Watch You Burn

by Amanda Searcy

  “Dad?” My voice cracks. Did Suds say something about me? Did he tell Dad?

  “Jenny, it’ll be okay. Just go to your room.”

  Mr. Vargas holds the door open for me. I glance over at him. He gives me a tight-lipped smile. Something bad has happened.

  As I walk through the door, Cam’s truck pulls up. Mr. Vargas thunders out behind me. Cam’s eyes are huge. Fear leaks from his every pore.

  “Where the hell were you?” Mr. Vargas yells. Cam gets out of the truck. I cringe. He won’t be able to use picking me up as an excuse for his afternoon nap.

  I need to get out of the line of fire, so I creep along the sidewalk to my door and open it, but I don’t go all the way in.

  Cam says nothing. Mike Vargas leans into him. His face is atomic red. “That asshole”—he points to Suds on the ground under the flashing lights—“came onto the property because there was no one here to stop him. There was a confrontation. Now he wants to sue.” Mike Vargas lunges forward and plants a finger into Cam’s chest. “My project is in jeopardy because of you.”

  I slide into my room feeling relieved. This wasn’t my fault. It was Cam’s.

  The screech of metal against metal comes from the bathroom, followed by a shuffling sound. Ro thunks down into the bathtub. Her face is lit up with excitement when she comes around the corner. “Dude, your dad punched that guy. It was so sweet!”

  “What?” Anxiety fills my stomach.

  “The pervert was standing right outside, trying to look into your window. Your dad walked up and slugged him in the face.” Ro beams with pride, as if it were her honor that has been defended.

  “Wait. Suds was outside my window?” I knew it was him.

  Ro nods with glee. “Suds started screaming that he was going to call the cops and sue and shut everything down. Then Cam’s dad showed up with the guy in the suit. They talked to the cops while the pervert was writhing on the ground like he was dying.” She laughs. “The cops were not sympathetic. I bet they wanted to punch him too.”

  I pull the curtains aside and look out the window. Those are Suds’s smeary handprints; his cigarette butt. For a split second, I’m afraid of what could happen next. I imagine the police tracing everything back to Ohio. My whole life going up in flames.

  But then a wave of relief washes over me.

  It doesn’t matter what Suds saw the night of the fire. There’s no proof, and he’s a loudmouth Peeping Tom. I’m a young, pretty girl in a bumblebee school uniform. The police will laugh in his face if he turns on me.

  Or, at least, that’s what I have to believe.

  I watch as the ambulance takes him away. One of the cop cars remains with the officer inside filling out paperwork. Cam is sitting in his truck—wide-awake—waiting for his father and the other man, who must be a lawyer, to come out of the office.

  A shiny white news van pulls in through the open gate. “No,” I whisper.

  Cam cringes and sinks down into his seat. The door of the van opens, and a woman with giant sprayed hair, bright red lipstick, and a pantsuit that squeezes her cleavage to within an inch of its life jumps out.

  Ro nestles up beside me at the window. The reporter makes eye contact with us. She smirks like she’s beaten us to winning a prize. Her cameraman, already rolling, is hot on her heels. They walk to the office door and knock.

  I hear the scuffing of chairs on the floor and raised voices through the wall. A moment later, the man in the slick suit comes out. He arranges himself like he’s done this a hundred times. His back blocks the office door and keeps Dad and Mike Vargas inside.

  The reporter points a mic in his face. His hands are clasped in front of him. His body language is calm. I can’t make out what they’re saying. The camera pans toward us in the window. I rip the curtains shut.

  “Hey!” Ro says.

  “This isn’t a game,” I snap, a little too harshly. I take a deep breath and recover. “If the project gets shut down, I’ll have to go back to Ohio.”

  “So?” Ro asks. “Don’t you have a nice mom and a sister and a house and stuff there?”

  My stomach ties in a knot. Of course Ohio would look wonderful to Ro.

  She leans in and lowers her voice. “Is it your stepfather?”

