Bonfire: A Novel

by Krysten Ritter

  “Please. You’re doing me a favor. At least now I have a break from the usual rotation of parents. They don’t see why their precious Jeremy is flunking out of school when he shows up at least once a week.”

  I take the chair pulled up close to her desk. Maybe it’s meant for students—it is noticeably lower than hers, and suddenly I feel like a kid, like I should be apologizing for something.

  “I see the school has expanded,” I say, directly.

  “Sure has. We had to absorb the kids in Basher Falls after the town lines got redrawn.”

  “That must have been a strain on the teachers.” I’ve stolen this technique from Joe: Start with some softballs, some light chitchat, the conversational equivalent of a sedative. Then, once they’re relaxed, strike hard and get out quick.

  Misha smiles brightly. The sun shining through the window makes a good impression of a halo around her head. “Luckily, we were able to bring in some new hires. And we’ve been working with local donors on a scholarship fund to improve extracurricular involvement.”

  Somehow, even though I can see her speak the words, they still seem as though they’re coming from someone else’s mouth. Rehearsed. “Let me guess. Optimal is one of the local donors?”

  “The biggest.” She spreads her hands. She doesn’t look sorry. “Like I said, they’ve been great partners. They’ve really helped turn this town around. How was seeing Brent, by the way? You know there’s nothing to do in Barrens but mind everybody else’s business,” Misha says teasingly.

  Time to go in for the kill. “That’s good to hear,” I say, “because I actually have some questions for you about what happened to Kaycee Mitchell back then.”

  I might as well have slapped her. The smile drops right off her face. After a long second, she forces a laugh. “I could have saved you the trouble,” she says. “I haven’t heard from Kaycee since three weeks after she left.”

  “Where was she?” I ask.

  “Why do you care so much? I thought you were here to look at the water.”

  “We are. I thought Kaycee’s perspective could be valuable.”

  “Here we go. I thought that stupidity had gone to the grave.” Misha is much better at controlling her temper now. “It was a lie. I’ve put that whole episode behind me.”

  “But you must have gotten the idea to lie from somewhere,” I say. “There was a case back in Tennessee, before Optimal changed names—”

  “It was Kaycee’s idea. And you know as well as I do, Kaycee never needed a reason for anything.” Misha’s voice turns hard, like the old Misha, the one whose first instinct was to attack. “Last I heard she was on her way to New York. Honestly, I was relieved. It sounds awful, but I was sick of all her little games. I was sick of playing along. You know how it was.”

  I do. But again, I resent her for reminding me. “Is it possible she had another reason for running away?” I ask, and Misha sighs, as if she’s realized I won’t be easily distracted.

  “No,” she says. “She knew that I wanted to come clean about making the whole thing up. Cora and Annie, too. We never expected it to get that out of control. I mean, Cora’s mom went on the news…” She shakes her head. “Kaycee ran off before everyone could call her a liar. Best day of my life, God’s truth.”

  For a second, I’m left speechless. Did anyone actually like Kaycee Mitchell? Was anyone sorry to see her go? But before I can ask Misha anything else, the secretary pokes her head in.

  “Mrs. Danning brought in another cell phone. Jessica Moore again. She’s on her way in for detention.”

  Misha stands up so quickly she bangs a hip against the desk, sending several pens rolling to the floor. “I’ll take it,” she says. Turning back to me, she adds, “No-cell-phone policy. We give them back. But during school hours it keeps the kids from getting distracted. Cuts down on cyberbullying, too, although I swear some of these kids spend more time in detention than they do in class.”

  For the first time, I think I see the appeal of the job to a person like Misha. It must make her feel powerful to mete out punishments and rewards. And for that part of the gig, at least, she’s a natural.

  An ear-splitting bell signals the end of first period, a pitch identical to the one that used to hack up my days into periods of forty-five minutes.

  When Misha remains on her feet, I realize the meeting is over.

  “So good to see you, Abby,” she says, embracing me again. While her lips are still very close to my ear, she whispers, “It’s just like old times, isn’t it?”

