Nine

by Zach Hines

  “You know that all extinguishments must conform to the law,” Denton said. “Conducted in licensed extinguishment clinics.”

  Extinguishments. Denton would not say the word “burn.” He would not say the word “Burners” either. The Burners were not an official school club, though every ten years or so, some new Gold Star would apply to put them on the school’s official register. But it was a lost cause—extinguishments simply had to be by the book, conducted in a monitored, clinical setting.

  “Your stunt, if I can call it that . . .”

  Nicholas interjected, speaking for the first time since Denton had sprung him. “I admit it looked more impressive on paper.” He shook his head. “That straitjacket just doesn’t read when you cut holes for the arms. Muddles the whole asylum/suicide theme.”

  Denton scrunched his face as if biting into a sour lemon. “Whatever it was, it flagrantly violated that central precept of the law, and it deliberately put me—a Six—at risk. That is a serious offense, Nicholas. I’ve already suspended Amit for a week, but he was clearly just a pawn.”

  “Was it that obvious?” Nicholas said, releasing a loud sigh. This was such a waste of his time.

  Denton glowered. “The way I see it, you don’t respect authority. That comes from your failure to understand what authority actually is.”

  Nicholas suppressed an urge to scoff. Denton couldn’t have been more wrong. The one thing Nicholas did understand inside and out, the one thing he respected above all else, was authority. Namely, his own. Sometimes that put him in conflict with other authorities. That, perhaps, was where Denton’s misconception came from.

  As if to reinforce the point, Denton said, “I am in a position of authority over you. But authority is not just the exercise of power over others. True authority lies in the management of others. In steering people. In directing events toward your own goal. Tonight, I convinced the guards to release you, and in so doing I have steered you away from several weeks of community service. This means you are in a position in which you are now compelled to comply with my will, and contribute toward my goals.”

  “You’re saying I owe you one,” Nicholas said abruptly.

  Denton licked his lips furiously.

  “Your organization . . . ,” Denton started, “though it is prohibited, serves an important function here in the school. Let me tell you why you are allowed to walk freely through these halls. Why you are allowed to commandeer the orchestra room every morning. It is not by your doing, but thanks to my . . . largesse.”

  Sure.

  Nicholas leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Well, sir, let me say thank you. I mean that sincerely.”

  He put his hands behind his head, stretching his arms. Finally, Denton was getting to the point, which was that Denton needed him.

  Denton frowned, his face drooping so severely it looked like it had been melted by some foul acid. “Today, Lakeshore Academy has the most pupils it has ever had,” he said. “This is not just our issue. In general, the population in Lakeshore is rising rapidly, as is the case across the entire country.”

  “Yes,” Nicholas said. “The lunch lines are becoming far too tedious.”

  “This is not a joke, Hawksley. Our traditional tools to manage this, our incentives and checks and such . . . they need to be updated to reflect this reality. This is what I have long said, but always to deaf ears. The proposals the board of supervisors are discussing are inadequate for the task, and I have submitted comments to this effect.”

  “So, sir, what exactly do I owe you?” Nicholas asked loudly.

  Denton glared, his lip trembling as his tongue writhed inside his mouth.

  “We need to push up the school’s life score,” he said. “We can do much, much better.”

  Push up the school’s life score? That meant getting more kids to higher numbers faster. Get more kids burning. This was interesting.

  “We can do much better. On that, we agree,” Nicholas said, as relaxed and direct as if he had suddenly become Denton’s peer. “So, you want to better the school’s life score. And, at the same time, you say I owe you one.”

  “I think you can see where I am going with this,” Denton said. “You may be many things, but you are not an idiot.”

  With some flourish, Nicholas placed his hand over his heart. “That’s the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”

  “It’s certainly not my intention to compliment you,” Denton said. “And one more thing . . .” Denton leaned across the desk toward Nicholas, his tongue now working hungrily over his lips.