  “No. Brian is Dudley Do-Right. He loves Hailey more than anything.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Ro asks. I shake my head. I can’t tell her. I can’t tell her about the arson investigation in Ohio, the one that Brian covered up to save me. The one he’s being investigated for now. If I go back to Ohio, he might turn me in.

  I feel nauseated. My scar itches. I want to rip my arm off.

  “I’ve just started school. I have a friend there,” I say. “I have two friends here.” Ro smiles broadly. “I just don’t want to leave.”

  “Is your school friend the girl with the big glasses? The one who acted like a vampire when she stepped into the sun?”

  I laugh. That’s exactly what Kara looked like. I’m surprised Ro noticed. “Yeah, that’s Kara. She has strict parents. They have her scared to do anything.”

  Outside, the news van door slams and the engine starts. Ro peeks out the window. “I don’t want you to leave either.”

  When the local news comes on, Ro and I huddle together on the edge of the bed. I have the sound down low so that there’s no chance of it being heard in the office.

  We’re the lead story.

  “More trouble for the controversial Los Ranchitos redevelopment site. Let’s go live to Las Piedras and our reporter, Lulu Alvarez.”

  The reporter pops up on the screen, holding her ear and nodding. The news van is now parked outside the gate. The light from the camera illuminates her made-up face. “That’s right,” she says. “We’ve learned that a man was attacked here today.”

  The scene cuts to a tape of Suds being unloaded at the hospital by the paramedics. “It’s my freedom of speech, man. I want the people to know that this project is killing. This was a home for so many, and now they’re out there dying in the cold.”

  The screen jumps back to the reporter. “That’s local activist Jonathan Roybal, who was assaulted here today while exercising his constitutional rights. We asked for comment from Vargas Properties and Breland Construction, but they weren’t very forthcoming.”

  The lawyer appears on the screen. He smiles. In the context, it makes him look like a shark, ready to snap at his prey. “Mr. Roybal was trespassing on property he has been asked to leave multiple times. My client removed him, as is his right.”

  He keeps talking, but it’s muted, and the reporter comes back on looking doubtful. “Mr. Roybal was treated at the hospital and released. But it’s clear that this plagued project is now in further jeopardy.”

  I flip the TV off. “How is it clear?” I yell. “They got it all wrong. Everyone’s going to think my dad is a monster.”

  “They didn’t mention that Suds is a perv, either,” Ro chimes in.

  I pace back and forth and rub my scar. I know Ro notices, but I can’t stop. “I don’t want to go home.”

  Ro stands up, wraps her arms around me, and gives me a hug. It doesn’t feel as awkward as I thought it would.

  “You won’t have to go back to Ohio,” she says.

  No, I won’t. I’ll figure it out. Some way to stay.

  I reluctantly put my arms around her too.

  Breakfast is a quiet affair. It’s just Dad and me. I glance one too many times at his red, swollen knuckles. He doesn’t know that he could have put me in danger by handing Suds over to the police. He thought he was protecting me.

  He moves his hand to his lap. “I’m sorry you have to see this, Jenny.”

  “It’ll be okay, right? It was just a misunderstanding. That lawyer will clear it up.” My voice is not confident. I’m pleading for information, for reassu
rance.

  But Dad gives me none. He lifts a spoonful of cereal to his lips. Most of the milk drips back into the bowl. “Right,” he says.

  His eyes are as red as his knuckles. All the skin on his face sags. He didn’t sleep last night.

  I know what kept him up. I was awake thinking about it too. About what happened when I was five. When I couldn’t see Dad for a long time; when Mom’s explanation about where he was never quite made sense.

  I step out of the office. Cam is using a shovel to dig holes on the perimeter of the property. It’s possible the holes have a purpose—like to plant trees or shrubs—or it’s possible that he’s being punished. Either way, he looks miserable.

  I rub my nose. The air still has a thin haze of smoke in it. My scar buzzes, but my stomach churns.

