“What the hell,” Grace says.
I glance at her. “I agree with him. They’re on borrowed time.”
A young couple now stands at the barricade. They both cry, hands to their mouths. They look past the police cars, and I know. I know they live near me—that they too woke at 5 A.M. to pounding on the door. The woman is in white yoga pants and a pink baseball cap, the man in hiking shorts and a wide-brimmed hat. Both wear surgical masks. A golden retriever pants on its leash. The woman points her phone up at the molten sky, the column of black smoke against the brown smolder. The man talks to the cop still guarding the barricade, arms folded, nodding.
I’ve never seen them before, but I see it: Their souls are battered too. Maybe the woman is also thinking about her mother’s forgotten portraits in the guest bedroom, wondering if the paint is already peeling, burning, melting.
Grace and I move forward. The day is hot in my mouth. The man shakes the cop’s hand, and the couple retreats. People watch Grace and me from the safety of their yards. My neighbor in pink nods at me. Between the cap and the mask, I can only see her eyes. Red. Weary. I smile at her, not with my teeth. A hug of a smile. I hope so, at least.
Grace rubs my shoulder. “Audrey?”
A stray ember lands on my skin. A small, hot shock. I keep my feet moving forward. “I just—” I sound far away, even to me. “I was hoping to grab some of the crap I forgot.”
“Well, at least it was only crap.”
“Thanks for the sensitivity.”
“Just trying to diffuse the tension!”
Both of the cops are clean-shaven but shiny and red-faced. One is about to speak, shout an order, shoo us away, but I beat him to the stage.
“Any structure loss yet?” I ask.
He blinks at me, and then at Grace. “Excuse me?” he asks.
“Structure loss,” I say. “Have any houses burned yet?”
“The evacuation center is at Mission Viejo High School—updates are being announced there.” He glances at his watch, as if the hands will reveal the answers. I follow suit and glance at my phone. Only eleven minutes have passed since I parked.
“She’s a resident of Falconridge Drive and her boyfriend is a firefighter.” Grace coughs into her hands, wheezing until she is able to add, “She has the right to know.”
Exhaustion settles in the lines of his face. His radio crackles, and he lifts it to his ear. “No official counts have been made.”
“So some houses have burned?” I ask.
“Where are your parents?” He’s stepping forward now, and we’re shuffling back. “You need to clear the area.”
“Can’t you just tell me?” I’m sounding younger by the word. A toddler ready to throw a fit, my voice flooding with tears. “It’s my home.”
His radio croaks static-cloaked codes. “Again, updates are being released at the evacuation center—Mission Viejo High School.”
“Can I just run by my house?” I ask. “I need to—”
“I’m sorry.”
“But—”
“You can get more information at the evacuation center.” He steps off the curb and waves his arms pointing at a car trying to get past the barricade too, motions for them to make a U-turn. I stare at his digital watch, at the small seconds racing forward. He looks so tired, so beat. Where does he live? Is he worried for his home too?
Grace huffs. “Are you legally bound to be a jackass?” With a swift turn, she rushes back to my truck, coughing the entire way—always happy to throw in dramatics.
“Sorry,” I tell him.
The cop tries to smile, a weak, sympathetic your house will be gone soon smile, and wipes the sweat off his head with the back of his hand. His radio crackles again, and I hear what it says, a code of numbers, a name, and “Clear it.” He closes his eyes. He shouts to his partner, who is now talking to a family a house over, “Code 43.”
“You want to help your house?” he asks. “Let us do our job.”
As I walk away, I hear it: He’s speaking into megaphone. “This neighborhood is officially under mandatory evacuation.”
21
Necessary
On the first day of July, Maya was invited to the October auditions at the Orange County Institute of Ballet. She celebrated with an hour of Pilates on the living room rug and a request of spinach omelets and bacon for dinner.
