Playing with Fire

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  He releases my arms and I walk around him, letting the smell of pancakes and bacon guide me.

  “You hungry, kid?” Dad asks.

  “Nah. I had a Tic-Tac earlier. I’m fine.”

  Dad holds a plate of pancakes out to me, and I snatch them from his hand. The smell of butter and maple hangs in the air, making my stomach gurgle with anticipation. I smile at Oliver and take a chair at the table. He sits down beside me, nursing a glass of orange juice.

  “The boy was just telling me you’re going to a party today,” Dad says, his tone bemused.

  I flinch, remembering I hadn’t exactly asked permission. “Um, yeah. That’s the plan. After I do my chores and stuff,” I add, hoping to sound more responsible than I feel.

  He looks over his cup of coffee to Oliver, who is sitting quietly. “And you’re going to help her do her chores, I guess?”

  Oliver nods once. “Yes, sir. I’m a firm believer that no one should ever have to do laundry alone.”

  Dad turns his back to us, pouring the last of the batter onto the griddle. Oliver winks at me behind his back.

  “Besides,” Oliver continues. “It’s not really a party. Just a few of my friends from the team getting together.”

  That makes me shift in my seat. The smaller the group, the more I would have to interact. I wasn’t exactly a people person, and none of the kids from his table had so much as introduced themselves to me in school yet—meaning things could go from zero to awkward real fast.

  “Just as well, I have to go into the office today anyway,” Dad mutters.

  Shoving the last bite of pancake into my mouth I stride over, leaning in as I slip my plate in the sink. “Everything ok?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “The tech support team is coming back today. They are saying it’s just a system glitch. Hope to have everything ironed out by Monday. But it means wiping several of the main computers. And of course, I have to be there to supervise.”

  I nod. “Ok. And if you need any help…” I trail off. He knows I’m probably better than anyone the DOJ is bringing in, but neither of us says it.

  “Go, have a good day.” He jerks his head toward Oliver, his back to us, still sitting at the table.

  After breakfast we load three bags of laundry into the back of Oliver’s truck. I protest, but he points out that if I put them in my car, there’d be no room for him to sit, so I relent. His truck is surprisingly spacious and smells vaguely of peanuts and leather. We drive to the coin laundry by the Exchange. His radio blares They Might Be Giants the whole way—one of my favorite bands ever—and we both sing at the top of our lungs.

  Standing on the back tire in the parking lot outside the launderette, I heft the bags out of the truck bed and toss them to Oliver. He stacks them in a rolling cart, which he then rides inside like a cowboy. The place is fairly crowded with Marines doing laundry on their off days—yes, this is the glamorous life of our country’s finest. Luckily, I spot two washers side by side, and we swoop in. There’s no way I’m going to let Oliver help with this part so I send him next door to the Exchange for laundry soap. He returns just as I finish separating the clothes into the two machines. We pour in the soap, feed the machines a truly obscene amount of quarters, and close the lids. He hops up on one, leaning forward onto his arms.

  “So, now what?” he asks.

  “Now we wait, I guess,” I say, frowning. The only table is full and the TV is set to the news station. I consider offering to go get a cup of coffee or something, but Oliver seems so full of energy I’m afraid his heart might explode from the added caffeine.

  “I’ve got a better idea, come on.” He slides off the washer and grabs me by the hand.

  “Are you sure my stuff’s safe if we leave it?” I ask as we climb into his truck.

  “Oh, I think a room full of Marines can handle any dirty-sock ninjas that might sneak in and try to steal your unmentionables,” he jokes.

  “Dirty-sock ninjas?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

  He shrugs. “It pays to specialize. Even for ninjas.”

  We drive off base to the pool hall just outside the main gate. The neon sign flashes “BJ’s Billiards.” It looks small from the outside, but once you get in the door, it really opens up. There are probably twenty tables, a foosball room, and a long, wooden bar. The odor of stale beer and cigarettes hangs in the air, that, combined with the musty scent of old felt and chalk, makes my nose tingle like I need to sneeze, but can’t.

