A Thousand Fires

by Shannon Price

  “I’ll call in a couple days, in case you have any trouble with him.”

  “Thank you. I think we’ll be fine.”

  Nianna opens the car door, and I set the puppy in her lap. “Holy shit, he’s cute.”

  “You should have come in and seen the others.”

  She pulls him closer as I start the car. “What’re you gonna name him?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I flick on my turn signal and get on the main road. It’ll be another two hours back to Berkeley. At least for now, the puppy seems content to turn around and around in Nianna’s lap. He whines a little, then settles down.

  “Do you think he’ll ever come back?” I ask her. “Jax.”

  “Honestly? No.”

  No one’s seen Jax since that night four months ago. No one has any other numbers for him, and Nianna said Theresa hasn’t returned her calls. Kate and Mako are gone, too, moved to his aunt’s house in Hawaii.

  “It can get a little boring there,” Mako said when he told me his plan. “But I think we could use some boring. My family is so stoked to meet her.” Then, he showed me a small square box, winked, and slipped it back in his pocket.

  Nothing has been easy, but I’ve done what I had to do to heal. I let go.

  I cried until my eyes and body were so dry I swore I’d never be able to create tears again. I ran a fever for a day, and then ached for two more. I was wrecked for weeks. I only ate because Mom made me—even then, it was three bites at a time. I stayed in bed, slept as much as possible, and refused to open my blinds. I said goodbye to my brother, my first love, and Jax in one terrible, beautiful go.

  Which isn’t to say I never think about it. I carry them with me—my golden three—when I’m at the grocery store picking up the oatmeal brand Dad likes, when I’m putting scar cream on my leg, and when I stare at my ceiling and listen to the trees rustle outside. They are my first thought when I wake, and I’ve learned to make that okay. I let them inspire me, push me from my bed to my floor and then, slowly, all the way up.

  Jax was there for me, in the end. That’s why he took my gun with him. If they found him, it’d be him who shot Ty, and not me. That last part is the hardest to swallow, but I disconnect from it as much as I can. I had to. I was justified, wasn’t I? But even if all that is true, who am I, that I could kill someone? What kind of monster does that make me?

  I’m enrolled in therapy, twice a week. It’s not the same place I went to for Leo, and I’m glad for it. Some days all I do is cry my eyes out. Other days I sit there and she talks to me, trying to coax out answers. I think it’s helping. At least Dr. Stauffer was in favor of me getting the puppy. She even said I could bring him to our sessions once he’s been trained. I know neither a dog nor therapy is a quick fix for the shit I’ve done, and the shit I’ve seen. But I owe it to everyone giving me a second chance to at least try. Matthew, Micah, Aure—they won’t ever get this opportunity to heal and change.

  Lyla and I are on rocky ground. Despite my best efforts, the time apart seemed to create barriers between us. We’ve hung out—exploring Berkeley bookstores and quirky shops downtown—but it doesn’t feel like it did before. When she talks about books and classes and the cute guys in debate club, I find myself just nodding along. We lived in different worlds too long, but I haven’t given up, and make an effort to set up as many hangouts as I can.

  Over in the passenger seat, Nianna keeps her hands around the puppy, scratching his ruff. She’s wearing more makeup now than I’ve ever seen on her: plum lipstick and a healthy smear of eyeliner. She is both herself and not herself, and I could ask her what brought on the change but decided it’s better I don’t. She’s living with some family friends, sleeping on their couch until she figures out what to do next.

  “I like your shorter hair,” I say.

  She tugs at a curl until it’s straight then lets go. “Thanks. I feel lighter.” She closes her eyes and scratches the puppy’s head again. “Every bit helps.”

  When we pull up to the BART station, Nianna gets out of the car and secures the dog inside his crate in the backseat. Walking back to the window, she adjusts her backpack on her shoulders.

  “Good luck with the fur baby.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “See you Sunday?”

