Brooks gripped my shoulder. “You needed to be home by nine, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, though this wasn’t true. My summer curfew was eleven, and my parents were never strict about it. “I do.”
I tried to think of something more to say, to prove my worth, but I could still only think of Cameron, of siblings, of the empty space. Luis losing his eldest son to suicide by fire, and Brooks’s inability to fill the gap, his mom up north, isolated in their old home.
Brooks headed out of the kitchen and into the foyer. “Let’s go.” A grunt.
I backed away from his dad. “Nice meeting you,” I said.
Luis waved his sandwich. “Have a good night now.”
Outside, the darkness was still. “Very smooth, Audrey.” Brooks opened the passenger door for me. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you?”
Inside, I fumbled with my seat belt. “Your dad seemed nice,” I called.
Brooks slid into the car. “He is.”
“Is everything okay with your mom?”
He stared at me. “Excuse me?”
“What you said inside.”
Brooks laughed, shaking his head. “My mother and I don’t communicate well.” He turned the key in the ignition, muttering under his breath. I couldn’t hear him. I didn’t think he wanted me to hear him—only wanted me to acknowledge that he was upset. “You wouldn’t understand,” he finally said. “My family has never been like yours.”
I bit my tongue. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“All happy. Your parents ready to throw confetti at every achievement.”
I wanted to tell him that that was far from the truth. I wanted to ask him if he’d remembered about Maya, about the years of Maya being sick, and tell him that it was unfair for him to boil my family down to such simplistic notions. I wanted to tell him about my mom’s struggle with depression, and how hard she’d cried when I quit ballet, how my dad lost his temper about the money I’d wasted, about how I felt chronically empty and far away. But in many ways he was also right; my parents have never been anything but supportive, and their slips were human.
“Why are you so angry?” I asked.
“You didn’t even drop it with my dad.” He pulled out onto the street. His hands gripped so tight around the wheel, like he was worried that if he let go he might lose control. “You had to mention those worthless photos to him.”
I didn’t have an excuse for not dropping it, because I didn’t even understand why I hadn’t, other than an itching desire, a curiosity anxious in my chest. “Why does this matter so much if they’re worthless?” I wanted to point out that he talks about Cameron all the time, that I didn’t understand why it was suddenly off the table for discussion.
Brooks took a curve too fast, tires screeching. I watched him as he closed his eyes on the road for a moment. “We are talking about my dead brother,” he said. “How can you not see that every time you mention him it feels like he’s dying all over again?”
“They aren’t worthless,” I said. “Those photos are not worthless.”
“Yeah, well.” He steered the car with his knees, sighing the way Maya sighs when she’s about to cry, when she’s pretending to be angry but really she’s hurting—a performed breath to cover a sincere wound. “You probably ruined my dad’s night by mentioning the photos. He’d rather it’d been me. Cameron alive, me gone. Him and my mom both.”
The pain twisted in my stomach. “Hey.” I sounded like him in the kitchen. Hey. “How can you say that?”
“Audie, just stop,” he said.
I wanted to cry. “Are you really okay?”
A pause and then, “You know. I ask myself that every day.”
A deeper ache spread through my chest. I reached for him slowly, worried he’d reject my touch, but he didn’t. My hand on the curve of his warm neck, he slanted his head closer, as if relieved by my skin. I thought he’d explain, maybe talk about Cameron more, maybe this would be a turning point. He’d let me in, let me absolve his grief, let me save him. We could get through this together.
He reached for the stereo knob, turning the music too loud. I stared at him. The way his jaw clicked. The Zippo in his right fist, the flicker of silver as he passed it between hands, fingers long around the steering wheel. The way his eyes stayed on the road with such effort—blinking, blinking, blinking. His chin wasn’t high. He was hunched into himself. He hadn’t had his hair trimmed in months, and it curled around his ears.
“Will you please find something else to stare at?” he asked, a crack in his throat.
