As we all pile into our cars, Violet and Drummer act like nothing’s going on between them, but I spent the last six nights watching his door from my hotel room peephole. She visited him around midnight each night—her makeup perfect, hair styled and glossy—and left by 4:30 a.m., makeup smeared, hair in a tangled mess. Just thinking about her blissful smile each morning makes my stomach burn.
Now in my Wrangler, I blast the hits station, and Drummer, who decided to ride with me, catches my mood. We need release, we need fun, so we sing—loudly and horribly—on the way home, sometimes making Matilda howl in the backseat. We play Would You Rather? and he tells me about every stupid YouTube prank he’s watched in the last few days.
When our throats hurt from singing, he pulls me close and throws an arm around my neck, making it difficult to drive but I don’t care. His blue eyes glow when he smiles. “So, you going to hit up the frat parties when you’re in college?”
“You know me better than that.”
“How are you going to meet dudes if you don’t get wasted?”
That makes me laugh. “I think there are other ways.”
“I wish I could go to college—just for the parties, though.” He sucks in his lower lip and lets it pop out of his mouth, wet and full.
I imagine kissing it, and heat floods me. “You can go to a junior college and then transfer.”
He grins. “Right.”
“You can. You just have to want it.”
Drummer shrugs. “Sounds like work.”
“Dude, you work how many hours a week at the lumber yard? Thirty, sometimes forty? College is easier than humping wood.”
“Humping wood?” He looks directly at me, his lips twitching. “Sounds dirty when you say it.”
My pulse flutters and I want him so badly that every nerve in my body vibrates. If he kissed me right now…
* * *
—
Our mood shifts as we roll into Gap Mountain, which is like driving onto a movie set. Some areas are untouched, others mangled by flames. A layer of smoke hangs over the streets, and ash covers everything like an early snow. The Gap Fire is still raging, heading west, gulping thousands of acres as it moves through Yosemite National Park. The park is being evacuated; people who booked their campsites a year in advance are being sent home during peak tourist season.
Drummer turns on the radio just long enough for us to learn that before it reached Yosemite, our wildfire swept through two more communities, taking two more lives. That makes nine souls, lost forever. I quickly turn the radio back off. We also learned that the fire is 20 percent contained and the costs and losses are estimated in the tens of millions. The first funeral is tomorrow.
How can this fire be our fire anymore?
I drive Drummer to his house, and he kisses me goodbye. On the way home, my cell rings with an unfamiliar number, and I pull over to answer. “Hello?”
“Is this Hannah Warner?”
“Yes.”
“This is Golden State Animal Rescue. You reported three horses missing on July seventh? Can you describe them?”
Oh my god! “Yes, yes! Are they all right? One’s a three-year-old palomino gelding, and he should be with his mom, she’s a palomino mare. And the other is an Appaloosa gelding, age fourteen. Do you have all three?”
“We do, ma’am. They’ve been living in the forest and have a few minor scrapes, but they’re safe. The mare still had your phone number painted across her side.”
I cry so hard that she stops talking and waits. When I’m calm, the woman gives me the details of where to pick them up.
“My—my trailer has two flat tires,” I say. “It’s why I couldn’t get them out.” It guts me that I wasn’t prepared. My horses could have died.
“We can deliver them to you. Is your home safe now?”
“Yes. The fire passed us by.” She takes my address and tells me my horses will be delivered tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. I thank her and hang up, feeling like I just won the lottery. This is a good omen. My horses are safe.
When I get home, my dad’s patrol car is parked in the driveway. “Dad!” I race into the house. He’s drinking a store-bought coffee in the kitchen and getting ready to leave again when I slam into his arms. “Golden State Animal Rescue found the horses!”
He sets down his coffee and strokes my hair. “Are they hurt?”
“No, not really. They’re being delivered tomorrow.”
He nods. “You need to buy new tires, Hannah. I’ll install them, but I told you, taking care of those horses includes maintaining their trailer.”
“I know. I will.” My dad looks ten years older and exhausted. “Are you getting enough sleep?” I ask.
He ignores the question, and we sit at the table for a moment. He takes my hand. “How was Bishop?”
“Boring.”
His lips twitch into a smile. “Boring is safe.”
“Yeah, but it’s also boring.” We laugh and I peer around the house, which smells like smoke. Everything inside is covered in a layer of white ash, and I wrinkle my nose.
Dad notices and says, “We have some smoke damage, and this dust is toxic. Our insurance company is sending out a crew to evaluate and clean it up. In the meantime, don’t cook here.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me sixty dollars. “You can eat at the Wildflower Café. We got the diner back up and running a few days ago, and they’re feeding the first responders and the town. It’s a good place to get news and see people.” He lets out a long breath. “The whole north side of Stony Ridge is gone. Your school is gone too.”
“It’s not my school anymore.” I lower my eyes, try to keep my tone neutral. “Any idea how the fire started?”
“Not a clue, but Cal Fire knows where it started.”
“Oh?” I rub at a scratch on the wooden table. I know this, but I don’t like hearing it confirmed. “Where?”
“By Gap Lake, in the forest near the beach. They suspect arson.”
