by Scott Kelly
Emily grinned. “Nope.” Her hair was cut short, and she sported electric pink lipstick that made her look more than a little like a stripper—which, no telling, she might be.
“I want to hear all about whatever the hell you’ve been doing,” I told Emily as the truck gained on our subcompact car, “if we don’t die today.”
A traffic light; cars idled at either end of the split road. The green arrow for a protected left turn lit up. She veered into that lane without slowing. Emily pulled the parking brake up, skidding into the turn at forty miles an hour. She couldn’t make the angle; it was too tight. We flew over the grassy median, into oncoming traffic, narrowly avoiding cars lined up at the red light by aiming behind them.
Someone didn’t get out of the way in time; we clipped their side mirror, sending it flying in a shower of black plastic and glass. Emily didn’t stop, forcing her way upstream in the lane, then turning into the driveway of a gas station. Hitting the curb at full speed sent me flying; the seatbelt snapped around my shoulders, throwing me back down. We blasted through the station and onto a side street. She turned onto this and kept driving, albeit slower.
“He’s gone,” I said, checking behind us. Thought I might black out from the rush of adrenaline and panic. “Please stop. I think I’d rather get caught.”
“Someone was chasing us?” Emily asked, smiling wide. She turned onto a quiet residential street. A few more blocks and she squealed to a stop, once again deploying the parking brake and fishtailing into the shoulder of the road, smashing my face against the glass.
The moment the car stopped, I opened the door, unbuckled my seatbelt and practically fell out. I sat on the curb, head between my knees. Skidding uncontrollably into oncoming traffic had that effect on me.
Emily stepped out and stood over me, holding her arms open in a mock hug. “I’m back!”
“Hi,” I groaned, staring up at her face, head framed by the fading sun. “Thanks for saving me. Please, never do that again. Oh, and my dad reported the car stolen. Don’t get caught.”
“Me, or Moira?” she said, smiling, before getting back into the car. The front tires spun, kicking loose rocks onto my clothes. Just as abruptly as she’d appeared, Emily was gone.
28. All fires, one fire
Time to do something about Kent.
I didn’t want to—not exactly. I pitied him, honestly. No matter how big he was, he didn’t have the strength to handle the truth. I wasn’t the reason his dad was an abusive asshole, and Eureka wasn’t the reason Cameron didn’t love him. Right now, though, it looked like he wasn’t going to understand that on his own. Fighting back was the only way to get his attention.
I laid low until lunch, and managed to avoid being harassed too much between classes by staying within eyesight of teachers and principals. Not exactly fun, but survival rarely is.
When lunch came, I snuck away from my usual “find a chair and be ignored” ritual and found Cameron and Kent. Kent was surrounded by the baseball team; stacks of muscle and fat cracking the same jokes to each other endlessly, laughing and guffawing, food in oily globs flying from wet lips.
I wasn’t a fan.
Cameron sat next to him, looking lost, surrounded by skin.
Tried to look natural as I approached the table, but they spotted me coming. Two of them stood immediately, brows furrowed, shoulders hunched. Dogs barking at passing cars. Still—needed to make this quick.
I came up behind Cameron and put a hand on her shoulder. Kent turned, dangerously close, but let this occur.
“You win, Kent,” I said, staring him in the eyes as I did so. “Tag.”
And then I walked away to watch. Cameron stood, knit jacket and blue jeans, every inch of skin covered, as always. Kent stood as well; the rest of the table watched in interest. Cameron turned to walk away, but he cut her off, lowering himself to one knee in front of her. His head still reached her shoulders.
She tried to step around again, but he grabbed her hand. “Cameron, would you go to prom with me? Please?” he asked, eyes moist and wide, staring up at her. Some sick parody; broken white knight and the princess of scars.
Cameron pushed his hand off hers.
We watched as she crossed the cafeteria to the nearest fire alarm and pulled it, yanking her hand away as purple dye spat from its red mouth.
We all met eyes for one, two, three seconds and briiiiiiiiiiiiiing. Flashing lights and sirens.
