Tasting Fire

by Kelsey Browning

  A smiley face superball.

  A slap bracelet.

  A mini Rubik’s cube that wouldn’t turn.

  A rubber worm.

  A pencil sharpener.

  Once they were lined up in the center of the table, Cash couldn’t contain his smile. Every one of those prizes had come out of a quarter candy machine that was still just inside Hoffman’s.

  “You kept that crap all these years?” he asked Emmy.

  “Regardless of what you might’ve thought, Cash, I remembered and cherished everything you gave me.”

  Her words brought a feeling to his throat that he wasn’t eager to let loose in front of his whole family. Because it felt a whole lot like tears. He grabbed Emmy’s hand and his dessert and stood. “We need a few minutes.”

  “But we haven’t voted,” Maggie protested.

  “You know who has mine,” Cash said as he urged Emmy toward the kitchen where he’d be able to hustle her out the back door.

  “You shouldn’t get to vote for someone you’re sleeping with.”

  Cash heard his mom say, “I guess that means I can’t choose your dad’s roasted chicken.”

  It wasn’t until he had Emmy outside that he realized she didn’t have a cheesecake. “What about yours?”

  “I think you got the picture.”

  “Emmy, this game we’ve got going, I—”

  She held up a hand. “It’s not over yet. Let’s talk about it then.”

  “No one’s ever done anything like this for me. Why?”

  “Because I want everyone in this town to know how I feel about you.”

  “Em—”

  She wove her fingers into his hair and pulled him in. The kiss wasn’t nearly as sweet as what he anticipated the cheesecake to be. It was hot and hard and full of so much honesty that those tears in Cash’s throat climbed into his eyes. When she finally let him come up for air, the expression on Emmy’s face could only be described as fierce. “I love you, Cash Kingston.”

  “Then tell me this is going to work this time—you and me.” He hated that he still needed her reassurance, but old thought patterns were stubborn that way.

  “Nothing and no one is going to stop us.”

  30

  Career day at Steele Ridge High School.

  Carrying a bag with a defibrillator and an intubation kit, Emmy entered the school’s vestibule. A door on the right had a sign on it that said “SRISD staff only,” so she pushed through a set of glass doors to enter the lobby. Immediately in front of her was a security guard and metal detector.

  It made Emmy sad, but more and more schools were installing them.

  She chatted with the guard as he looked through her bag and waved her through the detector.

  When she’d been a student here, there hadn’t been any security, and it had been named Canyon Ridge, but not much else had changed. Someone had slapped on a clean coat of paint the color of bleached-out bones, but the floors were still covered with mottled industrial tiles that probably contained asbestos. She was surprised Jonah Steele hadn’t created a grant that would allow for a complete renovation.

  Above the lobby, student-produced artwork hung from fishing line. Pictures of the French and Mexican armies in battle and quilted Mexican flags swayed in the breeze from the doors opening and closing. Looked like the art department was doing a unit on Cinco de Mayo.

  Just ahead were the doors to the main auditorium, but Emmy hooked a right to enter the main office through the visitor entrance. A receptionist sat behind a chest-high wraparound desk. The phones were silent, but she was tapping away at her computer like a demon.

  While she was otherwise occupied, Emmy wrote her name, reason for visiting, and the current time on a sign-in sheet secured to a clipboard. Finally, the receptionist paused and looked up at her. “You would think silent phones are a good thing, but some of these parents start e-mailing at two in the morning. At least fifty of them by the time I walk in each morning.”

  “I’m… sorry?”

  “And some of them come from accounts like jacob rules at gmail dot com. Then they only mention that Jake is sick and will be out today. Do you know how many Jakes are in this high school?”

  “A lot?”

  “Eleven.”

  Wow. Note to self: Scratch Jacob from future baby names.

  “I’m Emmy McKay, and I’m here to participate in career day.”

  The receptionist looked up at the round-faced clock on the wall. “Hm… Career day?”