“Like deliberate arson?”
He smiles because there isn’t any other type than deliberate. “It wasn’t humid enough for natural combustion, and there was no lightning. I told you before, Bug, a human did this. We don’t know if it was malicious, but someone brought fire into the woods, and that was not an accident.”
“Maybe it was faulty power lines?”
“Not likely,” he says. “The electric company shut off the power at noon. But the investigators are very good; they’ll figure it out.” He sighs. “Did you bring our pictures back home?”
“Yes.” My thoughts drift to Mo and Luke, who lost all their family photos.
Dad leans back in his chair. “I’m sorry I couldn’t join you in Bishop. You should have had an adult with you.”
Translation: You should have had your mother with you. My dad does this—he flip-flops between guilt for arresting her and grief that we lost her. “It’s fine, Dad. I had Ms. Sandoval and my friends.”
“The monsters. Good.” He stretches and groans, and I hear his spine pop. He turns back to me, his eyes like flint. “We will catch who’s responsible for that fire. There will be a reckoning.”
A reckoning? I feel the blood drain from my face. You are looking at who is responsible, Dad. My ears start to ring. I hadn’t fully considered that by lying, I was pitting myself against my own father. I imagine confessing, right now, right here. My dad wouldn’t believe me at first. Then it would sink in, and disappointment would drag his face into a frown. This would be followed by rage and then grief and then self-flagellation. He would arrest me and then hate himself for it. He might even say, You’re just like your mother.
The moment passes when my dad raps his knuckles on the counter. “I’m off. Remember—don’t eat here. If you have time today, throw out all our food. It’s tainted.” He squeezes me. “I love yo
u, Bug.”
“Love you too, Dad.” He kisses the top of my head and strolls out to his patrol car, bending his tall frame in half to get seated.
I watch him drive away, and the good feelings I had that the fire would soon be behind me drain out my toes. But I’m also relieved that I didn’t confess, because that would make the monsters the most hated teens in Gap Mountain. Still, when I think how close I came to talking, I realize how easy it would be for one of us to crack and confess…how awfully terribly easy.
11
July 19
Gap Fire: 30% contained
Fatalities: 9
Time: 1:30 p.m.
Golden State Animal Rescue delivered my horses two days ago, and they are okay. The specialty house cleaners also arrived, and they attacked our cabin with an arsenal of chemicals, scrub brushes, industrial carpet cleaners, and a small army of people. The cobwebs, the porcelain stains, the dusty baseboards, Matilda’s wads of loose hair, and the thick layer of dust on the blinds—it’s all gone! Afterward, Dad turned up the radio and we danced—we actually danced—in the family room, laughing and spinning. The way we figure it, we won’t have to clean again for a year.
The Gap Fire is 30 percent contained, but the wind has picked up, with gusts reaching sixty miles per hour—a grim situation for firefighters. The blaze is so fierce it’s creating its own weather, and crews from all over the country are pouring in to help. The smoke has reached Canada. Cal Fire has kept quiet about the investigation so far.
I have nothing to do. Because of the air quality, the parks and trails are closed and it’s too smoky to ride the horses. I work at the Reel Deal, a DVD rental store that does good business because Wi-Fi in the mountains is crap, but the store is currently closed due to smoke damage, so I can’t earn money either.
Now it’s noon and I’m sweltering on my couch, cuddling with Matilda, when a number I vaguely recognize texts me: Hey, fire girl, how you been?
Fire girl? Oh yeah, it’s Justin, the guy who picked Matilda and me up on Route 395. I texted him once from the hotel, to thank him again for the ride, so now he has my number. Doing good. I write. You?
Gray dots, then: Yeah, good. Can I see you?
My stomach flips over. Is he asking me on a date?
As if sensing my confusion, he writes: id like to take you out Hannah
Right then, Mo sends a group text to the monsters: Miss you guys! Let’s meet at the café. Leaving now
To Justin I write, ok, maybe. Gtg right now
I add him to my contact list, throw on a pair of ripped jeans and Nike sandals, and grab my Jeep keys. “Back soon,” I say to Matilda. Outside, I see that a bear has flipped over our bear-proof trash can and left tracks all over the front yard. The animals are starving right now, driven down from the wilderness by the wildfire, and I make a mental note to be more careful when I come and go from my house.
When I reach the Wildflower Café, the television in the corner is tuned to a news station because Gap Mountain residents are chomping at the bit for information about the arson investigation. They want justice and compensation, and I don’t even want to think about the civil suits we could face if we’re caught.
“Hi, Hannah!” I turn and see Jessie Taylor waving at me from her table of friends in the corner. She’s an incoming senior and someone I race against at the rodeos.
“Hey, Jessie,” I say, slowing as I pass her table. “Your horses okay?”
She blows her bangs off her freckled face. “Yeah, but the high school burned down, you know, and now they’re talking about holding our classes at the rec center in the fall. Sucks. I hope they fry whoever did this.”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “Me too.” My eyes drift to a table of exhausted firefighters, and one of the younger one smiles at me. God, I’m surrounded by people who would hate me if they knew what I did. I spot Luke and Mo by the window and hurry away.
