

  "Great. Good. I didn't exactly want to try, anyway."

  "Unless -"

  "Unless what?”

  Mr. Blackthorn smiled a small smile and shook his head. "No, it's so insignificant -"

  My curiosity ran over my common sense. "Anything helps."

  "His motorcycle is very special to him," He said. "He’s very possessive of it – he’s never let anyone else ride on it, save for himself. If, perhaps, you were to learn some motorcycle trivia..."

  He trailed off. I'd seen Wolf ride in on that noisy, expensive-looking thing every day, the paint black and accented blue, so sleek and aerodynamic it looked like a wasp. Every morning he took his helmet off, and every morning his hair looked somehow better with helmet head. It infuriated me.

  "It's special to him?" I narrowed my eyes. Mr. Blackthorn nodded.

  "It was his mother's."

  I whistled. "A programmer and a motorcyclist? She must've been one hell of a lady."

  "She was," He agreed.

  "Is it -" I swallowed hard. "Is it true he doesn't like touching people?"

  "Now where did you hear that?"

  "Burn told me."

  He nodded with a little exhale. "Yes."

  "Did he always -"

  "No. It began when his mother died."

  I was quiet. I read about that sort of thing in my psych books, too; phobias that manifested out of trauma. Mr. Blackthorn forced a smile.

  "It shouldn't be a factor into attempting to 'befriend' him - he never lets anyone touch him, regardless of who they are. Not even me." He glanced at his watch. "Oh, look at the time. You should get home before it gets too dark. Keep the document with you, and I will see you next Wednesday, here, at the same time."

  I got up and put my sweater back on. Just as I walked away, Mr. Blackthorn called out to me.

  "Oh, and Beatrix?"

  I turned. His smile this time was an almost-smirk, infuriating in its composed, perfect arrogance. A smirk I'd seen Wolf throw around before.

  "Remember - this is our secret. My sons must not know."

  "You got it." I turned on my heel and left, only the barest hint of an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

  Chapter 6

  In case you haven't noticed yet, pen-and-paper, making friends is extremely easy for me. I have lots of friends. Hordes of them. Gengis Khan would be jealous of how big my horde of friends is.

  That’s why I never eat in the cafeteria alone. It’s why people always fight over being my partner during duo projects in class.

  I’m the sole reason the PE teacher has to divvy up the dodgeball teams by himself – because everyone wants to be on my team.

  My shitty phone literally never stops buzzing with people texting me how much they love me.

  Okay, fine. You got me. I had – have - zero friends at Lakecrest.

  I hadn't had a proper friend since like, middle school. I lost most of my friends at my old high school, when I decided in freshman year I wanted to go to Lakeview. I totally get it, though, because I shafted my old friends until they stopped texting me, and then they stopped eating with me at lunch or asking me what was wrong. I didn't do it on purpose, I swear - I just didn't have time to hang out with them when Mom needed me to come home early for Dad, or clean the house when he couldn't, or make dinner for him when he didn't have the energy. And I had to study on top of all that, so maintaining friends or any sort of social life became impossible pretty quickly. So yeah, I shafted them. I figured that was the nicest way, the easiest way to get them to stop wasting their time on me.

  Besides - what could I have told them? 'My dad has depression and I need to be home'? They'd never understand that. They had moms and dads who functioned without chemical brain imbalances. They'd tried to force me to come out with them, and trust me - I wanted to. For a while, I really wanted to try to be normal again, or whatever normal was for me before Dad's illness. I wanted that more than anything. But I knew going out with them was just a short fix - a quick escape into not-reality. Sleepovers and movies and coffee shops meant nothing. They'd accomplish nothing. The reality was Dad was sick. And the only thing that would help long term was my education. I could help. I could become someone who could really, truly help him; not as a daughter, but as a person.

  I tried not to think about how often the books on my desk I'd checked out from the library told me that depression sometimes, oftentimes, never truly went away for good. That it always remained, just below the surface.

  I skittered my eyes away from that passage. I didn't have time to read, right now. I needed to catch up on my homework - hanging out with Mr. Blackthorn put me back a couple hours. If I finished quick enough, I could go back to reading, so I microwaved some tea and fired up my laptop. A knock on my door resounded, and Mom poked her head in. She was none the wiser that I'd left - she came back an hour after I did from hanging out with her nurse-friends.

