Playing with Fire

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  But, after jumping the gun one too many times before, I’ve also learned the value of patience, of knowing all the facts before ruining someone’s life, especially when that life might be your own.

  Sitting at my desk, I stare at Oliver’s record. I’d managed not to open the digital file, but something about having the hard copy right here in front of me is like having an itch I can’t quite scratch. Finally, I give in.

  I need to be thorough, after all. I need to be positive.

  Sure enough, everything Reid told me is true. Oliver has been suspended six times in three years, all for fighting. There’s one note in particular that really bothers me, a note from the school counselor saying that Oliver has violent and depressed moods and that he might be dangerous to himself and others. Then, something must have changed over last spring break, because the notes end abruptly, replaced by reports from his teachers saying how well he’s doing in class. Taking a glance at his grades, I see he’s gone from Ds and Fs, to straight As in the last two years. A jaded, cynical part of me wonders if he’s done it himself, or if being the star quarterback has more to do with it.

  I close the folder. Maybe he had been taking drugs freshman year. If he managed to get himself clean, that would explain the miraculous change in personality. I tuck the file away, intending to have Reid return it to the school tomorrow. My computer dings, a reminder I’ve all but forgotten I set.

  Clicking it on, I navigate back to the Omega Portal video stream where Oliver uploads his music. A new upload came in today, a slow, haunting rendition of The End of The World As We Know It by REM. The image flickers, and I frown. Pulling the file, I open the properties and find something else, a hidden stream of video behind the first. Carefully extracting it, I open it in a separate window.

  It’s just flashes, images and clips of video, no sound, but somehow, that only makes it more disturbing. It’s spliced images of people cutting themselves, women crying, flies on a child’s body, an eerie white mask, dead trees—so much flying across the screen I can’t catch half of it. But the end, the clip that drives the shiver of dread up my spine, is a single hand, reaching out from below the surface of dark, swirling water. Then, as suddenly as it began, the video vanishes. It is once more just Oliver, playing his guitar. When I try to access the embedded footage again, it’s gone. Vanished.

  A glitch? Someone piggybacking the file for some other purpose? Or a onetime view and kill? I rub my cold fingertips across my lips once before closing the site.

  I spend the better part of the next couple of days following Bianca around the school. I ask her about her project, even offering to help, but she rebuffs me.

  “No thanks. I think I have what I need.”

  During class, I sneak out, pick her lock and search her locker, hoping to find her laptop inside. My search turns up nothing but candy wrappers, books, and a picture of her with Cassy and some guy, his face burnt out. This girl clearly has issues, if nothing else. Delving into full research mode on her, I learn that her mother is an admin clerk in the parts department, and that her dad is a manager at the commissary. According to her social media, she came out as gay only six months ago, and the response has been mostly positive. There were, of course, a handful of guys offering to “change her mind” and one aunt who alternately told her she would pray for her, and then disowned her.

  Unfortunately, she keeps her laptop close at hand, generally stuffed in her oversized designer purse. There’s not a single window I can crawl through to get a peek. I spend the bulk of Wednesday night creating a data worm. If I can just plug it into her computer, it will find the information I need in a matter of minutes. The trick will be getting close enough to use it.

  As I sneak to bed late Wednesday night, I overhear Dad on the phone in his room. Stopping to listen, I take a single step toward his door, which is ajar.

  “Yeah, the Feds have hit a dead end, which just makes it worse. I’ve interviewed every single soldier in my squadron; I doubt any of them have the desire—much less the know-how, to pull this off. Yes. Yes. The biggest concern right now is the security of the fleet. Yes, sir. Yes. I’ll keep you informed.” He hesitates, “We’re exploring that option as well. But the results are positive. We should be able to resume flights Monday.”

  My breath catches in my throat. The two-week down period has ended quicker than expected. This is bad. This is so bad. I hear him sign off and I tap gently on his door.

  “Yep?”

