The Fireproof Girl

by Loretta Lost

  “Could have used someone like you in the field in Afghanistan,” he muses. “Maybe I’d still have a leg. But a mind like yours is too valuable to put at risk.”

  With a small shrug, I continue to look through Cole’s text messages and the hospital footage.

  “And Sophie isn’t your real name,” Zack says slowly. “I was wondering about that, when I saw the letters your brother sent you. He kept calling you ‘Scar’. I thought it was a nickname, like maybe something to do with those scars on your stomach and legs, or how you got them.”

  I look up in annoyance. “There are no scars on my stomach.”

  “You did a really good job of covering them up with those little orange circle tattoos, but a man who’s lost a leg can always see scars beneath ink.”

  Turning away with a frown, I study the computer. “They aren’t circles,” I whisper stubbornly, to no one in particular. “They are dragonballs. They grant wishes.”

  “So what’s your real name?” Zack asks. “Is it Scarlett? That’s a pretty name.”

  “No. Zack, can you please stop asking questions? I’m trying to figure out what happened to my brother. If I had gotten his letters, and gotten to him sooner, maybe none of this would have happened. So please, just shut the hell up.”

  “I want to help,” Zack says, “and I want to know you. Maybe if I had known more about you, I wouldn’t have been so insecure and hidden the letters. At least tell me your name. Should I call you Scarlett?”

  “Sophie is fine. Scarlett wasn’t my real name either. It was just the name I used as a teenager, when Cole met me. I was on the run from someone at the time.”

  Zack leans forward. “Could that person be after you now? Could he be the one that killed Cole?”

  I close my eyes. A little shudder jostles my shoulders at the reminder that Cole was killed. It feels so unreal. I try to push past the emotions.

  “Probably not,” I tell Zack softly. “I don’t know. Let me look.”

  Going to Cole’s recent emails, I search for the word Benjamin. When it gets a few hundred results, I am alarmed, but then I see that the emails are sent to an accountant in his firm named Benjamin. His name is Benjamin Carver, not Benjamin Powell. A bit of relief touches my stomach, until I keep scrolling down and see the word I am so afraid to see.

  Powell.

  There are dozens of emails about a new building commissioned by my ex-father, and Cole responding and being helpful to him. Heat floods my chest, and I am instantly enraged. I see red, and my hands tighten on the laptop.

  “No. No! Why would he do this? Why would he work with this man?”

  “Senator Powell?” Zack asks. “You were on the run from a Senator?”

  “He wasn’t a Senator back then. He was just your average neighborhood child molester.”

  Zack pauses before speaking. “Did Cole not know…?”

  “He knew!” I say, fuming as I open the emails. “He knew everything. And he accepted money from this man! He designed a building for him. How could he do this to me? How could he help someone I consider an enemy?”

  It takes Zack a minute to respond. “Sophie, I hate to say it. But you’re going to have to look at Cole’s letters to better understand what’s been happening these last few months.”

  I glance at my backpack, where I placed the stack of letters Zack gave me before we left. The mere thought of holding those letters in my hands, and seeing Cole’s familiar handwriting makes me want to break down and cry. They are all I have left of him, now, and it doesn’t even matter what he wrote.

  Every word is a reminder that I put distance between us, when I could have had more time with him. Every word is a reminder that he loved me with all his heart, and that his heart is no longer beating. I am not ready. I will turn into an ugly, sopping mess of tears, and the airport people will decide I am too mentally unstable to board the plane.

  “Sophie?”

  “Not now,” I tell him hoarsely. “Not yet. Maybe when we’re in the air.”

  Besides, there’s plenty of additional electronic information I can access until then. My eyes are growing tired from rapidly scanning the computer screen, and I reach into my purse to pull out my black-rimmed glasses. I place them on my face and adjust them on my nose as I continue to hack into every aspect of Cole’s life that left any sort of record. The next step is to examine his financials, bank accounts, and credit card statements.

  I continue this for half an hour, while Zachary sits beside me and looks over my shoulder. It usually drives me crazy when people watch me work, but I am way past the point of caring. Besides, we are in an airport.

  I fiercely hate airports.

  At some point while I was working, our plane must have arrived at the gate, for the previous passengers are all filing out of the plane. I watch them disembark as memories prick the insides of my skull, threatening to take me back to a dark place.

  When I was homeless at age twelve, I spent a lot of time in airports. People would treat me nicely as long as I managed to shower often, clean my clothes, and present myself well. No one could ever tell that I was homeless. All I needed was a nice piece of luggage, and I could sleep in an airport without being bothered. It just looked like I was going somewhere important soon, like everyone else. There was security all around, and bright lights—it was one of the safer places to spend the night.

  I liked to imagine that I actually was going somewhere soon. Somewhere better. I would pretend I had a ticket in my pocket that led to anywhere I could imagine, in this world, or even somewhere fictional. Sometimes, I was headed to an exotic land that I’d read about in the library, where adventures awaited me. Or to the colorful worlds of the children’s television shows I’d seen, and Japanese anime. I was sure that everything would be better if I could only fly to a place where the seven dragonballs would grant me wishes.

  I would wish for a family.

