Fireworks

by Sarina Bowen

  But I can’t. In the first place, it’s hard to hide under a bed when you’re six feet tall. Secondly, I need my job at New York News and Sports. I need to convince Sweaty McCracken that I’m a serious journalist. After this short trip out of town, I plan to march back into his office and demand my on-camera job back. I’m terrified to do it, but I will.

  “Anyway—deep breaths. And call me when you get there,” Jenny says. “No—I retract that request. I want you to have a great time. Don’t think of work. Don’t think of me. Just see the sights and let Rayanne entertain you.”

  “The sights?” There are no sights in Vermont.

  “Mountains. Strapping lumberjack men. Good cheese. Whatever it is that Vermont is good for.”

  If only I knew. When I lived there as a teen, there was barely enough food, let alone good cheese. And don’t even get me started on the men.

  But I don’t express these doubts to Jenny, because she worries about me. “I’ll call when I can,” I tell her instead. “Talk soon!”

  “Love you!” she says. “Bye!”

  I hang up with a smile on my face. Jenny is my only real family member. She and my crazy almost-stepsister in Vermont are my whole world.

  She hasn’t told me why she needs the little boat on the roof of this Jeep. I haven’t asked, because Raye is always hatching a get-rich-quick scheme. They always fail, but that doesn’t stop her.

  Once upon a time my loser of a mother was married to Raye’s creep of a father. Rayanne is a fun person, which is sort of a miracle because her dad is a scary lunatic.

  We’ve grown closer these last few years as Raye—now thirty-one—has been trying to buckle down and make something of her life. She spent her twenties hitchhiking around the West Coast, tending bar and partying. Then the get-rich-quick schemes started. She’s already failed at gourmet coffee roasting, mural painting, and stand-up comedy, in quick succession.

  I hear all these tales on our semi-annual visits when Rayanne swings through New York to visit her crazy web of friends. And I’ve worried about her over the years.

  But then she found yoga. I thought it would last a week, like the rest of Raye’s obsessions. But no. Yoga is her life now. She’s got a twice-a-week teaching gig at a resort lodge, and she’s dreaming of opening her own studio.

  I love Raye, but it hadn’t been easy for her to convince me to do this favor. “Please, Skye?” she’d begged yesterday. “I’ll rent the car for you. The kayak company will put the boat on top. You don’t have to do a thing. I’ll even pay for the gas.”

  That had all sounded like a lot of effort. “Why don’t you just buy the boat in Vermont?”

  She was quiet a moment, which is very unlike Raye. “I don’t want anyone to know I’ve bought it. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  At that point I was still unconvinced. After all, she was asking me to drive to the epicenter of my heartbreak. All the worst things that had happened to the teenage me had happened in the same corner of Vermont where Raye now lives. It isn’t something I like to think about, let alone discuss.

  So I’d been opening my mouth to refuse, when Raye interrupted me with the only argument that could have won me over. “There’s a story in it for you. A good one. A career-making scoop.”

  “What?” I’d whispered. Raye isn’t the sort of stepsister who pays much attention to my career. When we have our monthly chats, she usually asks me whether I’ve found any hot clubs she should check out next time she comes to the City with her friends.

  (My answer was always the same: Aspiring journalists do not go to clubs. They go to work. They go to the over-priced gym, and they go home.)

  “A story, Raffie! A good one.” (That’s her nickname for me. Like giraffe. I get a lot of tall-girl jokes.) “There’s something happening at the border up here that you need to hear about.”

  “You mean…something illegal?” All the best scoops are about illegal activity. Breaking News: Major scandal uncovered by our own Emily Skye! Film at eleven.

  A girl can dream.

  “I’ll tell you all about it when you get here,” Raye had repeated. “I wouldn’t tease you about this.”

  Fresh on the heels of my on-screen dick pic, I need a story. Badly. So here I am driving a kayak to Vermont.

  “This better not be a disaster,” I’d warned. “There are people in Vermont that I don’t want to see.” Like any of the Rossi family. And Jimmy Gage. And every single person I went to high school with.