I wanted to spin with Maya to the moon, wanted to throw roses at the crazy universe, in gratitude that she was no longer sick but was now in full throttle to achieving her dream. But still, there was a cold thump in my chest. Maya was going places without me. She’s my little sister, and I’m five thousand miles behind.
“We’ve worked out an intensive training schedule with Clarisse, on top of the core classes,” Mom said to Dad. “It’s going to be a busy, busy summer.”
“The best kind of summer,” Dad said.
“Just don’t let it stop you from dancing like no one’s watching,” I said, cutting a rogue spinach leaf into threads. “What would be the fun in that?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Maya said. “Dancing for applause is rather awesome.”
“Speaking of summer plans”—Dad waved his fork at me—“have you started scanning the photos, or making a list for potential jobs?”
“Um,” I said. “I intend to do both of those things tomorrow.”
Maya smiled. “Key word being intend.”
I faked disgust. “Excuse me. I’ve already mentally started the job list! I’m going to apply to that bookstore in Aliso Viejo, maybe at some café, or that new chocolate shop at the Spectrum—”
“Oh no you’re not,” Mom said, nodding at Maya. “I’m going to be driving this lady back and forth for her training. There won’t be time for me to shuttle you all over Orange County to work.”
Maya pulled a bobby pin from her bun, twisting it straight, and said, “I can carpool with other girls to the studio.”
I sighed. “Not with your unique schedule.”
“It would be a lot of gas money,” Dad said, “if you worked that far out. Why don’t you stick to only applying in Rancho Santa Margarita? And no farther out than Ladera Ranch.”
“Really honey, it’d be best if you found a job within walking distance,” Mom said.
Maya spun her water glass in circles. “If only we had real public transportation.” And she sadly sang, “Forever stuck out in the suburbs.” Which is what it feels like sometimes—the nearest bus station is outside of Coto de Caza’s gates; a simple journey to the mall is a three-hour endeavor without a car.
I stared at my mom. “You do realize that the only job within walking distance is the country club, right?”
Maya nearly choked on her bacon. “Oh my god, Audrey. You in a polo shirt!”
Mom smiled. “The country club would be nice, sweetie!”
“I’m personally fully on board with this plan,” Maya said, laughing. “You could learn some manners, some country club sensibilities. This will be good for you.”
I cut the remains of my omelet up into eggy crumbs. “No one is going to hire an inexperienced fifteen-year-old, so don’t get too excited.”
Dad went for an encouraging smile. “It’s a matter of trying and learning.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ll try. I’ll apply to the country club.”
“Wait,” Maya said, a sudden flush to her cheeks. “I need an after-hours teacher, a happiness mentor.” She grinned at me, always my sunbeam. “For when Clarisse is too much, has fumbled my mind with critiques and formulas and—”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Mom said.
“Audrey,” Maya said. “You can tutor me so that I don’t forget to dance like no one is watching.” She looked at Dad. “That counts as work, right?”
Dad chuckled. “Sounds more like you two making a mess and ending the night with a doo
r-slamming fight.”
“That’s the point!” Maya cried. “Keeping the messy fun in ballet.” Which made my throat tight, that she would think I’d be good at that, but she went on, “I need this, Mom. Otherwise it’s going to be a summer of Clarisse madness and sadness. Audrey will help me further refine my dancing techniques and relax.”
I found my voice. “I’m especially skilled at the art of being lazy, which is key for relaxing.” I looked at Mom. “And, if you do recall, a summer of madness and sadness prior to a ballet audition is not good.”
Mom sighed.
Maya leaned back. “Such a summer could even lead me to dancing straight off that stage and then bam, you have two glum ex-ballerinas in your home.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with that, if that happens.” I pointed a finger at her.
She nodded. “That’s certainly true—”
“Okay, okay,” Mom said, laughing. “Enough. Audrey can tutor Maya, whatever that means, in the evenings and on your off days, as Clarisse allows.”
“And Audrey’s pay?” Maya asked.
