Feeding the Fire

by Amy Waeschle

  “Disrespecting a teacher, being disruptive, defiant,” Mrs. Hoffenrichter said. “These are all probable cause for me to search your backpack and locker.”

  Jessie’s heart leaped into her throat. She was glad she was looking at the carpet at that exact moment because her eyes would certainly have given her away.

  Oh God, she thought. This is it.

  “Is there something in your coat that you’re hiding?” Mrs. Hoffenrichter said.

  “No,” Jessie said. She wished she could shrink down to the size of a mole and burrow down into the couch. She could live off of Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s crumbs. Maybe Mrs. Hoffenrichter ate doughnuts in the morning with her coffee.

  Jessie heard the fabric of Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s creased pants shift as she leaned forward slightly. “Would you mind if I search it?”

  “No,” Jessie said, unzipping her coat and sliding it off her shoulders.

  Mrs. Hoffenrichter put down her coffee and pulled the walkie-talkie off of the coffee table. “Security, I need a female second,” she said into its microphone.

  A moment later, a security guard Jessie had never seen knocked and stepped into the room. Jessie realized she had been waiting just outside. The security guard closed the door.

  Mrs. Hoffenrichter stepped close to Jessie and indicated for her to stand. She did, feeling her knees wobble. She stared straight ahead, into the hollow of Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s pale neck.

  “I’m going to have you show us the insides of the pockets, okay?” Mrs. Hoffenrichter said.

  “Okay,” Jessie said, her voice wavering.

  Mrs. Hoffenrichter asked Jessie to turn the coat’s pocket bags inside out. Jessie did so, wondering if Mrs. Hoffenrichter could hear the hammering of her heart. Thank God I left those things in my backpack.

  Mrs. Hoffenrichter pulled the coat open and looked inside the pocket, carefully squeezing the fabric all around.

  “I’m going to do what’s called a pat-down, okay?”

  Jessie swallowed once, hard. “Okay,” she said.

  “You’re doing fine, Jessie. This will go fast.”

  Jessie stared out the window, holding her breath.

  “Arms out, please.”

  Jessie extended her arms and suffered through the feel of Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s hands quickly swiping down her sides and around to her lower back. The aloe scent of Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s deodorant wafted past Jessie’s nostrils. Then, Mrs. Hoffenrichter stepped back.

  “You can sit down now.”

  “Can I have my coat back?”

  “Sure.”

  Jessie sat and pulled the coat against her. The relief to be off her wobbly legs came as a surprise. She felt triumphant for passing Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s test. See? She wanted to say. You were wrong.

  Mrs. Hoffenrichter nodded to the female cop, who ducked out of the room.

  With dread Jessie realized that her time in Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s office was not over. “Why were you late to second period?” Mrs. Hoffenrichter asked.

  Jessie’s hammering pulse popped into her head so hard her ears rang. “What?” she managed.

  “We’re looking into an incident that happened this morning. The attendance records show that you were late to Health class today.”

  Incident. Jessie’s mouth felt dry. Did she mean the fire? Did they suspect . . . ? “Mr. Darnell wanted to talk to me,” Jessie stammered, her head throbbing. “I . . . he . . . asked if I needed any help.”

  Mrs. Hoffenrichter gave a small nod.

  “And, I told him that I was okay. That I would do better next time.”

  “Do better how?”

  “Um . . . well, we had this quiz. It was my first one, and I . . . sort of made some mistakes. Stupid mistakes.” Why was she talking so much? She glanced at the window, wondering if there were cops out there waiting for some signal from Mrs. Hoffenrichter to storm the building and take her away.

  This isn’t what I want, she thought, feeling like a trapped mouse. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I promise. Just let me go and I’ll stop.

  Beads of sweat were trickling down the middle of her chest. It tickled and itched and she had trouble being still.

  Mrs. Hoffenrichter stepped to her desk and picked up a small, white plastic trash bag that contained something she couldn’t see. Jessie braced herself—was it some kind of proof? Had they found the timer? She hadn’t thought about fingerprints. Was there a hidden camera somewhere?

