Maya sips her water. “And supposedly my first eight minutes were simply spectacular.” She’s topped her navy blue leotard with an eyelet lace blouse—the cover up left behind at OCIB when she was carted away on the ambulance.
“Don’t say it like that,” Dad says. “You clearly were spectacular.”
“Not to mention the first two rounds—the barre and floor work,” Mom adds.
I hate when they do this, hop around the point, keep me out of the loop a beat longer than necessary. “So are they letting you make up the audition or not?” I ask.
“Not,” Mom says.
“Because I’m in, in, in, in, in, in, in!” Maya sings.
They cheer and I cheer, tossing the lavender at Maya, which she puts behinds her ear. Mom explains that, providing Maya’s test results from today prove she’s really okay and her fainting was just tiredness and not a sign of doom to come, Maya will be set to start at the academy the first week of the new year—on schedule. And now I am crying because this is everything we wanted and what we thought we lost. Finally something good. Maya a step closer to a career in ballet.
Today is a good day.
It is, it is good. But my exhaustion hisses and my heart beats so fast it hurts and I hiccup over my tears. Because, not far from where we sit, hills are engulfed. The couple that sits at the table across from us holds hands and cries silently and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand what this grief and guilt is doing to me. Is this how Brooks has always felt?
It’s a good day but for too many hours, I thought Maya’s cancer was back, and the hospital was so bright and numb, and she knows I have a problem with sadness, that her cat is most likely dead. And somewhere out there my boyfriend who was blamed for his brother’s death is inhaling smoke, and I lied to his poor dad, and I’m as guilty as him, as Brooks, I am, and so it’s really difficult to convince the parts of myself shuddering from the past fifteen hours that right now is a moment to be happy.
“I knew you’d be fine,” I say to Maya. “They’d be fools to turn you away.”
She grins. “You think everyone is a fool.”
A waiter with a goatee arrives. Mom and Dad order the goat cheese ravioli and the Chilean sea bass to share. Maya goes all out with the forty-buck sirloin.
Now they’re all staring at me, and it’s my turn to order. I think of what Maya said in the ER. Will I talk to somebody? I will, once I get through today.
“I’ll have the truffle risotto,” I say.
Dad calls for a bottle of wine. We’ve survived a fire and we’ve survived a medical emergency and he survived a supposedly shaky flight, so wine! I want to clarify that I survived the fire. Not him. Not Mom. Not Maya. Me. I survived the fire. But our waiter retreats to the kitchen, and my family has launched back into conversation—discussing the pros and cons of Maya living on the OCIB campus or living at home. I’m considering the pros and cons of calling the Orange County Fire Department and inquiring into whether or not a Brooks Vanacore is still alive.
“This is a day for the books, isn’t it?” Mom sighs. “Can you guys believe this day?”
“I can believe it,” I say. “Because, uh, it happened. It’s happening.”
“In, like, thirty years we’ll be laughing about it,” Maya says.
“Thirty years?” I slap the table. “Hell, I’m ready to laugh now.”
Mom places her hand over mine. “Hon, I think you’re experiencing some shock. How about you order a soda? Get some sugar in you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want sugar.”
“After a morning like yours,” Dad says, which is funny, because he has no idea, no idea what this morning really was, “I’d expect nothing less.”
I want to laugh, but I almost cry instead.
53
THURSDAY
Thursday night, back behind the trail that borders above my home, even after my eyes had adjusted to the dark, everything was a shadow of a shadow. Saddleback Mountain was dark, the foothills smoldering gray.
Amid the flat space, minimal grass, Brooks dropped his bag and tied a bandana around my eyes.
“Is there a piñata?” I teased.
I couldn’t see, could only hear and feel. He kissed me but didn’t speak.
“Brooks,” I said. “Don’t leave.”
“Where would I go?” A kiss on my neck.
