Burning September

by Melissa Simonson

  I bet those voracious viewers wanted to hear from my sister. Murders were packaged as entertainment these days, and a young and beautiful alleged murderess was the pretty pink bow the whole ordeal needed to really clinch interest in the case.

  “They’ll be playing clips of this all over the news for the next few weeks,” Kyle said, giving Nicholas an absentminded pat on the head. “Great exposure. You couldn’t pay for better PR.”

  “I’m just glad the whole thing’s over. I would have exploded if I’d had to wait around for a month before filming started.”

  “Have you gotten any more odd notes?”

  “No. But I’m not getting comfortable. It’s only been a few days.”

  “No footprints, then?”

  I shook my head. He’d been equal parts amused and taken aback by Caroline’s MacGyver advice, but eventually conceded that she may have had a point. What was the harm in laying out carbon copy paper? My neighbors had been horrified to hear a peeping tom had been caught spying on me in my living room, and the stay-at-home mother had promised to keep a hawk eye on the goings-on in our condo complex.

  “I’m still uncomfortable with you staying somewhere you’re convinced is being watched.”

  I didn’t like his concern. Mainly because I couldn’t figure out the motive behind it. Was I more along the lines of an asset that needed protecting? Was this whole ‘unlikely friendship’ as Caroline had labeled it, a ploy to butter me up, make me as useful as possible when it came to winning this case? He needed me sane, safe, and camera-ready; what better way to mold me was there? He knew I didn’t have anyone else. He could have been using that, the same way Caroline plotted relationships based on her needs. “What do you suggest? I bunk with you?”

  “Something more along the lines of a security system.”

  Ex-nay on the security system. I wanted this idiot caught, not scared off. I wanted to know who had had the nerve to kidnap a defenseless kitten in an attempt to strike fear into my heart. Whoever it was had better hope I didn’t have Caroline’s capacity for holding a grudge.

  ***

  I walked through Professor Lawlis’s open classroom door and was greeted with a sharp shit! as he sat on his swivel chair, fumbling with his phone.

  “Go back outside for a minute,” he said, waving me off, eyes on the screen. “I’ll tell you when.”

  I’d gotten stranger requests, so I turned on my heel and did as told.

  “Okay, come on in.”

  I entered, and soon wished I hadn’t. The theme song for the Miss America pageant blared from the phone he aimed toward me as I descended the stairs, wearing a scowl and an ensemble no pageant contestant would be caught dead in.

  “Not funny.” I dropped my backpack and flopped into the chair beside him.

  He cut the music, lips curling into that oddly grim smile. “I’m the first person to give you a hard time?”

  He was the first person to say something directly to my face. I didn’t have any friends on campus; familiar faces whispered behind their hands and sent pointed looks my way, but that had been the worst of it. I had a feeling I didn’t want to know what sorts of colorful things were being said behind my back. Probably something along the lines of nice makeup on TV, who did your face, the Sharpie people?

  “The only person.” Jeff would be likely to mention it, but I hadn’t crossed paths with him yet. He’d sent me a text inviting me to the New Artist Spotlight thing Caroline had been banging on about, an offer I’d accepted, and his answering dancing smiley face made me wonder for one wild moment if he’d been the collar thief.

  But tons of people used emojis, right?

  “Any reporters hanging outside your front door?”

  “Not that I’ve seen. Someone stole my cat, though. Well, stole him and then returned him with a new collar.”

  His wrinkled brow creased further.

  “I don’t think I’m explaining this right.”

  “Try again.”

  “Well, I told you about Nicholas.”

  “You did.”

