Playing with Fire

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  After about thirty minutes, I realize why there are so few of us in the theater. The flick, billed as a shoot-em-up action film, is horrifically, hilariously cheesy.

  “This is terrible. You wanna bug out early?” he asks, as if reading my mind.

  “God yes,” I whisper back, relief thick in my voice.

  As we slink out, I pause to get a look at the guy behind me, who I’d tossed the popcorn at. Cole waves at me from under a white baseball hat, his expression smug and playful. I shake my head and follow Reid out the doors, wondering if Cole being there is a coincidence, or if he is keeping an eye on me for his friend.

  Bursting from the theater into the cool night air, Reid and I jog across the street to a small playground. Dropping my bag at my feet, I hop, standing, onto a swing and spin so the chains twist and untwist, making my hair fly back and forth as I move. Reid sits in the swing next to mine, his sneakers digging into the loose gravel.

  “You seemed preoccupied in the theater. What’s on your mind?” he asks with his face turned to the sky.

  I stop spinning long enough to stare at him for a minute. Never in my entire life has someone just instinctively got me like Reid. I press my lips together in a line, debating what to say. I know Dad told me not to share the info he’d given me, but at the end of the day, if my theory is right, an ally—someone to help me do some digging—would really be nice.

  “I’m sort of poking around into what happened at the squadron,” I answer.

  Whatever he’d expected me to say, it isn’t that. He swings to a stop, his face serious. “What? Why? Aren’t the authorities looking into it?”

  I let myself slide down until I’m sitting in the swing, and then turn to face him, letting myself lean forward over my feet. “Yeah, but I... I think they are looking in the wrong place.”

  He frowns. “What do you mean?”

  I swallow, drawing circles with the toe of my shoe. “The squadron started having system glitches. At first, it was small stuff, then, not such small stuff.” I pause. “You have to keep this just between us, ok?” He nods, so I continue. “Someone hacked the onboard relay. Sent false error messages to the base computers. Again, they thought it was a glitch, until they got this.”

  I reach down, pulling the email out of my bag and unfolding it slowly, handing it to him.

  He reads it, frowning. In large, red letters it reads:

  Next time, it will be for real.

  He passes it back to me. “Do they have any idea who’s behind it?” he asks.

  “Not yet. They are investigating, talking to all the active duty personnel. But the thing is, I don’t think that’s who’s doing it.”

  “What’s your theory?”

  I think about it for a moment before answering. “What if it’s one of us? One of the kids whose parents are in the squadron? We have as much reason as anyone else not to want the deployment to happen. And not to brag, but my dad can’t even program the Blu-ray player. I bet most of the others are the same.”

  He looks down, biting at his bottom lip. “Yeah, that does make sense.”

  “My concern is that they’re so buys looking in the wrong place…” I trail off, but he knows where I’m heading.

  “That something serious will happen before they start looking in the right one.”

  I nod. “If this person’s goal is to ground the fleet, when it goes back up in a week, they are gonna have to escalate to be taken seriously. And that means people getting hurt. And both of our parents,” I gesture between us, “are in that line of fire.”

  He pauses, and then slowly asks, “So what’s your play?”

  I kick the rocks under my sneakers. “I’m going to use the timestamp on the email to try to back trace the IP. It will mean going through my dad’s work email. He won’t be happy about it if he finds out.”

  “What can I do?” he asks.

  “Now that you mention it, I’d like to pull the files on any students with parents in the squadron.”

  He frowns. “Not the hard copies. One, you’d have to go through each manually, which would take forever, and plus, someone would probably notice that many missing files.

  “Can you get me alone with one of their computers?”

  He shakes his head. “The student files are on the guidance server. It’s a closed network. You’d have to plug into one of them directly.”

  “I can handle that, with a little help from my friends.”

  He smirks.

  “Also, what do you know about Bianca?” I ask, not looking at him.