  The list is long.

  “It’ll be fine, Skye! I promise. You won’t regret it. I’ll take good care of you.”

  She probably shouldn’t have added that last bit. Raye has never once taken good care of me. She’s hapless, clueless, and luckless, and doesn’t seem to mind that much.

  I love her eternal optimism. She and I have been pasted with a whole lot of bull-shishkebab by our mothers and her dad. But unlike me, Raye is still a happy, childlike human who believes that good news is always right around the corner.

  In contrast, I’m the doom-and-gloom sibling. Whatever I imagine can go wrong usually does, plus a whole lot of other things that I didn’t predict. (Like the TV penis. Who could have called that one?)

  If my short trip to Vermont actually results in a useful scoop, I’ll be stunned. My plan, though, is to deliver the kayak to Raye, spend two or three days with her for the first time in about a year, and then get the heck out of Colebury.

  At least I don’t have to drive past our old trailer park on this jaunt. Raye now lives in a rental house in the center of Colebury. I assume I’ll meet her there.

  But no. When I stop in Massachusetts for a takeout salad, I find a text from an unfamiliar 802 phone number. Raffie, it’s me! Meet me at the Orange County Welcome Center off of 89, she’s written. There’s something I need to show you.

  My first reaction is a flash of annoyance. It’s just like Raye to change plans at the last minute. But I’ve only agreed to a forty-eight-hour dose of Rayanne and her flighty ways. And you have to pick your battles. Fine, I text instead. Reprogramming the fancy GPS. It says I’ll get there at 8:15.

  Cool, she replies immediately. I love you!

  You’d better! I don’t drive to Vermont for just anybody.

  She replies with the prayer-hands emoji, and then a unicorn. Pure Rayanne.

  See? I can handle this. I can drive to Vermont like the adult that I am, to help out family. It’s just another place in the world. I can go for the weekend and see Raye and experience a little closure.

  Vermont didn’t break me. It tried, but it didn’t.

  I’m still feeling pretty cocky when there are a hundred miles to go. But by the time the GPS counts down to thirty miles, I start to feel twitchy and sad. And it’s all because of a boy who doesn’t even live in Vermont anymore.

  Benito Rossi.

  Twelve years ago, I’d wanted him so badly that I would have done anything to have him, including most of the things my evil ex-stepfather accused me of doing whenever he got drunk. But Benito had friend zoned me for almost the entire time we’d known each other.

  Then, for a few glorious days before I’d left Vermont for good, it looked as if my romantic dreams might finally come true. But no. At the last second, he ditched me in the most painful way possible.

  My heart aches just thinking about it, even after all this time. It doesn’t matter that I won’t run into him. I’m still holding a grudge against him and the whole state where I fell for him.

  When there are only a few miles between me and the highway exit, I ease up on the gas pedal. Now that I’m close, I can hear the echo of my teenage naiveté inside my head. It had been such a hard year. I’d been sixteen and nearly friendless. And every time I walked into school wearing thrift-store shoes, I felt shame.

  But here’s a comforting thought—if I do run into someone from high school, they might not recognize me. It’s been years since I wore clothes from a secondhand store. For this trip I’ve chosen an outfit tha
t I’ll call, She’s Headed To The Woods In Style. My silky purple blouse hugs my curves. Over that, I’m wearing a filmy cashmere cardigan. And my short skirt ends several inches over the tops of my cozy tall socks and kickass leather knee boots.

  I look expensive. I look devastating. Take that, Vermont.

  One perk of working in television is the hair and makeup department. The makeup girls are always good for freebies and demonstrations. And Taz, the hair guy, gives me a trim every three weeks for free, just because I’m not a snooty bitch. So tonight I’m rocking a long, swingy cut and expensive cosmetics that I didn’t pay for.

  Life could really be worse, I remind myself.

  The disembodied GPS voice orders me to take the next exit. And I actually do it, because I really need to pee. The Welcome Center is just off the highway. The parking lot is nearly empty.

  “You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS voice says.

  “That is not even true,” I argue aloud, shutting off the Jeep in order to have the last word.