  I open the door. He meets my eyes, sighing from where he sits on the edge of his bed. “I assume you were eavesdropping?”

  I nod. “Hard not to.”

  He waves me in, and I stand in front of him. “If you’ve got something to say, then out with it. I’m bushed and I need to hit the rack,” he demands, his voice tense and tired.

  I press my lips together, exhaling through my nose before speaking. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to start the flights again.” I say in a rush. He opens his mouth, but I hold up my hand. “It’s just…you still don’t know who did this, or why. If their intent was to ground the planes, or to get someone’s attention, or even to prove they’ve found a way to hack the onboard systems, then by flying again, you force them to escalate. This time, someone could get hurt, or worse.” I let my voice drop on the last word.

  He holds a hand out, and I take it. “I appreciate your concern, and you’re right. But the Feds think they are close to tracking the hack, and in the meantime, we’re in the process of shielding all the electronics. You don’t need to worry. I’ve got everything under control.”

  I frown, but his face is stern and etched with deep lines. He’s on edge, but trying to play calm for me. I can say more, but again, without proof, I’ve got nothing, so I shut my mouth and nod once.

  For now, at least, I’m going to have to let him deal with it. And pray to God that I’m wrong.

  ***

  By the time Friday night rolls around, I’m totally on edge. I haven’t seen Dad in days. He’s working pretty much round the clock to get the new components installed, tested, and approved for flight before Monday, sort of an all-hands-on-deck situation he assures me in a hastily left voicemail telling me, again, not to worry.

  As if that is possible.

  Derek, Kayla, and Reid opt to skip the game, no big surprise, so I decide to go with Georgia. She’s the only one of her friends not on the pom-pom brigade, and she seems glad to have some company in the stands. I wonder, for a few minutes, if she’d notice me sneaking off to the locker room to get my hands on Bianca’s laptop. The only thing that keeps me from going for it is the probability that she left it at home for the game.

  Finally, with Georgia’s encouragement, I relax and allow myself to enjoy the game. We cheer and wave our newly purchased foam fingers as our brave team is stomped into the dirt by Havelock High School. After the final horn blows, signaling the end of the game, we rush down the bleachers and wait for the guys in the tunnel that leads to the locker room.

  I wait, wringing my hands, unsure if Oliver will be glad to see me after the loss. But when he pulls off his helmet and finds me waiting, his face lights up with delight, his dimple making a star appearance. He walks toward me, covered in sweat and mud, and I realize he’s never looked as good to me as he does right now. His smile warm, face flushed, short hair glistening with sweat.

  “You came.” He smiles.

  “I told you I would.” Stepping forward, I throw my arms around his neck carelessly and plant a kiss on his warm mouth.

  He squeezes me gently, lifting me off my feet. “If that’s what I get when I lose, I can’t wait to see what happens when I win.” He laughs, pulling back.

  “I was just on my way home, but I wanted to say hi before I left,” I say, leaning back against the concrete wall.

  “I’m glad you did. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven?” he confirms.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “I heard you got a dress. Guess that means I’ll have to
look halfway decent, too,” he jokes, tucking his helmet under his arm.

  “Don’t get too fancy. I fully plan on wearing sneakers. You ever notice no matter how slow zombies shuffle, they always catch you? I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Sneakers it is, then.”

  He kisses my cheek and jogs down the hallway, smacking Trey on the back of the head as he passes. Trey, who’d been about to kiss Georgia, backs off and follows, shouting profanities as they run.

  Georgia leans over, her arms folded across her chest. “You know, I haven’t seen Ollie this happy in a really long time.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that and when I don’t respond, she faces me directly.

  “Just, be careful with him, okay? He’s more fragile than he looks,” she adds.

  ***

  Georgia shows up at my door on Saturday afternoon, with a crate of makeup, a bag of hair tools, and a six-pack of Mountain Dew.

  “I could totally kiss you right now,” I say, letting her in.

  She smirks. “I know.”