  “I’m supposed to meet Mrs. Southerland.” Emmy had been surprised that she’d extended the invitation, but pleased because she wanted to mend fences with the woman for Cash’s sake.

  “She just stepped out a few minutes ago, but you can probably find her in the auditorium.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “Hey, hang on. You need a guest badge. Stand right there.”

  The receptionist quickly snapped a picture with her cell phone and clicked a couple of keys on her computer. Seconds later, a piece of paper rolled off the printer. She cut it down and slipped it inside a plastic name badge attached to a lanyard. She passed it to Emmy. “Now you’re all set.”

  “You’re going to be a busy woman today.”

  “If it’s a school day, then I’m busy today.” But she smiled when she said it, showing Emmy that as nutty as it was to work in the school office, she obviously loved it. “Just bring that back and sign out before you leave.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Outside the office, the scent of chicken-fried steak and green beans came wafting from the cafeteria.

  Chicken-fried steak and sweaty sneakers. Those smells definitely took Emmy back to the days when she and Cash were students here. Of course, he’d been one of the popular crowd. She, on the other hand, had been voted most likely to be buried alive under a pile of books.

  And yet he’d seen her as something more than a smart nerd. He’d seen the Emmy McKay who wanted to be liked. Who wanted to be kissed.

  For weeks after they started dating, girls from the cheerleading squad had quietly stalked Emmy and fueled her doubts about a girl like her snagging a guy like Cash Kingston. They’d said things like “You know you’re a charity case, right?” and “He’s just using you to pass his classes so he can play football,” and “Cash will nail anything in panties.”

  Once, he’d caught her fleeing the girls’ bathroom in tears and asked why she looked like she was being chased by a pack of hyenas. She shook her head and tried to pull away, but when Mandy Bledsoe and her mean girl posse strolled out with self-satisfied expressions on their faces, the one on Cash’s had turned thundercloud. He’d informed the trio of cheerleaders that if they came near his girlfriend again, he’d made sure their sponsor knew exactly what they got up to on the weekends.

  Huh. Maybe he’d always had a little hardball in him. She just hadn’t seen it because he was so damn affable. So likable.

  Emmy walked into the auditorium and found it dark. “Mrs. Southerland,” she called out. “It’s Emmy McKay. I’m a little early, but—”

  “I’m backstage. Come up the side stairs.” Mrs. Southerland’s words projected all the way to the back of the room.

  Trying to blink away the lack of light without success, Emmy groped the backs of the chairs to find the center aisle and navigate down it. By the time she made it to the stage, she could see slightly better, but when she took the stairs, she missed one and knocked her shin against a riser and almost lost her grip on her bag. Ow, dammit.

  A faint light came from the right wing and she followed it. Mrs. Southerland was sitting at a battered metal desk flipping through a stapled packet of papers. As soon as she spotted Emmy, she let the pages drop and turned over the stack. “Great. You’re here. We can get started.”

  “Um…Won’t other people be presenting today, too?” Something seemed off here. The receptionist’s not remembering about career day, the dark auditorium, and Mrs. Southerland’s bright cheer.


  “We have to do some things before the main event, Emmy.”

  She was happy to help set up if that’s what Mrs. Southerland needed, but why hadn’t she just asked? “If we can get some light on the stage, then I can move a podium and some chairs.”

  “Actually, I planned some classroom stops. You know, more intimate discussions.”

  Emmy had only budgeted an hour and a half for this event, but it looked as if it might stretch on all morning so she needed to contact work. “Let me just text the ER so they know not to expect me for a while.”

  While Emmy worked her phone, Mrs. Southerland hunched over her packet of papers again, nodding and mumbling to herself.

  “All set,” Emmy said after receiving a confirmation text that another doctor would cover for her until she could make it in to work.

  Mrs. Southerland held out her hand. “I’ll need that. Phones aren’t allowed outside the office.”

  Strange that the receptionist hadn’t mentioned that. Seemed more like a rule that should apply to students, not adults. “I need to keep it on me in case I get a call-out.”