  “I’m sure that if our score was up high enough, it would be impressive to many people in positions of greater power than mine. People like your father.”

  Nicholas glared at Denton, trying to channel all the anger that invoking his father brought into the mix. . . . Nicholas directed that bile back toward Denton through his fierce stare.

  “I’ll see what I can do to . . . repay your favor,” Nicholas said flatly.

  Denton leaned back in his seat and nodded.

  “However,” Nicholas said, leaning toward Denton and lacing his voice with conspiracy and intrigue—he wasn’t about to let an opportunity this golden slip away, especially if he had to deal with Denton’s trolling—“might I ask you, then, in the spirit of helping us both, if I might have a look at some of the student records? I’d like to find information on someone in particular.”

  Denton studied Nicholas for a long moment. And then he licked his lips and smiled.

  Chapter 10

  “ALL RIGHT, ROCK, GET A MOVE ON.” ROCKY WAS SITTING AT the kitchen table, his math homework open beside him. Again.

  “But breakfast is the most important meal of the day and I haven’t had it yet!” Rocky protested.

  “Wait, you’re doing your homework now? You said you finished it last night.”

  “I . . . was exaggerating,” Rocky said and laughed.

  Julian picked up a slice of toast and placed it in his brother’s laughing mouth.

  “Try cramming, then.”

  Julian’s father entered the kitchen and looked at him. “Can I speak to you for a moment, Julian?”

  Julian sighed and pushed Rocky toward the door. “I’ll meet you at the car in two minutes,” he said to his little brother. Toast in mouth, Rocky gathered his homework and headed out to the car. Julian followed his father into the workshop.

  “Didn’t see you last night,” his father said.

  “Yeah, sorry, I came back late, didn’t want to wake you up,” Julian explained halfheartedly.

  Julian’s father nodded. “Well?”

  “I didn’t get the job, Dad,” Julian said, clenching his jaw. “They can’t hire Ones.”

  His father sat down on a stack of old tires with an air of exhaustion. “Goddammit,” he muttered. He ran his hand through his thinning hair.

  “Why are you still here?” Julian asked. “Aren’t you going to work today?”

  “They called me off,” he said. “Too many mechanics, not enough work. Jules, we need to talk about you. We can’t avoid it any longer.”

  A now familiar flush of anger pricked at Julian’s skin. In the six years since his mother had died, Julian had to watch his father’s sad, steady decline. Every year there was less and less money, and his father could never manage to pull them out of the spiral. And now, all the family’s troubles were about to be pinned squarely on Julian. He did not want to hear it. Not today.

  “Dad, I need to get to school,” he said. He hiked his backpack onto his shoulders and headed for the door.

  “Five minutes,” his father said, his voice deep and grave. “This is hard for me to even bring up. But I need five minutes, Son. This affects all of us. It affects your little brother.”

  Julian stopped at the entrance and turned around. “What is it?” he said.

  His father fixed his gaze at a random point on the wall. “The situation is worse than you know,” he said. “We’re going to lose the house u
nless I can make the next payment.”

  “The house? Dad . . .”

  Julian’s father turned to him, his face creased and serious.

  “Now, there’s a rebate we can get to cover the debt, but our life score is too low to qualify for it. I respect you, Son. God knows. I understand how you feel—what with everything that happened to your mother with the . . . the retrogression . . .”

  “Please don’t,” Julian said, hoping he could somehow end this conversation before it got any further.

  “I’m just saying that I want you to live your lives the way you want—when you want. But sometimes life isn’t about what we want, and we need to make sacrifices for others.”

  “Dad, it’s just . . . I just can’t do it. I’ve tried. Believe me. I’ve stood on the edge. I’ve looked over it. I tried to take the step. But I just keep seeing . . . Mom.” Julian exhaled.

  His father frowned gravely. “I would do it all myself. But I’m a Six already. I’d have to burn up to Eight or maybe even Nine to get the money. I don’t think that’s a good idea . . . With Rocky being so young still.”