  We smear some cold, blue mud on our faces and she paints my nails while they dry.

  “So, how long have you been with Trey?” I ask as she sits me back to pluck my eyebrows.

  “Oh, about two years now. It was one of those things. We’d been friends forever, and then…suddenly, it was more, you know.”

  I murmur yes, but truthfully, I’ve never been in that situation. My first and only boyfriend had been sort of a whirlwind thing. We’d met at school and three days later, we were making out in the back of his pickup. He was cute, and I was too young and stupid to realize he had a reputation for seducing freshmen.

  “What about you? What was it like at your last school?” she asks, and I feel myself tense, just as she rips another stray hair from my face.

  “Ever read the Inferno?” I ask.

  She makes a face. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Well, let’s just say that I’m pretty sure there is an eleventh circle of hell, and that’s it.”

  She chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

  “You have no idea,” I mutter, trying to keep my mouth as still as possible so the now-dry mask doesn’t crack.

  She washes my hair in the sink, and then blow-dries it straight. We wash off the masks, slather on some lotion, and she begins applying my makeup. Truth is, I’m glad to have the help and the company. Georgia is the perfect balance of friendly without being annoying. While she works, she chats about idle things, TV shows she loves, a summer trip she took with her family to Hawaii. It’s just enough to keep my mind off everything else.

  By the time she finishes, my hair hangs in perfect curls framing my face, which despite the amount of makeup she put on, manages to look feminine and soft. She’s done something that makes my eyes stand out and painted my lips a deep red that complements the jeweled vines of my dress. I feel pretty. Girlie.

  Not that I’d ever wear something this high-maintenance on a regular basis. I will have to keep a tube of lipstick in my microscopic bag for touch-ups, and I’m forbidden from rubbing my eyes—no matter how much they itch—or from running my fingers through my hair, lest I pull out all the hard-fought curls.

  As good as his word, Oliver arrives at the stroke of seven, bearing a delicate red rose corsage in a funny-looking plastic container. He blushes as he slips it onto my wrist. I wish my mom could be here for this. A deep, familiar ache blossoms in my chest and my eyes dart to her photograph on the bookshelf. She would smile and take pictures while Dad stood in the corner looking terrifying. Then she would hug me and tell me how beautiful I look.

  But the house is empty, except for Oliver and me. There’s no one to take a photo, no one to remind him I’m to be home by midnight and no later. Just silence and the sound of my heart beating in my ears. Taking my hand, Oliver draws me close.

  “You look amazing,” he says softly. “I’m kinda glad no one else is here, so I can do this.”

  With that, he steps forward, putting his hands on my waist and pulling me into a deep, long kiss. When he pulls back, it’s like he’s taking all the air with him, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. I open my eyes, expecting to see his face smeared red and looking like a clown from my lipstick, but there’s not a single smudge. Score one for Georgia’s fabulous makeup crate.

  “I can’t get over how beautiful you look,” Oliver says, leading me out to his truck and opening the door for me.

  “You don’t look half bad yourself,” I say appreciatively.

  Actually, he’s incredibly debonair in his classic black suit with his long, red tie and vest. Georgia must have helped him pick it out because it goes perfectly with my dress. He has kept his promise, however, and his shoes are dark blue Nike runners. Helping me into the cab, he notices my red Chuck Taylors and smirks.

  The dance is being held in the Grand Ballroom at the Officers’ Club.

  The theme is masquerade and there are masks, balloons, and streamers, all reflecting the thousands of tiny twinkle lights strung from the ceiling. The tables are covered in black-and-gold silk, and each one has a tall, silver candelabrum erupting from the center.

  As soon as we arrive, a boy in a black top hat and tails snaps our picture. I spot Derek and Kayla sitting at a table with Georgia and Trey, chatting away. Trey is saying something I can’t make out, and Derek is actually smiling.