  Oliver waves to the bartender, an older man with grey hair and a long, thin face, and picks up a tray of balls before crossing the room, taking a pool cue down from the wall, and handing it to me.

  “You play?” he asks.

  “A little,” I lie.

  My dad’s table is still in storage—curse you, enlisted housing—but I learned to play when I was little. I am pretty good, too, if I do say so myself.

  We take up residence at an empty table in the corner, far from the handful of other patrons hanging out closer to the front of the room. I run my hand over the table, feeling the texture of the cherry wood, the worn brass pockets and leather catches. The felt is still bright green, probably newly refinished as the leather inside the pockets is well worn.

  Oliver puts the balls on the table and sets the rack.

  “So what are we playing for?” I ask, chalking my stick.

  “Tell you what, new girl, if you sink one, you get to ask me a question. Any question. If I sink one, I get to ask. Deal?”

  I smirk, shaking his outstretched hand. “Deal.”

  Oliver sets the balls in careful order and removes the plastic triangle. I position the cue ball, leaning over and strike.

  I sink one on the break. “Okay,” I ask, “if you could live anywhere, where would you live?”

  Oliver leans on his pool cue, his mouth twitching. “I don’t know. There are so many places I want to see…Scotland, maybe.”

  “You’d look good in a kilt,” I say.

  He nods. “I know, I’ve been gifted with god-like calves.”

  I shoot again and the ball rattles in the pocket, not falling in. He takes his turn, sinking one.

  “Ok,” he begins, tapping his chin as if trying to come up with a question. “Who was your first kiss?”

  I feel myself tense. Jack. Or Jack Ass, as I refer to him now. He’d been my boyfriend freshman year. That was before. Before I’d become public enemy number one. Before he’d started all kinds of terrible rumors about me. Before I taught myself not to care.

  When I open my mouth, I’m honestly not sure what I’m going to say. Am I going to lie? Telling him all about my sordid past doesn’t feel the same as telling Reid. How can he ever understand what I went through? He’s obviously been attractive and popular his whole life. I shift from foot to foot.

  “I don’t remember.” The lie comes out jerky and obvious.

  He looks at me, blinking once, but doesn’t press further.

  The game continues and after I’ve beaten him twice, I know pretty much everything there is to know about the boy. The name of his first pet, his biggest regret, and a dozen other things only a good identity thief would care about. I know everything except the one thing burning in the back of my brain, the question aching to be asked. Is what Reid said true? I can’t force myself to bring it from my mouth.

  “Where’d you learn to play?” he asks after paying our tab.

  “Dad taught me. He was sort of a hustler back in the day from what I understand.” I snicker, the idea of my straitlaced father doing something as undignified as hustling pool was almost too much.

  “You know, I think you actually just told me something about yourself without my having to pry it out of you.”

  So I had.

  “Don’t get used to it,” I say jokingly, pulling the door open for him.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  We get back to the laundry mat just in time to take advantage of some empty dryers. After loading the soggy clothes, Oliver
picks me up, tosses me gently into the rolling basket, and wheels me around the room. I laugh so hard my eyes water with delight. When I climb out, I notice the stern look from the squat woman behind the counter. My foot catches in the cart and I nearly fall on my butt, making Oliver roar with laughter as he comes to my rescue. He catches me in his arms, holding me there just a little longer than is strictly necessary, his eyes locked onto mine, sending my heart into frantic spasms. For a second, I think he might kiss me, making my heart beat even faster. I watch as the intent flickers across his face, and then passes. He smiles awkwardly, the dimple appearing in the side of his face, and gently pushes me away. The disappointment is sharp and surprising as he releases me.

  We spend the next hour playing on our phones in weird silence. Then, I get a text.

  Is everything okay?

  I glance up and see Oliver staring at me over the top of his phone, which he’s holding near his nose.

  I’m good, I text back.

  He nods.

  If you had a genie, and could wish for any three things, what would you wish for?

  I stare at his text, chewing on my bottom lip as I answer.

  High-speed Wi-Fi, a pet giraffe-pug hybrid, and…

  I pause, my fingers hesitating over the keypad.

