Fire With Fire (16 page)

It’s Tuesday, and school’s already let out. I’ve been in and
out of the pool, and now I’m studying for AP US History on
the bleachers while Reeve does more laps. I figure this way we
can walk out together; I can give him a proper good-bye. You
can’t flirt with a boy if he’s underwater and you’re on dry land.

Reeve has a clipboard lying on top of his gym bag. I glance
over at it and recognize the bubble loops of Rennie’s handwriting right away. She’s still plotting all his workout sessions. I
smile smugly to myself. She’d kill to be me, here with him. But
she’s not. I am.

After half an hour or so, Reeve finally climbs out of the pool.
“I’m starving,” he says, stretching his arms out and shaking
water from his ears. “Wanna get pancakes or something?”

My heart skips a beat. This is the first time he’s initiated an
actual hangout. It’s real progress. Ever since our fight, things
have felt different.

Casually, I look up from my textbook. “Hmm, I don’t know.
I’m nowhere near done studying. Don’t you have a US History
test on Friday too?” I’m in AP and he’s not, but I’m pretty sure
we both have a test on Friday, when I’m back from Boston.

Reeve shrugs. “I haven’t been to class in a couple of days. I’ve
been doubling down in the weight room. Now that I have my
walking cast, I’ve been working on my sprints. That way, when
the doctor gives me the okay to go full-throttle, I’ll be ahead of
the game.”

“Are you serious? Then you’d better start studying, like,
yesterday!”
“I’m not worried. I have a great memory,” he tells me.
Tapping his head he boasts, “Like a steel trap.”
“Okay, so what year was Shays’ Rebellion?”
“Um . . .” Reeve leans forward and peeks at the notebook in
my lap. “1786.” A droplet of pool water from his hair splashes
onto the page. “Plus Friday is, like, a long time away.”
I shove him away. Crossly, I blow on the page and say,
“Reeve! You’re getting my notebook all wet!”
He sits down next to me. “Come on, this is boring. Let’s get
out of here. I’m starved.”
Pancakes do sound good. We could go to the Greasy Spoon.
They serve real maple syrup there. But this test is important. It’s
practically a midterm.
“I have to finish my note cards.” I reach into my backpack
and pull out a chocolate chip granola bar. “Eat this for now,” I
say, handing it over and going back to my book.
Abruptly he asks me, “Why are you being so nice to me?”
I look up, surprised. Nice? It’s a granola bar. “Because we’re
friends.”
“We were never friends,” Reeve scoffs. “You’ve never liked
me.”
Whoa.
I mean, it’s pretty much true. But I never thought Reeve
noticed whether or not I liked him, much less cared. And it’s
not like I’ve always
hated
him or anything like that. At least,
not before I met Mary.
I quickly try to string some words together. “Yes I did!” I
shake my head. “I do.”
Reeve doesn’t look convinced. Impulsively I hold my hand
out to him. “Well, we’re friends now, aren’t we?” He cocks his
head and gives me a nod, and I say, “So shake my hand!”
He finally takes my hand and shakes it and says, “Does
that mean you’re going to help me study this week, friend?
Tomorrow, postswim library trip?”
“Oh . . . I can’t. I’m leaving tomorrow morning to Boston for
a college trip.”
“You too? Lind told me he’s going to visit schools in Boston
this week.”
I hesitate. “Yeah . . . he’s going with me.” I quickly add,
“With our moms. They’re the ones who set the whole thing up.
I didn’t even know about it until a week ago. We’re all staying
at our apartment in the city.”
I don’t know why I’m explaining it to Reeve. It’s not like it’s
his business. And judging by the bored look on his face, it’s not
like he cares. “Have fun,” he says, yawning and stretching his
arms over his head again.
“We will,” I say. I’m annoyed now, and I can’t pinpoint the
reason. I snap my book shut and put it back in my saddlebag. “I
should get home and pack.”
“Your hair’s still wet,” Reeve protests.
“I’ll be okay. I’ll run to my car.” I throw on my hoodie and
tie my towel around my waist.
Lazily, Reeve reaches over and pulls my hood up so it’s covering my head. “Why do you need, like, ten hours to pack for
two days?”
“It’s three days, actually. We’re not coming back until early
Friday morning. Besides, my mom made reservations for us at
fancy places, so I have to figure out what I’m bringing. And
these interviews are important. I need to look my absolute best.”
“Sounds fun,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Are you guys going
to go to a ballet too? Maybe an opera?”
“Maybe!” I screw up my lips tight. “And maybe we’ll go to
a Red Sox game! My dad’s friend has box seats!”
Reeve busts up laughing. He’s laughing so hard he can’t talk.
“What? What?” I demand, my hands on my hips.
“Lillia, Lillia, Lillia. Baseball season’s over, girl. You guys
aren’t going to any Red Sox game!” He shakes his head, holding
his sides, guffawing. “You two nerds have fun, though.”
I want to push him off the bleacher. And then it occurs to me.
It’s the second time he’s told me to have fun.
Which is boy speak for “I’m jealous.” Reeve is jealous! Of
Alex. Of me and Alex, together.
It’s working. The plan is working!
I pack my bag up and say, “So are we getting pancakes or not?”
“I thought you had to pack,” he challenges.
“I might have time for one pancake,” I say, giving him what
I hope are flirty eyes.
Reeve stands up, stretching. “All right. Whatever Princess
Lillia wants, she gets.” But I can tell he’s happy, because he puts
his hands on my shoulders and gives them a quick squeeze.
CHAP
TER T
WENT
Y -SEVEN