  Derek is wearing an old-fashioned burgundy velvet tux with long tails, the ruffles of his white shirt spilling out over the neckline and at the wrists. It’s very Gothic. Very Derek. Kayla sits beside him in her green-and-black tutu, her hair hanging in loose burgundy-and-green waves. Green ballet slippers with ribbons that wrap around her legs up to her knees. Georgia is her polar opposite in a floor-length pastel-pink silk gown that hugs her chest before crisscrossing down to her waist. Her blonde hair is pinned at the top of her head, hundreds of delicate ringlets cascading from a small tiara. Both girls spot me at the same time and wave.

  “I invited Derek and Kayla to sit with us. Hope you don’t mind,” Oliver whispers, leaning in and placing a gentle kiss on my ear.

  It’s his gift, I realize. His peace offering. His apology. His way of telling me that he not only respects my choices, but that he wouldn’t try to pull me to one side or the other. He wants me to be happy, whatever that might mean. I squeeze his hand tightly, mouthing thanks before turning back to the table and waving. Without warning, a familiar tune bursts through the speakers, bringing everyone to their feet. Oliver spins me onto the dance floor and we move, a rhythmic mass of bodies around us, but my focus is all on him, on the way we move together, apart and back together again, perfectly in sync. A slow song starts and before I can catch my breath, he’s holding me tightly against him, his hand in mine, swaying to the music.

  For a brief minute, it is as if the rest of the world falls away, leaving us alone in the universe. The feel of his hand on the small of my back, the smell of him—it is better than anything my feeble imagination could have conjured. Laying my head against his shoulder, I let everything else go—lead balloons I’ve been holding on too for far too long. My guilt, my worry, my fear, it all floats away and the only thing still holding me together is Oliver.

  In that moment, I resolve to tell him everything. About my past, about my mom, about the things going on with my dad and how I am looking into it, even about reading his file and snooping in his bathroom. I’ve been holding him at arm’s length for long enough.

  Maybe it’s time to let him in.

  Leaning back, I open my mouth to speak, but the words are swallowed by the music as the slow song ends, fading seamlessly into a faster, pounding rhythm. Around us, people swarm the floor in groups, jumping and dancing and laughing as the lights pulse in time with the beat. After a few more songs, I’m panting and sweating. We take a seat at our table, and Derek brings over an armful of waters as Georgia and Trey are announced homecoming king and queen to a chorus of cheers and whistles. I watch them, parting the crowd
like Moses parting the Red Sea, making their way onstage. We clap loudly. Oliver shouts, “Go Trey!” as they’re crowned. Another slow song begins, and Oliver looks at me. I hold up a hand.

  “Gonna have to sit this one out.” I pat my chest.

  I drain my water cup quickly. Oliver stands, offering, over the loud music, to go for punch. He crosses the dance floor to the refreshment table, but instead of coming right back, he cuts through the swathe of people and slips out the back doors.

  It’s the strangest sensation, like the world is crashing down around me, slivers of noise and movement being pulled away in slow motion. Suddenly, I’m standing outside of everything, things are moving around me, but it feels distant, surreal.

  I try to talk myself out of it, even as I follow him. My mind spins, listing off a million things he could be doing, all totally innocent. But there’s something else, a relentless thirst for the truth, and a cold certainty that whatever is going on, he’s been keeping something from me. I can’t trust him; I can’t open myself up to him, however much I might want to.

  The bottom line is, deep down, I don’t want to be right.

  And if it is drugs, and I break things off, there’s the very real possibility I’ll see a repeat of what happened at my last school. I could very easily find myself a social outcast. Hopefully this time, I’d at least still have Derek and Kayla. And Reid. Guilt washes over me as I realize that it’s the first time I’ve thought of him all weekend. It’s the kind of guilt you get when you leave for school and realize you forgot to feed your dog, the guilt you feel because something or someone wasn’t important enough for you to remember. He’s been a good friend and he deserves better from me, and whatever happens, I swear to myself that I’ll make it up to him.