  I half expect to feel her teeth sink into my jugular, vampire-style.

  But she just releases me and laughs. “Next time, I say we meet for a drink.”

  —

  As I weave my way through the hall, navigating the throngs of students pouring out of classrooms, a memory needles in the back of my mind, begging for attention. We had our own version of bullying, back in the early days of Facebook, before Snapchat, Instagram, and trolls. I haven’t thought about the Game in years, or the rumors that spread like a toxic fume, the girls who were targeted moving through the halls, white-faced, humiliated, trailed by a faint snake-hiss. Slut. Slut. Slut.

  There was Kelsey Waters, in the blue light of a basement, with her underwear around her knees and mascara ringed around her eyes. There was Riley Simmons, passed out drunk on the bathroom floor during a party. Jonathan Elders took off her bra and photographed her. The next day at school all the boys were huddled around looking at the photos and laughing. He told everyone she was too ugly to have sex with and she cried in the lunchroom when she heard.

  And then there was what happened to Becky Sarinelli. That was even worse.

  Chapter Twelve

  It started at a pep rally, early senior year, just before the sickness, the hysteria, the allegations, the confessions—or at least that’s when I became aware of it, of the Game.

  High school rallies were mandatory. Never mind the kids who didn’t have a group to sit with, who didn’t care about the rally—or the bonfire that would come later—because no one would ask us to go or notice if we were there. Still we were forced into the football stadium bleachers, to cheer for the players and watch the cheerleaders shimmy in their short skirts, while the boys shouted pussy from behind cupped hands.

  Bradley Roberts, the class VP, droned on at the microphone about school pride, the importance of unity, the Barrens Tigers, rah-rah-rah.

  And then: a shout, high-pitched and strangled. The crowd shifted, and for a second I imagined flames racing up the bleachers, consuming us all. A real bonfire.

  Some of my classmates rose from their seats. Their excitement was thick; it made my stomach curl. Still, I turned with the rest of them.

  I saw Becky Sarinelli moving through the bleachers, tripping over book bags and risers, desperate, obviously panicked. She was reaching for pieces of paper—they looked like flyers. Snatching them wildly and hurrying on to the next. But there were too many: dozens, floating hand to hand as though drawn on an invisible current. Some people were laughing; some looked sick.

  Bradley cleared his throat a couple of times, but no one cared anymore what he had to say about school spirit. Mr. Davis was heading toward the podium.

  “Quiet!” he said. “Everyone, be quiet. Sit down.” But no one listened.

  The flyers were making their way toward me. One floated to the floor in the aisle, faceup. Only then did I see it wasn’t a flyer at all.

  It was a photograph, blown up and pixelated. Clear enough, though, to see what it was.

  Becky.

  My heart went still.

  She was lying on a bed. Her eyes were half-mast, her makeup smeary. Her skirt had been pushed above her waist, and her large white thighs glared bright in the flash, so bright she looked like a plastic doll. Her shirt was unbuttoned and she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her underwear was twisted somewhere around her knees. The murmurs came together, gelling in the same way our school song might have, if things had gone the rig
ht way.

  Slut. Slut. Slut, they said.

  Stop, I wanted to scream. Stop. It wasn’t her fault. But I couldn’t open my mouth, couldn’t say a word.

  Slut. Slut. Slut.

  Eight days later, her father found her in the toolshed.

  She didn’t leave a note to tell us why. She didn’t need to.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For the rest of the week I avoid both Brent and Condor: Brent, because I’m not sure I actually do want to see him again, even though I said I would; Condor, because I want nothing more.

  Even as a kid I was drawn to the animals that bit. I once tried to save a raccoon that had somehow made its way into our basement, and it nearly took off a pinkie—I still have the scar. But even then I cried not for the blood or the rabies shots that came afterward, but when my dad, hearing me shout, came running downstairs with a rifle and plugged the raccoon between the eyes.

  I always want the things that hurt most.

