White Smoke

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” I say. “This is dope.”

  He smiles. “I wanted to bring you here the first day I met you.”

  I gulp. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I mean, what kind of Cali girl would you be without a beach?”

  Yusef’s softening eyes sparkle in the moonlight, a crackling flame.

  I clear my throat and divert my gaze. “Uh, so, you never said what you’re going to be for Halloween.”

  He chuckles. “Oh naw, we were just joking about all that. No one does shit on Halloween.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause of the fires,” Erika says, emerging from the grass with a slow stroll, smelling sweet and tangy.

  “What fires?”

  Yusef winces, debating something. This isn’t the first time someone has mentioned “the fires” but they never explain further. What are they not telling me?

  Erika plops down beside me. “Come on, Yuey. She needs to know.”

  Yusef rest his chin on his knee, staring at the sand. “All right, the story goes like this: a long time ago—”

  “Not THAT long ago. Keep it real!”

  Yusef rolls his eyes. “Fine. Back, like, thirty-something years ago, after the riots and the recession, all the abandoned houses used to be filled with squatters. Homeless people. Or drug addicts . . . still strung out.”

  His eyes toggle to Erika and back. Erika stares down, digging her heels into the sand.

  “They weren’t . . . in they right mind, you feel me?” he continues. “Anyway, one Halloween, some little white kid, Seth Reed, got separated from his friends, stumbled his way into Maplewood. He walked up to one of them abandoned houses, I guess maybe to ask for directions. . . .” He takes a deep breath. “They found his body the next day. Don’t even want to talk about what he went through.”

  “Shit,” I gasp.

  “The city came down hard on the Wood; some say his death was the beginning of the end. After that, the tradition goes that every year, on the night before Halloween, folks set fires to the abandoned houses to smoke out any squatters, keeping the streets safe for trick-or-treaters. They called it Devil’s Night, because the way the Wood was burning, looked like hell itself.”

  “But they didn’t always smoke them out,” Erika adds, her voice toneless. “Some people died in them fires, too high to notice the smoke. They say some of the burnt-down houses still got bodies in them.”

  My mouth drops. “Holy shit! That’s arson. That’s . . . murder! How could any of this be okay?”

  “’Cause they think they doing right, keeping kids safe,” Yusef says. “And no one around here is gonna snitch. Problem is, some of them fires would burn out of control, spread to regular lived-in houses, and then folks lose everything they own. No way to rebuild when they don’t have money to start with.”

  I think of the house across the street and shiver. “Wait, who was setting the fires?”

  Yusef palms his fist, blinking away. “Um, no one really knows.”

  “Why doesn’t the police stop them?” I ask, eager to understand. “Or the fire department.”

  “You expect them to care about the Wood,” Erika scoffs. “Girl, bye. They be the ones handing out the gas cans and matches.”

  “That ain’t nothing but a rumor,” Yusef jumps in.

  “Bruh, my cousin saw them!”

  “Whatever,” Yusef grumbles. “But that’s why no one goes anywhere on Halloween. Everyone’s home, protecting their house. My uncle still sits outside, one hand on his gun, the other on a watering hose.”

  I rub my temples. Can’t believe I live in a town that doesn’t celebrate Halloween. But then again, that almost falls right in line with the rest of the madness in Cedarville.

  “That’s insane,” I mumble. “And this still happens today?”

  “Sometimes,” Erika spat. “There just ain’t enough people left in the Wood to burn.”

  I lean away, feeling the heated anger radiating off her skin. Erika hops to her feet and strolls back to the car. Speechless, I look at Yusef, and he only shakes his head.

  “The fires scare her. Real talk, they scare everybody. ’Cause if you lose your house, there ain’t nowhere to go.”

  Nowhere to go. Does the Foundation know that? I rub my arms, a chill sweeping in.

  “You cold?” Yusef asks.

  “A little,” I admit.

  “I got another hoodie in the car. You can layer up.”

  “Aww. You willing to share your hoodie with me,” I tease, bumping his shoulder. “I MUST be special.”

  He stares before giving a shy shrug. “Yeah. A little.”