The zip of a backpack, the clanking of glass, the tap of his Zippo—one, two, three, four, five, ten times. A rustle of fabric. The music of crickets. Another Zippo spark. A strong gust of wind, followed by a shit-shit-shit, and then Brooks’s lips were on mine again, his tongue opening my mouth.
He untied the bandana, and I blinked at the circle of light. A sleeping bag spread out on the ground, encircled by a ring of mason jars—each slightly dug into the ground, votive candles blinking on the grass. He led me to the blankets. A throw pillow rested in the middle, and I picked it up, the polyester soft against my skin. I ran my hand over the raised fabric, the words. I looked up to Brooks. He watched me, smiling.
“What does it say?”
He flicked his Zippo and held it over the pillow for me to read. A list of epic couples: Romeo & Juliet, Lancelot & Guinevere, Antony & Cleopatra, Odysseus & Penelope, but in the middle, in red, two far less extraordinary names.
“Brooks and Audrey,” I read.
He shut the Zippo and I clutched the pillow, waited for his lips to meet mine, his gift between us. A moment’s kiss, soft, the wind rough.
I pulled back. “Why?” Because a part of me wondered if he knew I knew about his lies, about Cameron. Maybe this was his apology.
He smiled. “I told you. Happy three-month anniversary.”
It wasn’t an apology. It was a celebration. I had nothing to give him, so I kissed him, wondering if he was counting back to the drive in the canyon, or the date to Balboa Island, or our first kiss in his backyard.
“You’ve been so patient,” he said. “I can’t lose you.”
I wanted to count the bones in his spine and taste his skin. I wanted to ask him what had really happened, ask him about Cameron, the burning cats and the quaking aspen trees. I wanted to tell him that he scared me when he gripped me. I wanted to tell him what I’d heard his dad say, and that I was beginning to find the pieces, but that I could still see it: two boys on the trail, a boy saving a brother, hitting a wild dog with a stick, and crying for help.
But his fingers pressed gently into my neck, lips whispering across my skin. Thursday night, in the beginning, he was June and July. He was still summer, and my heart swayed. He was still safe.
We fell to the rocky ground, the wind and crickets and coyote howls serenading us. We were together within the circle of flames.
We were only kissing, but then he whispered, “Are you ready?”
The wine was heavy in my limbs. He traced the line of my hip bone with his thumb, and I remembered that I’d once read something about how recovering alcoholics shouldn’t date other recovering alcoholics. Doesn’t that mean broken people shouldn’t date broken people?
He kissed my shoulder and he said, “I brought condoms,” and he rolled on top of me. He was heavy, and there was a rock beneath the sleeping bag under my shoulder, digging deep. And I suddenly thought, I’m not broken. I don’t have to be broken.
“Not now,” I said.
“Please.”
“No,” I said.
“Come on.”
It didn’t make sense, how all summer he’d been okay to wait, how we’d shared a bed in an empty house on the beach and, even then, it’d mostly been okay. But Thursday night, in this wild and lonely place, he was pushing.
“Audrey,” he said. “You’re ready for this.”
It didn’t make sense that all summer he’d lied. His contradictions and stories twisted in my stomach and tasted like the dirt stuck to my lips.
And I thought how liars shouldn’t date liars.
“Stop,” I said. “I don’t want to, so please, stop.”
So he did.
54
5:12 P.M.
Still at Fashion Island, still waiting on our food. Dad’s attempts to soothe me are interrupted by the arrival of the wine. The corkscrew is shiny and sharp enough to cut skin. Beneath the table, I pinch my thighs. I stop crying because Maya is watching and this is a happy moment. The cork pops out of the bottle with no trouble, and Mom and Dad laugh and cheer, because all is well, it’s a perfect cork, look at it, the right shade of purple, the right stain line. They even have Maya smell it, it’s so darn perfect.
Two glasses are poured and swirled. I should ask for a glass. Something to calm me down. I’m ready to scream. It’s too loud on this patio—the clatter of plates and silverware and families yacking and couples whispering and the chew-chew-chew ritual.