  Instead, I throw myself wholeheartedly into the case. What we really need are Optimal’s books. Everything always boils down to money: corners cut, pipes improperly cared for, testing fudged once the results start coming in wonky, and people paid to keep quiet about it. Because it gets incentives from the state to keep business in Indiana, Optimal’s quarterly reports are available to the public. But we need to go deeper. We need their General Ledger, checks received and dispatched.

  Some people pay. Other people collect.

  I do what I do best: paperwork, numbers, patterns and disruptions that might mean everything or nothing at all. Barrens Township has had the water tested every year—the results are filed according to the Indiana Access to Public Records Act—and that surprises me, given the fact that much of the infrastructure is seventy-five years old.

  They’re trying too hard to seem clean.

  —

  Friday night, Indiana, dusk: the sky is blue and pink, and the rains earlier in the week have left the fields looking fresh. The crows silhouetted on the telephone wires are too numerous to count.

  I’m only half a mile away from my rental behind the beauty salon when my cell phone rings: Indiana area code, a number I don’t recognize. I nearly silence it but at the last second decide to pick up.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is this Abigail Williams?” The voice is male and unfamiliar.

  “Speaking,” I say, already pulling over, reaching for my notebook and a pen. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Sheriff Kahn. We’ve got your father down here at the station—”

  My stomach drops.

  “—Picked him up on Main Street. Seems he was confused, kept insisting there should be a honky-tonk there. He had your number written down in his wallet. I heard you were in town?”

  I close my eyes and see, in the darkness behind my eyelids, the old Dusty Chap line-dancing hall. The loud country music, the smell of fries and beer, my mom tush-pushing to Wynonna or Travis Tritt beside me with her cowboy boots and her hair piled high on top of her head in a scrunchie. It was one of the most fun things I would do with my mother before she died. It went out of business years ago, when I was in middle school.

  “Yes, I am. I’ll be right there,” I say, wheeling the car around.

  —

  My father has calmed down by the time I get there and doesn’t seem to understand why he’s sitting in the sheriff’s office at all.

  “Shame on you,” he says to Sheriff Kahn, even as I’m trying to wrangle him into the passenger seat. Somehow, he’s lost his cane. “Shame on you, roughing up an old man like that. I wasn’t doing anything but minding my own business, and you come around and talk nonsense about the dancing hall—”

  “That place closed, Dad,” I say, shooting Sheriff Kahn an apologetic look.

  “I know that, Abigail,” he snaps, sounding, for a second, more like the dad I remember. Don’t talk back to your elders. Watch that filthy mouth of yours. I’m your father and you’ll do what I say. “Closed right after your mother died.”

  Back home, I find his cane propped near the door. Who knows how he made it anywhere without it. I suspect one of his neighbors gave him a lift, not realizing how bad my dad has gotten. He slaps my hands away when I try to make him take his medicine, but finally he calms down and lets me put the pills on his tongue myself, sitting there meekly, watery-eyed, as if trapped beneath the thin liver-spotted skin and the stale breath is a child in need of attention. I leave him sleeping and promise to call in the morning.

  I am gutted by his need, and by my desire to fix him. I should be relieved. He’s too pathetic now to hate. I never truly planned to confront him. I never really expected to reconcile any of it. Seeing this version of him, I know in my whole body that none of those things will ever even become an option. It is too much.

  In the bathroom I wash my hands, splash water on my face, and wash my hands again. I yank open the cabinet, palming a few Valium from a bottle made out to his name. But I’m still too shaky to drive, and when I step outside, the smell of fire reaches me across the distance and touches old memories: lake parties that never included me. Kids dragging coolers and beach towels into the woods. My father hitting me hard and open-palmed across the face the one time I tried to sneak out.

  Distantly, I hear the shrieks of laughter and the thud of music. I know that sound. Someone is having a bonfire.

  Memories are like fire, and need only a little oxygen to grow. I remember now how I used to see the far-off light of bonfires from just a little farther than my back porch. I remember that sometimes my father would find crumpled beer cans in the woods near the toolshed, how the braver kids would get close enough to pelt the house with empties—just because they could, because it was there—until my father took his rifle and fired blind into the dark.

