Playing with Fire

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  The thing I hate most about hospitals is the surprising lack of urgency. Everyone moves with a deliberateness that’s completely infuriating when your heart is racing and your panic rising. Call me crazy, but it would make me feel a bit better to see at least one person who seems to be as freaked out as I am. But no, the man, probably in his late twenties and already balding enough to be very noticeable, just sits there in his white uniform, telling me to calm down. Someone will be with me soon.

  The only thing that keeps me from going over the crescent-shaped desk is Reid’s hand on my shoulder.

  After half an hour of sitting in the stiff waiting room chair, which feels like an eternity, the doctor finally appears. He isn’t wearing the green scrubs you see on TV; rather, he has on a white lab coat over a khaki uniform. When he calls my last name, it’s in a flat, dull voice like having your number called at the DMV.

  I stand anxiously, wiping my hands down the back of my jeans. “That’s me. How’s my dad?”

  He motions with his metal clipboard for me to follow him. “He’s doing fine. You can see him now.”

  Reid stands. “If you’re ok, I’m gonna head home and wait for my parents to call and check in.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for staying with me.”

  He presses his lips together. “If you need anything, just call.”

  As the doctor leads me to Dad’s room, I exhale as if I’ve been holding my breath for hours, letting the tension bleed from my neck and shoulders. Of course he’s okay, I chide myself. It’ll take a lot more than a little explosion to take the Lieutenant Colonel down. The doctor shows me to a wall with a large, glass window overlooking the bed where my dad lays, looking smaller and frailer than I’ve ever thought possible. He’s hooked up to a bunch of tubes and wires and has a white bandage across his forehead. A shiver dances up my back and into my neck.

  “Your father was extremely lucky. The ER is full of people injured in the crash. It’s a miracle no one died,” the doctor says, making a quick note on Dad’s chart before continuing. “All in all, it’s a concussion, some bumps and bruises. But we’re going to keep him at least overnight for observation.” With that, he turns, leaving me to my visit.

  Dad’s eyes are closed when I creep into his room. My shoes squeak on the heavily waxed, beige linoleum floor, waking him.

  “Hey, kid,” he says, struggling to prop himself awkwardly on one elbow.

  Grabbing a stool from the far corner of the room, I roll it to the bedside, sitting down and resting my arms on the metal rails of his bed. “Hey, Dad. How’re you feeling?” I ask, fidgeting with the cord that runs from his index finger to a pulse monitor, making sure it’s not stuck under one of my wheels.

  “Kind of like I’ve been hit by a plane, which is appropriate, I suppose. Or at least I did. The meds are kicking in now.” His words slur a bit. It should be funny, but it’s just the opposite. Seeing him like this is terrifying, chilling me deep in my bones.

  I’m glad he isn’t in pain, at least, though the beeping of the monitors make me grind my teeth. These are the sounds I hear in my nightmares, the last sounds I heard before Mom died.

  “What happened?” I ask, pulling the white blanket up over his chest as he lay back down.

  “It’s all fuzzy. I was down in Maintenance Control talking to Sergeant Gomez. I remember opening the door to the hangar bay, a flash of light, then nothing…” His voice trails off as he slips back into sleep.

  I pat his hand, careful not to disturb the IV, and kiss his forehead, avoiding the large, square patch of gauze taped over his right eye. Then I just sit beside him for a while, watching him sleep and sending silent prayers of thanks to the heavens that he’s all right. I’m not sure how long I sit there, but when I stand up, my back aches. I switch off the light over his bed, plunging the room into semidarkness. Closing the door quietly behind me, I flag down the nurse at the desk outside.

  “He’s sleeping.” I motion to Dad’s door.

  “That’s probably a good thing,” he says. “He had a nasty bump on the head, a few minor scrapes, and a broken rib. Your father was very lucky today. Four other injured personnel had to be flown to Bethesda.”

  I nod, thank him again, and head out.