There’s a fire burning. Homes are melting. At other tables, people check their phones. They crane their necks in search of a TV in the hope of seeing fire on the screen. They smudge their cheeks with blush and gloss their lips only to smudge it back off with tears, then hide their faces with their hands. Deep breaths, deep breaths. I’m not alone in my act of falling apart.
I’ve been sitting here doing nothing for ten minutes.
The air is thick, becoming suffocating. The smell of fire shouldn’t be this strong so close to the ocean—the smoke has closed in since I parked, or maybe I’m losing it, maybe it’s the same. But this unfathomable heat, the oven back on broil—nothing is normal. I miss Orange County, the Orange County I know. My home.
I can still feel Brooks’s lips on my neck and my cheeks and my hips. The shag rug against my knees. I can feel the wind, the flames glinting like us during those magical July nights. I’m not a virgin. I had sex last night. And there’s a fire. And it’s my fire too. I did this as much as him.
Dad lifts his wine. “To Maya,” he says. “For getting back up after an extraordinary fall.”
Maya covers her face with her cloth napkin. “Wow. That’s not cheesy at all.”
Mom raises her glass as well. “We’re so proud of you, sweetie, our prima ballerina.”
“Not yet, not even close,” she says. “I’ll be lucky if I ever dance in a company corps.”
And now they all look at me, Mom and Dad with their lifted wine, Maya’s cheeks flushed pink. It’s my turn to lift my glass with its floating lemon and say something inspiring. And it’s like I’m the world-class loser at the table who voluntarily leaped from her audition and never got back up again. But no, that’s not true, this isn’t about me. It’s about Maya, and Maya loves ballet.
I raise my water and say, “To my hero.” And I can’t meet Maya’s gaze as we all clink our glasses because if I do I’ll be blubbering again.
A breeze sweeps across the patio and with it comes more smoke. Maybe my phone is accidently switched on Do Not Disturb mode. I pull it out and check, but there are no missed texts or calls. Another eight minutes gone.
“No phones at the table,” Mom says.
The food arrives. I want to drown in my risotto.
“I think we can make an exception for phones tonight,” Dad says, and, eyes on my phone, he asks, “Any news from Brooks?”
“No.” I already went over all of this at the hospital.
“Love woes?” Maya asks.
“His father must be so anxious,” Mom says.
“Anxious and proud,” Dad amends. “But he hasn’t called you?”
I swallow my risotto. “We’re probably homeless, and you’re asking about my boyfriend?”
Mom and Maya and Dad blink at me.
“Brooks is a firefighter,” Mom says. “I think it’s a relevant question.”
“Homeless,” I say.
Maya snaps her fingers. “Hello, drama.”
Dad sets his fork on his plate. “Honey, this isn’t our first time being evacuated, and it won’t be our last. You know it’s procedure—they’re overly cautious—you should know that from Brooks.”
I want to tell him what I learned from Brooks. That I learned how to twist a tale until it resembles the story I want to show and not necessarily the truth. How I learned how to kiss slow and kiss fast. How to start a fire and not so patiently watch it grow.
“You weren’t there this morning,” I say. “None of you were there.”
“You’re tired, honey,” Mom says.
Maya waves her fork. “Hey, if we’re homeless, can we move to Laguna Beach?”
“Say our house does burn.” Dad spears a ravioli. “Stressing yourself out isn’t going to do a thing. And we wouldn’t be homeless—we’d only be in search of a new home, temporarily out of place. We’re in an extremely fortunate position.”
Mom pats my hand. “Take a step back. Try to breathe.”
And so I do. I actually lean back in my chair and try to silence this rapid-fire chitchat I’ve been stuck with all day, since the cops showed up at my house at five in the morning. Maya spins her finger in the remains of her mashed potatoes, waltzing her pinky across the plate. Mom raises her wine glass to her lips, and Dad observes her and Maya and me. He smiles. Yes, they’re celebrating, they’re somehow happy, but they’re also tired.