Wednesday night, I’m still thinking about what
Ms. Chirazo said about my college essay. Maybe I’m being
stupid. I should do whatever the hell it takes to take to get into
Oberlin and score some good financial aid. Ain’t no way private
planes are in my future. And I don’t know why, but no matter
how many beers I drink, I can’t stop thinking about Alex and
Lillia jetting off together this week.

“Let’s go hot-tubbing!” I suddenly announce to everyone in
the garage. “Who’s in?”
Ricky, Skeeter, and a bunch of other guys look my way.
“Where?” Ricky says.
I turn off the radio. “I know a place. A mansion. And it’s
completely empty tonight.” Seems stupid to let Alex’s house go
to waste.
“But it’s kind of cold out,” Skeeter whines.
“That’s why we’re going in a
hot tub
, dummy.”
“I don’t want to get arrested,” Ricky says.
I walk over to him and pull on the strings of his hoodie. “You
won’t. I’m telling you. No one is home. And the kid has no
neighbors.”
Ricky shrugs. “Okay. I’m in.”
It’s me, five guys, and one of their girlfriends who bugs the
shit out of me so I never bothered learning her name. Pat stays
back. He says he wants to keep working on his bike, but I know
the truth: He has a thing with hot tubs. They skeeve him out.
The heat, the germs, all the bodies cooking together in one big
bathtub. I don’t blow up his spot, though, mainly because I
don’t want to gross everyone else out.
Which affords me a real opportunity. Tonight, I’m going to
let Ricky get what he’s been wanting. The kid’s been flirting
with me for weeks. And I could use a good make-out. I don’t
even care that I have school tomorrow. I haven’t kissed a boy
since . . . Lind.
We put two sixers of beer in a plastic bag, hop on a bunch of
bikes, and tear over to Alex’s place. The lights in his house are
all on, like someone’s home, but I know it’s empty. I have to
drag Ricky up the driveway.
“You sure about this?” he keeps saying.
I crack open a beer and take a sip before offering it to him. I
get close to his face and say, “You know it.” I like flirting with
Ricky. He’s sweet. He’s two years older than me, a year younger
than Pat. We were both at Jar Island High together at some
point, but back then he was dating someone else. Sarah? I forget.
Anyway, he dumped her this summer, after she cheated on him
with her professor at the JICC. That’s the kind of shit that goes
on in our community college, which is why I need out of here.
The fence is locked, so we have to climb on top of the trash
cans to get over. As soon as we land on the other side, the backyard lights automatically turn on. My heart stops, and I’m just
waiting for a siren or something. We all hold still, and then they
click off. “See?” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s fine.”
Alex’s pool is closed for the season, half drained and covered
with a tight tarp. Oh shit. I take off the cover of Alex’s hot tub,
and thank God it’s full of water. It’s a pretty pimped-out model,
with buttons that make different colored lights go on and a builtin stereo. We all get in, crank the jets, and it doesn’t take long
before it gets toasty. Ricky doesn’t have a bathing suit, so he goes
in in his underwear. He’s wearing black boxer briefs, and he looks
freaking hot. His body is cut, you can see every ab muscle, and
he’s got a wicked scar from when he got his appendix removed.
I’m in my black bikini and a black tank. I push Tim’s girlfriend out of the way so I can sit next to Ricky.
“This place is sick!” one of the guys says.
“Damn, I wish I was loaded,” says Skeeter.
It sort of pisses me off, because most of these dudes will
never have money, will never get to experience this side of Jar
Island living. Unless they become pool boys. Which some of
them might.
Tim asks me, “You know the guy who lives here?”
“Yeah.”
Ricky says, “You ever hook up with him?”
“Hell, no,” I lie, because I know what my friends think about
these kinds of people. They aren’t like us. Though it may be racist, or classist, or whatever . . . it’s freaking true. Alex isn’t like
me. After all, he’s in a goddamned private plane, going to visit a
school where his parents will most likely make a huge donation