  “Okay, so, I made him this stupid collar, in case someone outside mistakes him for a stray. It doesn’t have my address on it or anything, just a nazar. I’ll tell you what a nazar is later. Anyway, so I got home a few days ago and found an envelope jammed in my front door, and what do you know, it’s the nazar collar. No Nicholas anywhere, so of course I freak out, look all over God’s green earth for him, and nothing. I called Kyle, he came over to help me look, and past midnight, we’re sitting in my living room, and I look up and find Nicholas hanging out in the foyer. We’d left the front door open in case he wandered by, but I never thought it would actually happen. When I picked him up, he had a different collar on. One that had some stupid winky face and my address inscribed on the back. I sent him home with Kyle, just to err on the side of caution. I don’t want anything happening to him. He wasn’t hurt when he came home, but still.”

  His mouth twitched beneath a swath of gray stubble. “You don’t think it was some dumb prank?”

  “I don’t have any friends.” I avoided his eyes, hating how pathetic it sounded. “Nobody who’d do something like that as a joke.”

  “And this happened after the press conference?” After my nod, he said, “Maybe someone wasn’t too thrilled about what you had to say.”

  “That’s what my sister said. Kyle thinks it’s too early to go to the police about a strange cat collar disappearance slash reappearance, that they’ll laugh me out the door.”

  “Is there security in your condo complex?”

  I shook my head. He shifted in his seat, wearing an uncomfortable expression. It didn’t fit well on his face; he didn’t wear alarmed quite as well as stoic, the same way his smiles never seemed truly genuine.

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “I have a set of steak knives. I’m considering a security camera.” I started to rattle on about Caroline’s carbon copy paper scheme, but he cut me off before I could finish.

  “That’s better than nothing, but you might consider being a little more proactive than a few pieces of paper under the welcome mat. Get that camera. I can give you a pistol. Got a few at home.”

  His apprehension made the fear I’d been suppressing grow. I hadn’t expected anything different from Caroline, mother wolf, who had lived her whole life protecting me, but seeing worry etch deeper lines around his mouth and eyes made everything more real.

  “Is that legal?”

  “It is if you have an HSC.” To my blank look, he added, “Handgun Safety Certificate.”

  “I don’t know how to shoot.”

  “It’s a good thing I do. I can take you to a shooting range. You can get certified, and you’ll be legally allowed to borrow my gun for thirty days.”

  “Wouldn’t the camera suffice? I mean, isn’t the gun thing kind of an overreaction, jumping the gun? No pun intended. Nothing else has happened. Probably nothing else will.”

  “Can never be too careful,” he said, gray gaze darting between my eyes. “Good thing your boyfriend was there to protect you from the cat thief.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s got a girlfriend, anyway, some bitch with a stripper name. Why are you smirking?”

  “I’m not.”

  But he was.

  “Come on. He’s almost thirty.” I gave him a patient you must be getting senile look. “I’m too young to be of any interest to him.”

  “That,” he said, shouldering his guitar, “is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “And I’m sure there’s some rule about not getting involved with clients.” Even though I wasn’t, technically.

  “I won’t be joining you in kidding yourself. Are you going to tell me what a nazar is?”

  ***

  You know, I wasn’t entirely serious when I mentioned you getting a gun, but I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world, and you’ll probably never have to use it. Just promise me you’ll learn how to ha
ndle it correctly and that you won’t drink and shoot. The neighbor lady hasn’t seen anything odd since you mentioned that suspicious peeping tom, right?

  I’m not sure what you mean about the ‘grotesque Mardi Gras makeup’ but I do think you have a vivid imagination, and that you’ve never even been to Mardi Gras, so you might consider toning down the theatrics. You’re eighteen years old with Neutrogena commercial skin, you’ve never had the need to wear a full face of makeup, so anything more than your LipSmackers and mascara is bound to feel overboard. Even your precious Dr. Phil wears a metric shit ton of powder.

  RE: my declining of the Karen Stone interview, it’s something we can talk about when I see you next. I haven’t fully made up my mind on the subject as it is.

  I’m glad Jeff invited you to the New Artist Spotlight bonanza—be on your best behavior, wear my blue dress with the nude heels (the T-strap ones), and stay away from Marvin James, some old guy who’s loaded and likes those types of galleries, because he gropes. I had to “accidentally” stomp on his foot with my heel one year to get him to fuck off. It was hilarious; he limped for the rest of the night.