“I don’t know about you geezers,” Maya says, nodding at Mom and Dad, breaking the silence, her potato ballet complete. “But if it’d been me home alone this morning, I would have passed out.”
I smile. “Maya.”
“Like, if I ran up and down the stairs enough times, I would’ve literally passed out,” she says, smiling so big. “Medical science can back me up.”
Let the house burn, as long as I have her.
55
FRIDAY
When I kissed Hayden on Friday, the fire was still small, still contained.
It was after psychology, after I read on my phone that the air quality was rated at a 163. Unhealthy to everyone. Panic was setting in, and I couldn’t go to my next class—but I couldn’t go home either. I had to get off campus, but there’s only one road in and out of my school, and you can’t get past the parking lot trolls without a slip from the attendance office.
My only option was the hills that run the length of our school.
The bell rang. Hayden followed me out of class. We walked through the courtyard, past the gym and the swimming pool. I texted Grace and told her I didn’t feel well, that I wouldn’t be meeting everyone at our usual spot for lunch. Hayden walked with me, waving at his basketball buddies as we passed, talking and talking and talking because we needed to make a game plan for our memory project. He wanted to make that game plan ASAP.
“Can we set a time later?” I said, when we reached the athletics fields. “I’ll text you.”
“You trying to get rid of me?” he asked.
“Sort of,” I said.
“Where are you headed?” He glanced toward the football field, the valleys beyond it.
I nodded up. “The T. I’m skipping next period.”
The T is just that: a giant T made of cement, set near the ridge of the bank above campus, outlined in white and filled with red. It’s nothing special, other than a quiet, non-scratchy place to sit with a view of the school, the Toll Road, and the parched valley below.
Hayden squinted. “You can go up there?”
“It’s where most people smoke weed.”
“You’re skipping class to get high?”
“No,” I said. “But so what if I was?”
“So you’re going up there now—because?”
“Because I kind of want to scream.”
“Well.” His smiled wavered. “Can I come? I love a good scream. It’s healthy.”
I stared at him. Hayden’s face was so open. The fresh burn on my hand pulsed. Hayden claiming screaming is he
althy—a joke—Hayden who, before this semester, had always been so quiet.
Smoke grew beyond the hills. My chest was tight. “This will be your first time skipping, right?” I said. “Sure you can handle that?”
“Well, senior year—have to rebel at least once.” He waved his arms. “Come on, I can’t graduate never having gone to the T!”
So together we climbed the dry, scrubby hill.
* * *
* * *
At the T, Hayden and I sat on the red edge of the concrete, our shoes hanging in the weeds. I was out of breath, sweaty, my side bangs sticking to my forehead. My throat hurt, and I wasn’t sure if it was from climbing in the smoke or something more.
“So, we’re here,” Hayden said. “At the T. Got to admit, I’m slightly underwhelmed.”
I pulled my knees to my chest, thinking how silly it was that for so long Hayden had remained only an almost-but-not-really friend. Just my best friend’s brother. The guy I avoided running into in the bathroom whenever I slept over.
“Why did you stay away from me?” I asked. “Before, I mean. You only recently started treating me like I’m someone you actually want to be around, only just started to really talk to me.”
Hayden squinted. “That’s not totally true.”
“Sorta true.” I nudged his shoulder. “What changed?”
“I don’t know. Nothing really.” He pushed up his glasses, tried to look at me, only to focus on his shoes instead. “You grew up, and you didn’t seem so young anymore. That’s all.”
I laughed. “I grew up?” I tugged on a weed. “You’ve always been a year older than me.”
He shook his head. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“What changed?” I asked again. Because something had shifted before the semester started, in the summer, a shift in the way he looked at me, talked to me.
He messed around in his backpack and pulled out a mint. He untwisted the plastic wrapping, plopped it into his mouth, a slight shake in his hands.
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