  I hop out, grab my purse, and run inside the well lit building. I don’t see Raye anywhere. I hope she’s not late. My boots echo on the tile floor as I dash past a vending machine selling T-shirts that say “802”—Vermont’s only area code—on them.

  Now there’s a piece of clothing I’ll never wear.

  I take care of business in one of the bathroom stalls, and, after washing my hands, I touch up my lipstick at the mirror. “Still don’t like you, Vermont,” I whisper into the stillness.

  There is no sign of Raye when I come out of the bathroom. So I buy myself a package of pretzels and read posters about Vermont’s agricultural history while I wait.

  And wait.

  Where in the helipad is she?

  Just when I’m getting really steamed, my phone buzzes from yet another 802 number. Come outside, it says. I’m really sorry I had to cancel on our weekend. Love you.

  A chill snakes down my spine. She wouldn’t!

  I run out as fast as my designer boots will take me. Raye isn’t visible in the pool of lamplight outside the doors. And I don’t see anyone in the parking lot.

  Also missing? The red Jeep. My ride! It’s gone. And in its place is, unbelievably, my weekend bag. It’s sitting there on the pavement, with a piece of paper on it, weighted down by an unfamiliar object.

  As I step close, I see the object is an old, battered phone with a scratched screen.

  While my heart ricochets, I grab the phone and the paper, which turns out to be a note.

  Skye—I’m so sorry to strand you like this. I couldn’t think of another way. I need help, but I can’t have you mixed up in this. The phone is for you to hold. It’s a burner phone—I pre-paid cash for it, and it can’t be traced to me. Use your own phone to get an Uber into Colebury. Then go to the Gin Mill and ask the bartender to fetch Benito Rossi.

  “What?” I inhale sharply. “No way.”

  Yes, way. I know that seeing Benito wasn’t in your plans this weekend. But did I tell you he’s back in Vermont these days. No? Whoops! My bad.

  Anyway, he’s back. And he and I are going to have to have a chat later. But right now I need you to tell him something for me. Tell him this: The thing he’s waiting for is happening sooner than he thinks. And I’m going to text you guys some evidence as soon as I have it. Skye—let him take care of you for a couple of days, okay? I’ll use this phone to share information with you and Benito when I need to.

  DO NOT text me from your real phone. They might be watching.

  DO NOT text me at all, actually. Wait for me to reach out to you.

  The key to my house is under the Buddha statue on the porch. I don’t know if I’d stay there, though. People might come looking for me.

  And don’t panic. I’ll be fine. I’ve got this.

  I really do love you, but I know you’re probably pissed at me right now.

  —Raye

  P.S. Benito has only gotten hotter in the last twelve years. Enjoy the view.

  * * *

  I let out a shriek of pure horror. “You scheming little witch!”

  I read the note three times, growing more enraged each time. Rayanne and her drama. I should have known. I love her, but she’s selfish and a little cray-cray.

  How dare she send me to find Benito! And what blabber is this note, anyway? Evidence? She’s a yoga teacher. And Benito is…

  Okay, I have no idea what Benito is. The last time I stalked him on social media, I discovered he was in Afghanistan, working for a defense contractor. There was a picture of him in a combat uniform in the desert. That might have been five or six years ago, though.

  When I fled Vermont at seventeen, I used to stalk him online. He wasn’t very interested in social media, so it wasn’t very fruitful. But that was back when I used to spot him in crowds. Or I thought I did. My subconscious was still looking for the boy who broke my heart.

  It wasn’t until I saw that single photo of him thousands of miles away that I was able to stop looking for him. And I haven’t thought about him much since. Except in my dreams, and they don’t count.

  Flipping Rayanne. She’s off somewhere enjoying this. I don’t know whether to punch her or worry for her safety. The cloak and dagger thing sounds serious. Except Rayanne is never serious.

  The only thing I know for sure is that it’s a bad idea to stand around all night at a rest stop. My jacket was in the backseat, and I’m already cold. The car keys were in that jacket—and the Jeep had one of those nifty fob-sensor ignitions—so she wouldn’t have had to hotwire the thing.