to get him accepted. I don’t know why he’s even in the college
essay class with me. He doesn’t need a good essay when he’s got
a blank check. I finish my beer and throw the empty can in the
yard, like I don’t give a shit. I get close to Ricky. He puts his arm
around me for like a second, but then takes it back.
Um, weird.
I get a stomach cramp. Have I read the signs wrong? Is Ricky
not into me? I don’t know if I could take another Alex Lind
scenario. A guy who’s only being nice, not actually pursuing
me. My ego ain’t indestructible.
I look across the hot tub, at all of my brother’s friends,
watching us.
Oh. Okay. That I can work with. He wants to be alone
with me.
“Shit,” I say suddenly. Everyone gets real quiet.
“What?” Ricky whispers.
“I think I heard something.” I climb out of the water. Damn,
it’s bitter out. My whole body is steaming.
“What? I didn’t hear anything.”
Dummy. I grab Ricky’s arm. “Come investigate with me.”
He gives me this pleading look, then glances over at the rest
of the people in the hot tub. But they’re all back to giggling
and speaking in whispers. They aren’t paying attention to us
at all.
“Hurry up!” I growl. I’m freezing my ass off.
We walk out of the main yard and around to the side of the
pool house. It hits me how awesome it will feel to kiss Ricky,
basically right in front of Alex’s bedroom. I push him up against
the wall and say, “So, you gonna kiss me or what?” But it
doesn’t sound as sexy as I want it to, because I’m shivering so
damn hard.
His lips stop, like, millimeters away from mine. “Everyone’s
right out there, Kat.”
I put my hands up on his shoulders and drape myself against
him, boobs pressed up against his chest. If nothing else, it’ll
warm me up. “What are you worried about that for?” I whisper.
My breath comes out in puffs. I close my eyes and wait for him
to plant his lips on mine.
Nothing.
When I open my eyes, Ricky’s looking at me with these
pathetic puppy-dog eyes.
I let my arms fall to my side. “Are you for real? We’re not
doing this right now?” My voice is much less sexy. It’s straightup pissed off.
Ricky shrugs. “Come on, it’s cold. Let’s get back in the hot
tub.”
I walk away from him, teeth chattering so loud it’s all I
hear. The last thing I need is to get hung up on another ballless guy.
Ricky tries to guide me to face him. “Kat, wait.”
I’m already gone, headed to the hot tub. But instead of getting into the water again, I grab my shit from one of the outdoor
lounge chairs. “Hey. The cops drove by and flashed their lights
in the yard. We’d better bounce. Now.” Ricky comes back, he
hears me tell this lie, but he doesn’t call me out on it. Everyone
rushes out of the water and heads barefoot back to where we
parked the bikes.
I follow them out, but at the last second I glance over my
shoulder at all the shit we left around Alex’s yard. The empty
beer cans and the cigarette butts.
“You coming?” Ricky asks me.
I don’t answer him. And he doesn’t ask again before he leaves
me behind.
I find a trash bag inside one of the garbage cans and start
walking around the yard, using my cell phone light to find the
trash in the grass. Not long into it, snow begins to fall. My shirt
is soaked; I don’t even have a ride home. FML.
CHAP
TER T
WENT
Y -EIGHT

It’s snowing outside. Teeny tiny flakes that
barely stick, but it looks beautiful. I always did love Boston in
winter. The city looks like something out of a Charles Dickens
novel.

We’re waiting for a table at Salt, my mom’s and my favorite
restaurant. They have the best lobster bisque; the waiter serves
it tableside in a silver urn. We had a seven o’clock reservation,
but Mrs. Lind took so long getting ready we missed it, and now
it’s almost eight and we still haven’t had dinner. I feel faint.

“This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Lind says loudly, so everyone can
hear. She’s in a fox-fur coat and black stiletto boots that go up
past her knee.

“They should have one for us any minute,” my mom says. “I
see them clearing a table for four now.” Even though she sounds
as serene as ever, her lipsticked red lips are a thin line, and I
know she’s annoyed.