  Love you.

  C.

  ***

  I felt like a little girl playing dress up in mommy’s clothes as I slipped Caroline’s blue dress over my head. She’d always looked so careless and impossibly glamorous as she came home from events, kicking off her heels, draping her coat on the staircase banister, pulling pins out of her hair so a wild, wavy sheet of gold cascaded around her bare shoulders. I used to wonder where she’d learned how to make it seem so natural yet choreographed, but now I knew it wasn’t something that could be taught or learned from movies.

  She could paint a perfect cat eye with liquid liner in two seconds flat. If that wasn’t proof she was a witch, I didn’t know what was.

  Winged liner and pin curls go with vintage dresses, she told me in high school. White liner on the insides of the lower lids with flowy blouses and pale colors, no bright lips with heavy eye makeup, stick with one, we’re not hookers, right?

  The dress looked spliced from the pages of The Great Gatsby, like it took ages to assemble, with delicate beads and faceted crystals lining the bodice. But I was no Daisy. More like The Great Pretender, that orphaned little girl trying on her sister’s flawless skin, only to find it would never be a perfect fit. My collarbones weren’t sharp and severe the way hers were, didn’t look quite as dramatic behind the boning of the dress. Her hair was a kaleidoscope of colors, gold and platinum and red, hypnotic against her tanned skin, but mine was dull, monochromatic, and my skin had none of Caroline’s luster.

  Tight curls go with winter, loose waves with summer. Jewel tones in autumn, pastels in spring. I liked all her rules, how she just seemed to know things. It made me feel secure. I’d always found instruction manuals soothing.

  “Hair up with low necklines,” I murmured through a mouthful of pearl-topped hairpins, echoing Caroline’s wise advice as I hunched over her vanity. “Sparkly dresses mean no jewelry. Extra mascara goes with anything.” I streaked my hand through the grime on the mirror. “Always leave without telling anyone; let them wonder where you’ve gone.” The disappearing act, she’d called it. A cloud of mystery is never a bad thing. Don’t pull a Cinderella and leave anything behind, though. How embarrassing would that be?

  Maybe she was used to not needing anybody, I thought, capping the tube of nude matte lipstick, but I wasn’t. I planned on sticking to Jeff’s side like a malignant tumor.

  ***

  I rummaged through my purse, trying to seem halfway busy as I slipped into the auditorium gallery and scanned the crowd for Jeff’s messy brown hair, but I didn’t have to wait for long. A hand snared around the inside of my elbow, and I turned to find Jeff himself smiling down at me.

  “I thought you wouldn’t make it, for a minute.”

  I hooked a thumb toward the door. “Sorry. Parking was a problem.”

  “I always get here early for that reason.”

  I gathered he was able to arrive stupendously early because he didn’t have to apply, erase, and reapply winged eyeliner three times. Men were lucky like that. If he rolled straight out of bed and arrived, people would call him artsy. When a woman does it, she’s lazy.

  “There’s usually parking in the G lot, though.” He fiddled with the buttons on his corduroy blazer, blinking at me through the shiny lenses of his glasses.

  I may not have been the conversation queen, but I was apparently the awkward segue queen, and the last thing I wanted was to discuss parking lot issues all night. “So I’ve never been to one of these things.” I hitched my purse up higher on my shoulder. “What are we supposed to be doing, exactly?”

  Mingling, it turned out. I shook many hands, heard many names which I promptly forgot, and declined many a cocktail as Jeff led me around the room.

  Smirnov, are you related Caroline? Oh, I was so sorry to hear about her…situation, do let me know if there’s anything I can do. (Can you stop hugging me?)

  Goodness, I don’t need Jeff to introduce you, I can tell who you are, you’re the spitting image of Caroline, she tutored my son, you know, I don’t think he remembered a thing she taught him, what a crush he had on her… (I bet her husband did, too.)