  There, in the flicker of that awkward pause, I feel it. An extra heartbeat, melting the ice it’s wrapped in.

  Yusef rises to his feet, reaching a hand out. “Come on, let’s be out.”

  I take his hand, the rough patches on his palms connecting with my own, and stare up into smoldering eyes. We can come to the beach every day, just the two of us. Picnics and bonfires and—

  Stop it, Mari!

  Yusef is a friend, nothing more than that. If I wrap myself in heat again, I’ll be the only one left burned. Resisting his warmth, I wiggle out of his hold, glancing up at the sky.

  “Oh, uh, thought I saw a shooting star,” I say with a nervous laugh, taking an inconspicuous step away.

  Yusef shakes his head with a chuckle. “Um, I hope you bought a real coat.”

  “This IS a real coat,” I say, pulling at my fleece jacket.

  “That’s a sweater with a zipper. It gets real cold here, like negative fifteen. Snow so thick you can’t see in front of you.”

  “Ugh! Dude, you don’t have to threaten me with such violence. I’ll take the damn hoodie!”

  As we head back to the car, I think of Sammy, walking Buddy on his own.

  “Do you think there’s still squatters living in the houses on my block?”

  Yusef chuckles. “Doubt that. Ain’t nobody wants to be near the Hag’s house.”

  Back at home, I find myself doing exactly what Dad suggested . . .

  “Follow the money.”

  Because throwing people out of their homes after they’ve already been through so much can’t be legal. Going to jail practically for life because of weed shouldn’t be legal either. But I have to pick my battles; I’m an army of one. The new girl, a stranger. And if I can find out who’s planning on ripping the rug up from under my neighbors, then maybe I can tip off the community and we can all rise up together.

  I’m also trying to avoid any and all thoughts of ghosts. Sure, the house is old, this block is creepy, and yes, some major weirdness has been going on. But to lay it all on a ghost is just . . . ridiculous. And daring to bring up that type of crazy talk around Mom or Sammy will score me a one-way ticket to the nearest psych ward.

  The Foundation’s website is bright and inviting, but there’s not a single picture of what Cedarville really looks like. No wonder so many people were enticed by the residency offer. I click through the various pages until I find what I’m looking for: a list of board members.

  —Patrick Ridgefield, heart surgeon

  I guess that makes sense. Some doctors can make six figures at their practices.

  —Richard Cummings, retired football player and community activist

  That’s . . . interesting. Maybe he made a lot of money in the NFL. But his hair is white. He’s clearly been out of the league for years.

  —Eden Kruger, philanthropist

  Generic title. She must be a trust fund baby or a rich man’s wife.

  —Linda Russo, partner at Kings, Rothman & Russo Law

  A lawyer. That seems fitting.

  —Ian Petrov, CEO of Key Stone Group Real Estate

  Hm. Why would some random Russian real estate bigwig be interested in Cedarville?

  Even with their combined incomes, it doesn’t seem like enough to fund an entire citywide buyout. Where is all this money coming from?

 
; Curiosity piqued, I type “Maplewood Devil’s Night” into the search bar. Only four photos appear. Strange, considering the way Yusef and Erika went on about it. They made it sound like the whole city burned down, and judging from these photos, there were only a couple of old homes being put out by fire departments. The only other fires mentioned were the riots, which seemed more to do with justice than anything else.

  Maybe they were exaggerating. But the look on Yusef’s face . . .

  Against my better judgment, I type in one more name: Seth Reed.

  The first article is from the Cedarville Gazette:

  Reed, age 10, was found in an abandoned lot in the Maplewood section of Cedarville. His body, discovered by one of the search party members, Richard Russo, a business owner, was said to be covered by a beige carpet. The manhunt for the alleged child killer has sparked community outrage. Over twenty homes have been set ablaze . . .

  Wow. He was the same age as Piper.

  Wait . . . Russo? Like Linda Russo.

  Russo seems like a common last name . . . but is it possible he’s related to Linda?