  I didn’t want to do it again. I fought hard against the urge and spent an hour staring at the lighter in the dresser drawer. With what happened between Dad and Suds and the thought of going back to Ohio, I needed…something. Something to make the itch stop. Something to keep me from exploding. To keep my mind sharp so I can figure out a way to stay.

  I went to the other side of the river. No people. No one got hurt. No one saw.

  The toolshed sits in the corner of the parking lot. Inside it, all the hand tools—printed with “Property of Breland Construction” in green ink—hang in neat rows on the walls. When I appear before Cam in my bee uniform, he moves faster than I’ve ever seen him move to put the shovel away and lock the shed behind him.

  “Is your dad still mad?” I ask in the truck.

  Cam glances at me with what he must think is his normal blank, non-emotive look, but the skin around his mouth tightens. I think what I’m seeing is shame—or embarrassment. Maybe there is a heart beating in that chest of his.

  Looking at him now, I can’t believe that I thought he was outside my window. Cam is just so…Cam. He’s a hulking, unhappy, sleepy guy. But he’s not dangerous. Maybe the lighter really was a gift.

  I glance down at the cup holders and suck in a breath. The one that held the lighter is now empty. I sweep my eyes around the truck. I don’t see it anywhere.

  Good. No more temptation.

  Something’s been bothering me: no one is talking about the fires. The abandoned house in Ohio was front-page news. People talked about it everywhere I went.

  It was hard at first. I had to keep my eyes down to keep my secret. But then I started to like listening to them speculate and theorize. I had answers no one else did. It gave me a power I hadn’t felt before.

  But here, it’s like nothing. A couple of paragraphs in the local section.

  “There was a big fire last night,” I announce to see Cam’s reaction.

  Cam turns his head all the way to look at me. I cringe, because it means his eyes aren’t on the road. “It happens,” he says.

  “Do you think someone did it on purpose?”

  He sighs like this conversation is especially taxing and motions to the windshield. “No clouds in the sky.” His eyes narrow and drill into me. “It wasn’t lightning.”

  I shrink back against the door. He couldn’t possibly know about Ohio. Or know that lightning was what Brian used in his report. But the coincidence gives me the chills.

  I should be happy that no one is talking about the fires.

  Not that it matters. I’m done—for real this time.

  * * *

  —

  I lean against a bank of lockers and wait for Kara. She doesn’t show up until right before the last bell. Her eyes are red, and her hair is barely brushed.

  “Hi,” she says, and half smiles. I move out of the way so that she can get into her locker. When she opens the door, a piece of paper slides out onto the floor.

  It’s facedown, so I can’t see what it is when Kara picks it up. When she does, she turns a ghostly shade of white. Even though her body is perfectly still, I can see her breathing speed up.

  “What? What is it?”

  She crumples the paper and shoves it into her locker. “Nothing.” She slams the door. When she faces me again, she looks the way I do in the mirror when my scar is itching and I know there are matches around—like she wants to run and fight at the same time.

  “If you need to talk about something, I’m a good listener,” I throw out to see if she’ll spill what she’s hiding.

  “Thanks,” she says meekly. “I have to get to class, but I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

  “Okay.” I add a fake smile to my face, but really, I want to grab her by the shoulders and demand she tell me what’s going on.

  * * *

  —

  Kara isn’t at lunch. I text her and get no reply. I ask the table next to me if anyone has seen her, but they look at me blankly. Finally, Emma with the pink lips rolls her eyes and yells across the cafeteria that Kara went home sick. Her entourage laughs.

  I’m texting Kara again when my homeroom teacher, Teresa, appears in front of me.

  “Ready to go?” She radiates excitement. And she’s wearing makeup. I’ve only ever seen her freshly scrubbed face in homeroom.

  When she first handed me my packet about the free clinic, she said, “This one is so special to me,” and clasped her hands over her heart.

  I’m the sole student doing this project, so I’ve got no one to commiserate with about it. It’s just me and flaky teacher Teresa.