  Caroline used to paint portraits of my Yorkshire Terriers, had she ever mentioned them? (She called them loud mangy mutts, said you were insufferable.)

  I knew your sister well, won’t you tell her I said hello? (Watch your hands, Marvin James.)

  After an hour of greetings and introductions, fake smiles and nice to meet you’s, the cloying stuffiness of the room had begun to make me fantasize about slitting someone’s lung open to suck out the oxygen.

  “I need air,” I told Jeff, fanning my flushed face, heading backward for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  I didn’t need an escort, but I appreciated the offer anyway. He fell into step beside me, the shuffles of his shoes out of sync with the metronome of my heels, and the air that whooshed over me as he held open the door was the most welcoming thing in the world. It was followed very closely by the least welcoming thing in the world.

  “Oh my God.” I stumbled, stepping on Jeff’s foot. “What the hell are they doing here?” I hadn’t invited this thorny patch of reporters, the dull roar off their unintelligible questions, their cameramen and news vans. Flashbulbs exploded, lighting up the smog obliterating a black velvet sky, likely capturing innumerable unflattering photos of me with my jaw hanging down to my knees.

  “Fuck.” I looked up at Jeff, who looked similarly mystified yet somehow still calm. “Is it possible they’re here for someone other than me?”

  Katya, are you studying art like your sister?

  Ms. Smirnov, are you hoping to find a sponsor tonight?

  Katya, did your sister kill Brian Calvert?

  Katya, did you have any prior knowledge of that fire?

  Katya, is this a date?

  “I’m gonna go with no,” he said, squinting through the camera rays.

  There was no way out but through. No back exit in the auditorium, no secret tunnel leading out to the parking lot. So I did what I’d learned to do. I waved at the reporters, a subdued wave, one that said no, this is not a date, you cannot rattle me with your inane questions, and I’ll just be going back in now, but thank you for your interest.

  Jeff followed me back inside, and once both doors had firmly sealed, and every eye in the auditorium had fastened onto me, I blew out a heavy sigh.

  “I won’t be able to wait them out, will I?” I said, to nobody in particular. I wondered if this was what it felt like to be Caroline, drawing stares, curious glances, inciting whispered conversations everywhere she went. Center stage was exhausting, being the PR face of this nightmare took every shred of strength I possessed, and I had none of Caroline’s stamina.

  “It’s looking doubtful.” Jeff squeezed my bare shoulder, his face a giant quest
ion mark. “It wouldn’t hurt to take some time to collect yourself, though. I’ll walk you out, you don’t want to go through the gauntlet alone.”

  I gave him a small smile, no teeth, silently wishing he was Kyle. Kyle would have known what to do, what to say, he wouldn’t stand there at a loss, wearing an uneasy expression, he would have rolled his eyes, held up a hand to quell the questions, and told them all quite politely to go the fuck away.

  ***

  After waiting in vain and on tenterhooks for half an hour, the noise behind the door hadn’t died down. If anything, it got louder, ballooning into a thunderous din, until suddenly, it stopped. All but for what sounded like one voice, one furious and screeching female voice that I didn’t recognize.

  “Do you hear what she’s saying?” Jeff mimicked me, pressing his ear against the steel door. “I thought I heard Caroline’s name.” And it didn’t seem like a staunch supporter of my sister, whoever spat her name like venom two feet away, unaware I was listening through a thick steel door.

  “What are you doing?” Jeff asked as I grasped the handle. “You can’t go out there by yourself.”

  “Says who?” Cold air instantly raised gooseflesh on every bit of my exposed skin as I planted one heel out the door and stepped outside. An older woman with graying dark hair and a heaving chest stood there trembling, shouting, flailing her arms. She looked like a P.E teacher, gray sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, gray skin and hair. She whirled around as she sensed my presence, having been tipped off by another raucous round of reporter questions, and aimed a glare and a fat finger at my face.