  Mrs. Hoffenrichter sat back on the couch and pulled Evan’s flannel shirt from the bag.

  “Is this yours?”

  Jessie stared.

  “It was found in another student’s backpack.”

  Jessie’s stomach fluttered. She pictured Spider Eyes being marched into the high school principal’s office, glaring and silent, her backpack’s contents emptied onto the floor. But how did they know the flannel was hers? Then she remembered Evan’s name on the label required by Timberline.

  “What did you trade for the shirt?”

  Jessie didn’t understand what she was asking. She looked at Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s face but there was nothing there to reassure her.

  “Drugs?”

  “No,” Jessie gasped.

  “A vaporizer?”

  Jessie frowned. Vaporizer?

  “An e-cigarette,” Mrs. Hoffenrichter said evenly.

  Her head was pounding again. “No.”

  “It can be tough to fit in sometimes.”

  Jessie blinked at the floor where she was tapping a divot into the carpet with her toe.

  “Those girls like to use good kids like you. They like to see how far they can push. How far you’ll go to be liked.”

  Jessie tapped her toe harder against the carpet.

  “You want to talk about what happened, then?”

  Jessie looked up at the Mt. Rainier picture. What would it be like to be there? She could wear as many clothes as she wanted. There would be no one to ambush her. She imagined the snow and the refreshing, cold air.

  “It’s okay to tell me.”

  Jessie could feel the tug of release, of letting it all go: the girls breaking the egg and shoving her into the stall, being unable to take better care of her mom, of the things Grady Baker kept saying to her. Then, she thought of Zach. What would he think if he found out about the fire?

  “Nothing happened. I must have left it, that’s all.”

  “Where?” Mrs. Hoffenrichter asked.

  Too late Jessie realized that she would have to lie again. “I’m not sure,” she said slowly. Please let this end.

  Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s radio crackled and she put it to her mouth. “Call my office line,” she said into it. A moment later, her desk phone rang. She picked it up and sat at her desk facing away from Jessie.

  Jessie began working on a hangnail, chewing and trying to pinch and pull it free. It hurt but she couldn’t stop.

  Mrs. Hoffenrichter gave a series of short answers and finished with: “No,” and “I don’t think so,” before hanging up.

  She turned to Jessie, her arms crossed. Nothing had changed in her eyes. “That’s all for today, Jessica,” she said. It was as if they’d had a business meeting and now it was over. “You may take your shirt,” she added.

  Jessie picked up Evan’s flannel and turned towards the door.

  “Detention is served on Saturdays in Mr. Boudreaux’s room. Eight o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”

  Jessie risked a shallow breath to steady her voice. “Okay,” she answered.

  As Jessie cleared the main secretary’s desk she heard Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s voice from her office ask: “Are they in custody?”

  Jessie glanced through the school’s double glass entrance doors across the street. Two police cars were parked at the entrance to the high school.

  Jessie reached the locker room with only a minute to spare before her P.E. class returned from the gymnastics room. Quickly, fingers shaking, she took her backpack to the bathroom and, after making sure th
e area was still empty, she dug out the pack of cigarettes and lighter and thrust them both deep into the trash bin. Then she went back to her locker to where she had changed out of the dress and her jeans .

  We’ve got eyes everywhere, she remembered Spider Eyes saying. She took the rumpled dress and put it in the trash bin too.

  Not anymore, she thought.

  Chapter 27

  Jessie

  After school, Jessie skated the church parking lot, hoping Stef might show. A quick search through the bushes revealed Evan’s black hoodie—damp, but intact. She stuffed it into her backpack.

  Jessie remembered the way Mrs. Hoffenrichter had searched her pockets. Her voice had been so calm, and she’d moved so slowly, carefully. Almost as if she was expecting Jessie to make some sudden move, like a cornered animal that suddenly attacks. Was Mrs. Hoffenrichter afraid of Jessie attacking her? A prickly tingle walked down her spine. Jessie knew she’d never, ever do something so stupid. So why had Mrs. Hoffenrichter acted that way? So stiff, and controlled.