  The only good thing is that we get to leave school early on our project days.

  * * *

  —

  We pull up to an old two-story Victorian house between several industrial buildings. People mill around out front. Shopping carts filled with dirty, cast-off objects line the side yard.

  “We’re here,” Teresa announces. She unclicks her seat belt and bounces out of the car like we’ve arrived at an amusement park. She doesn’t notice how the people outside stare at her. One man curls a lip in disgust at the wannabe-hippie do-gooder.

  I hesitate to get out of the car. The look on the man’s face changes. His eyes bore into me as he checks me out.

  Note to self: change out of my uniform before coming next time.

  The creep makes to follow us inside, but an older man wearing a dusty brown coat and a red baseball cap steps onto the porch, blocking his path. “I think you’re fine out here.” The creep glowers at him but slithers back to his spot along the wall.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Teresa. Doc’s waiting for you,” the man says.

  Inside, people sit in chairs or on worn sofas and flip through magazines or watch an old-school TV mounted to the ceiling. The floors are scuffed wood. Decorative sconces on the walls hide flickering light bulbs.

  The air is filled with every smell a human body can produce, mixed with stale cigarette smoke and alcohol. I stagger back when it hits me. Teresa smiles sadly at me. “You’ll get used to it.”

  It’s not only people from the streets who are here. There’s also a woman with two small children playing at her feet; a man dressed in thick jeans covered in mud, holding his arm against his body; a younger, clean-cut man in professional clothes.

  I follow Teresa into an exam room with an office to the side. A man in a white lab coat is seated at the computer. His long graying hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Round reading glasses sit on his nose. When he turns and smiles at us, Teresa goes bright red.

  He stands and takes off the glasses. Then he steps forward and greets Teresa with a kiss on the cheek. She looks like she’s about to pass out. I try to suppress a smile.

  “This is Doc,” she says.

  He leans in to shake my hand. His grip is warm and soft, his eyes friendly. I instantly relax.

  “Welcome, Jenny. We’re so pleased to have you here.”

  “Let me give you the grand tour,” Teresa says.

  There isn�
�t much that I haven’t already seen. The exam room. The main floor, which is the waiting room and also a day shelter where people can come to get out of the cold and have a sandwich. Emergency exits: front door, back door. The second floor is room after room of donated clothes. Emergency exits: none—just the leap from a window.

  Our last stop is the kitchen. It has industrial steel counters and shelves—almost all empty. “This is Jenny, our new volunteer,” Teresa announces.

  I pass through the door and see Ben. He gives me a huge smile.

  Teresa glances back and forth between us. “So, I’ll leave you with Ben. He can tell you what you’re going to be doing around here.”

  I’m feeling overwhelmed, but I manage to squeak out a thank-you as the kitchen door closes.

  “Are you following me?” I joke.

  Ben laughs. “Well, I’ve lived here most of my life and you just got here, so no. You seem to be the one following me around.” His eyes sparkle. It’s enough to loosen some of the tension I’ve been holding in my gut all day.

  “What should I do?” I ask.

  Ben points to an industrial vat of peanut butter on a shelf. “In the afternoons we make sandwiches for people to take with them.”

  Ben leaves and comes back with his arms full of loaves of white bread. He tosses one to me. I almost catch it, but then it tumbles out of my arms and onto the floor. Great.

  When I pop back up holding the bread, Ben has his lips rolled under like he’s trying not to laugh. “I guess you’re not going to Riverline on a football scholarship,” he jokes.

  “Riverline has a football team?” I ask with mock surprise.

  Ben laughs now. I can’t help but smile.

  He dumps the rest of the loaves of bread onto the counter. The smile is wiped off my face when I see the expiration date on one. It was two weeks ago. I glance up at him.

  “The grocery stores send us their expired food. We need all we can get. As long as it isn’t moldy, we take it.”

  He hands me—carefully—a dull knife. “Don’t use too much peanut butter. That’s all we have for the next couple of months.”