  “Aren’t there other tac team members on call? The students really will benefit from your undivided attention. And it’ll only be an hour or so.”

  Reluctantly, Emmy handed over her phone, and Mrs. Southerland shoved it and the papers into a drawer and locked it. Then she picked up a messenger bag slung on the chair back and pulled the strap over her head. “I think the students are going to remember today for a long time. I know I’ve been excited about it since you returned to Steele Ridge.”

  Possible proof that the town needed better and more varied entertainment options. Then again, it was so important for kids from small towns to understand that their career opportunities weren’t limited to just what was in front of them. Bringing the bigger world here, she might inspire kids to become doctors, engineers, and so many other things.

  Mrs. Southerland opened a door leading from backstage to the hallway. “We’ll start in the band hall.”

  Emmy would’ve expected social studies or science classes, but maybe the school had decided interrupting electives was a better use of students’ school day.

  The band hall, like the school’s entrance, was accessed through two sets of double doors, probably to keep sound from bleeding out and disturbing other classrooms. Emmy was reaching for the interior door handle into the room where students were practicing an instrumental rendition of Pitbull’s “Timber” when Mrs. Southerland latched on to her elbow.

  “Stop,” she ordered.

  “Oh, you’re right,” Emmy said. “We should probably wait until they’re done playing.”

  Mrs. Southerland flipped open the flap of her messenger bag and to Emmy’s stupefaction, she pulled out a large revolver.

  “Wha… What are you doing?” Her breath coming in shallow puffs, Emmy sidestepped, trying to edge her way to the exit doors, but Mrs. Southerland lifted the big gun.

  “Sweetheart, for once in your life, would you please get with my program instead of being an uppity little bitch?” She said it with a sweetness that should’ve been used with a question like “Sweetheart, would you like help with your college application?”

  Keep your cool, Emmy. Whatever is happening here needs to stay away from the students.

  “Why don’t we just step out in the hallway and—”

  “You always did think you knew better than me. An eighteen-year-old girl. Ridiculous. I thought Cash was smarter than to be swayed by a moderately pretty face, but there’s no rhyme or reason for a man’s taste. They all think with their pricks, no matter that I try to teach them better.”

  “You know, I’d like to know more about that.” Emmy kept her voice level. Seek to understand, show respect, and keep your delivery calm. Classic negotiation tactics.

  The SWAT team negotiator would be so proud of her. But under her lab coat, she was sweating like an iced tea glass on a hundred-degree day. “Why don’t we go somewhere we can sit down and discuss—”

  The band’s song cut with a long wailing note from a trumpet, and Mrs. Southerland ordered, “Get in there. If you don’t, I’ll go by myself.” She patted her messenger bag. “And I have enough bullets in here to put at least one in each person in that room.”

  Maybe if she could edge out of Mrs. Southerland’s line of sight, she might be able to get behind her and…

  “Sweetheart, don’t even think about it. You may have done well on the SAT, but I’m far smarter and better prepared,” Mrs. Southerland said cheerfully and gestured to the door with the barrel of her gun. “Now, get inside.”

  Emmy tried just opening the door a crack and poking her head in to warn those inside, but Mrs. Southerland pushed her from behind and she stumbled into the room.

  “Everyone get down,” Emmy shouted. “Hide if you can.”

  Of course, the kids—many of them with braces-filled mouths—just stood there staring at her with who-the-fuck-are-you stares. Then a girl squealed. “OMG. There’s a gun. Like, get down.”

  Most of the students dove for cover as did the middle-aged band director, but one boy, his trumpet under his arm, stayed in plain sight and held up his phone to video the event. For crap’s sake, he was probably Snapchatting the whole thing.

  Next time Emmy stepped inside this high school, she wouldn’t be coming for career day. She’d be facilitating an active shooter drill.

  She made frantic shooing motions at the boy. When he peeked up over the phone, she pantomimed the universal thumb to ear pinky to mouth gesture and mouthed 911.