A gentle tide of students began moving toward the exit, in no hurry to end the fire drill. Kent stood, watching, jaw slack.
Cameron, Kent and I stood still as the cafeteria emptied; rocks on the beach as students streamed around us. What failures we’d wrought.
By the time school let out, I was actually happy. Now Cameron was ‘it,’ and Kent wouldn’t have a reason to bug me. I knew he’d be angry at first—that there’d be some retribution—but the war was almost over. Kent didn’t have anything to fight for.
I spotted Nora carrying a bundle of books home, and waddled up to her with my massive backpack. “May I?” I asked, arms extended.
“Knock yourself out,” she said, smiling.
My smile grew a smile; I was that happy.
Then we turned a corner. Kent was waiting, close-set eyes and little stubby nose all red and puffy from crying.
He didn’t look at me or say a word as we walked past. So, of course, I couldn’t resist. “Have a good day, Kent,” I said, double-smile beaming through my voice.
“Fuck off,” he said, banging his head against a nearby locker.
“Don’t say that,” Nora objected.
I stared at her, as surprised as Kent.
She continued: “You fuck off, and leave Jacob alone. He never did anything to you.”
“Would you shut this bitch up?” Kent said, turning to face me now.
“Don’t talk to her like that,” I said reflexively, surprised by the power in my voice.
Good as it sounded, though, my legs froze as Kent approached. My center of gravity seemed to fall around my ankles. I saw the hand moving toward me in slow motion. As it connected, Kent’s fist filled my entire view. I fell backward and banged my head against the linoleum floor with so much force, I blacked out for a few seconds.
Nora let out a little yelp and ran.
Kent stood over me, rubbing a red fist. “I really hate you. You didn’t have to do that.”
I tried to say something, but was too shocked by the taste of blood in my mouth.
Both of us were interrupted by Nora arriving with the principal in tow.
I got treated by the school nurse for my injuries, including an icepack on my swollen lip that hurt more than helped, and a cheek full of gauze. In the meantime, Nora flitted between the principal, to whom she told everything, and me.
She was a star student, the cameras backed up her story, and no one knew anything about Eureka. Kent would get the same punishment I’d gotten. He’d finish out the year at Hope High, now officially a bad kid.
I thought I’d feel better, but was still pretty shocked by the whole thing. I’d been prepared for a punch from Kent for weeks, figuring I’d move, or block it, or something. Of course, he was meaner, stronger, and heavier than me, so all that was fantasy.
Didn’t help much that as I left the school an hour and a half later, I saw Kent wearing handcuffs, being escorted to a police cruiser by two officers.
I turned to Nora, trying to voice a question through the gauze that still filled my cheek. “Mmff?!”
“They found drugs in his locker,” she said. “Pot. It serves him right.”
I remembered when they’d unceremoniously cut the lock off my locker and dumped the books into a box to be shipped to Hope High. But weed and Kent? It didn’t mix.
I contained my reaction. Would only make Nora suspicious; I knew she hated the game. Instead, I shrugged.
“Thanks for standing up for me,” she said, smiling.
I raised my hands and nodded, which could have
meant anything, but hopefully meant “It was nothing” to her.
As I stepped into her car, I saw an old white luxury sedan across the school parking lot. A thin, pale young man with spiked blond hair and thin rectangular glasses stood, leaning over the hood and watching us. Smiling.
Steven had no business being at the high school. Made me wonder.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I sat in my tiny cell in the trailer and ran my tongue over the cut in my lip. Couldn’t get the day out of my mind. Seemed like there could only be one person responsible for Kent’s arrest.
Kent shouldn’t have gone to jail. That was too much.
Did Steven mastermind it? Seemed extreme. Made me a little bit afraid of my nerdy friend—if he could even be called that anymore. But, he’d gone to extreme measures to protect Cameron before, and this might fit his definition of ‘protection.’