“We’ve been waiting for half an hour,” Mrs. Lind huffs. “On
a Wednesday.”
“It’s a five-star restaurant,” my mom reminds her. “And this
isn’t the island.”
Mrs. Lind shakes her head from side to side, her coppery hair
swishing around her shoulders. “I’m going to say something to
the hostess.”
“Celeste,” my mom starts to say.
Luckily, the hostess comes over to us then and says our table’s
ready. “At last,” Mrs. Lind huffs, and Alex and I exchange a look.
It’s been like this since we got here—just shy of tense. Like,
my mom wanted to stop by her old interior-design office before
dinner, so she and I could say hi to Bert and Cleve, her friends
who’ve known me since I was a baby. They’re partners, and they
travel all over the world getting inspired by rugs in Marrakesh
and ceramic tiles in Provence. They send Nadia and me the nicest Christmas gifts—lavender oils and crystal bracelets and jars
of Dead Sea mud.
But we couldn’t go because Mrs. Lind was all,
Grace, we need
to stop by Hermés before it closes; I want to get your opinion on
that end table I’ve got my eye on.
So we did that instead. Alex
kept making a pretend gun with his fingers and pretend shooting himself in the temple. I kept lingering by the enamel bracelets, hoping my mom would notice and add one to my Christmas
wish list. I super-casually pointed out one I liked and she was
like,
Not going to happen, Lil; you do not need a six-hundreddollar bracelet.
Mrs. Lind tried to tell the saleswoman to add it to
her bill, and my mom said absolutely not, which Mrs. Lind made
a face at. I felt guilty about that, because if I’d known how much
it cost, obviously I never would have said anything. Though I had
to admit, wearing it to school and seeing the look on Rennie’s face
would have been worth the six hundred dollars.
And then, when we were touring the BC campus, my mom
wanted to look at the library and the art building and Mrs.
Lind kept complaining about her feet hurting. I knew what my
mom was thinking because I was thinking the same thing—why
would you wear four-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels on a campus
tour? So impractical.
The hostess seats us in the back, at a sleek leather banquette.
I sit down next to my mom, and Alex and his mom sit down
across from us.
Mrs. Lind picks up the wine list. “Red or white, hon?” she
asks my mom.
“I might have a glass of sauvignon blanc,” my mom says,
reaching over and tucking my hair behind my ear. To me she
says, “You look so pretty tonight, honey.”
“Oh, Lil’s always a knockout,” Mrs. Lind says. “God, I wish
I could still dress like that.”
I smile a humble smile, through my lashes. I did take extra
care with my outfit. I feel like on Jar Island it’s whatever, but
people get more dressed up in Boston. They care more. I’ve
got on a snug heather-gray sweater dress with a white patent-leather belt that cinches around my waist and a pair of
platform booties that I bought for this trip. I curled my hair
and pushed it all over to one side in a low ponytail. When I
came out of the bathroom, Alex told me I looked nice. He
was wearing a navy cashmere sweater, but after he saw me, he
went and changed and put a light blue button-down and a tie
underneath.
As soon as the server comes over, before he can say a word,
Mrs. Lind says, “We’ll have a bottle of sauvignon blanc and a
bottle of Veuve Clicquot.”
My mom looks alarmed. She’s not a big drinker. “Celeste, I
don’t know—”
“Live a little! We’ll let the kids have a sip of the champagne.
The wine is for us.” Mrs. Lind winks at me, and Alex and I
shrug at each other.
“A tiny sip,” my mom says to me.
Alex and I drink a thimbleful of champagne each, and our
moms finish the bottle. With each new glass they get sillier and
sillier, and the tension from before fades away.
“To the future!” Mrs. Lind says, waving her glass in the air.
“To our babies!” my mom says, clinking her glass to Mrs.
Lind’s.
Mrs. Lind touches the top of Alex’s head. Mournfully she
says, “Where have our babies gone?”
I swear, everyone in the restaurant is looking. That’s when
they start sharing stories about us. My mom tells the table about
the time she took me to the zoo. I was scared of all the animals,
and when Mom paid for me to ride one of the elephants, I completely lost it and peed on him.
“She ruined her dress,” my mom chokes out, sputtering with
laughter. “It was the sweetest dress, too—it was white, and it
had a lace pinafore and puffy sleeves. I bought it in Paris when
she was tiny. . . . She looked like an angel in it. Lilli, do you
remember that dress?”
I cross my arms.
“No.”
In a lower voice I say, “Please, no
more stories, Mom.”
“Ooh, wait, I’ve got a good one,” Mrs. Lind shrieks. She
proceeds to tell us about how hard it was to get Alex to stop
breastfeeding, and the whole time Alex is glowering at her like
he wants to take her out with his salad plate.
While the moms are busy cracking up, Alex kicks me under
the table. He mouths,
They’re so wasted.
I mouth back,
I know.
We share a secret smile, and I wonder—what would it be like
if we were here together? At the same college, I mean. I think it
would be like having a piece of home with me.