  Nianna’s not too far from me—just a BART ride away in Oakland. We meet up here and there. Sometimes we get food. Other times we just drive. I thought it’d make it worse to stay in touch, but it helps. We both have a lot of rebuilding to do.

  I feel the tension between Mom and Dad each time we all share a room. One child dead, and now me—a former gang member without a high school diploma. It’s less that they’re scared of me than that they’re unsure how to handle me. Part of why I joined the Wars was to make amends for my mistakes, but in doing so I’ve driven a wedge between my parents and me that refuses to budge. We’ve forgotten how to talk to one another, how to be a family. So I do everything I can to try to return to normal. I clean the house and have coffee with Mom in the mornings. I help with dinner and do the chores I did before. One evening over dinner, I mentioned going to the Philippines, and both of them lit up like stars.

  “It has been years since I went,” Mom had said quietly, after a pause. “And your kuyo has been begging me to come.”

  “Let’s look at ticket prices after we eat,” Dad replied, taking her hand and giving me the most sincere smile I’d seen in weeks. The sight made me start sobbing on the spot, and my parents held me tightly until I calmed down. I’m living both our afters. Mine and Micah’s.

  We’re planning to wait a few months at least, until the puppy is trained enough to be left with someone while we’re gone. But it’s going to happen, and I can’t wait.

  I put the car into drive and give Nianna one last wave. I adjust the paper crane on the driver’s side dash.

  “All right, Obin, let’s go home.”

  The pup looks at me with kind eyes as water begins to come into mine. I let the tears fall as I turn toward the new house in Berkeley. Mom and Dad were as ready for a change of scenery as I was. Getting out of the city was one of the first things they suggested to me when I made my way home.

  Moving out of SF was the first step. I don’t know how many more it’ll take for me to heal, but at least I’m climbing.

  Through a gap in the trees, I spot a gray shield of fog rolling in from across the sea, ready to engulf San Francisco in its chilly protection. It won’t reach here, though. Here, there are trees and kinder winds, a chance of warm sun.

  We’ll find it again, the sun.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are so many talented, compassionate people who drifted in and out of my life as this dream of mine—and my pile of shelved manuscripts—grew, and I have kept a running list since the beginning. Now it’s time to take that roughed-up Post-it and make it official. To everyone on these next few pages and the ones I have inadvertently forgotten, I want to quote a beloved movie from my childhood: I would have been lost without you.

  Enormous thanks to Elana Roth Parker—my fearless, badass champion of an agent. Your wisdom and patience saved my sanity multiple times, and I can say very sincerely you surpassed all my expectations of what working with an agent would be like. You are the agent of dreams. Thank you to Laura Dail and everyone at LDLA—you are all rock stars!

  Thank you to Diana Gill, who saw my story and knew exactly how to nurture it to make it sharper, stronger, and more vibrant than ever before. A huge thank you, too, to Kristin Temple, Charlene Adhiambo, and all the amazing folks at Tor Teen. You have made me feel like a welcome member of a family since day one and I am so grateful for all the work you’ve done for me.

  Thank you to #TeamElana—Alexa Donne, Leigh Mar, Anna Bright, June CL Tan, Lily Meade, and Deeba Zargarpur—for the rants, check-ins, and support even before this book sold. Much love to the Stripy Tigers of SUISS 2014 and Mama Tiger, Ruth Gilligan, who gave me an international tribe of writing buddies that I could rely on any day. />
  Thank you to the Santa Clara Review—you guys are my family. Thank you for believing in me before I had the sense to believe in myself. Thank you especially to Professor Kirk Glaser, who always knew how to push my writing further.

  Thanks to Casa 151, whose antics and love helped shaped who the Stags came to be; and to the women of Measure UP, who made my life into a real-life Pitch Perfect in all the best ways. I love all of you. Stay beautiful.