  Searching Richard Russo, I come up with dozens of them, but a few have businesses. One of them is a window replacement company. They even starred in their own commercial. And they must do a lot of windows that cost some serious cash, because they are flossing like millionaires. With Versace glasses, gold watches, rings, stacked chains . . . all with black hair so shiny it looks wet in the light. Now, I don’t want to be judgmental or anything, but these clowns are giving me hella mobster vibes. I keep digging, searching all the businesses with Russos attached—a flooring company, carpet cleaners, air duct installers, electrical engineers. On LinkedIn, there’s a bunch of Russos who work for Cedarville Electric. There’s even a Russo working as an SVP of the local cable provider, Sedum Cable. Another Russo, the president of the local union, was in the news last year.

  The Local 83 has reached a $2.5 million dollar settlement with the city of Cedarville. . . . The union was represented by Kings, Rothman & Russo Law firm.

  Bingo!

  The phone buzzes. Yusef.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to hide my surprise. “What’s up?”

  “What up doe. Just, um, making sure you got in okay.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I chuckle. “You watched me walk in the house.”

  “Oh, right,” he says. “Well, guess I’m making sure homeboy isn’t chilling in your room again.”

  My stomach clenches at the gesture. He’s being nice, I tell myself. People are allowed to be nice. Even boys. But the other side of me fidgets. I don’t deserve nice. Not after . . . everything.

  “Hello?” Yusef says, seeming worried.

  I sigh. “Dude, if you just wanted to hear me snore again, you can just say that.”

  He laughs. “Damn, you caught me.”

  BEEP BEEP

  7:00 a.m. ALARM: GET UP!

  Shit. I should have nixed the alarm last night. After all the research and chatting with Yusef, I’ll be operating on two hours of sleep today. Going to need coffee and lots of it. The absolute worst way to Monday on a Monday.

  “Nice going, Mari,” I grit through my teeth, throwing back the blanket to roll out of bed. The room is like a freezer. I slip on some cozy socks and head to the closet in search of something warm and comfortable to wear, which will most likely be the sweats everyone has seen me in five thousand times now.

  BEEP BEEP

  7:03 a.m. ALARM: Don’t forget your pills.

  Ugh! There has to be a better way of fighting acne than pumping my body full of hormones and . . . wait. That alarm is hella early. Usually doesn’t go off until after breakfast. Must have set it wrong. Maybe?

  Whatever.

  I grab a clean T-shirt, bra, underwear, and jeans instead from the dresser, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m a wreck. Didn’t wash and twist my hair yesterday. Guess I’ll be going for the high bun look all week. This is too much chaos for a Monday.

  BEEP BEEP.

  “Huh? Now what?”

  7:20 a.m. ALARM: Pack your calculus textbook.

  Oh right, test today. One I absolutely plan on failing since I didn’t study. Another thing I forgot to do. Feeling scattered, I stop to take a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. This day is already off the rails and I haven’t even taken a piss. If I skip my run, it’ll give me about thirty extra minutes to look through my notes. I also need to make sense of all the stuff I found out about the Russo family. They’re definitely holding the city hostage. And if they are, the others must be too. But it’s hard doing all the research from my phone. Maybe I’ll stop by the library after school and use one of their computers.

  Lotioned up and dressed, I’m battling with my hair when an alarm goes off again.

  BEEP BEEP

  “Are you kidding me?” I groan, snatching the phone off the dresser.

  7:25 a.m. ALARM: Where is Buddy?

  Weird. I mean, yeah, I have a bad memory. It’s why I leave little notes with my alarms. But why would I ask myself where Buddy is?

  “He’s right here,” I mutter, glancing at his empty spot on the bed—Buddy didn’t sleep with me last night. I went out and left him home. Alone.

  The room wobbles, motion sickness tiptoeing in as I set the phone down.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I chastise myself.

  He’s probably downstairs with Sammy already. Relax!

  Still, I slip on a hoodie as fast as I can. Need to see with my own eyes. Like, I know this is anxiety talking and I’m going to laugh about it later, but when it comes to Buddy, I don’t mess around. Just as I snatch my watch off the dresser . . .

  BEEP BEEP

  My stomach tenses, staring at the bomb ticking on the desk. I don’t want to pick it up. I’d rather throw it out the window and run it over with a car. But I cross the room, lead weights around my ankles.

