A Thousand Fires

by Shannon Price

  “Is she okay?” I ask.

  He takes a huge breath. “She’ll be fine. Just went to take a nap.” He finds the beer she was drinking and finishes it in one gulp.

  “I know this might not be my place,” I say quietly. “But have you guys ever talked about her seeing a therapist?”

  Mako nods. “She doesn’t want to go.”

  “I think it could really help her.”

  “So do I,” he says. “I bring it up sometimes, but she says she’s not ready.”

  I set the deck aside. “Okay. Let us know if we can help ever.” Next to me, Nianna nods her assent.

  “Thanks,” he replies. “It’s fine, though.”

  Nianna gets another bottle of wine, and slowly the conversation turns from somber to normal.

  “This is kind of a weird question,” I say, once we’re a glass or two in. “But how did you guys find me that night I was recruited? Like, did you know I was going to SFO?”

  “Oh, God,” Nianna says. “We staked out your place for hours. Seriously, Val, who stays home all day on their birthday?” She waves her hand emptily, smiling. “Anyway. We waited. Mako here was about ready to just call your house and creepily tell you to come outside.”

  “No, I said a doorbell ditch,” he interjects. “I wanted to leave a note to tell you to come outside.”

  “Whatever,” she replies. “When you finally left, we followed you. Jules, Cameron, and Kurt stayed behind in case we lost you.”

  “Worked out though,” Mako says. “We got you in the end, didn’t we?”

  Something about hearing the word we is so comforting. I’m part of this now.

  When we finally call it a night, I head to the basement feeling really good—slowly but surely, I’m fitting in. Jax has to see that.

  I’m so close, Leo. I’m not sure what he would think of me, think of this. But I hope he’s looking down on me, proud.

  I’m not standing still anymore, and I’ll never just stand still again.

  * * *

  The rain finally lets up, and Nianna and I go to the Mission to hang up some Stag posters and tag, if we can. I still feel nervous being alone with her after she yelled at me about not really being a Stag, but we’re both desperate enough to get out of the house for a while that when Jax gives the okay to Nianna, she doesn’t object when I invite myself along. She invites Kate, too, but she didn’t want to get out of bed.

  “I’m worried about her,” I tell Nianna as we lock the door behind us.

  “Yeah,” she replies. “Me, too. She comes and goes.”

  We take the train and exit at Sixteenth and Mission. A billboard announcing that the SFPD is hiring has been marked up with black and red paint, mustaches and googly eyes drawn over the faces of the officers. Their motto reads: ORO EN PAZ, FIERRO EN GUERRA. Gold in peace, iron in war.

  We walk up Sixteenth and I catch the smells of melted cheese and warm dough from the pupusería in front of us. My mouth waters. “Do you want to get food?”

  Nianna gives a half shrug. “Sure.”

  We get a table facing the street. I order three pupusas—two mushroom and cheese and the other just chicken. I usually just get two, but I am in the mood to stress-stuff my face with greasy food.

  “I don’t think I’ve eaten here before,” Nianna says.

  Leo loved this place, I want to say, but it comes out, “They fixed it up since I was last here.”

  The waitress brings us our plates just as I’m tugging my hair into a ponytail—the stuffy air is making me sweat. The pupusas shine with marvelous grease.

  Nianna takes a bite. Her eyes go wide. “Holy shit.”

  “Told you. The best.”

  The sound of cars rolling by carries in from the street as we eat. From somewhere far-off, a siren wails. I finish the chicken pupusa and move on to the other ones. Nianna refills both of our waters. Not for the first time, I admire the tattoo on Nianna’s wrist. An arrow suits her: always looking forward, always looking to make her mark.

  “What do you think you’ll do after the Wars?” I ask. “What’s your after?”

  She slouches down and thinks. “There’s never been an after in my head. Never been a person with a lot of options.”

  “You’ll have them soon.”

  “I could go live with Theresa, I guess. Maybe travel abroad.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “Ireland. I’ve been thinking about it. My dad was from there, and I think I have some distant relatives there.”