  I bite my lip as I walk out the front glass doors and into the sunshine. I should go confront Bianca, force her to turn herself in. Pulling my phone from my wallet, I look at the time It’s after five already. Bianca will have to wait till tomorrow. As it is, the squadron is frozen. What more could anyone do now? At least my dad, banged up as he is, is safe. Besides, I’m still feeling shaky, and there’s really only one person I want to see tonight.

  ***

  I’m not a hundred percent sure this is a good idea. Hell, I’m not one percent sure, but I drive anyway. I should just go home, I keep telling myself. But somehow, the idea of facing the dark house, of spending the night alone, feels…impossible.

  Half in a daze, I don’t realize I’ve made up my mind until I pull into Oliver’s driveway. Georgia is in the front yard, checking the tires on her powder-blue Prius.

  “Hey,” she says with warmth in her voice. Her face falls into a concerned pucker.

  “Hey,” I say back, my voice on the edge of cracking.

  “How’s your dad?” she asks gently, scooping me into a tight hug before I can stop her.

  Hold it together, I tell myself, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands until I can feel the crescent-shaped indentations forming in my skin. It hurts—not badly, but enough to help me focus.

  “Dad’s fine. He’s in the hospital, but he’s ok.” I clench my jaw, speaking through my teeth. “Is Oliver here?”

  She releases me, jerking her head toward the house, “In his room, you can go on in.”

  I hear the music emanating from his bedroom as soon as I’m in the house. Punk rock, probably Green Day, if I had to guess. As I get closer, I distinguish a thumping rhythm that doesn’t fit the beat. I knock gently.

  “Oliver?” I call over the music. “It’s me. Farris.”

  The thumping stops and the volume drops to almost nothing. He opens the door, leaning on it with a small basketball in his free hand. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice every bit as irritated as I deserve.

  I open my mouth to talk, to apologize or beg forgiveness or something, anything, but nothing comes out.

  A massive tear rolls down my cheek. I mouth I’m sorry, but no sound comes out.

  Dropping the ball without hesitation, Oliver pulls me into his arms. He guides us to the edge of his bed and sits us down with me sobbing into his shoulder. I nuzzle into the curve of his neck, inhaling him between sobs. How is it that with all the lies and all the disappointments between us that he can still feel like this, like the only solid thing in the entire universe?

  He strokes my hair, saying nothing. His arms are solid, but loose enough to let me breathe freely, strong enough to keep me from falling apart completely.

  “I’m going to take five minutes to totally freak out. Is that okay?” I ask weakly.

  He tightens his grip just a little. “Take whatever you need.”

  I know at that moment that I love him. It’s crazy and messy and hard, but there it is. Neither of us is perfect, but maybe, just maybe, we are perfect for each other. And maybe, if it’s easy, it’s not real.

  When Mom got sick, I’d been the one holding her. I cooked dinner for Dad, made sure the house was taken care of, went with Mom to her appointments…all that had fallen to me. Dad couldn’t deal with it, so I had to step up and be strong. Maybe part of me grew arrogant in that strength, in the idea that I didn’t need anyone, that I could handle anything.

  But I was wrong. The idea of losing Dad shakes me in ways I don’t want to admit. Rationally, I know he’s okay, but for some reason, I just can’t get a grip on myself. So I lean on Oliver, and thankfully, he lets me.

  Once the worst of it has run its course, I wipe my eyes with the back of my h
and and pull away. Oliver looks into my eyes, his expression gentle, concerned. I almost start crying again.

  No, I tell myself, time’s up. Gotta pull it together. Compose myself. There’s so much I want to say, and if I don’t do it now, I’ll lose the courage.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “The last time I was in a hospital, it was to be with my mom before she died. Seeing my dad in there, it was just…” I hold my hands up in surrender.

  There are no words.

  He wipes my cheek with his thumb. “Is he going to be okay?”

  I nod, sniffling.

  Pulling me back to him, he hugs me tightly. “I’m here if you need me. You don’t have to be strong all the time. I can be strong for you sometimes, if you want me to,” he offers.

