Watch You Burn

by Amanda Searcy

  Ro laughs. “When the bell rings, it looks like all the bees leaving the hive.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  Ro picks up a bottle of perfume, gives herself a squirt, and puts it down again. “There’s a dollar store near there.” She lifts the framed photo of Mom and Hailey.

  “That’s my mom and my little sister. Half sister.”

  She sets the photo down. “If you have a mom and a sister, why’d you come here?”

  Her question makes me want to confess—partially confess, that is. I want to tell her about my fear that Hailey will die in a fire. About Ohio. About the arson investigation. About Brian. Instead, I shrug. “I just wanted to come live with my dad.”

  “Huh” is Ro’s response.

  She shimmies out of her red jacket. Underneath, she’s wearing only a T-shirt. She must be freezing. If she lives in the neighborhood behind the motel, she can’t have much money. Maybe what she’s wearing is all she has.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask with too much enthusiasm. Ro pulls into herself. I pushed too far. She knows I feel sorry for her.

  She grabs her jacket. “I have stuff to do.” She opens the door, takes a quick look at the construction crew, and leaves without turning back.

  * * *

  —

  I’m being paranoid. The rhythmic crunch I hear outside isn’t footsteps. I’m just shaky from being watched in the trees. From Suds knowing too much about me.

  A single spark.

  The sound stops outside my window, feet from where I lie.

  The naked bulb hanging over the sidewalk projects the outline of a man onto my curtains. He shuffles forward to place the sides of both palms on the window.

  I freeze, but he must hear the pounding of my heart. He leans into his hands to shield his face from the light. His nose presses against the glass.

  My phone is on the nightstand. I should call Dad or the police. The fence is supposed to keep everyone out. No one should be here.

  Unless they found the hole.

  I wrap my fingers around my phone. Do I risk it? It could be Suds, or it could be the person in the trees. He could have been watching me the night I snuck out. He could know what I get up to in the dark.

  The figure brings his hand to the dark space where his mouth is. A waft of cigarette smoke finds its way through a vent or a hidden crack in the wall.

  It’s got to be Suds again. Tomorrow I’ll find a cigarette stub on the sidewalk.

  If I call the police, he could tell them every single detail of what I did.

  They wouldn’t believe him, I remind myself. Besides, I’m good. I don’t leave any evidence. Even if the cops got suspicious, there’s nothing to tie me to the fire in the cottonwoods.

  I swipe my phone on. I’m calling the cops and ending this right now.

  Maybe Suds sees the light coming from inside my room. He steps back from the window and moves beyond the reach of the bulb over the sidewalk.

  I stand up, creep over to the curtains, and slowly lift them. I can’t see anyone out there.

  Maybe the whole thing was my imagination.

  I put the phone back on the nightstand. I can’t call the cops to an empty parking lot.

  I crawl into my bed and try to go back to sleep, but my heart won’t calm down. Every noise, real or imagined, sends my eyes back to the window. I know Suds was there. I didn’t make that up.

  Did I?

  Sweat forms on the back of my neck. My hands grip the duvet and wrap it around me like a life jacket—like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat.

  I can’t take it anymore.

  I grab the sleeping pills off the nightstand and pop one into my mouth, swallowing it dry.

  Then I wait for sweet sleep to overtake me.

  The alarm on my phone goes off. I slap at the nightstand for it, but it isn’t there. I must have knocked it onto the floor sometime during the night.

  My head is fuzzy from the pill and it’s the first day of school. Great.

  I stumble out of bed and into the bathroom. A scary sight greets me in the mirror. I look like hell. Bloodshot eyes peer out of my puffy red face. My scar has new, fresh scratches raked through it. The nails on my right hand are ragged.

  I need coffee now, or I’ll never make it to school.

  Outside, I look down at the sidewalk, but it takes my mind two clicks to catch up to what I’m seeing.

  Nothing.

