Fire With Fire (29 page)

It’s twelve fifteen on Monday and I’ve been
dreading this exact moment since I woke up this morning. The
lunch table.

I would love to sail right past and sit with Kat and Mary,
but Mary doesn’t even have the same lunch as me, and Kat
never eats in the cafeteria. And the main reason I have to
sit at our lunch table is because if I don’t face them today,
I’ll never be able to sit at the table again. That’s my table,
and Ash and Alex and PJ, they’re my friends too. I will go
in with my head held high, nose in the air. Untouchable.
Rennie and Reeve can’t hurt me because they can’t touch me.

This is what I tell myself as I walk into the cafeteria. Thank
God Ash is with me. She and Derek got back together sometime
over the weekend, so she’s even more bubbly than usual. I’m
wearing my best I-couldn’t-care-less-about-you outfit—that
high-waisted bandage skirt Kat bought me, plus a silky black
blouse with lipstick print that I tucked in, plus sheer black
stockings and suede platform booties.

Mercifully, Rennie and Reeve aren’t sitting down yet. Maybe
they won’t show. I eat the Cobb salad my mom packed for me
and listen to Ash chatter about how romantic Derek was when
he asked her to get back together. “He showed up at my house
with flowers, and he would not take no for an answer, Lil,” she
says, sighing happily.

“What kind of flowers?” I ask. My heart’s not in it, but I’m
at least trying.
“Pink carnations!”
That he probably got from the gas station on the way to her
house.
“So sweet,” I say. Then Ash spots Derek in line for food and
she runs over to him.
I see Rennie and Reeve heading toward the table; Rennie’s
got her arm linked in Reeve’s. Even in heels she only comes up
to his elbow.
I keep focused on my salad, and I don’t look up when they
sit down. I just dip each individual lettuce piece into my honeymustard dressing with my fork. If I keep at it, I won’t have to
look up for all of lunch.
Then Alex comes walking over. I wonder if he and Reeve are
still mad at each other or if they made up already, the way boys
do. Or maybe he hates me too now, for the thing with the pizzas
and for holding Reeve’s hand in front of him. I hold my breath
as he sets his tray down and sits in the seat across from me. “You
look nice,” he says, taking off his cable-knit sweater.
I smile at him gratefully. “Thanks, Lindy.” Thank you so much.
At the other end of the table, Rennie’s practically sitting in
Reeve’s lap. She’s whispering and cooing to him, and he puts his
arm around her.
I keep concentrating on cutting my lettuce into tiny pieces
and dipping each one into the dressing.
Derek plops down with a tray full of french fries and says,
“Yo! Did you guys hear about how Mr. Dunlevy got a DUI
over the weekend?”
“Yeah, I heard,” Rennie says. “Coach Christy was pissed. I
mean, he gets paid extra to teach us driver’s ed.”
I take another bite of salad. Chew. Chew. Chew.
“Lil, weren’t you and Reeve in driver’s ed with him last
year?” Alex asks. “Did he ever smell like booze?”
I shrug. Reeve shrugs too. Neither of us says anything.
“Huh,” Alex says, and there’s this slight edge in his voice.
He’s looking at me, and then he jerks his thumb in Reeve’s
direction. “You were so chummy-chummy at your party on
Friday. And now you can barely stand to look at each other.
What gives?”
I almost choke on the piece of hard-boiled egg in my mouth.
It tastes like dust.
Lazily, Reeve says, “Lil and I remembered that we don’t
actually like each other,” and Rennie smiles a cat-that-ate-thecanary smile, which makes me see red.
Across the table, Reeve’s and my eyes lock for a second, and
it’s like the rest of the cafeteria goes silent; it’s only us looking at
each other. And then it’s over. Reeve shakes his head and chuckles. Like he couldn’t care less.
After lunch, I’m walking to my next class when a sophomore
girl comes running up to me with a thick manila envelope.
“Lillia, you don’t know me but . . . I was hoping you could
give these to Rennie for me. She said she wanted them right
away, but it took me a while to get my friends to print them
out for me. I haven’t seen her yet today, and I don’t want her to
think I’m slacking.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, and take the envelope. It’s heavy.
“Thank you!”
I quickly duck into the bathroom and open it. It’s stuffed
full of pictures from homecoming. Sophomores arm in arm posing, sophomores on the dance floor. Sophomores shooting the
homecoming court from the gym floor.
Yeah, Rennie’s on yearbook committee, but only to make
sure no bad pictures get in of her. What would she care about
these pictures of other people? You can see Rennie’s sparkly silver dress in a few of the shots, see us all in the background, but
mostly we’re just blurry.
I shove the envelope through the slats in her locker door, not
even caring if some of them rip.
CHAP
TER FIF
T
Y - THREE

It’s Wednesday afternoon, last period,
and I’m standing in the parking lot in front of Reeve’s truck,
concentrating with all my might.