  I hate my life.

  Grudgingly, I do as Rayanne suggested—I open the Uber app on my phone. When I left Vermont twelve years ago, there had been no such thing as Uber, and I’m a little startled that it exists here in the woods. To my complete surprise, I find that an available driver is only 0.1 miles away. The driver has a five-star rating so I quickly tap the screen.

  Immediately, a set of headlights flares in a dark corner of the parking lot. I see the car ease off its brakes and drive toward me.

  Okay, that’s a little creepy. I peek at the phone screen to verify the driver’s name and car model. Damien R. Driving a black Toyota RAV4.

  Damien R? There’s no way…

  The black Toyota RAV4 stops in front of me. I open the back door and squint at the driver. “Damien R?” I say softly.

  Benito Rossi’s brother turns his head to study me. “You look familiar,” he says. “Have we met?”

  A beat goes by while I swallow my shock. “Nope,” I lie. “I need to go to the Gin Mill.”

  He frowns. “That’s so odd. Rayanne bet me ten bucks that my next ride would go to the Gin Mill.”

  “She cheated!” I yelp as I climb in and shut the door. “Don’t pay up.”

  “Figures.” He chuckles as he pulls away from the curb.

  “Did you bring Rayanne here just now?”

  “Yep. Ten minutes ago, maybe.” He accelerates onto the highway.

  “Do you know where she went, after?”

  “Nope. I didn’t ask.”

  “Didn’t you think the Welcome Center was a weird request?” I squeak.

  He shrugs. “I’ve had stranger requests. And Rayanne is kind of a character. Tonight she tried to tell me my aura is too blue and that I should drink ginger tea to try to stabilize my chakras. But whatever. She also gave me a tip.”

  This highly accurate portrayal of my almost-stepsister only makes me grumpier. And I’m so nervous that I can hardly sit still in the back of the car. I don’t want to see Benito Rossi. Maybe I don’t have to. I could get a motel room somewhere and wait for Rayanne to text me. I need to figure out what the hell is going on with her.

  “Excuse me,” I ask Damien. “Are there any new hotels in Colebury?”

  “That depends on your perspective,” he says. “They were new in about 1980.”

  Oh. Bummer. At least they’ll be cheap.

  A few minutes later, Damien exits th
e highway and drives for two more minutes on the state road. Then he pulls into the parking lot of a beautiful old brick building.

  “This is the place?”

  “Yeah. There’s only one Gin Mill.”

  “Is, um, Benito inside, do you think?” Saying his name aloud is even harder than I expected.

  Damien turns his head, looking startled. Then he snaps his fingers. “I knew I recognized you. Our next-door neighbor! You and Benny had a thing in high school.”

  “We didn’t,” I say icily. One kiss does not a thing make. Even if it was the world’s best kiss. “Does he work at this bar?” I peer out at the old mill building, beautifully redone into a bar. Even the exterior is about ten times classier than anything I remembered from my time in Colebury.

  “Not usually,” Damien says cryptically. “Just go inside and ask the bartender to grab him.”

  That’s exactly what Rayanne’s note says to do. Maybe Benito is a regular here?

  But I’m sick of asking questions, so I get out of the car, shoulder my weekend bag, and wave Damien off.

  After he pulls away, I look up at the building. It’s tall, although I count only three floors. Each one would have high ceilings. There’s a cute neon sign lighting up THE GIN MILL in vintage letters. I can hear music coming from inside, and the sound of laughing Friday-night partygoers.

  There is nothing about this place that feels familiar. When I last came through Colebury, I’m pretty sure this building was vacant and sad. Now it looks fantastic and lively. And I feel a moment of unexpected rage. How dare Colebury have a hip new bar, and sweet-smelling nighttime air? How dare Benito Rossi return to Vermont and enjoy this town that tortured me?

  And how dare Rayanne make me come back here and witness this!

  I’m going to kill her just as soon as I make sure she’s okay.

  Three

  September, Twelve Years Ago