  Without thinking, I turn my face up and kiss him. It’s gentle at first—I half expect him to push me away—but quickly grows urgent. Desperate. I can’t breathe, so tightly is his mouth on mine, and I can’t make myself care. My lungs burn, but it seems like such a small fire compared to all the others that rage inside me. How can anyone survive this? It’s like being consumed, every cell of my body aching in ways I never imagined.

  When he pulls away, we both gasp for air like we’d been drowning. Laughing awkwardly, I lean back on my hands.

  He growls, “You’re killing me Farris.”

  I bite my bottom lip, scraping skin with my teeth. “Listen, Ollie, about the file. I’m so sorry. I know it was wrong to look at it without asking you first. I was looking into some weird stuff happening at the squadron”.

  “And you thought I might be behind it?” he cuts me off.

  I shake my head. “No. I didn’t even ask for your file. Reid just sort of dropped it in my lap.”

  “Of course he did,” he mutters, leaning forward, touching his forehead to mine.

  “But I did hack the school computer to pull files on all the kids with parents in or attached to the squadron,” I admit. “I thought if I could figure out who had motive, I could find out who was behind it all.”

  “So you thought one of us was behind all this?” he asks.

  I close my eyes. “Yeah, I still do.”

  He hesitates. “I’m glad you told me. I just want to get to a place where we can be completely honest with each other.”

  I swallow, knowing there’s more I need to get off my chest. “I want that too. So, here I go,” I say. “Everything you want to know about Farris and some things you didn’t.”

  He listens patiently as I tell him everything. Starting with what happened at my old school, my mom’s death, and ending with every snippet of what I had found online. I tell him about hacking the email, the Omega Portal, Splice, everything.

  When I finish, it’s late and his room is dark. We’re lying side by side on his bed, and I’m curled into his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It’s slow, steady, and calming.

  “Thank you,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head.

  I nod, all talked out. Part of me wonders if I should leave, if his parents will be upset that I’m here so late, but I let those thoughts fade away with each thump…thump…thump.

  Above us, the ceiling fan spins, stirring the air so gently, it almost feels like being outside.

  “If you are determined to look into this, I can help you,” he offers.

  Intrigued, I prop myself up on my elbow. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” he says thoughtfully. “You’re thinking that Bianca just got in over her head with a prank, that maybe someone else did the other stuff, right?”

  I nod.

  “What if it’s easier than that? What if she told someone about the prank, or someone found it on her computer, and they decided to jump on board? Maybe she knows who it is. If she told someone about it, who would she tell?”

  I feel the name on my lips like sour candy. “Cassy.”

  “It’s a place to start at least. I say talk to Bianca, make her come clean.” He reaches over, squeezing my hand. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. “I promise.”

  “I should go,” I manage weakly.

  He kisses me on the forehead. “You could stay. My mom’s off visiting my aunt and dad will be stuck on shift till dawn.”

  I groan. The offer is so tempting, much, much too tempting. But I shake my head. “I’m going to go check on Dad, and then I need to get home.” Lowering my head, I kiss him until I’m rethinking my words.

  I make it back to the hospital before two am. Dad’s still sleeping deeply, thanks to whatever’s in his IV. I convince a friendly corpsman to give him a message that I’ve gone home and will be back in the morning.

  The house is dark and still when I step inside, locking the bolt behind me. Overcome with exhaustion, emotional as well as physical, I crawl into my bed, clothes still on, and pass out.

  A loud knock on the front door wakes me just after seven. I drag myself out of bed to find Kayla on the other side of it. Her black hair is streaked with blue, a shiny silver ring in her bottom lip as she greets me with a smile.

  Still only half awake, I reach out and flick the tiny piercing. “Is that real?”

  She slaps my hand away. “Yes. Leave it alone. It still stings.”

  She steps into the hallway, closing the door behind her. I smell something sweet but before I can ask, she holds out a white foam carton, popping the lid open to expose two of the largest, gooiest-looking cinnamon rolls I’ve ever seen.

  “How’s your dad?” she asks, brushing past me and into the kitchen where she scoops the pastries onto paper plates.