But it’s hard, because I’m so happy. Seeing Reeve these past
few days walking around school, pretending like he doesn’t
care when I know the truth because I can see right through
him. He’s miserable, and I’m loving every second of it.

The door doesn’t move. I concentrate harder. If only I knew
what the inside of a car lock looked like, then maybe I could
picture it clicking open.

I need to get inside Reeve’s car before school lets out, so I
can leave him a gift. It’s my daisy necklace, the one he gave me
on my thirteenth birthday. Once upon a time it was my most
prized possession; I never took it off, not even to take a bath.
I found it the other night when I was packing. I hadn’t seen it
since homecoming night. The perfect parting gift.

I want him to see it hanging from his rearview mirror and
think of me. I know he won’t make the connection, that I am
the reason he is hurting right now, that I am the one who is
behind it all. But I hope there will be a flicker, a shadowy hint
of an idea, an idea that will grow and fester long after I’m gone:
You are suffering right now for of all your past sins.
This is what
you deserve.

Either way, I’m done with it. I don’t want it anymore.
I slide my hand into my coat pocket, take the daisy charm
into my hand, and squeeze it as hard as I can. As hard as it takes
to turn coal into a diamond.
Click.
Both truck doors, the passenger side and the driver’s side,
spring open hard and fast, like they are spring-loaded. It makes
the entire chassis rock. Reeve’s car alarm wails. I don’t have
much time.
I climb into the front seat and loop the chain around Reeve’s
rearview mirror. I give it a flick, so the daisy charm swings back
and forth like a pendulum, dead center in the middle of his
windshield.
Then I slide out and walk away, without bothering to close
the doors, as the high school begins to empty out.
CHAP
TER FIF
T
Y -F
OUR

It’s one more day until Christmas break,
and school is basically a joke. I’ve seen a movie in three of my
classes today. Not that I’m complaining.

I take my lunch to the library to check e-mail, which is my
new routine since sending in my early-decision application.
You’re technically not allowed to eat or drink in the library,
but I’m stealth about it. I have my chicken wrap tucked up the
sleeve of my flannel shirt and an open soda inside my book bag,
which I keep upright by anchoring it between my feet.

I’ve got two e-mails. One forwarded warning about
violence against puppies from my aunt Jackie, and one from
Oberlin.

I stop breathing and click, and my eyes pop all over the screen.
“Oh God. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
The librarian rushes over immediately. I think she’s been

waiting for weeks to catch me on some rule break, so she can
toss my ass out of here. I swear, the woman wants this damn
library all to herself. “You cannot use that language in here, Ms.
DeBrassio. I’m going to write you—”

I don’t even wait for her to finish saying whatever the fuck
she’s saying. I push back my chair, hoist my bag up on my
shoulder, and book it to Ms. Chirazo’s office. I burst in without
even knocking.

She’s with another student. A pudgy freshman in a striped
polo shirt. They both turn and look at me, shocked. I don’t realize right away, but a steady stream of upended soda is dripping
out of my bag.