  There is so much more I want to ask her—but I don’t get my chance. A fire truck blasts by on the street, its lights spinning. Nianna turns, her eyes following, and both of our phones buzz.

  “Shit,” she says.

  We don’t think, just move. I grab my jacket and slide an arm through, racing for the door. Nianna beats me to the street.

  “It’s Jax,” she says. “Herons just sent a message through IRIS. Says to watch the fireworks.”

  “Fuck.”

  We follow the truck.

  Nianna and I shoulder our way into the growing crowd. She stops at the corner and puts her hand in front of me like she did the night Jax shot Michael Hennessy. A firefighter is shouting for the crowd to back up.

  It’s a house, a beautiful Victorian with white trim and shapely bay windows. Smoke pours out of the windows and rises into the afternoon sky in thick, black plumes. The front door has been pushed open. Across the street, an EMT puts a mask over the mouth of a little boy. His mother, red-faced from crying, strokes his hair. Two more kids cling to her legs, the whites of their eyes bright against sooty cheeks.

  I put my hands to my ears. It is all noise. Noise and light and a biting smell I know will knit into my clothing surer than the finest thread.

  I look at the pale faces of the crowd, their eyes reflecting the bright orange flames. A few houses down, a news crew is setting up a broadcast. The reporter has a pamphlet in his hands, the Boar logo clearly on it.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “The IRIS said it was the Herons.” My Stag phone buzzes and so does Nianna’s. We read Jax’s text together.

  “It is the Herons,” she says. “They’re framing the Boars…”

  “… by burning some innocent family’s house down?” I say, my voice rising in question as we look back over to where the fire engine is pouring water onto the flames.

  I listen in on the news reporter as he speaks to the camera. “We’re getting early reports this may be associated with the so-called Red Bridge Wars that, as many here in the city know, have been getting increasingly popular with the city’s youth in recent years.”

  “Damn these gangs,” an older woman mutters from behind me. In her hands is a canvas bag bursting with groceries. “It’s enough to make me sick.”

  “It’s enough to make me leave,” says a beefy guy next to her. “I don’t want my kids growing up with this shit.” There’s a murmur of assent.

  Nianna tugs me by the elbow. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Nodding, I turn to follow her—when a hand clamps down on my shoulder like a steel trap.

  “You’re one of them.” The beefy guy spins me gruffly, pushing my shoulder so hard I bump into Nianna, who bumps into someone else. “You’ve got one of their tattoos.”

  Oh fuck. I put my hair up back at the restaurant.

  It’s as if someone whispers hate into the ears of the crowd, and each one is a willing listener. I try to shove my way through, but someone yanks my hood back, sending the zipper straight into my neck. Locking eyes with Nianna, I silently beg her to go, to protect herself.

  “We didn’t have anything to do with this,” she says, eyes afire. “And we don’t want any trouble.”

  “If you didn’t want trouble you shouldn’t have joined the gangs,” a youngish Hispanic guy shouts back. Beside him, his girlfriend looks equal parts embarrassed and scared.

  “Come on.” Nianna grabs my hand as she barges past the Hispanic guy. We make it a fe
w feet before others start shouting. A shrill voice starts screaming for the police, and we really start moving.

  Hands grab at me, my sweatshirt, my hair. Beside me, Nianna’s thrown a punch and is spitting fire at a guy who yanked her bandana off her head.

  We’re not going to get out. No, Valerie, I tell myself. You MUST.

  Just there—a break. I dart toward it, Nianna right behind me, and we’re running back toward the BART station. Something heavy collides with my skull and my vision swims as I fall onto the ground, causing a group of teen girls to jump back and yelp. As Nianna pulls me up I touch my hand to my head and my palm comes back bloody.

  “Shit,” Nianna says, seeing the red. I let her lead me away, checking to make sure no one is following. Adrenaline sparks in my blood as we dash back around a corner. We duck into a gift shop and hide ourselves behind the window display.

  “You okay?” I ask. My hand shakes as I put it to my head.

