Fire With Fire (20 page)

“What did you think about Bartleby’s decision never to leave
the office? Did it make him sympathetic? Or were you frustrated?”

A bunch of hands fly up. I glance down at my copy. I don’t
remember an office anywhere in
The Scarlett Letter
. Or a character named Bartleby. Maybe I didn’t read closely enough?

The sub calls on one of my classmates, who says, “I thought
it was annoying. If you’re not happy working at a place, why
would you stay?”

Another kid across the room says, “He’s unhappy, but he
doesn’t know how to fix it. He’s paralyzed. He’s got nowhere
else to turn. Life at the office is all he has going for him. Without
it, he’s nothing.” This kid doesn’t even wait to be called on.
Which is crazy. Mrs. Dockerty is very strict about not talking
out of turn.

The substitute nods, pleased. He hops off his desk and gives
a stack of papers to each row of desks. Once he’s up, I see something on his desk. It’s a brass name plate. It says mr. frissel.

I realize this as the papers are being passed to me. The boy
sitting in front of me turns around.
It’s David Washington, the boy I kissed on Halloween night.
I don’t think he recognizes me without my makeup and the
pink streaks in my hair. But I definitely recognize him.
I get up with a start. “I—I made a mistake,” I announce.
I grab my things and run out the door. But not to the class
I’m supposed to be in. I head straight home. It’s a half day
anyway.
When I get there, I’m still upset, so much so that my hands
are shaking as I set my bike against the side of our house. Only
one light is on inside, over the kitchen sink. The rest of the
rooms are dark, like the sky.
I hear a knock around the front of the house. I edge past the
corner and see two of the ladies from the Jar Island Preservation
Society, with phony smiles plastered on their faces. They’ve
stopped by before, always unannounced. I already know Aunt
Bette will not answer the door.
I was there the first few times they came. We stood together
in the doorway as they recommended landscapers who could
come help clean up one yard or passed the name of a handyman who might replace the broken shingles in a way that would
“maintain the original integrity” of the house.
Sure, our house isn’t in the best shape. Not when you compare it to the other homes on the block. This part of Jar Island
has the oldest houses; almost half have been officially designated
as landmarks. And some people take that designation super seriously, making sure that every detail is true to the period and that
any renovations are done with special materials that would have
been used at the time, like slate and cedar.
But old houses take a lot of upkeep, and that’s never been
Aunt Bette’s forte. Mine either. The whole place could use a
fresh coat of paint. One of the wooden front steps has rotted
through. And yes, our yard catches all the dead brown leaves
from our big oak, but I don’t see what the big deal is. The ground
is covered in snow; everything will stay white until March.
Not to mention that all of this stuff . . . it’s not hurting anyone. And it’s none of their business even if they do want to
make it a landmark. This is our house, part of the Zane family
since Jar Island came to be. I watch the two ladies retreat slowly
down the steps.
But like anything you don’t deal with, they keep coming
back. We’re going to have to do something about them; otherwise they’ll just keep coming around.
I plan on saying exactly that to Aunt Bette as I walk through
the back door. But I don’t, because she’s talking on the telephone.
“She’s upset all the time. There’s no reasoning with her. I
tried to tell her that she needs to not focus on this Reeve boy. I
never told you this because she swore me to secrecy . . . but he
was terrible to her. I told Mary she’ll never find peace that way,
but she . . . she screamed at me.” Aunt Bette pauses. “No. No, of
course not. You don’t need to come. I’ve got it under control.”
Oh my God, she’s talking to my mother about Reeve. I run
in the room and stand right in front of her and stare daggers.
Aunt Bette’s eyes go wide. She’s surprised to see me at this time
of day.
“Erica, I . . . I have to go.” And then she hangs up.
“I can’t believe you just did that. You promised me you’d
keep that a secret!”
Aunt Bette falls into her seat and starts rubbing her temples.
“What does it matter now?”
I completely resent how exasperated she’s acting, like my
very presence is taxing. “Are you serious? I trusted you!” I say,
curt. “And I come home to find you talking about me behind
my back? How do you think that makes me feel?”
Aunt Bette shrugs. “I’ve stopped trying to guess how you
feel, Mary. I’m staying out of it.”
I point at the phone. “That’s not staying out of it!” I am quivering with anger. “And now I’ll have to explain everything to
them at Thanksgiving.”
“Your parents aren’t coming for Thanksgiving.”
“Why?”
She looks at me and says, “Your mom doesn’t have such
happy memories of this place.” She says it with more than a hint
of bite, which I guess I deserve, but it still catches me off guard.
“Call Mom back. Call her and tell her that everything’s okay,
that they should come for Thanksgiving.”
Aunt Bette stands up. “If you want to see her so bad, Mary,
why are you here? Go home and be with her.”