  I yawn and scratch my head before answering. “He’s fine. I’m heading over there today to see him. Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  She raises an eyebrow. I must look confused because she steps past me into my living room and switches on the TV. She flips a few channels, settling on one, turns up the volume and motions for me to look.

  “Base schools are closed today in the wake of a devastating plane crash at the new Joint Strike Fighter squadron VMX 195 that resulted in over a dozen confirmed injuries.”

  I stare at the TV, my mouth hanging open. This was not something that made it to the news, especially not before the investigation was over.

  The female news anchor continues. “According to an unnamed source, a suspect is in custody. Due to his age, we cannot release his name at this time, but sources tell News Channel 7 he is a student at Cherry Point High School.”

  Stunned, I turn to Kayla and manage to form one word, “Who?”

  She shifts uncomfortably and sits down, motioning for me to do the same. “The MPs found a bunch of chemicals in the back of Oliver’s truck this morning. They arrested him. I guess someone saw him steal the stuff from the lab at school and called the police with an anonymous tip.”

  I fall into the chair beside her, shaking my head. No. It can’t be Oliver. There is no doubt in my mind now, no moment of hesitation. Just a firm certainty I can’t explain. Part of me wants to scream, to call Kayla a liar and proclaim Oliver’s innocence, but the words stick in my throat. No, something else is going on, I can feel it.

  But can I prove it?

  I shower and dress before Kayla can polish off even one of the cinnamon rolls. As for me, mine sits untouched. My appetite is the last thing on my mind right now. She’s still standing at the counter, hunched over her breakfast, when I come in, tossing my backpack on the kitchen table.

  “What’s up?” she mumbles around a bite.

  I stuff my phone, tablet, and lock-pick set into the empty sack. “Oliver didn’t do this.”

  She frowns, sticking the fork in the remains of her breakfast. “Look, Farris, I know you like this guy, but he’s obviously guilty. I mean, Reid says they found the same chemicals in his truck that set off that explosion last week.”

  “And what about the crash? He was at school when it happened. We all were.”

  “Reid says he probably messed with the plane when he set up the explosion.” She shrugs. “Oliver’s got
major problems, Farris. You know that.”

  Ignoring her comment, I grab my keys. “Where is he? Oliver? Do you know?”

  She wiggles her lip ring with her tongue before answering. “At his house, I think. I did a drive by. There were a bunch of MP jeeps in the driveway. Probably holding him there until Homeland can get someone out here to question him. He’s a minor, so they can’t really just toss him in jail.” She pauses. “Either that, or they’ll take him to the Provost Marshal’s office. It’s in that plaza where the housing office is.”

  I nod, vaguely familiar with the area. Closing the flap on my bag, I sling it over my head and across my body. “You want a ride somewhere?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, purple curls bouncing. “Nah. I’ll walk home.”

  There’s no way this ends well, I realize. Even if I go to them with everything I have, it might not be enough to clear Oliver, of setting the explosion at least. The crash, however, I might be able to shed some light on. Reaching forward in an unexpected rush of emotion, I hug her quickly.

  “Thanks for everything, Kayla.”

  She hugs me back, feeling like a doll in my arms, small, fragile, and in need of protection. “Good luck.”

  First, I drive by Oliver’s house. There are no jeeps at all, though the entire area is taped off in yellow plastic tape, a single MP watching as a tow truck driver loads Oliver’s truck onto the back of a flat bed, so I drive on. As soon as I arrive at the Marshal’s office, I know there’s no way I’m getting in there. I dial Oliver’s phone, but it goes straight to voice mail.

  Knowing I’ll most likely be in a shit load of trouble for this, I park and pull out my tablet. It takes me almost fifteen minutes to hack into the building security cameras. In the grainy black and white, I spot him.

  Oliver sits alone, handcuffed to the wooden arm of the off-white sofa. His hair is tousled, as I’d left it, and deep, dark bags sit under his eyes. He’s slumped forward as far as the cuffs will allow. The rest of the room is empty, but I see a small, rectangular window above his head, steel bars seeming redundant since it’s barely six inches tall, less than a foot across. Still, it’s my best bet.