I’m wheezing when I reach the top—where the media is set up, surrounding the illuminated entry. And I see everything: the black hills I’ve climbed, the concrete T in the high shadows, the vacated school below, the tents and trailers left behind, the cops behind me and the cops in front of me, the onlookers, the dim Toll Road I sped down tonight, and the raging zigzagging blaze I’ve watched from the very beginning. I see Hayden, and my heart throbs because he didn’t wait in the truck. He didn’t run away. He’s still here.
I try to speak to those I pass, but my voice is locked in my throat. My lungs still burn. They stare. Step back. What do they see? A girl with scraped, bleeding legs, hair tangled with ash and dirt, a soot-stained face. My vision blurs, but I see the cameras, those blinding lights, the parked vans blocking two lanes of Oso Parkway, the newscasters and their bright lips and their hair that whips in the wind.
I see a woman in a uniform decorated with badges. Authority. She’s standing in front of the cameras, a swarm of microphones horseshoed around her. The 10 o’clock news. The official press conference. She’s explaining the extreme changes—the fire’s erratic movement toward the school and neighborhoods in the local proximity. She’s announcing the fire as arson.
“Audrey,” Hayden says, catching up to me. “Audrey, we need to get you help.”
I think of Mom and Dad in the hotel bed. Did they go to sleep or are they still watching the news? Do they know we don’t have a home? I think of Luis. Alone in that empty house, brokenhearted. Does Brooks’s mom know? Is she watching the fire from Seattle? This morning, our hike, I should have told Grace. I should have told her then. Are she and Quinn swimming in the moonlit Pacific? I think of Maya, hopefully asleep so deeply, waiting to share a brownie with me.
And I think of Brooks. I see him sitting high up in a quaking aspen tree. He’s flicking his Seattle-skyline Zippo. He’s saying, Let’s go, let’s go to Alaska. I love you. Don’t you see? I do. I see Brooks. On the beach, in the Audi, on the stones of the pebble garden. I see him heading off into the fire. I see him in Alaska, breathing frozen air, living on ice.
I only came to say goodbye.
I step into the lights. My legs tremble. My ears ring until the ringing is replaced with a dull hum of whispered chatter. I walk to the woman, the firefighter lieutenant speaking into the microphones. She sees me, stops talking, and starts again. She stutters at my approach. I feel the wind and the heat on my blistered skin. I stand beside her now. I’m nudging her aside. I’m in front of the microphones.
I’m here.
Did you know that silence has a feeling? The silence before words, your own words—that silence. I feel it, and I feel how all eyes are on me, waiting for me to speak. I still shake, but I’m not crying anymore. A sparkler lights in my chest. Burning, burning, burning.
I look into the pounding lights. “My name is Audrey Harper,” I say, “and I know who started the Caspers Fire.”
All at once, questions come from every direction.
“Are you hurt?”
“Are you okay?”
“Do you need help?”
The sparkler sizzles hotter, and I say, “Yes.”
Acknowledgments
I wrote the first version of the novel that would eventually transform into Nothing Left to Burn when I was fourteen, and over the twelve years of both the novel’s development and my own as a writer, I have received endless support. All of this is to say, prepare yourself for grand but genuine dramatics.
Thank you to my agent, Sarah Davies, who held a stethoscope to my manuscript and challenged me to clear out the muck and find its smothered beating heart. I’m utterly grateful for your fearlessness and your critical role in making my dream come true. Endless cups of tea lifted in gratitude. I feel ruthless with you at my side.
Thank you to my editor, Marissa Grossman. I sobbed after our first phone call and I sobbed when I read your first edit letter: no one has understood this novel and what I’ve attempted to do as much as you. Ben Schrank, thank you, thank you, thank you. To my cover designer, Corina Lupp, after all the ruckus I made, there is no way you don’t already know how much I love this cover. Thanks to my publicist, Lizzie Goodell, my copyeditor, Ivan Anderson, and proofreaders, Krista Ahlberg and Samantha Hoback, and the entire team at Razorbill: you have made this dream-becoming-reality thing such a pleasure, and I firmly believe that there is no better home for this story than with you.
Maureen McHugh. You told me to take Audrey to the flames, to not flinch, and, within two weeks, the present of this novel didn’t span six months but rather a single day, and Brooks—boom—he became a firefighter. I hope I did you proud. Peter Behrens, well, I can’t say what you told me exactly because it’d spoil any reader who’s skipped ahead, but when you dropped my manuscript on your desk and said, “I don’t buy Brooks,” you helped open the door that finally clicked him into place.