  My mom back.

  I quickly delete the last words and replace them with: a working TARDIS.

  He smirks, and three minutes later sends me a really inappropriate giraffe GIF and I laugh so hard I snort.

  When the laundry is finished, I stuff it into the bags and we haul them back to my house. There’s a note from Dad stuck to the fridge.

  Kid,

  I took care of the new tags for your car. Go have fun today. Remember what I said about the boy.

  Love, Dad

  I crumple up the note before Oliver can read it and ask embarrassing questions.

  “What’s next on the agenda?” he asks, swiping a bottle of water from my fridge as I toss the bags into the living room. I’ll fold the clothes later.

  “It looks like that’s it. My dad took care of the other stuff. I’m all yours.” As soon as the words fall out of my mouth, I regret them. Mostly because they are ridiculously true.

  His eyes sparkle with delight. “Well then, let’s head to the park.”

  Oliver holds his hand out to me and smiles that devastating smile. How bad can a little party be? I can do this, I decide, steeling myself. Maybe it’s a bad idea, some small part of my brain whispers. Looking into his face, I decide I don’t really care.

  ***

  The day is warm but overcast, a soft haze hanging across the sky, obscuring the sun so only a muffled glow escapes. “You gonna tell me where we’re going?”

  He keeps his eyes glued to the road, swinging the truck onto a narrow, semi-wooded street. “We’re going to Centennial Park,” he says, offering nothing more than that. My stomach growls; it’s too late for lunch but too soon for dinner, making me wish I stuffed a granola bar in my bag before leaving the house.

  Finally, the pine trees thin and a group of picnic benches sit under a wooden canopy. Several cars are parked in the nearby gravel lot as we pull in beside them. There’s a small playground to the north, looking derelict and abandoned. A single swing blows in the soft breeze.

  As soon as I open my door, the scent of charcoal and gas wafts in my direction. Someone is grilling, and the not-unpleasant smell makes my stomach clench hungrily. Someone has music playing, old-school classic rock beating though a single black speaker, loud enough to hear, but not so loud as to be overwhelming. Rounding the truck quickly, Oliver closes my door and takes hold of my hand, leading me toward the group.

  The pavilion is crammed, but it isn’t the number of people that makes it feel crowded as much as the average size of the occupants. It looks like half the football team has shown up, and the smallest of them is still a comfortable five foot eleven, probably two hundred plus pounds of lean muscle. There are girls too, some faces I recognize from Oliver’s lunch table at school, a few others I’ve seen in class. Bianca is there too, her nose stuck in a sleek, white laptop. I wave, but she doesn’t look up to see.

  “We won last night,” Oliver explains, leaning in close and whispering in my ear. “This is sort of a tradition. Post-victory barbeque.”

  I blink at him. I’ve been to lots of parties in my time, everything from pool parties to cheesy college raves. Never something quite as mellow as this. There’s not even a keg, I realize, looking around. I feel the tension slip from my shoulders, an invisible ball of dread I’ve been carrying falling away at the scene. Oliver must sense my relief because he grins, squeezing my hand.

  When we arrive, there is the typical amount of macho fist bumps and posturing. I recognize Georgia, sitting on the lap of the tallest guy. He’s lanky with sandy-blond hair and a long, narrow chin. She nods to me, a friendly smile spreading across her face. The picnic tables are gray and splintered with age. In the center of the table where they sit is a small cardboard box filled with bags of buns, condiments, and paper plates. To my surprise, Oliver’s arm snakes around my shoulder as he introduces me to the crowd.

  “Everybody, this is Farris. Farris, this is Patty, David, Scott, Kelsey, Rob, Jenna, and Cole.” He points to each as he repeats their names. “The little blonde is my big sister, Georgia, and that guy she’s getting way too friendly with is Trey. And I think you know Bianca.”

  “Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” Patty says, stepping forward to shake my hand before wrapping her arms protectively around David, who gives me a quick wave. Patty’s a blonde too, just as skinny and flawless looking as Georgia, in a pale blue tank top and white Capri jeans. David, by contrast, is bulky with dark hair and a nose with an odd ridge in the center.