After my thirteenth-birthday-party disaster, when the only kid
from my class to show up was Reeve, my parents became very
concerned. Concerned and smothering.

Dad had the idea to throw me another birthday party, as if the
first one had never happened. This new party would be somewhere on the mainland. He had it in his mind that the ferry ride
was too much to ask of people. He refused to believe that no one
came because no one wanted to be associated with me. He casually suggested that we make it more mature, cooler for a group
of budding teenagers. Either roller skating or bowling.

I told him no way.
Mom wanted to start riding the ferry with me, to and from
school. She said it would be fun. She’d bring the newspaper
with her, or a book. I wouldn’t even have to talk to her if I
didn’t want to. We could sit quietly with each other and enjoy
the scenery. I refused, of course. The ferry ride was my time
with Reeve. It was the only time I was happy.
Around them I made an effort not to eat so much food at
dinner, and they’d look so hurt when I’d tell them to please not
give me so much pasta.
They were trying so hard it made me feel worse. I started
shrinking into myself. I didn’t want to hang out with my parents or do fun stuff on the island on the weekends. I hated how
hard they were trying to fix this for me. It couldn’t be fixed.
Not by them. And I hated seeing them hurt. I wanted to shield
them from the hurt. I could take it. But I didn’t want them to
suffer.
The worst of it was when the two of them knocked on my
door late one night. The semester had ended at Montessori. I’d
brought home a crappy report card. I never got bad grades.
Dad sat on my bed,; Mom leaned against my desk.
He said, “Do you have any interest in changing schools?”
Mom said, “You could go here in Middlebury. You wouldn’t
have to do the ferry anymore; you could have a brand-new
start.”
Vehemently, I shook my head from side to side. “I don’t want
to change schools.”
Mom zoomed right along, fixing a bright smile on her face.
“Or we can move. Your dad and I have always talked about
going back to the city some day. Picture it, Sunday afternoons
at the art museum, picnics at the park.”
I said it louder. “I don’t want to change schools!”
Dad patted my leg. There were tears in his eyes. “We want
you to be happy. That’s all we want.”
“And all I want is to stay at Montessori,” I said. With Reeve.
CHAP
TER THIR
T
Y -FIVE

Nadia and I are lying on the couch watching TV, and
my mom’s on her computer working on her Thanksgiving
spreadsheet. It’ll be a small Thanksgiving this year. My dad’s
brother’s family is coming from New York City, and our
California grandma was supposed to come, but she decided at
the last minute she didn’t want to make the trip, which upset
my mom. Next year, she keeps saying, we’ll go to California
instead.

A couple of times we’ve had Rennie and her mom over for
Thanksgiving. Last year it was super awkward, because Ms.
Holtz kept trying to flirt with my dad’s divorced friend from the
hospital. Rennie asked me afterward if I thought her mom had a
chance with him, and I didn’t know how to tell her that he only
dates twentysomething Estonian models. I wonder what she and
her mom are doing this year.