  I could never forget everyone at Counterpoint Press: thank you especially to Megan Fishmann, for taking a chance on a wide-eyed intern and for being one of the best cheerleaders I know. Thanks, too, to Jack Shoemaker, Kelli Adams, Jenn Kovitz, Andy Hunter, and Rolph Blythe for your guidance and support during my time as a publicist.

  Endless thanks to Bethany Onsgard, Deborah Kenmore, Kelly Winton, and Jenny Alton: you are my favorite canaries in the coal mine, and the brightest, kindest, and most hilarious coworkers a person could ask for. In the immortal words of a card I may or may not have once accidentally mailed to a very famous author: stay cool. And to Nick: I knew you were a rarity long before you were gone, and I am grateful to have known you as long as I did. I love you so much. I hope I’ve made you proud.

  A tremendous thanks to Peter Gibbs, Drake Bonin, and Christina Estrella-Lemus—thank you for all the laughs and unedited hilarity, and for being sincerely kind souls. To Zach Waterson, I’ll forever yell your name and push people out of the way to hug you when you arrive at parties. Thank you for being you.

  Thank you to “5quad”—you wonderful, weird, and hardworking bunch. Thank you for your enthusiasm, love, and constant check-ins about my book (and for putting up with me when my answer to the last of those was “UGH”). Shoutout to Jon Slocum, who made me laugh every damn day and who let me tell him about any book gossip I saw on Twitter. You are the best.

  Special thanks to Samir Khanna, the Jack Donaghy to my Liz Lemon, for the honest talks and for teaching me that thing about time. Much love to Tasha Yglesias, Ari Jones-Krause, David Jones-Krause, and Sahand Emanian—I’m so glad I answered that Craigslist ad.

  I would be a mess without the marvelous Natalie Grazian—we’ve come so far from the SCR office, haven’t we? Thank you for reading this book in its early form and letting me bounce ideas off you. Thank you even more for the sanity checks and for being one of the few people on the planet I can be totally real with.

  So much love to “Moo” and Hannah, for being beacons of love and support since the start. I admire both of you and love that you never questioned my typing into the night, even when I was supposed to be on vacation. Abundant love to the wee ones—Abigail, Anna Grace, and Audrey—who are constant sources of love and light.

  Huge thanks to Richard for all the sage advice throughout this book’s journey and beyond. Love to Meese Patly and family for helping shape the person I am today.

  Thank you to my sister, Nicole, for being my first beta reader and champion. Thank you for the strictly professional comments (“PUPPIES!”) and for enduring all my late-night wait-isn’t-this-a-plot-hole texts.

  My life would be a lot less bright without Gaston, my lost-and-found love—I’m so glad we made it to “found.” Thank you for the meals you cooked, dishes you washed, and errands you ran just so I’d have more time to work on this book. Your unflagging support of me and my dream through every triumph, pitfall, and stress-cry has meant the world. I love you. You are everything.

  Last but not least, thank you to Mom and Dad for encouraging my creativity every day of my life. Thank you for letting me try out whatever activity I wanted to, whether it be drawing, painting, or singing—and finally, writing. I’m beyond lucky to have parents like you. Thank you, mahal kita.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SHANNON PRICE is a proud Filipina American and Bay Area native. She once led an a cappella group for three years despite not knowing how to read music, and she carries that same level of confidence in every area of her life. When not writing, she can be found watching baking shows, exploring old bookstores, and going to the beach as often as she can. Shannon currently works in the ever-harried Silicon Valley. A Thousand Fires is her first novel.

  Visit her online at www.spricewrites.com, or sign up for email updates here.

  Twitter and Instagram: @spricewrites

  Thank you for buying this

  Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A THOUSAND FIRES

  Copyright © 2019 by Shannon Price

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art: original stag illustration by Greg Ruth; background photograph by Getty Images

  A Tor Teen Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates

  120 Broadway

  New York, NY 10271

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-30199-4 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-30198-7 (ebook)

  eISBN 9781250301987

  Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  First Edition: November 2019