Steven Hayward, oy, how to say thank you? Because, dang, we worked together a lot from fiction to Shakespeare to general wonky life wisdom. Your mentorship made my experience (and my writing) at Colorado College all the richer.
Continuing the CC love: I owe so much to so many but most especially to Re Evitt, Jan Edwards, Tracy Santa, and my fellow 2014 fictioneers. Let’s take another photo in front of a tree soon.
Elizabeth Law, who pulled at the weeds, and then at the story’s largest invasive root that I’d overlooked for years, thank you so much.
I’m indebted to Stephenie Meyer for the guidance and support she offered when I was fourteen. I am not entirely sure how I convinced you to read the first book I ever wrote, but thank you for that and more.
Sending warmth to all of the friends I was lucky to have in Alaska and while on submission, who kept me alive during (literally) the darkest and sunniest days. August Johnson and Elle Fournier, thank you for keeping me so deliciously well fed and soothing me when I was at my worst. Those midnight chicken and waffles saved my life. Micah Allen, thanks for the pints and the madcap conversations, as well as your love. And thank you to Daryl Farmer, for being a pillar of support during my time at UAF.
Also up in the far reaches of Alaska, thank you to the composition students I had the pleasure of teaching while I was revising and on submission.
A million thank-yous and a million tacos to Rachel Lynn Solomon. You’re the best guru a girl could ask for and now one of my dearest friends. It’s a surreal honor to be debuting in 2018 with you.
Thank you to Leonardo C. Maniscalco, captain of the Escondido Fire Department (retired) for the generous, enlightening phone call and answering even my most off-the-wall questions with such kindness. I know I skewed some logistics and rules for the sake of story, especially when it comes to volunteer firefighters. Forgive me!
Thank you to the Orange County Fire Authority—particularly Station 18 (Trabuco Canyon), Station 14 (Silverado Canyon), and Station 40 (Coto de Caza). I hold the greatest level of respect and awe for you.
To every agent I queried from 2006 to 2013. Obviously all of you rejected me. Thank you for that. I’m serious. I was not ready, and every rejection only made me work harder until I was.
To those who read my many messy manuscripts over the past decade and pushed me to be a better person, particularly Christina Hayden (fight club in steakhouse bathrooms forever), Kady Weatherford, Bree Painter, Karli Golightly, Elle Cosimano, Tessa Elwood, Rachel Griffin, Fayie Nuss, Jessie McMullin, Shola Gordon, Erin Sullivan, John Konugres (you said you better get a shout-out for moving my one-hundred-pound desk back in 2010, but you’re here for more reasons than that), Jamie Pang, Ali Abraham, Jane Humen, Kenny Skiba, Hannah Jornacion, Nikki Roberti, Anna Brittain, Sonia Hart, and so many more.
Regan Campbell, thank you for your immeasurable love, for your ridiculous Midwestern patience, for reminding me to take breaks, and for going along with my outrageous plan to drive a Mini Cooper round-trip from Southern Cal
ifornia to Interior Alaska. Thank you for writing burns cats??? on the Greuning conference room white board when I was on the floor, muttering about my horrific nightmare. Thank you for all of this and so, so much more.
To my late aunt Carol, who asked, “Why not?” when I hesitated on pursuing outlandish dreams.
My entire giant family tree from Utah to California and afar: I love you. I am so lucky.
A shout-out to my black lab, my pup, my baby, my brother’s dog, Bellatrix. She already has a whole blog post to her name, so no need to elaborate.
To my parents—I’m baffled by how two people can be so supportive and carry such love. Neither one of you once questioned my writing but rather fanned the obsession. I love you.
Finally, to my siblings: Amber, Madeline, and Grant. I can’t write too much because if I write too much I’ll start crying and won’t stop typing and I’ll refuse to edit it down and then there will be no acknowledgments in this book. You guys put up with me when I was a camera-hogging child, a snarling teenager, and now a still very loud me. I’ve thrown fake trees at your friends, slammed doors, kidnapped the family dog, and somehow you still all treat me with unfathomable love. You three are my best friends and I’m the luckiest girl because of it.
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Nothing Left to Burn Page 25