  "Hey, sweetie. Why aren't you in bed? It's almost one."

  "I know - I just have to finish this paper."

  Mom stared at me very sternly. "Ten minutes."

  "Thirty," I insisted. "And then I promise I'll go straight to bed."

  "You know, you could've gone to a normal high school. One that didn't give you this much homework."

  "Hey, come on now! You know me - challenge is fun. And challenging. But mostly fun."

  Mom chuckled. "You did always try to climb the highest you could up the kitchen counters. Or the TV. Or the fine china shelf. Anything that looked dangerous." She walked over and kissed the top of my head. "Sleep well."

  "You too."

  When she's gone, I leave two answers on my homework wrong. My hand shakes while I do it, and I have to nuke my urge to correct from orbit, but I do it. Before I go to bed, I put my old, beat-up gym shoes by my bed. I set my alarm for the ungodly hour of four-thirty in the morning. And last but not least, I search on my tiny phone screen for 'different types of motorcycles and how to recognize them'.

  I turned over to the cool side of my pillow, my thoughts choked with the Blackthorns. Wolf’s phobia started when his mother died. If I lost Dad, how would I deal with it? I wouldn't. I'd break, utterly and completely.

  A bigger seed of pity than I'd like to admit sprouted in my heart for him, but I quashed it. He still wanted me expelled from his school. He was still an asshole.

  He was still Wolfgang Blackthorn, and we were still never going to be anything more than mortal enemies.

  ***

  I'm not much of a morning person.

  This is evident in the way I:

  A. can't open my eyes fully without the help of coffee, and

  B. wake up every morning with hair like a Tasmanian devil's nest.

  I forced myself to tiptoe blearily to the kitchen and start the coffee maker with as little beeps as possible - both Mom and Dad needed their sleep. I successfully brewed a cup of coffee with only two stubbed toes and one cupboard-to-forehead maneuver. Considering how little light was streaming in through the dull dawn sky, I decided to call that a victory.

  "Can you shut up?" I hissed at a gaggle of cheery birds chirping madly in the driveway. I fumbled my keys trying to get into the car and the birds only grew louder, and for a split-second I swear to god they were laughing at me.

  Starin
g down at my old exercise t-shirt and gym shorts, I almost started laughing at me, too. Since when did I exercise? Sure, I did some stretches if my back got sore when I was on the computer, but other than that I was pretty much a slug. It was a miracle I hadn't put on more weight, but then again Mom always said I had Dad to thank for that. It's true - the man's got a metabolism like a starving tiger. Even if that meant, when he wasn't eating so much anymore, he got thin.

  Too thin.

  I shook my head. Now wasn't the time. Dad was fine. Tonight I'd come home and make him something he really liked. But for now I needed all my mental presence just to get through driving on two sips of coffee and no sleep.

  I made it to the Diamondback trail in one piece. The parking lot was empty, of course, because what madman comes up here at the asscrack of dawn to do something healthy like exercise? Not me. But Burn Blackthorn definitely did, judging by the shiny red convertible sitting there. What was it with rich people and their obsession with motor vehicles? Why did they polish and wash and detail them so painstakingly? Did cars create their lives, or something? Did cars bring them food in the dead of winter when they were starving? Were cars actually useful beyond getting from one place to another and I just didn't know it? Maybe he used his car to save orphans, or something. Or maybe it's just a dude thing I'll never understand.

  I stretched my calves a bit at the mouth of the trail, half to calm my nerves and half so I didn't injure myself to death running like I never do. Burn was definitely here. And I definitely had to get to know him, if I wanted my scholarship intact. It was now or never.

  "Harley Davidson," I muttered as I started up the trail. "Bugatti. Suzuki. Yamaha. There's an Italian brand too, isn't there? Or is that Bugatti? Do you Bugatti a Bugatti?" I laughed at my own joke and felt a little better.

  The humor petered off quickly. It was only a half-mile or so into the trail before I was wheezing. The pine needles smelled great but the crisp air stung my skin, freezing my lungs on the way down. And while my nose dripped with the cold, the rest of me was burning - my muscles begging me to stop.