  The sidewalk is clean. No cigarette butt. I scan the parking lot and trace a path to the condemned rooms.

  Was it all in my head? Is my scar not enough? Is my mind now conjuring up smoking, hooded figures to further torture me?

  Dad and Monica both look up when I walk into the office. I turn my back to them and focus on the counter. Cam’s blue-coated figure looms by the window.

  “Cam will take you to school when you’re ready, Jenny,” Monica says.

  He points over his shoulder. “I have to run an errand, but I’ll be back by then.” He steps out, and the door closes behind him.

  I don’t want to ride with Cam. I need some time to think. Think without having my every movement examined.

  “Can’t you take me to school? It’s my first day,” I ask Dad. “Or I can find a bus. Or walk.”

  Dad looks like he’s about to give in. Then Monica pipes up again. “We’ve got that early meeting, remember?”

  “Sorry, Jenny. We’ll do something else for the first day of school. Maybe we can go get ice cream after dinner. Okay?”

  I’ve lost this one. I’m riding with Cam.

  * * *

  —

  When the truck pulls up, I’m standing in the parking lot outside my room, looking like a giant bumblebee in my Riverline Prep uniform and holding a messenger bag full of school supplies I collected from Henderson’s.

  Cam isn’t alone.

  A guy sits in the passenger seat. He’s wearing a hoodie—hood up. I step back onto the sidewalk.

  The passenger-side door opens. The guy steps out. When the sun hits his face, I see a lock of black hair flopping down over his forehead. His high cheekbones draw attention to his brown eyes. He smiles. His front teeth are crooked—but just enough to add extra charm to his smile.

  He looks completely nonthreatening.

  But that’s what dangerous people want you to think.

  I should know.

  Cam’s window rolls down. “Are you coming?”

  Monica is watching us from the office window. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. The guy in the hoodie glances around like he’s nervous. “We should go,” he says. I don’t move. He reads the look on my face. “I’m Ben. Cam’s cousin? This is my uncle’s project.”

  The boss’s nephew. This just keeps getting better. I have to get in the truck.

  I move forward. Ben steps to the side to let me pass. I’ll be sitting in the middle seat. Between them.

  Emergency exits: none.

  I slide into the truck.

  As soon as Ben shuts the door, Cam throws the truck into reverse, and we peel out from the parking lot, throwing up little rocks. Ben sinks down into his seat, head dipped low under his hood. I keep my arms in my lap, gripping my bag so that I don’t touch either one of them.

  As we’re pulling past the gate, a shiny black BMW is pulling in. Ben sucks in a breath and turns to look out the window. Cam gives the car a curt wave.

  Once we’re on the street, Ben relaxes and flips off his hood. Cam yawns and reaches for his travel mug of coffee. His hand accidentally brushes my knee. My whole body tenses.

  Ben gives Cam a half smile. “You’ve got to start sleeping. You can’t keep staying up all night forever.”

  Cam ignores him. I pull my arms in even closer to me. Cam stays up all night?

  Ben gi
ves me a whole smile. It lights up his face. “How’s it going? I bet it’s really different here than in Ohio.”

  “Yeah. No snow.”

  Ben laughs.

  We drive into the closest thing that Las Piedras has to a downtown—a strange collection of mismatched buildings and mismatched people. Workers slog in from outer parking lots. Men wrapped in scraps of blankets are gathered in front of the still-closed library.

  A hundred bumblebees descend on a repurposed, two-story historic building in the middle of a chunky cement office block. Because of Riverline Prep’s “super college preparatory curriculum,” we start earlier in the morning and end later in the afternoon than public school.

  “I do not miss the uniform,” Ben says.

  “You went here?” I ask. I wouldn’t have thought he was much older than me—not as old as Cam.

  “For a while,” he says, and continues gazing out the window. He looks back at me. “Cam graduated from here.”

  Cam’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.

  I really, really want to get out of this truck.