  7:26 a.m. ALARM: Did you remember to lock the door behind you last night?

  I drop the phone as if it combusted and scalded my hand. The hairs on the back of my neck spike with frost and I spin around. Felt as if someone was standing right behind me, breathing down on me. But there’s no one. I’m alone. I’ve been alone all night. Haven’t I?

  BEEP BEEP

  My body jolts at the now-terrifying sound piercing the air. A hectic and raw ring. Straddled over the phone, I swallow before looking down.

  7:27 a.m. ALARM: Someone may have gotten in. Again.

  My pulse thumps against my eardrum as I try not to scream. That devil emoji takes me back to the Post-it note. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to regain some sort of composure. Because this isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

  “This is a dream,” I say softly.

  BEEEEP BEEEEP

  I jump five feet in the air, then snatch the phone up from the floor.

  7:28 a.m. ALARM: Did you check the closet?

  The closet?

  I whip around, breath quickening. The accordion closet door is half-open, and from my angle, there’s nothing but neutral-colored clothes and shoes. If someone . . . or something was in there, I would see them. Still, holding my breath, I gingerly step closer, licking my dry lips, hands clammy.

  Ready? One, two . . .

  On three, with a quick shove, I push the panel aside, its wood creaking at the force. Empty. I clutch my chest, heart hammering.

  “What the fuck—”

  BEEP BEEP

  The phone, now buzzing in my hand, lights up.

  7:29 a.m. ALARM: Did you check under the bed before you went to sleep?

  My stomach plummets to the basement, throat too dry to let out a scream. I peer over at the unmade bed. The sheets and comforter askew, the bed skirt . . . unmoving.

  BEEP BEEP

  7:30 a.m. ALARM: Looks like you didn’t.

  There’s someone under my bed!

  No way. There’s no freaking way someone is under my bed. Unless . . . there is. Unless this was their game a
ll along.

  And if there really is someone, I’ll only have seconds to run. But if there isn’t, I’ll be causing an insane amount of commotion for no reason. I have to look. I have to see.

  One step, two steps . . . I creep toward the bed, scanning the rest of the room, which feels so much smaller than before. Grabbing the lamp off the desk, I raise it high, readying myself to smash it down and make a mad dash out the door. Hands shaking, I’m nearly hyperventilating as I slowly bend beside the bed, gathering a corner of the bed skirt with one hand. Heart jackhammering, I still myself.

  Ready? One, two . . .

  On three, I rip back the skirt and poke my head under. Nothing.

  “Ugh. You gotta be shitting me . . .”

  BEEP BEEP

  The phone lights up the dark space as I read the message.

  7:31 a.m. ALARM: Did you check for bedbugs?

  At that moment, the scream stuck inside me shoots out.

  “AHHHHH!”

  The spot on my arm erupts, and I hit my head on the metal bedframe, crawling backward.

  “Mari?” Mom’s voice calls from downstairs. “You okay?”

  I spray my arms with rubbing alcohol, stripping, scanning my body in the mirror for bites. Black spots gloss over my eyes and I fall onto the floor. My chest is a tightening fist, the room wavy. I gasp for air, scrambling to find my inhaler. With two puffs, I slump in front of the fan, tugging at the bra digging into my sternum, waiting for my heart to ease.

  I know I didn’t set that alarm. I wouldn’t be crazy enough to set any of those alarms. But someone did. Someone knew I went out last night. Someone was playing with my phone. Someone was trying hard to scare the shit out of me.

  And there’s only one person I know who would be that cruel.

  Piper!

  Anger injects adrenaline straight into my system. Flinging open the bedroom door, I fly down the steps.

  “Morning, Mari,” Mom says, smiling. But I stalk past her, toward Piper, aiming for her neck.

  Piper’s eyes widen the moment she realizes and jumps from her stool, screaming.

  “DAAAADDYYYYYY!” she shrieks, and takes off running. But I’m already on her tail, close enough to grab a handful of her hair, jerking her back like a yo-yo.

  “AHHHH! DADDY, HELP ME!!”

  “You little shit! You stupid little—”