I looked at my chapped fingers, my green nail polish, freshly painted that morning. I understood Brooks wasn’t angry. That night in the car, I saw myself in the way he held his head—sad, strung so tight, and anxious with guilt too thick to find the surface. And I understood that he needed me, and that—as terrible and confusing as it was—I was in love with not only his passion but maybe his sadness too.
38
1:48 P.M.
This drive to the hospital is kind of (totally) sucking.
I check my phone. No more texts from Brooks.
I wish he’d call. I miss his voice. I miss what we used to be.
Stay quiet, stay low.
I’m too awake now, too caffeinated, too well-fed, too aware. Too okay to be alone. Why did I tell Hayden no? Alone, I’m only me, my thoughts sparking like fireflies on a July night. Like on Thursday—the land igniting. But if I think about the past few days, I’ll cry. So, fireflies. I’d rather consider the fireflies.
We talked about fireflies recently, Brooks and me. A nighttime conversation as we drove through the canyons.
No fireflies in Washington, but sometimes—if we’re lucky—we can see the northern lights, he claimed, though I’m sure now it was a lie.
The west coast would be perfect if we had fireflies, I said.
And he asked, Wouldn’t you prefer the aurora?
And I said, Yes, no, I don’t know.
But last night, I said yes. And while I don’t want to think about it, I do think about it, because it’s weird to no longer be one: a virgin, I mean. I hate that I care. I didn’t lose anything but a label, a social construction. That’s what girls say online. But that’s also bullshit, because if it meant something to me, then it’s that simple: It meant something, means something.
One day I hope to go farther north than San Francisco, I told Brooks.
Then let’s go, Audrey, let’s go north, all the way to Alaska.
The Zippo is still in my hand. I drive with it pressed against the steering wheel, speeding past fresh crops of suburban neighborhoods in the valleys. Eighty years ago this was a sea of orange groves. These new houses—all of Orange County’s houses—are better off than those in mountain communities, up in Big Bear or Tahoe, where fire can leapfrog from tree to tree, lightning fast. A crown fire, that’s what that’s called.
Even in Washington, I’ve seen fire jump above my head, Brooks once said. The crown fires are the royalty of all fires.
But even still, even if my high desert home isn’t worthy of fire royalty, watch out: See that lovely russet field of sun-fried grass? That land not yet developed into little box communities, perfect for teenagers to make out in beneath a new moon if they’re not afraid of dirt and rocks and mosquitoes and twigs in their hair? You see that rolling valley, right there? There might be a baby fire waiting for the perfect moment to attack, so small, even its smoke is too minimal to detect.
Dun dun dun, as Brooks would say.
Shit shit shit, he said on Thursday.
And what did I say? I said nothing, before and after.
I take the curve onto the 133 Toll Road that can carry me to Laguna Beach or the Irvine Spectrum or Disneyland or the Children’s Hospital of Orange County, which is not far from OCIB, not in the least. I hold the wheel and the Z
ippo with one hand and pinch my waist with the other. No more crying is allowed, but the fire is too big and I didn’t call 911—and Shadow, my little sister’s cat, he’s gone.
Another cat probably burned alive.
Robot Lady speaks: In one mile, take the I-5 North exit 10B toward Santa Ana and merge—
I follow the thinning smoke north, and my phone starts buzzing. A number that’s familiar but not in my phone.
Brooks’s dad is calling.
39
Sixteen
The day before I turned sixteen, in late August, Brooks and I returned to Balboa to a beach house on the peninsula. A house planked blue on the outside, all creamy white and hardwood inside. It sat on the boardwalk, a single hop from the sand. He said one of his fellow reserves owned the house. It didn’t matter. My mom and dad thought I was at Grace’s for the night, an innocent birthday sleepover.
“I wanted to do something special for your birthday,” he explained.
My stomach flipped. The bed upstairs. Something special.
We spent the afternoon on the back patio, observing the bustle of the boardwalk and the pier. Families on bikes passed, tanned girls in bikinis, young guys in shades and high socks.