  We pull up to the curb. Ben slides out.

  “Thanks,” I say to Cam—but only to keep up the charade of politeness. He blinks hard and opens his eyes overly wide, like he’s fighting to stay conscious. I point back in the direction of the Los Ranchitos. “I can walk home now that I’ve seen the way.”

  “I’m supposed to pick you up,” he says to the air in front of him.

  “Dad will be okay with me walking home.”

  “I’ll be here after school,” he says forcefully.

  His tone knocks me back. How am I going to get out of this? I can’t keep riding around with him.

  I get out of the truck and stand next to Ben. Across the street, a girl in a uniform stops midstep. Ben waves to her. She raises her hand tentatively and gives a small wave back.

  “Have a nice day,” Ben says, smile wide. Eyes twinkling.

  “Thanks.”

  The truck drives away, and I’m faced with Riverline Prep. My new school. My new fancy private school.

  My scar starts to itch. I hold my hand over it, take a deep breath, and let go as I approach the security guard at the front door.

  “Um, hi. I’m new here. This is my first day.” I reach into my bag, ready to produce my Ohio driver’s license. The guard glances up, eyes my bee uniform, and goes back to reading his paper without saying anything. “Thanks?” How secure is this school if they let in anyone wearing preppy yellow-and-black plaid, no questions asked?

  Mom picked this school because of its academic program. Brian liked the idea of a security guard. I don’t think Dad got any say in the matter.

  I step inside and walk down the main hallway, which is lined with doorways edged in carved wooden decorations. The front office has carpet and paintings on the walls, but otherwise, the building is scuffed linoleum and rooms of desks and whiteboards like any other school.

  Mom already registered me and had my schedule and locker number waiting at the Los Ranchitos. The school has only a couple hundred students, and it’s not hard to find my first class. I go in and stand in the back corner. It’s the start of the second semester. Everyone will already have their desks, their cliques, and their favorite lunch spots. I know better than to get in the middle of that.

  I wait until the class is full. I get some disinterested glances, but in general, I’m ignored. When the teacher comes in, she jumps, like I’ve materialized out of thin air.

  She has wild, curly hair that she makes no attempt to contain. Her peasant skirt and a long blouse are cinched at the waist with a silver concho belt. She walks over to me.

  “You must be our new Jenny. I’m Teresa, your homeroom teacher and general guide to school life.” She laughs and sticks out her hand. I shake it. I’ve never called a teacher by their first name before. I didn’t even know that was a thing.

  She points toward an empty desk, and I sit down. The boy in front of me turns around and smiles. The girl sitting next to him has sleek blond hair, dark eyeliner, and pink lipstick. She’s wearing the same uniform as the rest of us, but she, instead of looking like a frumpy bumblebee, looks like the uniform was made for her. It hugs all her curves.

  The blonde sees the boy smile. She eyes me up and down. Her bright pink top lip rises in disgust. I have to force my hand to stay on the desk and not reach for my scar.

  Teresa claps at the front of the room. I steel myself to stand up and give the speech I’ve memorized about where I’m from and why I’m here, but the order doesn’t come. Teresa never glances back at me. I blend into the sea of yellow and black. I’ve become interchangeable with anyone else.

  Emergency exit: the classroom door.

  “Welcome back!” Teresa says. Her enthusiasm isn’t contagious. “I hope you had a great holiday and are ready to work again.” No one answers, but Teresa isn’t daunted. “It’s second semester of junior year. You know what that means.” A couple of moans echo through the classroom. I sit up straighter. I have no idea what that means.

  Teresa produces a box of clipboards from under her desk. “Service-learning time!”

  I vaguely remember Mom mentioning something about the school requiring a service project for all juniors, but at the time the words were meaningless. I had much bigger things for my mind to chew around and around.