  “Everyone drop your phones and push them to the middle of the room,” Mrs. Southerland said and pointed at the trumpet boy. “You first, fatty.” Then she turned to Emmy and asked, “Which one?”

  “Which one, what?”

  “Which one should I kill?”

  “How about none of them?”

  Mrs. Southerland laughed, and it was the kind of sound that electrified hair and weakened the bladder. “Oh no, that is not the plan. And I know how much you like to stay on plan, Emmy McKay.”

  “My plan doesn’t include anyone in this room dying.”

  “Good thing we’re going by mine, then.” Mrs. Southerland’s attention swung to the left where the band director had been belly-crawling his way to what looked like an office. He looked up and froze. “He’ll have to do.”

  One second he was simply a middle-aged man who was losing his hair. The next, he was losing one side of his head.

  Emmy didn’t have to hold two fingers to his pulse to know he was dead. Her stomach pitched at the horror of it.

  She’d like to believe someone had heard the gunshot, but this room was designed to keep in sound.

  “Pick them up,” Mrs. Southerland yelled at Emmy over the sound of students calling out and crying.

  “What?”

  “The phones.” She gestured erratically with the gun. “Pick them up and lock them all in the office. And don’t make any heroic SWAT moves because I’ll have this gun pointed at a student’s head the whole time.”

  Emmy walked slowly—anything to buy more time—to the center of the room, bent over, and scooped phones up in her arms. She deliberately let two fall to the floor with a clatter to cover the noise of her kicking one back to the video boy.

  Please be paying attention, kid.

  The boy caught the phone and slid it under his chest with a barely perceptible nod.

  Okay, good. She’d accomplished something. How the boy would call the police without Mrs. Southerland hearing, she didn’t know.

  Please be smart, kid.

  “Stop dilly-dallying,” Mrs. Southerland said. “Get those phones in the office now.”

  “It’s hard to keep a hold on all of them. If you’ll let me grab a backpack—”

  “Use the pockets of your lab jacket.”

  Why hadn’t she thought of that? Probably because she was trying to fumble the phones.

  Now, she slid a few in each side and her fi
ngers skimmed metal. Her stethoscope. Not entirely certain why that made her feel calmer and more in control, Emmy turned in the direction of the band director’s office, forced to step over his prone body as she did.

  I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.

  But now that she knew the rules to Mrs. Southerland’s sick game, she would save the children in this school.

  Even if it killed her.

  * * *

  Cash’s phone went off with his ultra-loud SWAT text tone.

  My God, this is completely out of control.

  He pulled it out and read it. Active shooter reported at Steele Ridge High School. One confirmed fatality. Rally point in the middle-school parking lot.

  Cash’s lungs felt as if they were trying to climb up his throat. Emmy was headed to the school this morning for some career deal. She was in there with no backup.

  His hands were actually shaking when he got on the radio. “Kingston on SWAT One. Unconfirmed, but Dr. McKay is supposed to be at the high school today.”

  “Someone find out if Emerson McKay is inside that building,” the captain demanded.

  Cash called Emmy, but her phone went to voice mail after three rings. That doesn’t mean anything. She could still be at the hospital, busy with a patient.

  He punched in a quick text: Where r u?

  No return text.

  Before hauling ass out the door, he ran back to his bedroom and grabbed the little prize Emmy had hidden inside his cheesecake. Somehow, if he had it with him, he felt luck would be with them both.

  Exactly how a miniscule pack of playing cards could do that, he wasn’t sure. But by some fluke, the deck was entirely filled with the suit of hearts.

  That had to mean something.

  On his way to the middle school, Cash listened to everyone else check in on the encrypted radio channel. He had nothing to add to the report and he definitely didn’t want to miss a detail on Emmy’s whereabouts.

  “The school is on lockdown protocol, but we were able to confirm that Dr. McKay signed in at the office at 0913.”

  When Cash parked his truck in the school lot and jogged up to the tac team members already congregated, the captain waved him into the circle. “Kingston, you’ll sit this one out.”