  Julian’s heart was beating faster. His blood was pounding. He knew well how the life score worked. Being younger, being lower, his lives counted for so much more. They counted less the higher, the older, and the more damaged you got.

  “I’m sorry, Son. I don’t know what else to do,” his dad said.

  Julian closed his eyes, lost in the sudden shock of the moment.

  “How many?” Julian asked quietly.

  “Two,” his father said. “You would need to be on Life Three in a month.”

  “There’s no other way?”

  His father shook his head. “I know you think that the world is messed up and the deck is stacked against you. I used to think the same way—that it’s not fair. It’s not right. And you know what, life has turned out to be a real hell sometimes for me these past few years. But one day, I decided to stop being angry about it. Instead, I decided to deal with it.”

  He stood, wiping his greasy hands on his coveralls.

  “Great pep talk, Dad,” Julian said, turning away. He didn’t want to look at his father. Instead he glanced around the shop. There was no inspiration, no way out. Nothing but old tools and his old man.

  “I have to get to school,” Julian said.

  His father looked at him, his face a mask of stone, but Julian knew he was waiting for an answer, a clarification, a reaction, anything. . . . But Julian did not have anything to say. He just turned and walked out.

  He sat down in the car. Rocky was in the passenger seat, still working through his homework. “You’re late,” Rocky said.

  “I know,” Julian said.

  He turned the car on and looked back at his house through the rearview mirror.

  Chapter 11

  THE SELF-PROCLAIMED BURNERS’ DAY BEGAN UNEVENTFULLY. It was business as usual in the morning, except there was a decided lack of white in class or in the halls. It wasn’t until lunchtime that everyone realized what the Burners were up to with their holiday. Constance had entered, stood on a table in the cafeteria, and announced that Amit’s dead man’s party was being held that very evening in the old farmhouse out past the practice football field. Everyone was invited.

  Julian had noticed Molly talking to Constance after lunch. It looked like Molly was pledging: she was huddled with Constance in the corner of the cafeteria in a whisper, her face intense and conspiratorial. There was also one undeniable, irrefutable piece of evidence: Molly was now wearing the white blazer. Surely, she would be at the party. Whether or not she was a Burner now, he needed someone to talk to.

  Julian arrived that evening to find the farmhouse decked out in a kind of disco asylum vibe, sticking with the theme of Amit’s burn. Food and drinks were served on gurneys. Monitors had been installed in the ceiling, showing Amit’s DeadLinks video on loop. Over and over, he fell splat onto Denton’s podium. There was a special red punch. Julian sniffed a glass of it—cherry and strongly alcoholic—and then put it back down.

  Around 8:00 p.m., Amit himself arrived, in his newly minted Four body. Franklin had driven him there. Amit stepped out of the car unsteadily, and the crowd erupted into a chant of “Amit! Amit!”

  No longer the fat kid, Amit had been reborn in a slender frame. He returned high fives and fist bumps as he entered, but he was stumbling and his eyes were unfocused and searching, almost as if he wasn’t sure where he was.

  The centerpiece of the living room was Amit’s Three corpse laid out on a gurney. A sign hung from it that read, “Here lies Amit. He gave his life so that we may have a day off.” Not long after Amit’s arrival, Nicholas organized the Burners into a line and one by one they paid “respects” to the corpse, in the form of jocular insults. The final Burner was Amit himself. But he said nothing when he saw his corpse. He just looked at it, breathing heavily.

  When Nicholas began a toast to Amit, Julian slipped out the back of the room into the yard. At the keg, a group of bros was helping one of their own stand on his head as they chanted, “Death by keg stand! Death by keg stand!” Others were turning the nozzles on a group of girls, who ran from the spray, squealing.

  Watching the stupidity, Julian felt empty, sad for the waste of it all. Not just for the waste of life, but for the waste of synthetic beer. For the water wasted on it, soaking into the dirt. He could feel something bubbling up from somewhere deep inside him.