“Can we have mashed sweet potatoes this year instead of sweet
potato casserole?” Nadia asks.
“You love sweet potato casserole,” my mom protests.
“All that cream and butter and sugar?” Nadia shudders.
“Rennie says it’s pure fat.”
“You only have sweet potato casserole once a year,” I tell her.
“You’ll live. Besides, Mommy already ordered it.”
“I think our family should be eating healthier,” Nadia says
with a shrug.
My mom sighs. “I can check and see if it’s not too late to
change it,” she says, and goes off to call the caterer.
“Thanks, Mommy!” Nadia calls after her.
Casually, I ask, “What
is
Rennie doing for Thanksgiving?”
“She’s having dinner with Ms. Holtz’s boyfriend and his son.
She says that Rick has a friend who’s a fancy chef and he’s going
to cook for them.”
I roll my eyes. Rick owns a sub shop and he lives in a onebedroom apartment right above it. He’s a nice guy, but somehow I don’t picture him hanging out with fancy chefs. This
sounds totally made-up. “When did Rennie tell you this?”
“She gave me a ride home yesterday since you were at the
library,” Nadia says.
I don’t like the way Rennie’s been glomming on to Nadia one
bit. Twice now she’s called the house phone asking to speak to
Nadia about yearbook photos or something. I know her; she’s
doing it to get under my skin. I nudge Nadia’s foot with mine.
“Don’t listen to Rennie on everything. Sometimes she says stuff
just to say stuff.”
With wide eyes Nadia asks, “Are you guys in a fight?”
“No . . . we’ve grown apart.”
“But did something happen?” Nadia presses. “To make you
grow apart?”
“Why?” I ask her. “Did Rennie say something?”
Nadia hesitates for a split second, and then she shakes her head.
“Nadia!”
“She didn’t say anything,” Nadia insists. “I’ve noticed you
haven’t been hanging out as much.”
“Nothing happened specifically. We’re different people, that’s
all.”
Nadia absorbs this. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. Rennie’s so . . .
sparkly. She makes everything feel like . . . an event. I don’t even
know how to describe it.”
I frown at her. “If Rennie’s so sparkly, then what am I?”
Hastily she says, “You’re fun too. In a different way.”
I don’t say anything, but I’m still thinking about it hours later.
Am
I boring compared to Rennie? It’s true that I’m more cautious than she is, and I’m not the life of the party the way she and
Reeve are. But if I was so boring, why would she have been best
friends with me all these years? Because there’s nothing Rennie
hates more than being bored.
I hate that Nadia puts her on such a pedestal. Like she sees Ren
as this magnetic force of nature, and I’m her goody-two-shoes
older sister.
If Nadi only knew the trouble I’ve gotten into this year. She
wouldn’t think I was so boring then.

My mom always tries to make us get dressed up at Thanksgiving.
She says that if we eat this fancy meal in sweats, it won’t feel special.
We go along with it to make her happy. Nadia’s in a strapless green
tartan dress with a poofy skirt and a cardigan on top. I have on a
mauve knit miniskirt with a sheer blouse tucked in.

My dad’s in a dress shirt and slacks; my mom has on a winecolored knit dress with a cowl neck and a gold cuff. I make a
mental note to ask her if I can borrow that cuff, maybe take it
with me to college.

The adults are in the living room drinking the wine my uncle
brought, and us kids are hanging out in the TV room. We have
two cousins on my dad’s side—Walker, who is Nadia’s age,
and Ethan, who is ten. Walker and Nadia are pretty close, even
though we don’t see them often. Ethan’s a brat, but it’s not his
fault. His parents are always telling him how great he is because
he’s a violin prodigy.

“How’s Phantom?” Walker asks Nadia, adjusting her headband. We’re all lying on the sectional, and Ethan’s playing video
games on his phone.

“He’s good! I’m going to show him next month.” Nadia
spreads cheese on a cracker and pops it into her mouth. “He’s the
best horse in the world.”

“You hardly ever even ride him anymore,” Nadia says. “He’s
basically mine now. I bet he wouldn’t even recognize you.
I frown at her. “I was there last week!” Or was it the week
before? She’s right; I’m like an absentee horse parent. I’ve been
so busy with swimming and Reeve and my college applications
I’ve totally been neglecting Phantom. Tomorrow. I’ll go out there
tomorrow and bring him a whole bag of baby carrots and spend
the afternoon grooming him.
“Pretty soon you’ll be at college and he’ll be all mine!” Nadia
fake cackles, and Walker giggles.
“You’re right,” I say. “You have to take extra good care of him
when I’m gone.”
“I already do,” Nadia says, stuffing another cracker in her
mouth.
Dinner lasts forever, with everybody making toasts and the
dads having a brag war. My dad tells everyone I have a good
chance at valedictorian so they’ll have to come back for graduation to hear my speech. I have to correct him and say it’s salutatorian, and it’s not like that’s a guarantee. My uncle starts quizzing
me on which colleges I’m applying to.
“Boston College,” I say. “Wellesley. Maybe UC Berkeley.”
My dad frowns. “Berkeley? We never talked about Berkeley.”
I take a bite of turkey and stuffing to buy myself time. When
I’m done chewing, I say, “It’s something I’ve been thinking about.”
Luckily, my aunt saves me by bragging about Ethan winning
some violin competition and maybe getting to do a performance
at Juilliard.
After dinner, everyone’s all cozy watching old black-and-white
movies in the TV room. I’m sitting next to my dad on the couch;
he has his arm around me, and I have my head on his shoulder. It
is nice to have him home.
I’ve got my phone in my lap, and when it buzzes, I nearly
jump. It’s a text from Reeve. My dad tries to read over my shoulder, but I scurry off to the kitchen. The text says,
What are you
up to?
I write back,
Watching TV with my family.
He writes back,
Same. Wanna come over?