  Most of the time, I would just pretend that I was going home. That I had a home somewhere on the planet, and that people who loved me were there waiting. I would pretend they were worried sick about me, and my whole life was all just one great big misunderstanding.

  Once they found me, they would open their arms to accept me with the warmest, tightest hugs and never let me go again. I would be their cherished daughter, returned at last. We would be normal and happy, and celebrate Christmas together, just like the families on television.

  Obviously, that never happened.

  What really ripped my heart to shreds was when I had the poor judgment of wandering over to the arrivals section of the airport. A few times, I thought I would stand and wait, or sit and read a book while pretending that my family was coming to see me. I had no idea that it would be so excruciating. To be in that room for even a few minutes—to witness all the naked love and emotion so plainly visible on the faces of the families reuniting all around me. It was unbearable.

  In normal settings, families do not display much affection to each other. They spend most of their days together, and they grow numb to the presence of their loved ones. But after a short absence? After a long journey? After being reminded of what your life is like without the people closest to you?

  Everything is visible—everything comes rushing out.

  Tiny children would sprint and bounce into the arms of their mothers or fathers when they returned from a business trip, and cover their faces with kisses. The professional façades of the stiff, suit-wearing parents would instantly dissipate as they became soft human beings embracing their little ones. My heart would ache till it might burst.

  The reverse would also happen. College-aged kids would home to their parents, acting cool and aloof while sporting their sweatpants or piercings and wild hair. They would pretend that their parents calling out their names was embarrassing, and try to act unaffected as their mothers and fathers rushed up to them with excitement.

  But once their parents hugged them, their tough exteriors would fade, if only for a moment—and their f
aces would reveal that those tiny, loving children still existed somewhere inside their fully grown, indifferent bodies.

  I would stand among them all, watching the tender displays of humanity as an outsider.

  Would I always be excluded from this? Would I ever have someone to wait for? Someone to come home to? It seemed unlikely. Would anyone ever be happy to see me? No one had ever cared much, so far.

  Where in the world was my mother, if she was even still alive? I bet she didn’t even remember my existence. Was it her choice to abandon me, or was it something she was forced to do? Did she have some kind of postpartum depression that led her to ditch me? And why on the side of the interstate and not a dumpster or a church doorstep like a respectable infant-abandoner? I might never find out.

  Would I ever have children who loved me? How could I, when I had never seen an example of good parenting? I might not even be healthy enough. I have no parental medical records to know what I might expect out of my future health. Would I experience the same postpartum depression as my mother, and possibly go crazy and abandon my baby, and kill myself?

  No one cares about me. No one even knows where I am. Why shouldn’t I just kill myself right now? Right here, in this airport?

  These were the thoughts that used to plague me, until I was left sitting in a bathroom stall with tears streaming down my face, and seriously considering slitting my wrists. Sometimes, I would cut them a little, as practice, just so I would be tough enough to go through with it someday, when I really decided there was no other choice. For the longest time, I wondered if that day would be tomorrow.

  I used to carry a pocketknife, and carve that word into the bathroom stalls. Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow.

  Maybe I’ll die tomorrow.

  Embarrassingly, I sometimes misspelled the word. It happens when you’re twelve.

  After Cole came into my life, things started to change and get better. I finally had someone to wait for at the airport. I had someone to leave, and someone to come home to. Wherever he was, that was my place in the world. Wherever I was, I kept a mental map of his location and how far apart we were. That’s how far away I was from home.

  And now Cole is gone.

  That old familiar ache starts seeping back into my heart as I watch the people leaving the plane, and I imagine that many of them are headed to greet their waiting families. The ones that aren’t are probably texting their families back home and saying that they arrived safely, miss them already, and will be home soon.

  I’m on the outside again.

  For a few years, I knew what it was like to be a human being, and to be loved. To feel love. To feel sad about being away from someone, and longing to be close. Now, I’m all alone. Now I’ve lost the only person who ever gave a damn about me. As I study the weary faces of the plane passengers, I know that some of them must also feel unhappy and unloved.

  Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe loss is a more common human experience than love. It certainly seems more common to lose love than it is to keep it, once obtained.

  I feel the weight of a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I am startled.

  Zachary is staring down at me with concern. “Are you okay? You look like you’re a million miles away.”

  He does know me quite well. I forgot he was here for a few minutes, but knowing that he is gives me some comfort. As much as I can’t stand Zack right now, and feel upset at myself for letting him come with me, I suppose it’s better than being here by myself. I hate sitting and waiting in airports. It gives me way too much time to think. I don’t like to be reminded of those hard times when I was young, before Cole. I don’t like being reminded that I am now about to enter more hard times, after Cole.

  “How did you get so good at hacking?” Zack asks me, trying to distract me from my thoughts.

  Shutting the laptop’s lid with a sigh, I look up at the clock. “We’ll be boarding in a few minutes, Zack. We don’t have to make small talk.”

  “I have found out more about you in the last hour than I have from months of living with you and sleeping beside you. It’s not small talk to discover that I don’t know my girlfriend’s real name, real job, or real… anything.”

  “It doesn’t excuse what you did. Also, I’m your ex-girlfriend.”