  “Not much. She’s quiet, nice enough. She’s Cassy’s best friend. A cheerleader for the past two years or so. Good grades, I think. She asked me to tutor her and Cassy for a while, but I don’t think she really needed it. Why, she a suspect?”

  I stand, releasing the chains. “Honestly, I’m not sure just yet.”

  Taking the cue, he stands too, looking down at his watch. “Only nine thirty. You wanna go grab a coffee before we head home?” he asks.

  I grab my bag. “That sounds really bad for me, coffee this late. It might stunt my growth.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe, but if I’m going to do one stupid thing tonight, it should probably be coffee, because if I sit here with you any longer, I’m going to do something even stupider. Like kiss you.”

  His admission catches me off guard. In two long strides, he’s in front of me, grabbing the metal chains of my swing on either side. The world around me slows to a crawl as he leans forward. My breath hitches in my chest, and I freeze. Slowly, he presses his forehead against mine, his eyes focused on my mouth. I can feel him struggling with himself, the restraint knotting in his arm muscles. Finally, quickly, he kisses the top of my head gently and backs away. The world rushes back in so quickly I think I might collapse from the influx.

  “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “Shouldn’t have done that.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. What can I say? Do I even want him to kiss me? Would I have stopped him? I have no idea.

  He holds his hand out. “Come on, Let’s get that coffee.”

  Oliver isn’t at school the next day, but stays home sick, according to Georgia, who hands me a note before first period.

  Farris,

  Don’t think this means you are getting out of homecoming. See you at the game, if not before. Have fun with Georgia today. Remember, jeans are still an option.

  —Ollie

  I smile and tuck the note into my backpack.

  In the cafeteria, Reid slides me a list of names. “Behold, all the students with family in or attached to the squadron. That’s the best I can do.”

  “I could kiss you,” I say without thinking. Then my head jerks up, my words finally passing through my brain.

  He smirks. “Relax. We’re cool.”

  Looking over the list, my eyes stick on two familiar names. Oliver and Georgia Knight.

  “Why are Oliver and Georgia on here? I thought their dad was a doc?”

  Reid responds after taking a sip of soda. “He’s the squadron doc. He embeds with the troops when they deploy.”

  I frown, my gut rolling at the idea of him doing something like this. Is he even capable?

  “Anything jump out at you?” Reid asks, taking another long draught of his soda.

  Truth is, the name I’m most interested in just happens to be on the top of the page. Bianca Withers. I rub the back of my neck, not wanting to say anything out loud. Bianca is back with the cheerleaders today, but Cassy is sitting next to Reid, her expression pleasantly neutral as she stabs at her salad. I shake my head. “No one jumps out. You know these people better than I do; what do you think?” I hand the page back to him.

  He glances over it, opening his mouth and then closing it quickly, catching my eye over the top of the page before handing it back. One corner of his mouth twitches, his eyes sliding across the room to Bianca and then back to me. I nod as subtly as possible. We really need her full file, a
nd the others too, if we can manage it. Ollie’s file is still sitting in my backpack like a guilty secret.

  “Nothing, really. Now what?” he asks.

  I tap my pencil on my chin, debating. “First, some research, then a trip to the guidance counselor,” I decide, lifting my water bottle to my lips.

  He tilts his head quizzically. “You need a little guidance?”

  He knows full well what I need, and his tone is teasing. “Oh, I think I’m always in need of some guidance,” I say. “But what I could really use is a distraction. You up for it?”

  The smile on his face is answer enough.

  ***

  After school, Kayla is already waiting near my car when Georgia and I arrive. She leans lightly on the hood, an offense for which I would have shot anyone else.

  Full of nervous energy, I begin chatting. First introducing them, which is awkward and unnecessary, then droning on about the terrible movie I’d seen with Reid, all the while terrified that having Kayla and Georgia in the same car will be like mixing oil and water.

  When I finally stop to take a breath, they fall into a light discussion about the latest celebrity gossip and converse the whole way. By the time we get there, they are laughing like they’ve been friends for years. Georgia, I realize, is one of those people you just automatically love. She has an amazing way of putting you at ease, making you feel welcome. It’s the same charisma her brother has, and it’s just as impossible to resist.