“Did you find your cat?” I ask Luke as I slide into the booth.
He rubs his face and shakes his head. “No sign of her.”
“How is it, living in the Red Cross trailer?” Mo asks him.
His grin is wry. “Fucking awful. It’s crowded and we have to sign in and out and show ID. I can’t smoke inside the trailer or the compound, and the chain-link fence is a pain in the ass to climb over.”
Jeannie, the head server at the café, interrupts: “What’ll you kids have?”
We pause to order cheeseburgers, fries, and milkshakes. “I’m buying,” I say, waving my dad’s cash.
“Okay, Violet,” Luke grumbles, because Violet usually pays for us. I change the subject, hoping to find neutral ground with him. “How’s Aiden?”
Luke turns his head to stare out the window as tears wet his eyes. “He’s having nightmares about the fire, so he sleeps with me on this tiny-ass bunk bed. Last night he dreamed that Mom served us our cat for dinner. Weird shit.” He points across the street to a vacant lot where donations are piling up. “That’s where we get all our clothes now.” I notice Luke’s T-shirt and jeans don’t fit him, and the fabric is stained. People mean well, but Gap Mountain has become the official dumping ground for unwanted crap.
Mo suddenly stops chewing and pushes her plate away, her appetite gone. “This entire town wants to string up whoever started the fire,” she whispers. Her dark-red hair is pulled back, and her cheeks are pink, making her look feverish.
Right then, someone turns up the television in the corner, and every head turns to watch the screen:
We return now to a breaking story about the Gap Fire that is burning out of control in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Investigators broke their silence today and announced they have located the point of origin for the fire here, in the woods near a popular recreation area called Gap Lake.
A map appears on the screen, and there is a bright red circle around the spot where Luke lit his pipe.
“Fuck me,” Luke whispers.
The reporter continues:
The cause of the fire has not been determined, but due to evidence collected at the scene, investigators suspect human involvement. Containment is currently at 30 percent, but with hurricane-speed winds, hot temperatures, and low humidity continuing, there is little hope that the Gap Fire will be extinguished this week. Hundreds of structures remain threatened, and summer campers have fled Yosemite National Park, leaving the popular tourist destination desolate and quiet during this, the busiest time of the year.
The newscaster goes on to list the damage and deaths already caused by the fire, and images of our injured town flash across the screen. She tells us a live press conference will occur at 4:00 p.m. and plays a snippet from my father’s interview yesterday. “We will rebuild,” he says, raising his fist.
“Holy shit,” Mo whispers. “Didn’t you and Drummer go back to the lake? There’s no evidence left, is there?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “We were too late.”
“What!”
“Shhh.” I glance around the café. “Let’s go to Violet’s. We can talk there.”
Mo texts Violet to make sure she’s home, I pay using Dad’s cash, and then we pile into Mo’s Corolla and drive over to Lulu Sandoval’s house. On the way, we pass the Stony Ridge neighborhood.
As we roll by, Luke and Mo stare out the window. All that is left of their neighborhood is driveways, foundations, a few brick fireplaces, blackened swimming pools, and burned-out cars. Their wooden homes are gone, as if Dorothy’s tornado picked them up and tossed them into another world. My dad was elected sheriff to protect this town, and his daughter and her friends fucking destroyed it. God, if the truth ever comes out, it won’t just devastate him; it’ll ruin his career.
At Violet’s, Lulu opens the front door and invites us inside. “You kids look rode hard and put away wet! Everything okay?”
We nod. Her house backs onto th
e river, and the lawn between here and there spreads past us, green and lush. The surrounding landscaping is bright with blooming iceberg roses, black-eyed Susans, hydrangeas, and peonies. Lulu’s sunflower garden stands tall, the flowers like big, faceless lions’ heads. The property is peaceful, inviting, and achingly impervious to the fact that our lives are falling apart or that the land beyond her firebreak is singed black.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“No, thank you, we just came from the café,” I explain.
“Nonsense, you kids are always hungry.” She loads our arms with a jug of apple juice, a plate of doughnuts, and a bag of oranges. “Violet and Drummer are in the attic.”
My spine tenses. How long has Drummer been here, I wonder?
Using the main staircase, we tromp to the third floor with the food in our arms. Lulu’s three oversized black poodles follow us eagerly, leaping and whining. We find Violet sitting on the floor of the attic and Drummer pushing buttons on her TV, trying to change the input.
Violet’s eyes are red-rimmed, as if she’s been crying. “Did you see the news?” she asks. “They know.”
We flop onto the carpet around her, sitting cross-legged like when we were kids. This room was once our playroom, then our clubhouse, and now our hangout. It’s grown up with us. Gone are the Disney DVDs, board games, pastel furniture, and giant stuffed animals of our childhood; they’ve been replaced with thick white area rugs, red chenille designer couches, and a white leather reclining chair. Dominating one wall is a mounted flat screen, complete with unlimited streaming subscriptions to video games, movies, and shows. Professional black-and-white photos of Violet and her older brother, Trey, are framed in red and punctuate the stark white walls.
Lies Like Wildfire Page 7