“Fuck!” I scream out at the top of my lungs, because that’s
the only word I can think of. And then I start crying like a baby.
Ms. Chirazo isn’t even fazed. If anything, she’s a guidance
machine. “Kat, take a seat right now,” she says in a voice like a
drill sergeant. I collapse into the empty chair next to the pudgy
kid, wrap my arms around my head and moan. Ms. Chirazo
turns to the boy and says, “Billy, I’ll come find you later.”
I shoot Billy whatever-his-name-is dagger eyes. “You didn’t
see this,” I growl.
Ms. Chirazo follows him to her door and closes it so hard her
papers flutter. Then she rushes to my side. She doesn’t go back
behind her desk. She takes the seat next to me, the one Billy
vacated. I wipe the snot from my nose on my sleeve, but more
drips out.
“What happened?”
I want to look at her, but I can’t. “I didn’t get into Oberlin,
that’s what happened!” Saying it out loud is like a freaking
bitch slap.
“Did you get a letter from them?”
I shake my head. “No. It was an e-mail. From some automated robot. It wasn’t even personalized or anything. Cruel
bastards.” I can barely choke out the words. “I told them in that
damn essay that this was my dream. I told them that my mom
is dead, and that I was going to live her dream for her. And they
don’t even have the decency to send a personal response?”
“What did it say, exactly?”
I glare at her, fire in my eyes. “Are you fucking deaf? It said I
didn’t get in!” Immediately I want to take it back. I don’t want
to be a bitch to Ms. Chirazo. I shouldn’t have cursed at her.
She’s been good to me.
Ms. Chirazo doesn’t yell or throw me out. Instead she
motions me to stand up. Then she ushers me to sit behind her
desk. She leans around me and opens up the Internet on her
computer. “Show me. Show me exactly what they sent you.”
I do. I pull the damn e-mail up so she can see it for herself.
She reads it a lot more carefully than I did. It takes her a few
seconds to talk. “Kat, this just says you didn’t get in early decision. Your application got pushed into the general pool. You
still have a chance.”
Maybe I should feel better at this, but I don’t. “If they don’t
want me early decision, they don’t want me period.”
“That’s not true. Not at all. In fact, it says here that you can
still update your application. We can pump up your extracurriculars, try to find you some additional opportunities to round
you out. I’ve looked at your application myself, and that’s your
only weak spot.”
“What am I going to do? Put out a hit on the student council
president?”
“Not funny, Kat.”
“I’m just saying. It’s too late.”
She walks over to her filing cabinet and shuffles some papers
around. “We did get a request earlier this week from Jar Island
Preservation Society. They’re looking for office volunteers after
school and on the weekend.”
I don’t want to hope, but this is better than nothing. “All right.”
“Excellent. I’ll call them today and ask when you should
start.
“I’m sorry I cursed at you.”
“You were upset. I understand. I’m glad you’re expressing
your feelings.” She pats me on the leg. “In the meantime, you’ll
go ahead and apply to your safety school just in case. You’re a
tough girl, Kat. Don’t lose your head now.”
I never thought I’d say this, but thank freaking God for Ms.
Chirazo.
And then it hits me.
“Hey, Ms. Chirazo. Do you have, like, set students you deal
with? Or can you talk to anyone who might need help? Because
I have this friend . . .”

Later that day, a note from Ms. Chirazo is delivered to my
eighth period. Turns out the Preservation Society wants me to
start today. So I head over there after school. Why not? I’ve got
nothing to lose. And, if anything, I feel like I owe something to
her, for working so hard to help me.

It’s a nice building, on the strip of fancy stores in White
Haven. White wood with black trim and lots of old leadedglass windows that have bends and dimples in them. They’ve
got bundles of balsam branches hung around the doorway
and laced through the iron step railings, and it makes the air
smell freaking fantastic. I spot a plaque on the way in. Bronze.
It says this building was once the town meeting hall, back in
the 1700s.

Inside, the space is big and open, with hardwood floors so
shiny I can see my reflection in them. Every wall is covered
with red exposed brick, and they’ve got town artifacts hung up,
like a moth-eaten old flag and a weathered wooden boat paddle.
Every few feet there’s a large oak desk. Vintage lightbulbs with
the twisted orange filaments dangle down from the ceiling. The
whole place reeks of money.

I don’t like it right away. Something about rich-people causes
makes me itchy. It’s like they’re looking for ways to waste their
money to ease their guilt.

I walk up to the first desk I see. There’s a woman there, talking on the telephone. She’s got on a fuzzy cream sweater, pearl
earrings, and a huge honkin’ diamond on her finger.

She sizes me up—my messy hair, the rips in my jeans, the
combat boots—and offers a tight smile. Into the phone receiver
she says, “Of course we’re worried about the house. It’s absolutely charming. And with all your family history there. Now,
we’ve made several attempts to reach out to your sister, and
. . . there’s no other way to put this, except to say that she’s
not well. And the house is clearly suffering because of it.” The
lady’s voice is hella high-pitched and whiny. She mm-hmms a
bunch of times to the voice on the other end of the call, but
she’s clicking through e-mails or something on her laptop, so I
doubt she’s even listening. “Yes, well, we are willing to help in
whatever way possible. If the house proves too much for your
sister to care for, then we’ll be happy to make you a very generous offer. Yes, well, of course. We look forward to hearing from
you and are happy to assist in any way we can.”