  “I am not making excuses, Soph. I’m just trying to take advantage of this rare opportunity to get to know you. So talk to me.”

  The second hand moves slowly on the airport clock. I watch it closely, as though I can will it to move faster.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Sadly, telekinesis is still not one of my talents. Trust me—I’ve tried.

  Zachary nudges my knee with his own. “Why hacking?”

  My shoulders lift ever-so-slightly in a shrug. “I just wanted to find my parents.”

  “Ah. You searched on the internet a lot?”

  “Yeah. I was obsessed with trying to find them, from my earliest childhood. I tried everything. When I first discovered the internet, my mind was blown with the idea that I could reach any part of the world in seconds. I thought that I would be able to find them for sure, wherever they were, if I just looked hard enough.”

  “Did you ever get close?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sophie.”

  “No biggie.” I give him a little self-deprecating smile. “I can crack almost any code, shut all the lights off in entire cities, hijack satellites to do my bidding, rob banks in my pajamas while eating ice cream—but I can’t find my goddamned parents.”

  Zack leans over to place his arms around me again, and I don’t stop him. I just stare at the clock.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  “Now boarding first-class passengers for flight 7033 to Los Angeles.”

  “That’s us,” I say, stuffing the laptop into my backpack and standing up. I feel a little bit of nausea in my stomach, because I know that once I’m seated on that plane, it will be time to read Cole’s letters.

  I’m not ready.

  Once I finish reading them, I will never receive another letter from my brother again. I wish they could remain unopened forever, so I could keep myself in anticipation. I could keep him alive. At least in my mind. It would be like knowing I was going to receive a phone call from him, or have him show up on my doorstep for a visit. It would be like knowing he was going to reach out to me, and share something personal again.

  It would be pretending. Like I always did when I was younger. Pretending things aren’t as bad as they really are so that I can get through the day, and make it to tomorrow.

  As we move to stand in line to board the plane, I place my hand on the side of my abdomen, where my scars are sitting beneath my shirt, covered in little orange tattoos.

  I could really use a wish right now.

  Scarlett didn’t come home today.

  I’ve just discovered that when your teenaged sister’s whereabouts are unknown, it is impossible to keep from freaking out. It’s almost midnight. 11:57 PM. On a school night. The Browns haven’t noticed, or they fail to care.

  Scarlett said she was staying at school late to work on a project, but I expected her home hours ago. Where is she? I have been unable to study. Unable to relax or watch TV. Unable to draw. I have been compulsively pacing the halls, checking her room, and running downstairs to see if she’s approaching the house.

  My worst fear is that she has run away.

  What if I never see her again?

  It’s almost too painful to think about. Would she do that? Without telling me? Why? I’ve been sleeping in her room every night, and Mr. Brown hasn’t harmed her again—not since he broke her laptop. We spoke to the Browns, and threatened to report them if it happened again, or to leave. Mr. Brown agreed to watch his drinking, and he apologized for destroying the computer. He said he couldn’t afford to replace it, but that he would try to spend less money on cigarettes and booze, and more on
things we actually need.

  There has been some mild improvement in the state of affairs around the house. Not a huge improvement, but we’ve mostly been left alone, and it has been tolerable. At least, I thought it was tolerable. I have no idea how Scarlett really feels, as she is very guarded and quiet most of the time.

  What if Benjamin found her? Part of me wants to call the police and report her missing, but if the Browns get accused of neglect, then we could be separated. That would defeat the purpose of trying to make this work.

  What could be keeping her so late? She doesn’t have any friends—at least, none that she has ever mentioned to me. She could be hanging out with some guy. The thought makes me a little sick. She’s only fourteen, but she is very mature for her age. She is quite beautiful, and probably gets a lot of male attention. I feel a surge of anger that some punk could be keeping her out until midnight. I am not sure if it is brotherly instinct, but I am mentally rolling up my sleeves in preparation to kick his hypothetical ass.

  The truth is that a boyfriend would be the least of my worries. Scarlett has been homeless for quite some time. She could be getting into trouble with some of the street kids she used to know. Thugs. Thieves. Drug dealers? Could she be doing drugs? Scarlett wouldn’t do that, would she? She is way too smart.

  Images rush to my mind of the skin on her pale arms, and the tiny scars on the insides of her elbow and her wrists. I grind my teeth together tightly. The scars looked self-inflicted, but I never asked her about them. I didn’t want to bring up something that might make her sad or upset. What if those scars are connected to drug use? Track marks from needles? I swallow a painful lump in my throat. What if she has a contact who can supply her with meth or cocaine? She never mentioned any of this to me, but I can imagine how rough her life was after she escaped from Benjamin Powell.

  I briefly lived on the streets, too, and I know how this works. I know how kids with shit lives are often desperate to escape their pain. It’s easy for a girl to acquire drugs, even if she has no money. All she needs is her body, to trade for them. After Scarlett’s experiences with Benjamin, it might not seem like such a painful price to pay. She was willing to let Mr. Brown keep hurting her just so she wouldn’t have to change schools and start over. She must be used to sacrificing her dignity in exchange for comfort and security. But drugs aren’t comfort—they are pleasure.