  “Fine.” She notices me holding my head. “Are you—oh shit.” Nianna swears under her breath and hands me her bandana.

  “Here.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Oh, shut up and let someone take care of you for once.” She works the fabric around my hair and ties the knot. The lotion on her skin makes her hands smell like cherry blossoms. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We take the long way home.

  20

  When we get back to Holloway, Nianna opens the front door to a screaming match.

  “For fuck’s sake, Jax, listen!” It’s Micah. “This is what we want. We should be helping them.”

  Jax and Micah stand on opposite sides of the kitchen table, both barely acknowledging us as we come into the room. There’s a piece of paper on the table that’s been ripped in half, the bottom of it soaking up the contents of a spilled glass of water.

  “What’s going on?” Nianna asks.

  “That.” Micah points to the paper. As I get closer my stomach drops—it’s the letter John Kilmer sent my parents.

  “Where did you find that?” I ask.

  “It was in our room under all Jax’s shit,” Micah replies. He looks hurt, but more confused than anything else. He looks back to Jax. “TRUCE can give the city what we’ve always wanted to give it. Only they’ve got money, and actual teams working on it. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this. I can’t believe you can’t understand what I’m saying to you!”

  “If the Wars are going to end, they will end my way,” Jax fumes.

  “Can’t you put your pride aside for, like, a second? Let’s at least watch the press conference tomorrow. To see what it’s about.”

  “ENOUGH!” Jax shouts, punching his arm out to the side so it smacks into the fridge, sending the boxes and bottles stored on top crashing down. I yelp as glass collides with the floor and explodes across the hardwood floor, spilling all the way to my shoes. I teeter on my feet and Nianna catches my elbow, steadying me.

  “TRUCE is a fucking trick,” Jax seethes. “There will be no coming back from it. The Herons and their money win the day. They’d win the whole war. No. Fuck TRUCE, and fuck you, too, for getting your goddamn self all swoony at the idea. We’re going to end the Wars the way I planned it—with the Herons running with their tails between their goddamn legs, the police admitting all they did wrong, and me standing on top letting them all know I did what they failed to do—bring justice for the city, and for Brianna. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten her, because I fucking haven’t.”

  “I have not forgotten what happened to Bri,” Micah fires back. “But the Stags aren’t bringing peace, not at this rate. We’re just adding to the chaos.”

  “It’s not chaos, it’s a reaction. Which is better than the nothing that was happening before we aligned with the Boars,” Jax replies. “The Young Herons ignored us before. They dealt with the Boars, but mostly ignored them, too. There was no threat. I brought the threat. I did this. So you shut up, and remember who is in charge here.”

  Jax heads to his room, dark and fuming as storm clouds. When the door opens and slams shut behind him, I look over at Micah. He has his hand over his eyes, body hunched as he leans against the countertop as if he doesn’t have the heart to keep himself up.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t say anything. Just nods, though I know he’s lying.

  It’s in the stillness that I hear someone crying. Kate?

  “I’ll clean this,” says Nianna. She indicates my head. “Go wash that.”

  I nod, stepping over the glass best as I can. My head continues to throb, but instead of going to the bathroom I drift toward Kate and Mako’s room. I knock on the door. “Kate? Are you okay?”

  There’s a pause. “Come in.”

  She’s huddled on the bed, the sleeves of her gray sweatshirt dotted with tears. Mako’s on the bed with her, one arm around her shoulders.

  “Hi, Val,” she says. She points toward the general direction of the kitchen. “My parents … they’d yell at each other like that. Took me right back.”

  “Shit,” I whisper. “Can I help at all?”

  “I think I got— Wait, are you bleeding?” Mako interjects before Kate has a chance to answer.

  “We ran into some trouble in the Mission.”

  “Boars or Herons?” he asks.

  “Uh, neither actually. Angry citizen.”

  Mako groans and tightens his grip around Kate. She shrugs him off.

  “I’m fine, Val. Thanks for checking.”

  Her tone is a slammed door, and when I lock eyes with Mako he gives me the tiniest of nods. “I’ll be right back,” he says to Kate.