  I was never invited. The bonfires were for the party crowd—for the crowd, period. Still, I would sit outside sometimes and swear that the smoke touched the back of my throat, even from that distance.

  Impulsively, I grip my sweater tight and set out across the fields to the forest, and, beyond it, the reservoir—the reservoir, the start of it all—even while yearning for Chicago and the blessed anonymity of the high-rise where I live. I miss being several hundred miles away from my dad, from all this.

  The woods are cold and very dark and I instantly regret not bringing a flashlight. The sun will set any minute. But soon I can see the far-off flicker of the bonfire and the silver wink of the reservoir. It was here, in these woods, that Brent kissed me.

  Don’t tell anyone, he whispered, touching his thumb to my lower lip. I remember the smell of paint and the noise of crickets.

  And then, as I approach the beach, past and present merge. Like shadows silhouetted by the fire, breaking apart and re-forming, the Brent of my memories transforms into real Brent, hailing me from a distance.

  “Abby!” He breaks loose from a knot of his friends. I catch Misha’s eye a split-second before she, too, calls up a smile. Then Brent engulfs me in a hug and I lose sight of her. “You are like a surprise from the heavens.”

  “You are obviously drunk,” I say, pulling away.

  He laughs. “Only a little.” Then: “Seriously, I was just thinking about you.”

  As everyone down by the bonfire turns to stare, I recognize various people from high school I’d hoped never to see again. Already, I regret coming. But it’s too late now.

  “Meeting of the secret society?” I ask.

  “Nothing secret about it,” Brent says, smiling. Today he’s in a polo shirt, khakis, and loafers. He looks like a Ralph Lauren ad made flesh. “I tried to invite you, but you don’t return my calls.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Busy week.”

  Brent shrugs as if he knows it’s an excuse. “It doesn’t matter. You came anyway. See? It’s a sign.” He loops an arm around my shoulders. He’s definitely wasted.

  “You smell like the beach,” I say, even though what I mean is that he smells like a booze factory.
/>
  “I smell great. I just went swimming.”

  “In the reservoir? Brave man.”

  “It’s one hundred percent safe. You’ll see. Pure as Iceland.” He wheels me around toward the fire and begins piloting me through the crowd. “Come on, city slicker. Let’s get you something to drink. All work and no play never did anybody good.”

  If it weren’t for the thinning hairlines and paunch bellies, I might think we’d traveled back in time: I recognize everyone, football and basketball players, cheerleaders and dance squad girls, all of them eyeing me now with a special brand of curiosity and suspicion. I haven’t seen any of them since graduation.

  I remember Kaycee painted in school colors, standing and trembling, blinking in the sunlight, as the girls began to fall down like a wave.

  She must have been lonely, although it’s funny to think of her that way. She always seemed to have everything, even though, in retrospect, she didn’t have much at all: her mom gone, no money, her dad in his porn shop and spending all weekend at the bar.

  Kaycee was the only one who dreamed of going to art school, who dreamed of doing anything besides getting married and staying right here to have babies and start the cycle all over again. Even as a kid, she would talk about all the places she would go someday, half of them made up. In a way, what’s surprising isn’t that she ran, but maybe that she waited so long.

  “I don’t believe it.” A stranger shoves out of the crowd, teetering on wedges that would be dangerous even if she was sober. “Abby. Fucking. Williams. Holy shit. I seriously didn’t believe it when Misha told me you’d come back.”

  She sways where she stands, shaking her head as if hoping it will help her focus. But her eyes keep sliding away from mine, landing somewhere over my shoulder. And I have absolutely no idea who she is.

  “You don’t remember me.” Her words slur into laughter. She swings to Brent, sloshing some of her drink, so he has to quickstep backward to avoid it. “She doesn’t remember me? It’s because I got fat.” Then she’s back to me again, gnawing the rim of her cup, looking suddenly like a kid. “Isn’t it? It’s because I’m fat.”