  The mall is seriously picked over as far as formals go, so we head downtown to some specialty shops Kayla recommends. Less than an hour later, she has a lime-green-and-black dress with a short, tutu-like skirt and corset top. It looks great on her, even if it does make her look like some kind of morbid ballerina. I find a long, black gown with an empire waist and shimmery red vines lacing their way up the skirt. I pick up a red-and-black choker and matching earrings that graze my shoulders. Georgia declares the outfit perfect, and that’s good enough for me.

  I only hope Dad likes it as much, because the credit card is still smoking when I stuff it back into my wallet.

  After a quick dinner at a place called Machas, which boasts a live mariachi band, we are back on the road home. Exhausted, we mostly just listen to the radio, occasionally congratulating ourselves on our amazing finds or bursting into song and wiggling in our seats to the beat.

  I drop Kayla off first. Secretly, I’m hoping to get inside Georgia’s house to check on Oliver. As I hoped she would, Georgia invites me in.

  The floor plan of their house is almost exactly the same as Reid’s, but the decor is vastly different. Oliver’s parents have a bit of a flair for the dramatic that comes through in their expensive Victorian furniture and large, bold paintings. Also, as some long-timers do, they’ve repainted the rooms in contrasting color palettes that gives the whole house a warmer, more lived-in feel.

  “I assume you’d like to check on my brother,” Georgia says at the end of the tour.

  I blush. “Am I that obvious?”

  She just smiles and points to a closed door at the end of the hallway. “I’m going to go grab a snack,” she says, gliding off to the kitchen.

  I creep down the hall, my feet making no noise on the carpeted floor. Before I reach Oliver’s room, a sound makes me pause, turning my head. Light is streaming through a half-open door of the bathroom to my left. I catch a glimpse of Oliver through the gap. I want to say something, to announce myself, but I don’t, and I’m not sure why. But I just watch in the reflection of the mirror as he pulls an orange prescription bottle out of a drawer and snaps open the cap. He tosses two white pills into his mouth, washing them down with a deep drink of tap water. Slowly, quietly, I take a few steps backward. When he emerges, he’s wearing a white T-shirt and boxers. I must have been holding my breath because little black spots swim in front of my eyes.

  Oblivious to my presence, he closes himself back into his room. I slide into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

  Please God, be antibiotics.

  As quietly as possible, sure the sound of the drawer rolling open will give me away, I dig through the random toiletries until I find the prescription bottle. The label has been meticulously peeled off. I pop off the cap and shake a few pills into my hand. They look innocuous, but hell, how am I supposed to know? All I know is they’re round, white, and look just like aspirin except for the numbers 54-452 etched onto their surface. Snapping a photo with my phone, I return the pills to the tube and the tube to the drawer. I flush the toilet and run some water in the sink, leaning against the edge of the counter and staring at myself in the mirror for a few seconds.

  Don’t jump to conclusions, I warn myself. It could be anything, could be nothing. But I feel the wary edge of distrust creeping in, like a slick of oil over my skin. Finally, I splash a little water on my face, which I’ve watched grow pale in the reflection, and then dry off before making my way to Oliver’s room, tapping gently on his door.

  “Go away,” he shouts from the other side.

  I take an involuntary step back, stunned at the tone of his voice. It sounds so cold. I take another step back, wondering if I should just leave, and bump right into Georgia. She gives me a don’t mind him expression and bangs on his door.

  “Oliver, Farris is here,” she hollers into the room.

  When the door swings open, he’s wearing jeans, to my relief and disappointment. I may have had a hard time talking to him in his underwear. The tension between us is thick enough without the lack of clothing.

  “Um, hey,” I say weakly. “I wanted to see how you were feeling.”

  He runs his fingers through his tousled hair, rubbing his head. “Oh. Yeah. I’m all right. Better. Come on in.”

  I step into his room as he grabs a pile of dirty laundry off his floor and tosses it into his hamper.