  What did you trade for the shirt? Mrs. Hoffenrichter had asked. Drugs?

  Her side where the girls had punched her ached and she gave up hoping for Stef to show. She wondered where he lived. With nothing better to do, she skated to the Safeway. Once down the steep hill, she wove carefully through the busy parking lot to the entrance. Inside, she asked the lady behind the bank counter for a phone book. This is why I need my own phone, she thought with bitterness. I’ll bet I’m the only kid on planet Earth who even knows what a phone book is. There was only one Stefonacci, at an address she didn’t know how to find. She copied it onto her palm with a pen from her backpack.

  “Um,” she asked the bank teller. “Do you know where this is?” she asked, showing her the numbers scribbled on her hand.

  The woman’s pale lips frowned. “That’s the Grove, hon,” she said, giving Jessie a fretful look.

  There was something different about Stef’s neighborhood. Rectangular homes seemed sunken into the ground, like boats left ashore too long. The yards were tiny, barely big enough for a cartwheel. Two she passed had been mowed, but the rest were scruffy and dry. She thought of Mrs. Tanner’s tidy rows of roses, and across her street Mr. and Mrs. Hobbs’ backyard of pruned apple trees and the crisp, white lace curtains in the windows. Here, cracked driveways contained cars with crooked bumpers or sun-faded plastic toys scattered in the weeds. As she rounded a corner, a mean-looking dog loped toward her, barking ferociously. She jumped back but his tether, thankfully attached to a large tree, stopped his attack.

  At a corner, she passed a house with several broken-down cars lining the yard and driveway. Jessie checked the address again and continued into what felt like a labyrinth, counting the house numbers as she neared the one that matched Stef’s. Her brain was telling her to turn back. How could Stef live here? And yet her feet continued toward the end of a row where a white rectangular house stood, a lowered black pickup truck parked in the driveway.

  She walked up the short ramp of the driveway to a small square porch and checked the address one last time. She listened, her hand poised to knock, hoping to hear some kind of noise from inside that would tell her that Stef was home. Maybe she should find his bedroom instead, knock on his window. She turned away to follow the length of the house.

  She rounded the narrow end of the home and walked the overgrown grass along the backside to the first of two windows. Through the trees behind Stef’s house, she could see the backyard neighbor’s mossy patio and a blue tarp pulled over a mound of something she couldn’t detect. Dirt? Bricks? At the window, Jessie rose up on her tiptoes to peer inside a bedroom. She saw closed closet doors, a big bed with rumpled, blue covers, and a dresser with several drawers partly open. A pile of clothes had been left in the middle of the floor. Through the open bedroom door was a dark hallway stacked with what looked like newspapers, an open cardboard box, its contents a mystery. She continued on, hoping that there were no surprises like a dog with fangs.

  At the second window, a white curtain covered most of the view but she was only able to see though the tiny crack down the middle. She easily identified this as a boy’s room: brown bedspread, cutouts from skate magazines covering the wall above the desk, a laundry basket with limp jeans hanging over the side. The bed had the quiet look of not being slept in. When would he come back? She wondered if he was in Seattle again, staying at that teen place he’d taken her to. If so, where was his mom?

  Further along the house, Jessie heard the sound of the TV, the thin walls practically vibrating. Could Stef be here, after all? She snuck forward to the sliding glass doors, careful to stay out of view while peeking in from the side. What she saw stopped her cold.

  Beneath a hanging lamp, on a brown round table, was a gun. Jessie had never seen a gun in real life but it was definitely a gun: black and thick. The table also held stacks of white square boxes, each the size of a deck of cards. There was also a plastic tub full of Ziploc baggies. Stacked below the table were four cardboard boxes, the top one open to reveal neat rows of similar white packages.

  Beyond the table was a stove tucked into fake wood cupboards and a sink full of dirty dishes. The refrigerator had brown streaks and the bottom panel hung at an angle.

  Just then she heard a toilet flush and a squeaky door inside the house opening. A man’s voice coughed roughly. Jessie glued her back to the side of the house, gulping for air.