We were approaching summer’s end and Brooks’s hands were hot on my waist. I was soaring and flailing in the same breath. I’m too young to be here, I’m so lucky to be here, I don’t want to be here, I don’t ever want to leave here. My toothbrush and face wash and nighttime moisturizer were inside. I shouldn’t have said yes, but then he never really asked. Scored us a premiere escape for your birthday night. You liked Balboa, right?
My palms were sweaty. I checked my phone. I texted Grace. Brooks and I had never stayed together for a whole night.
We waited until sunset to walk onto the still-hot sand. Brooks wore blue swim shorts, his OCFA shirt. I wore black jeans, a tank top under a loose tee. No swimsuit for me. I hadn’t brought one. I told him it was an accident, but it wasn’t. I tried to kiss Brooks, but he shook his head, nodded at the setting sun, the swaying lights of the boats sailing home from Catalina. I hadn’t seen him this calm since early July, the first night on the pebble garden, our first kiss. His calm, his hush, not sad or hyper or shy—I wanted to swim in it. We watched the day’s colors fade from bright to dim night.
When it was over and there were only indistinct stars in the sky, Brooks said, “You know, I think I might love you.”
I fell back onto the sand. He followed my lead, curled up next to me. He kissed my neck.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Thank you?”
“For thinking you love me.”
Looking up, searching for a bright star to wish on, I cursed the fog, the clouds, the light pollution. I wished on the bright red light of a helicopter—a silent plea that this feeling wouldn’t fade.
“Thank you,” I said again. “Because I think I might really, really love you too.”
We were still cuddling when a yell rang down the beach.
“Where’s my fabulous birthday girl queen? Audrey, Audrey, come out to play!”
I squinted up to the lights of the boardwalk, where Grace, Quinn, Rich, and Hayden stood, a giant gold balloon floating above their heads.
“You invited your friends?” Brooks asked. “I wanted this to be our night—just us—you know.”
I’d only told Grace about my plans and where we were. I said she could stop by, that I wanted her to stop by, because it was my day and I was missing her so bad. I didn’t know she’d bring Quinn, and I definitely wasn’t expecting Hayden or Rich. But I also didn’t think Brooks would be bothered by it. Or maybe I did and I didn’t care. Maybe I knew exactly what his plans were and wanted something to interfere with them.
I stood up, brushing the sand from my pants. “It’s my birthday.”
* * *
* * *
I ushered Grace and Hayden and Quinn into the beach house.
“We’re not going to stay long, I swear,” Grace said to Brooks, and then to me, “but how could I not see you on your final day of being fifteen!”
She drew me into a hug, lifting me off my feet. Hayden had tied the balloon’s string to my wrist, so it floated with me, bopping along on the ceiling.
“You’re the best,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Are you kidding?” Grace asked. “I squealed when I read your text. Quinn, did I not squeal?”
“You definitely squealed.” Quinn sat on the couch.
“My ears are still ringing,” Rich said, pulling me into a hug. “You need to return to the world of the living, Audrey. I miss you.”
I smirked. “I miss watching your drunk-ass attempts at break dancing. That’s special stuff.”
“Why, thank you,” he said. “You’re one of the few who appreciates my dancing.”
“Sorry. I’ve been keeping Audrey busy.” Brooks leaned against the fridge, arms folded across his chest. A fresh beer bottle in hand. “My apologies,” he said.
My face was hot. I stared at him and Rich stared at him and Quinn stared at Grace and Grace stared at me. Hayden shuffled in from the corner where he’d been lurking and gave Brooks a weird side dude-hug pat, because Brooks had been an ass during the initial hellos—had only strutted past them, sliding open the beach house door with too much force and beelining toward the fridge.
But then Hayden said hey, and Brooks side-hugged him back.
“It’s good to see you,” Hayden was saying to Brooks. “I hear you made it through the fire academy, that you’re actually doing it. Congratulations.”