  “Excuse the mess,” he says, flopping himself onto his bed.

  I shrug, stepping inside. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. You gonna be at school tomorrow?” I ask.

  His room is that of a typical guy. There’s a surfboard-shaped corkboard, flyers for various bands and photos tacked to the face, a couple of posters strewn about the walls: one of a banana-yellow Porsche 911 and one for The Walking Dead. Some other posters have been balled into unrecognizable chunks of paper on the floor.

  His desk is a disaster; notebooks, papers, and books strewn about, haphazardly covering the surface. One huge computer monitor in the center, the screen black. There is, however, a really nice recording set up free standing next to the desk, a video camera on a tripod, a round, white, professional quality recording mic below it. There’s even a silver dome, dormant bulb inside, all ready to light up the show. I’m about to ask about it, wondering if he’s a secret YouTuber or something, when something else catches my attention. Near the corner of his wall, there’s a huge chunk of broken plaster, as if someone put their fist through it.

  I point to it jokingly. “I hope that wall owed you money.”

  “Shouldn’t you be on a date with Reid or something?” His voice is firm, sharp, and cracks like a whip against me.

  “Ouch,” I say, “Did Cole tell you he was spying on me? Or did you put him up to it?”

  He folds his arms across his chest, his expression sour, his mouth clamped shut, a muscle in the back of his jaw twitching.

  “Well, first of all, it wasn’t a date. We’re friends. Friends hang out.” I narrow my eyes, “But secondly, and most importantly, I don’t owe you an explanation or an apology. And I certainly don’t appreciate your friends spreading useless gossip.”

  He shakes his head, turning away. “If you’re here to back out of homecoming, just say so.”

  I hold up my hands. “Slow down, turbo. Who said anything about backing out? I want to go to the dance with you. I only came by because I was worried. You were out of school last week, and now this…”

  “I’m fine.”

  I decide to probe, realizing it may be my only chance. �
�Are you taking anything for it? Antibiotics or anything?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No, Farris. I’m not diseased or anything. I’ve just got a headache.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying to meet his eyes. “Is there anything I can do? You need anything?”

  He closes his eyes. “I’m just tired. You should go.”

  I shake my head. I’m still angry, but I don’t want to leave things like this. “You realize you’re kinda being a dick, right? And even so, I’m still here, wanting to help.” I take a breath. “Look, I know how miserable being sick can make you, so I’m giving you one pass. One. But if I walk out this door right now, feeling like this, I can’t guarantee I’ll ever walk in it again.”

  It’s an ultimatum, I know. And as much as I hate giving them, I’ve been scorned enough to know I won’t ever let myself feel that way again. I won’t be with someone who puts that on me. Life’s too short.

  When he doesn’t answer, I back away, rubbing my hands down my jeans. “Okay, well, see you around then.”

  I move toward his doorway.

  His eyes pop open, and he leaps off the rumpled bed. His arm comes across my face, preventing me from crossing the threshold. I feel myself tense at his closeness, and not in a good way.

  “Hey, listen. I don’t mean to be a jerk. I’m just crazy exhausted, and when Cole mentioned seeing you and Reid, I dunno, it just got under my skin. Please don’t be angry. I’m really glad you came by.”

  I turn to face him. His eyes are inches from mine. “Of course,” I whisper hoarsely.

  He moves forward, slowly, hesitantly, closing the distance between our lips. The kiss is sweet and timid. He whispers an apology against my mouth, and I nod.

  This time, when he pulls back, I grab him, bringing him back to me, kissing him roughly, hungrily, until the last fragments of anger have fallen off me. When I pull back, he smiles, and I wipe my ChapStick residue off his bottom lip with my thumb.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say, slipping out and closing the door behind me with a soft click.

  ***

  When I arrive home, Dad has his nose glued to a football game he’s recorded. The Cowboys must be losing, because the long string of expletives emanating from the living room, all ending with “Romo,” would have made a sailor blush.