  “These are the projects.” Teresa taps the clipboards. “But”—she pulled them back, as if someone had reached for one—“they won’t be posted until the last bell this afternoon. That way everyone will have an equal chance to sign up.” She Cheshire Cat grins. “We have a new project this year. One that’s close to my heart. I think you’re going to like it.”

  * * *

  —

  None of my other classes are like Teresa’s. All the other teachers are Mr. and Ms. My math teacher is about 120 years old and insists on writing on an old-fashioned chalkboard that he smacks with a yardstick to get the class’s attention.

  When the last bell rings, I’ve almost forgotten about the service projects. A line has formed in the hallway. All my teachers walk up and down the corridor, keeping order. I stuff my bag into my locker and jump into the line. If there’s this much fuss about the sign-up, there must be some bad projects.

  Teresa makes a big production out of hanging each clipboard on the wall. I can’t see what the projects are from my spot, but I can see that there are only a few slots under each one.

  The line starts to move. None of the students in front of me have to stop and read. They must have known in advance about the good ones.

  When it’s my turn, I feel the line pressing behind me. I don’t have time to examine all the clipboards. The one in front of my face has a single slot left. In bold writing on the top it says Community Garden.

  I don’t have a pen. Everyone else has one ready to go. If I leave to go back to my locker, I’ll lose my spot. The line stretches out of sight. By the time I get back to the clipboards, what’s left will be whatever no one else wants.

  My feet dance back and forth. Teresa looks concerned.

  “Here.” A pen appears over my shoulder. It’s being held out by a girl who’s about my height, but with mousey brown hair half covering her face, and enormous round, unflattering glasses. Her uniform hangs on her like a sack. She’s the girl Ben waved to this morning.

  I take the pen, scribble my name on the community garden sheet, and hand it back to her. I smile, but she’s too focused on the clipboards to notice.

  Several people back in line, the girl from my homeroom—the pink-lipped blonde—glares at me as I walk by.

  Cam’s truck isn’t parked outside the school. Before I get my hopes up that he didn’t show, I walk around the block to check. He’s not here.

  I pull out my phone and find a bus that’s part of the meager public transportat
ion system here.

  The bus drops me off in front of Henderson’s. I’m surprised to see Ro walking through the parking lot toward me.

  When she sees me, she breaks into a smile and waves. “Hi, Jenny.” I wave back.

  “Where’s that dude who drives you around?” she asks.

  “He didn’t show after school.” Venom leaks out in my tone. Mostly I’m relieved that I didn’t have to ride with him, but a little part of me is pissed off. He’s taking Dad’s money without working for it.

  Ro puts a finger to her chin in a thinking gesture. “Hmm…I bet I know where he is.”

  “You do?”

  “Come with me,” she demands, and marches toward the Los Ranchitos.

  I follow her but then stop. Suds has found an old fold-up lawn chair. He’s planted in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the motel, with numerous cardboard signs propped up around him. They all say horrible things about Dad’s company.

  A car goes by and honks at him. He gives it the finger and yells, “Fuck you!”

  Ro keeps going.

  “Wait.” I try to hold her back. “I don’t want him to see us.”

  Too late. He struggles to his feet and waves. “Hello, pretty ladies.”

  “Hello, pervert,” Ro calls back.

  “Ro,” I mutter under my breath. I grab her arm and pull.

  “Don’t leave, pretty ladies.” Suds takes a step toward us and looks straight at me. “Do you like your fancy room? I bet your bed’s real comfy.” He laughs.

  I freeze in place. Maybe he really was outside my room last night. He just didn’t leave a cigarette butt this time.

  Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.

  Ro looks like she’s gearing up for another comeback. I pull her arm hard. We have to get out of here, away from Suds.

  I dash back across the street toward the strip mall. Ro follows without complaint. “Maybe we can wait in the drugstore or something?”

  “Do you want to come to my house?” Ro asks.

  I see her shiver under her thin jacket. She should be inside. “Okay,” I say, and follow her into the neighborhood behind the strip mall.