Brooks tipped back his beer. His hands shook. “Thanks. Doing it and loving it.” And then, not even asking how Hayden was, what he’d been up to, Brooks nodded at me. “I didn’t know you and Audrey were close.”
Grace chuckled. “Did you forget Hayden is my older brother? Of course they’re close.”
Which is funny because Grace is typically touchy about my being too close to Hayden.
But then Hayden said, “I’m really only here as a designated driver.”
My balloon may as well have popped. I opened the fridge, stared at the eggs for tomorrow’s breakfast.
“Thanks for that,” Brooks said. He tried to smile. “Maybe you’re saving me from receiving a crash call tonight.”
I wanted to crawl into the fridge, but I slammed the door instead. I looked in the freezer. A meat lover’s double-pepper pizza. Brooks’s favorite.
“That’s a chipper thought,” Grace said.
“It’s what I do,” Hayden said. “Help friends out.”
Brooks nodded. “A good civilian.” It was like when he called my dad sir, so formal and quiet, with the best intentions.
I clutched his hand, but he didn’t even react. Grace had introduced him to me. He wouldn’t even know me if it weren’t for her and Quinn, and I guess initially Hayden, and yet he acted as if they were gnats. I stepped away from Brooks and Hayden, and Brooks asked Hayden about basketball. He could do this. He could be social. I sat between Quinn and Rich on the couch, the balloon floating above us.
“Move, move.” Grace shoved Rich’s shoulder, trying to take his place. “Go ensure my brother doesn’t say something idiotic to Brooks and let me sit next to my best friend,” she hissed.
Rich jumped up. “Whoa, dramarama.”
“Just like Audrey,” Hayden interjected from the kitchen, an awkward laugh, turning away from his small talk with Brooks. “You two dancing around the house together in fits of dramatics since elementary school.”
“Oh shush,” Grace said.
Rich pointed his finger at her. “I’m so going to beer pong your ass tonight,” he said. “It’s on, Dramarama. It’s so on.”
“Please don’t.” Quinn swatted him. “I rather not spend the night cleaning up puke.”
And then Bro
oks interrupted, too loud, too sudden, “I’ve never thought of Audrey as dramatic.”
I blushed and the others laughed, and Grace wrapped her arms around me—letting the chaos of the room drip away.
“Happy birthday,” she said, presenting a purple hemp bracelet threaded with silver gems, sliding it over my wrist. “I know, crazy simple, not to mention a copycat.” She waved her cluttered wrist, showcasing the bracelets I’d made her over the years. “But you’re always making me these things and I always adore them. I wanted you to have something from me for once.”
My throat tensed, because that had been one of our summer plans—me teaching her how to braid hemp bracelets and her teaching me how to jog without getting shin splints, like summer camp but with hot showers and wine coolers. I’d missed all of it—letting the weeks pass without following through on a single plan.
“Who taught you?” I asked.
“YouTube,” she said. “Is it terrible?”
I hugged her. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“My gift to you is my presence,” Rich said. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m honored.” I laughed.
Hayden’s eyes fell on me, and I couldn’t look away. He rocked on his heels and clapped his hands. “I should have baked you a cake,” he said. “Carrot cake, that’s your favorite, right?” He rubbed his glasses on his shirt. “I’ll bake you a cake and bring it to class one morning. A post-birthday surprise.”
“Class?” Brooks asked, walking in from the kitchen.
“We’re taking AP Psych together,” I said.
“You were in Stats last spring.” Brooks stared at Hayden. “Didn’t you graduate?”
“My brother,” Grace said, “likes to keep things advanced in preparation for premed.”
I smiled at Hayden. “A surprise Hayden carrot cake in class sounds awesome.”
“You do love your sugar.” Brooks tossed his beer bottle in the trash—the glass smacking loudly—mumbling something about calling the station to check in, heading for the stairs. He took the steps too loudly, every beat a needle to my head.
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