I was shocked out of my stupor by a fierce knock on the door—the kind of aggressive, unrelenting knock that cops use. I hurried through the trailer to where my dad snored into the face of the TV, shifting half awake at the racket. I crept past him and opened the door.
Cameron. She had a wild look in her eyes, and was drenched in sweat.
“Kent’s gonna do something stupid,” she blurted. “You’ve gotta come with me, now.”
I let the trailer door slam behind me. Her car was already running, and I got in without bothering to ask any of the questions which would’ve been prudent, like: Where the hell are you taking me?
However, not asking made me seem so much cooler. “Isn’t Kent in jail?” I asked.
“His dad bailed him out in an hour,” Cameron answered, knuckles white from gripping the wheel, or perhaps the mention of her abuser. She sped down the road and barely twitched her neck to check the cross streets at each red light before blasting through.
“And then what?”
“They got in a fight. Knocked the crap out of each other for a little bit, then Mr. Gimble left. That’s when Kent called me. I never get within a hundred yards of his shit-stain father. Anyway, Kent came to me and we talked; he is not taking this ‘me and David’ thing well. Or the thing with his father. Or the thing where he got kicked out of school and arrested. He needs help—I need help.”
“I didn’t play any part in this,” I said. “I swear, I didn’t. Someone else put the drugs in his locker.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Seriously, I’m not that clever. I didn’t think of any of this.”
“I can almost believe that. I don’t care. Look, I did something stupider.”
“What’d you do?” I asked as we squealed around a corner.
“I tagged Kent. I felt bad, and it seemed like the only way to shut him up. But, he started begging again. Even after I told him we weren’t going to happen. So I turned him down, again. But, Kent…he’s kinda got a temper. Sometimes he loses it and keeps rolling in one direction. He doesn’t stop well, not on his own.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed. Then what happened?”
“Emotions. A nervous breakdown? He’s coming to terms with his dad, with things about David—he’s trying to fix himself, to fix what happened, so that I’ll like him. He said he’s going to be like David.” Hysteria under the surface of her voice; sea monster beneath the depths. After a few deep breaths, Cameron spoke again: “I don’t like Kent, not romantically. But no matter how many times I tell him, he keeps saying Eureka makes anything possible. It’s like he can’t—he can’t let it go.”
Cameron spun the steering wheel; I banged my head against the window. She tore into a parking lot, past a rusty station wagon and a few decrepit minivans, before slamming on the brakes. Kent stood outside a second story apartment with a red plastic gas can in his hands. His left eye was bruised and swollen, almost shut.
I jumped from the car. So this was what ‘being like David’ meant.
“Don’t do it!” Cameron called up to him.
“It’s genius,” Kent exclaimed, voice hoarse. “I can get back at Dad, erase my past, come on. What’s not to like?”
Kent put the gas can on the ground then raised a white rag with one hand and a cigarette lighter with the other. He sparked the lighter and a small orange ember lit up the night. One eye wide and wild, the other bruised closed. Kent laughed, but tears rolled down his cheeks.
He lifted the flame to the rag and the infant inferno licked it nervously once, twice, and finally took its first bite from the material. The rag in his hand lit up.
There was a problem with Kent’s plan to be like David, of course. There were five other apartments in the building, connected to his own.
“Come on, Kent. I’ll go to prom with you! Don’t start that fire,” Cameron pleaded.
“Do you mean that?” Kent asked.
“Yes! Forget about the game. Just put the fire down.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she called back. Any chance at Kent putting the fire out was quickly dying; the orange disturbance in the air reached his hand.
“I did this for you,” Kent said, lowering the burning rag.
“It’s okay. Just come down from there. We’ll talk,” she said, curls sweat-soaked and stuck to her forehead.
Seemed like he might relent; he started to lower the rag. But, Kent’s hand ignited where gasoline spilled. In another tiny explosion of orange, his shirt caught fire as well.
In a panic that only being on fire can bring, he ripped the shirt off and began flailing his glowing hand through the night air. In the process, he kicked the plastic can of gasoline, and some part of the fire’s infernal consciousness saw opportunity and leapt.