“We continue to feed her,” Dad said.
“It was a good try.” I shrugged at Maya.
“You girls.” Mom shook her head.
“So, to summarize”—Dad pushed back his plate—“Audrey will help Maya prepare for her audition, as well as proceed with her local job hunt.”
I lifted my water glass to Maya’s and we clinked. “Cheers to forever happy dancing, sister.”
“Cheers to you, sister.”
Mom sighed. “Now, which one of you is making brownies?”
Maya took the dibs for brownie making, and I pushed at my food, chewing at my smile. I knew I wouldn’t be applying at the country club anytime soon, and not just because the idea of catering to the likes of the OC Housewives shot a rifle of panic into my chest. I already had plans for the next day (Brooks). And I had plans for the day after that (Brooks), and now frequent evening dancing (doing nothing, doing everything) with Maya—helping her get closer to achieving her dream, pursuing her thing, even if it meant simply rolling around on the floor and goofing off and unwinding.
Maybe, at some point, I’d find my dream too.
Under the table, my phone buzzed. It was Brooks.
Think you can come out tonight? Want to tell you all about my day. Want to hear all about yours.
The already warm thump in my chest turned hot and bright, and it dawned on me that Brooks could be my thing, my ballet, my fire. I had never felt so necessary. No one had ever felt so necessary in my life.
22
10:20 A.M.
Back in the truck, I U-turn away from the barricade, the soon-to-be mandatorily evacuated neighborhood.
“He wasn’t being an ass, you know,” I say. “You shouldn’t have been so rude.”
Grace blows her bangs from her face. “The dude was withholding information. Pisses me off, and I thought you wanted to check it out.”
“We are.”
“You going to call Brooks?”
“No.” I glance over at her flip-flops. “You should have worn different shoes.”
23
Chatter
Brooks and his dad live in the west side of Coto. The four-bedroom three-point-five-bath house was built with the intention of a larger family, but it’s just the two of them. The furniture and drapery and rugs are elaborate and dark—rich burgundy and soft browns. It’s icy cold and drafty, with the ceilings droning the constant rumble of the AC. I wonder how high their electric bill peaks.
The first time he had me over, that second day of July, not even a week after the Balboa trip, Brooks explained that his dad gave his secretary his credit card and instructed her to make the house a home. One January afternoon, Brooks came home from school to painted walls and cluttered rooms. He hates it, prefers simple and clean, light—industrial even.
“When Mom came down for my graduation,” he said, “man, she laughed—said we were living in a funeral showroom.”
Brooks’s mom is still in Seattle, teaching art history at the University of Washington. I asked Brooks why he didn’t stay with her if he loved Washington so much, and he shrugged and opened the stainless-steel fridge, dug out two bottles of beer with a pond on the label.
“There was drama at my old school, and my mom and I don’t get along well, so I figured I’d mix it up senior year.” He cracked off the bottle tops on the side of the counter. “Challenge myself, you know?”
“Was it worth it?” My knees were shaking. I was in his house. I was alone in his house, and he was scruffy and beautiful. “Mixing it up?”
He handed me a beer and smiled. “I met you, didn’t I?”
A skinny gray cat rounded the island counter, purring madly. Brooks scooped her up, nuzzling his face into her fur, into the darker cloud-like splotches on her neck. She wasn’t wearing a collar, and her purring rumbled as he struggled to contain her. She clawed at his arms until he finally dropped her to the wood floor.
“Shit.” He rubbed his scratches. The cat had disappeared, but I could hear the whisper of her meow. “Don’t let her chatter fool you,” he said, but with a grin. “My dad’s cat is a beast.”
I smiled. “I’m more into dogs anyway.”
A photo hung on the kitchen nook wall: Brooks, maybe six or seven or eight, gawky with a buzz cut and gap-toothed grin, sunburned skin. The other boy is taller, slightly older, also blond. They’re on a trail canopied with evergreens, both in khaki, wearing bandanas on their arms.