  “Don’t worry, there’s no test later or anything.” Jenna smiles, her long, stringy, ginger hair hanging over her freckled shoulders as she begins digging through the box. Finally, she draws out two glass jars, thrusting them my direction. “Sweet or dill?”

  I point to the dill spears, and she nods in agreement.

  The only male not subtly being claimed by a girl is Cole. He leans against one of the four brick pillars at the corners of the pavilion, his legs crossed at the ankles. His blue V-neck T-shirt is stretched tight across his chest and biceps. It’s the same shade as his eyes, which are the color of pool water, bright and stunning. I only realize I’m staring at him because he flashes me a smile that is twenty-percent friendly, eighty-percent this-guy-is-bad-news. It’s probably meant to make me uncomfortable, but I just raise one eyebrow at him and smirk.

  Scott waves the spatula at me from where he stands over the outdoor grill. He flips a few burger patties and drops a couple of hot dogs on with a hiss, the smell coming from it nothing short of heavenly.

  “Hello.” I wave shyly.

  Oliver pats my shoulder, and then walks over to the grill to assist. I round the bench to where Bianca sits. “Hey,” I say, squatting on the bench beside her, my back pressed against the tabletop.

  She looks up, finally. “Oh, hey.”

  I sneak a peek at her computer. The screen is black except for a scroll of small, thumbnail-sized images and text streaming through the center of her screen. I recognize it quickly. It’s an omega portal, part of the black net, an area of the web frequented by game designers—not a place most people even know exists, much less could access.

  “Whatchya doing?” I ask curiously.

  She closes the lid. “Homework.”

  Her face is void of emotion when she speaks, but there is arrogance in her tone.

  “On an omega portal?” I ask, leaning away just a bit. “What’s the assignment?”

  She sits back, her dark eyes reluctantly impressed as she reaches up, adjusting her ponytail. “Psychology stuff. Did you know you can buy or sell anything on there? It’s completely unregulated. I’m writing a paper about girls who sell their virginity online.”

  I feel my eyes widen. “Ugh. That’
s so disturbing.”

  I must look truly repulsed because she chuckles. “Don’t worry, I’m not in the market to buy or sell.”

  From across the table, one of the guys, whose name I’ve already forgotten, chimes in. “Oh yeah, that ship sailed long ago.”

  She puckers her lips and flips him off. “Anyway, I’m writing a paper about deviant behavior in teen girls. What drives them to do things like that. I’m trying to contact some girls willing to talk about it.”

  I nod. It’s a really interesting subject, actually. “Well, I’m pretty handy with a computer. If I can help at all…” I trail off, but she smiles.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Everybody, grab a plate. It’s ready,” Kelsey announces before I can say anything else.

  If you’ve never had the opportunity to watch a group of teenage football players devour grilled meat, it’s kind of like watching a school of piranhas take down an antelope. Ferocious, terrifying, and over quickly. Plus, anyone who gets between them and their food may end up with a bloody stump where their hand used to be.

  I pick at the remnants of my cheeseburger and grocery-store potato salad. The spread, while simple, was still impressive; I’ve never met a group of people my age that could do more than order pizza without help. The soda is cold and brown, as it should be, when Cole passes it to me, cracking it open with a hiss before putting it in my hand. He sits to my left, Oliver on my right.

  “So,” Cole asks. “Suppose you’ve heard all the good Ferris Bueller jokes already.”

  I smirk. “Odds are good. Why… you got one?”

  He sits back, looking serious. “Nah, I was trying to go with something about driving backwards, but I can’t make it work. All I could come up with was, ‘You wear too much eye makeup. My sister wears too much. People think she’s a whore’.”

  “That makes you Charlie Sheen in this scenario?”

  He smirks. “I’m Charlie Sheen in every scenario.”

  Shaking my head, I turn back to Oliver, who is passionately discussing the new James Bond movie. Most of the girls are picking at leafy green salads or hot dogs.