  He searched through the entire party twice until he finally found Molly at the fire ring, drinking with Constance and a few other girl pledges.

  “Julian?” Molly said, surprised at seeing him approach. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I know, it’s not exactly my scene.”

  “Yeah, people having fun,” Constance interjected. “This must be so novel for you.”

  Julian looked to Molly questioningly. “Is she, like, literally mocking me right to my face?”

  Molly took him by the arm and said, “Let’s go over here.”

  She walked them out of earshot of the pledges.

  “What’s going on, Moll? Am I embarrassing you in front of your new friends?”

  “You’re starting to, yeah. Why are you even here, anyway?”

  Julian wanted to say, Because I don’t know what to do. Because I need a friend. Because I am afraid of becoming exactly like all these people.

  Instead, he said, “There’s just . . . There’s been some shit happening, and now you’re burning like everyone else, and . . .”

  “Julian, please don’t get into another argument with me about this. It’s not the time, all right?” Molly looked back over her shoulder at Constance.

  Julian suddenly felt a heavy, dark pain inside his chest. He could feel it course through him, crawling inside him.

  “Yeah, it’s not the time, is it?” Julian said. He turned to walk away.

  “Wait, Jules, tell me what’s going on, okay? But let’s not make this about me,” Molly said. She grabbed him by the shoulder.

  He shrugged her off.

  “No. You have a good time. With your friends,” Julian said, and walked off.

  He was almost gone, almost out of there, almost to his car—when Franklin appeared and tapped his shoulder.

  “Nicholas Hawksley wants to talk to you,” Franklin said.

  “Me?” Julian asked, surprised.

  “You.”

  For a moment, Julian was frozen, unthinking. All he could do was absorb Franklin’s presence before him: His hair was militant, closely cropped. His face was stern and severe, with a single crease bisecting his forehead.

  “But I’m leaving,” he said.

  “You should hear what he has to say,” Franklin replied flatly.

  Julian knew he didn’t need to go with Franklin. He knew he could leave. But something stopped him there, some new, powerful feeling inside him. Something compelled him to find out whatever the hell Nicholas Hawksley would want with him. It was a mysterious forc
e just like at the Terrible Twos . . .

  You need to look at what this is.

  “All right,” Julian said after a long moment.

  Franklin led him into the farmhouse. A group of Burner girls was watching him from the porch as they passed a joint around. Julian suddenly had the feeling that he had stepped outside his body. That he was watching himself from afar, watching as he was being led to some kind of setup.

  “The infamous Julian Dex,” Nicholas said as Julian entered the room. “The only One in the academy.” Nicholas stood sipping a drink beside Amit’s dead body.

  “There’s an ice luge outside, ladies and gentlemen,” Franklin announced to the revelers still in the room. “Enjoy yourselves. A tribute to Amit!”

  Slowly, the room emptied. Franklin followed the last person out and shut the door softly behind him, leaving Julian and Nicholas alone. Nicholas approached Julian and handed him a glass of the red alcoholic beverage, which Julian held awkwardly. Nicholas then settled into a sofa beside Amit’s corpse and beckoned for him. Julian sat down beside Nicholas, hesitant. Nicholas was so close to him, Julian could feel his warmth, a dull, ambient presence in the air that also smelled strangely floral.

  “We’ve been going to school together for what, four years now,” Nicholas said. “And we haven’t spoken a word.”

  “We’ve said a few,” Julian said.

  Nicholas smiled at him dimly. “Well. First, it can’t be avoided, I want to give you my deepest condolences about your mother.”

  Julian became hot all over. His face flushed.

  What?

  “I’m so very sorry,” Nicholas said. “With nine deaths, we tend to become immune to real horror. But what happened to her all those years ago . . .” Nicholas shook his head, as if full of pity. “It’s incomprehensible.”

  How did Nicholas even find out? Did everyone know?

  “How did you . . . ? How?” he stammered.