  She heard the man’s voice—he was talking on a phone. “We’ll give them a nice surprise,” Jessie heard him say as she carefully tiptoed away, following the back of the house. Her feet left imprints on the weedy grass and hoped the man wouldn’t think to look outside. At the corner, she paused, wondering how to get away without being seen.

  The sound of the front door slamming shut made her start. She flattened herself against the cold siding, her heart thumping all the way into her throat. Was he coming to get her?

  The sharp creak of a car door opening sounded. Jessie risked a peek to the driveway where a tall, skinny man in a black t-shirt and jeans settled into his truck and turned the ignition.

  Jessie shrank back again. The pain in her side made breathing difficult.

  The tires crackled as they backed out of the driveway, then she heard the engine roar as the car accelerated.

  Jessie skated to the bus stop, half-expecting Stef to be riding the bus she boarded. Instead, three boys she didn’t know huddled together along the back row, all watching something on a phone. By the time she arrived at the house, dusk had begun its slow softening, turning the overcast sky from white to a yellowed gray.

  The house looked so different with the siding complete—like a real house. She entered through what would be the front door, the rooms smelling of fresh-cut wood and something sharp—the window caulking, she realized. She passed the open kitchen and entered the square-shaped room at the back of the house with the big window facing the woods. A long time ago, when Zach first showed her the plans, she said how cool it would be to have a loft. Entering this room now, her heart did a cartwheel of happiness again at seeing the one he had created, with a tiny skylight in the slanted ceiling.

  But would it still be hers if Zach found out about what she had done today?

  Ascending the treehouse ladder hurt her side and she had trouble with the trapdoor. When it opened, she climbed into the space but quickly realized that she wasn’t alone.

  Stef.

  He sat with his back to the wall, his legs bent. She noticed the empty bag of pistachio nuts, pile of shells, and an empty bottle of water.

  “Oh,” she said, frozen with one knee on the floor and the other leg still on the ladder. “Hey.”

  His watchful eyes followed her every move.

  Reaching to set the trapdoor all the way open sent a jolt of pain in her side and she slid her hand over the hurt spot.

  Stef’s eyes traveled to her side and back to her eyes. “Did you crash?”

  Jessie looked away. “No, I
. . . ”

  A long silence passed. “So, what did he get you with?” he finally said, taking the trapdoor from her so she could climb the rest of the way in. “A baseball bat? His fist?”

  “What are you talking about?” Jessie asked.

  “That guy, Zach. He’s bouncing you around, right?”

  “No!” Jessie gasped. “Zach . . . isn’t like that.” Suddenly, Jessie realized the real cause of Stef’s hurt arm. She remembered the gun. A shudder passed through her. Is that what he lived with?

  Stef’s eyes glinted with suspicion. “Then who?” He closed the trapdoor with a soft thunk.

  Jessie settled in against the wall opposite. She remembered being in Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s office, the temptation she’d felt to tell, to release some of what she was holding so tight, but being afraid that she might not be able to stop. “There’s these girls,” she said, her voice thin. She took a breath. “They’re always in the bathroom near Darnell’s class . . . ” Jessie pulled her knees up. “The other day, when I ditched, that was why.”

  “Does it hurt when you cough?”

  She nodded.

  “Probably busted a rib.”

  “I started a fire at school today.” She realized she had been longing to tell him.

  His head whipped around. “Where?”

  “In the bathroom. I used the timer you showed me.”

  “Did it work?”

  Jessie remembered being in Mrs. Hoffenrichter’s office. There was an incident, she’d said. “I think so.”

  He tapped the back of his head against the wall of the treehouse. “I hope it burned down the whole fucking place.” His tone was hard and cold.

  Jessie watched him, her fingers tracing the outside seam of her jeans. “But then I got sent to the office.”

  Stef’s eyes flicked her way.

  Jessie remembered the terror that Mrs. Hoffenrichter would find a way to make her confess to all the bad things she had done. She remembered looking at the poster of Mt. Rainier’s, smooth silhouette, wishing she were there instead of in that office as the guilt and shame seemed to fill her every pore.