  Shutting the door behind him, Mako tilts his chin to the living room. “I could only half hear it,” he says. “But I heard the Young Herons have a way to leave the Wars?”

  “More or less,” I say. “Jax doesn’t trust it.”

  “What’s the way?” Mako asks.

  I try to remember the details of the letter. “Um, treatment programs, mental health services, reduced sentences. Things like that.”

  The lump in Mako’s throat goes up and down as he swallows. “For anyone?”

  “Bit eager there, surf boy.”

  Jax rounds the corner of the hallway, eyes blazing and a beer in his hand. He must have come back to the kitchen for it, I realize, dread sinking in. “You want out?” he asks.

  “I didn’t say that,” Mako replies.

  “You sure as hell got close.”

  “Let’s not do this here,” says Mako, shouldering past me until he meets Jax closer to the kitchen. Away from Kate. Finally, he raises his head to meet Jax’s eyes. Mako’s taller by at least an inch or two, but right now he looks like a boy sitting up tall to prove he’s a man. A soldier before a general.

  “Tell me you want out,” Jax says. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you want out. And I’ll send you over to Kilmer.”

  Mako’s chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, then Jax punches him across the jaw. My hands fly to my mouth with a shriek.

  “Disloyal son of a bitch,” Jax says. “Tell me you want out. Man the fuck up and tell me!”

  Blood dribbles out of Mako’s lip. He mumbles something.

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t want out.”

  “Louder.”

  “I. Don’t. Want. Out.”

  “Good.” Our leader then turns and gestures around the room. “What about you? Nianna? Valentine?”

  I sit very still. “No one leaves the Wars.”

  “Damn right no one leaves the Wars.” He goes into his bedroom, the door slamming behind him. I hope he stays there for good.

  Mako walks over to the sink and spits out blood. He lets the water run, rinsing it away. “I can’t get out,” Mako whispers. “But she could.”

  Nianna, still brushing glass into a dustbin, says nothing. Stepping gingerly around her, I put a hand on Mako’s shoulder.

  “Hey…” I say.<
br />
  “I’m fine,” he says. He gives me a fake smile. “Go wash that cut. It’s starting to look pretty bad.”

  I sigh—I don’t want to just leave him, but he’s got a point about the cut. “Okay.”

  Exhausted, I take a shower and very carefully wash the dried blood from my hair, scalp, and back. I run my fingers over the ridges of the cut before blotting it with a towel. My head is light from the lost blood, so I carefully tug my clothes back on and open the door. Micah’s standing there, waiting for me. He has the torn letter from Chief Kilmer in his hand.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he asks, giving the paper to me.

  “I told Jax,” I respond defensively. “I thought if it was important he’d tell everyone else.”

  “Jax will never admit how big this is. How it might end things for good.”

  “Micah,” I whisper. “If you want to leave so badly, why don’t you just go? You’ve been here, what, four years? Three? Whatever. If you just talked to him…”

  “There’d be more of that,” he replies, pointing toward the kitchen. “You know that.”

  My shoulders slump. “Yeah. But still, there’s gotta be something.”

  “Look, you don’t know Jax like I do,” he says. “Once he sets his mind on something, nothing sways him. Believe me, I’m sure he’s halfway through thinking of a plan to dismantle TRUCE right now.”

  I lean back into the wall. Matthew. Everything he’s worked for. Surely Jax couldn’t just undo that, right? Then again, this is Jax we’re talking about. The guy could blot out the sun with his ego, but I know there’s an unsettling genius in his eyes. A determination to carry out exactly what he wants.

  “The press conference is tomorrow,” I say. “Maybe if Jax hears about it then, he’ll come around.”

  Micah shakes his head. “Yeah, sure.”

  * * *

  The next day, the Stags gather around the TV.

  On the screen, Chief John Kilmer waves his hand at the press, getting them to quiet down. Dozens are gathered—reporters, policemen, and businessmen already checking their watches. Somewhere in that crowd is Micah. Before he left, I asked if he wanted someone to go with him.