There was a much larger eruption of light; the devouring elements tore into our world, climbing up Kent’s doorframe and wrapping the entrance of his apartment.
Kent stumbled away from the unholy portal and into the railing, nearly tumbling over the second story walkway while batting at the flames on his pants. I watched, frozen there, as the chemical reaction reached across the curtains of Kent’s apartment, then climbed up the wall. From my vantage point below, I could only see the furious amber light amplify exponentially, a gradual explosion, starving maw demanding more. The fangs of its ever-teething mouth breached the shared wall and the incandescent glow began to reflect through the neighboring apartment’s window as well. Devil feast.
“Call 911!” I shouted to Cameron. I ran to the nearest door and began slamming my palm against the panel. I kept yelling, trying to warn the inhabitants of the threat. I moved to the window and pounded my fist on the glass, shouting all the time.
When Cameron reached Kent, I stopped, spellbound for a split second, and watched. Flames whipped around the two of them. She tugged at his arm, but he wouldn’t budge, so she did the next best thing. Cameron slapped him—once, twice, three times, the sound blending in with the crackling of timber. “You’re going to kill someone!” she shouted. “You’re an idiot.”
He stared at her, mouth agape. “David…” he said.
I tore my eyes away and began banging on the next door, shouting again. Someone came out: a small boy and his mother, both in tears. At the sight of the door opening, a strange feeling welled up in me, somewhere underneath the raging torrent of panic—like how even a small rock at the bottom of a river causes a disturbance. I couldn’t shake the sensation I’d been here before.
I reached the third and final door on the bottom floor and banged on it. My knuckles ached, so I used my feet, too. Another set of people came staggering out.
Cameron managed to drag Kent down the stairs and away from the fire. He swayed, either drunk from the acrid fumes or weak from the depression and shock. She shouted indecipherably, punching and slapping at the boy’s broad chest and face.
He didn’t look her in the eye—just stared downward, occasionally reeling from a well-placed blow.
I ran up the stairs to the first apartment on the second floor and rece
ived such a shock to my memory that I stumbled and landed face-first on the steps. I recovered and skipped the apartment, going past it for the one neighboring Kent’s.
I’d never been there at night before; everything looked different.
This was where Geoff lived.
I banged on his door and shouted as the heat from the fire curled the hair on my arms and threatened to consume me in its gluttony. I tried looking through the window, but the smoke was too thick. Orange light glowed from the inside of his apartment, and I prayed my Hope High compatriot wasn’t home. I kicked at the door once, twice, but it didn’t budge.
I hammered my fist onto the windowpane until it shattered. Reaching through, I cut myself on the searing hot glass, then burned my fingertips on the metal of the lock, finally twisting it and getting past the barrier.
Geoff’s body lay on the couch, facing upward, on the opposite side of the living room.
The second my foot crossed the threshold, I pressed against a near impenetrable wall of heat. As I took another step, the air was stolen from my lungs and the strength baked out of my muscles.
I put a foot down and pulled forward, then felt the eyebrows melting from my face as searing hell ate its way through one wall of his living room. The air was sucked from my lungs—couldn’t take another step, couldn’t breathe. Tears welled up in my eyes; the devil evaporated those, too.
I don’t remember stepping back out of the apartment. Maybe my body did it automatically, reaching for oxygen like a panicked diver swimming for air.
The breeze of the night felt unnaturally cold in comparison. I gulped in soot and smoke and dashed back inside. The shared wall between Kent and Geoff’s apartments glowed, pulsating reddish orange—the wall itself turning to balefire. Layers of my skin tightened, blistered. I choked for air, lungs burning. No matter how much I wanted, I couldn’t force myself further.
No hope.
At last, I turned and ran to the parking lot, jumping down the stairs four at a time. Kent sat on the hood of Cameron’s car, and Cameron watched me. I felt where the fire torched the hair from my face and arms. My skin was flaky and tight, like brittle plastic wrap.