I held my finger just above the glass. “You and Cameron?” I asked, looking over my shoulder. “You guys were adorable.” Brooks swigged from his beer, eyes set on the frame. “Where does he go to school?” I remembered the drive through the canyon, Cameron moving east, ending the backpacking tradition.
Brooks squinted, the place where the dog struck him creasing. “He doesn’t anymore.”
“He dropped out?”
“In a sense,” Brooks said. “He’s dead.”
24
10:37 A.M.
What most people don’t know about mandatory evacuations is that, in some states, legally, a resident cannot be forced to leave his or her home. You’d be something of a fool to hang out in a fire’s path, but, in some states, there’s nothing the law can do about it but knock and ask in a stern voice and holler threats and repeat the word mandatory again and again on an intercom until you’re convinced. Yes. I must leave. Yes.
And you should go. They’re evacuating you for a reason. You’re not safe.
In California though, it’s a criminal offense to not obey evacuation orders.
Yet last summer, during the Falls Fire down in Lake Elsinore—a community also bordering the Cleveland National, forty minutes south on Ortega Highway—two brothers ignored orders and stuck around. Photos show the red-faced men on their driveways wielding garden hoses, flames visible in the hills above. Yeah, they look somewhat freaked, but no one died in the Falls Fire, so they must have survived. And as far as I can find on Google, they weren’t punished for their supposed criminal offence.
So it can’t be that big of a deal, right?
* * *
* * *
Like I said, in some states, if you really want to stay home, you can.
Maybe it’s because of this that I don’t feel anything. No guilt, no remorse, no fear. I ditch my truck on the side of the road, cross the park up to the manicured slope—where I smoked my first and only bowl, where I played hide-and-seek when I was ten—and climb through the sage weed and crunchy grass. I take the more rugged route home, and I don’t feel a thing.
Grace and I clamber up the bank. It hurts to breathe. I take off my hoodie and hold it to my face. Can you get sunburned if the sun is covered with black and brown and gray sheets of smoke? The air hisses with the venom of a rattlesnake. My shirt clings to my bac
k like a wet leaf on glass.
I’m being dramatic. We’ve only been walking for ten minutes.
Grace’s tank top is tied around her mouth. “Have I mentioned I hate you?” she asks.
She hikes in her bikini top and shorts, my car keys clipped to her belt loop because my pants won’t stay on my waist with the extra weight. Flies hover by her tan legs, the sweaty curve of her waist. I could never strip off my shirt outside, and I envy the fact that she does it without a second thought.
“This was your idea,” I say. “Checking out my house.”
“I wasn’t imagining a hike through the freaking desert,” she says. “Was more thinking of a meet and greet with some fireboys, maybe a tour on a truck. You know, led by your boyfriend or whatever.”
I roll my eyes. “Because a wildfire is like a brewery.”
“God.” Grace sighs. “A cold beer. How good does that sound?”
Hot air blows. I can taste it, taste the smoke, charcoal, and dirt. My lips are papery, glued shut. I step and pray that the rattlesnakes have retreated into their caves as I listen for a whisper below the crackling crunch of dried bottlebrush and hawthorn shrubs.
The land is the same sad color of the sky—brown and beige, the reek of death and wilt and decay. The home association used to send landscaping crews back here—these hills between parks, between neighborhoods—to prune and trim, but it’s been months since a gardener last walked these slopes. Two years ago, it was green and lush, the land studded with bright wildflower buds after a few seasons of decent rain, smoke-free autumns.
But here’s the problem: Fire is necessary. Like Brooks said. A good year of rain—of rich land and fast growth—practically guarantees that the next dry year will blow up in smoke. We haven’t had a big blaze since I was thirteen, and this region has been in some level of a drought since I was conceived—a drought that jumped to critical conditions last winter, when the average January temperature was seventy-six degrees.
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