Fireworks

by Sarina Bowen

  “You have a room to yourself, Skylar.” Mom tucks her keys and a pack of cigarettes into her purse. “You have a roof over your head. Don't complain. And don't use my phone anymore. I don’t have enough minutes.”

  “I was only calling Aunt Jenny.”

  Her mother sniffs at the sound of her only sister's name. They don't get along, which Skye doesn't understand. She'd kill for a real sister—for someone else who understood her. Skye calls Aunt Jenny when she’s feeling low. And Aunt Jenny always reassures her.

  “She said I could live with her if he won’t leave me alone,” Skye says, wondering if her mother would even notice if she left.

  But this threat makes her mother’s face get red with anger. It’s much more of a reaction than Skye expected. “You ungrateful little bitch. You have a lot of nerve for someone who doesn’t pay any rent.”

  “You don’t pay it either! And yet I’m the one he calls a whore.”

  The slap comes so fast that she doesn’t even see her mother’s hand move. There’s just a loud, ringing sound and sudden stinging pain on her cheek.

  Skye lifts an arm up to her face, shielding herself, just in case her mother does it again.

  A few seconds pass and she hears the front door open and then slam shut. And then she hears her mother’s voice outside. “What are you looking at?

  Her car starts up a moment later and then peels away.

  Skye lets out a long breath. She shouldn’t have baited her like that. But she’s desperate.

  Aunt Jenny’s offer is real, but it’s complicated by the fact that she lives in a one-bedroom apartment in the Bronx. “The schools aren’t good here,” Jenny had explained. “There are metal detectors on the doors, and the teachers have to be careful when they walk out to their cars at night. But we could make it work, Skye. If you turn up on my doorstep I’ll know it’s because your house is scarier than a Bronx high school.”

  Skye doesn’t know what to do. She knows that if she escapes to Aunt Jenny, it’s permanent. Her mother won’t ever take her back.

  There’s a light tap on the door. Skye’s blood pressure doubles because she’s so jumpy. Jimmy Gage doesn’t knock on his own door, so at least she knows it’s not him.

  She opens it to find Benito standing there. “You okay?” he asks between gritted teeth.

  Skye looks him up and down. His hands are balled into fists, and his eyes look hot and angry. What is with everyone today? “I’m fine,” she says quickly. Enough with the drama. “Something wrong?”

  “Skye. There’s a hand print on your face.”

  “Oh.” She covers it quickly. “It’s just, uh…” This is so embarrassing.

  He sighs. “Look, you want to go to an orchard for a few hours? The Shipleys are looking for some help with the cider apples.”

  “Um, sure?” Getting away from the trailer sounds like a great idea. “Let me get my jacket.”

  Benito has the use of his brother Damien’s taxi today, so they don’t have to take the motorcycle.

  Skye spends the car ride with an elbow propped against the door, chin in hand, staring at the outdoor scenery. She knows she’s terrible company, and she doesn’t mean to be ungrateful. But she knows Benito overheard the fight with her mom, and now it’s harder to look him in the eye.

  Still, she’s comfortable with Benito. They’ve spent many evenings on the chair in the woods in front of the fire. She’s not sure if Benito can actually hear her climb down from her bedroom window, or if he keeps a constant eye on the pathway into the woods, or if he just has some kind of sixth sense about when she needs company, but she rarely waits more than five or ten minutes before he appears with his ukulele and his calm demeanor. He lights a fire and strums the ukulele and pretends that it’s perfectly normal for her to hide in the woods from a man who wants to…

  Actually, Skye is still confused about what Jimmy Gage wants from her. He talks about teaching her a lesson and asks her who gets to touch her pussy and whose dick has been in there.

  Spoiler alert: nobody’s.

  Every minute of his attention terrifies her, but she’s starting to think that terror might be the whole point. The man has a gun and could ultimately get anything he wants from her. They both know it. The fact that he hasn’t done anything other than say horrible things to her and touch her ass, only heightens her dread.

  He likes that best, maybe. Her dread.

  Beside her, Benito hums along with the radio. He’s a quiet comfort, and she loves him so much. She’ll never tell him, though. Too risky. Instead, she spends their evenings together entertaining him with school gossip. Skye is somewhat invisible at school, which means she hears everything.

  The girls at school are still mean to her, but Skye doesn’t complain to Benito about that. Boys don’t like it when you complain. Besides—the two meanest people are Jill Sullivan and Zara Rossi—Benito’s twin sister.

  Skye knows that Zara hates her for taking up Benito’s attention. And Jill hates her because Jill is also in love with Benito, and because Skye is a newcomer. It’s the oldest story in the world.

  But Skye doesn’t have time to worry about Zara and Jill. She’s too busy avoiding Gage and sticking close to Benito when she can.

  “Lotta people will be here,” Benito says as he turns up a long dirt driveway. “They do this at the end of every season, and the food is epic. All we have to do is move apples around so they can press a lot of cider at once.”

  “Cool,” she says.

  He parks behind a long row of cars. Then he snaps the keys out of the ignition and gives her forearm a quick squeeze before opening his door.

  Benito is a toucher. He’s always patting his buddies on the back or throwing an arm around his siblings. Skye loves the pats and squeezes she gets, although they're confusing.

  How can one man's touch be terrifying, while Benito's is something she craves?

  In the orchard, they’re greeted by Ruth and August Shipley, and Skye can tell immediately that they’re like parents from a storybook—smiley and warm. Mrs. Shipley is wearing a freaking apron and holding a plate of cookies.

  Who does that?

  Skye gobbles down the cookie she’s offered and follows Benito into an orchard row. There are apples everywhere, and Skye has barely eaten anything today.

  Their job is to kneel beneath the trees, gather up fallen apples from the thick grass, and then place them on a tarp.

  “We let ’em get ripe enough to fall,” Griffin Shipley explains. He’s a fresh-faced senior with broad shoulders and an easy smile. “I’ll sort them because I already know what I’m looking for.”

  It’s true, too. Griff sorts the apples into two crates as quickly as Skye and Benito can harvest them. When the first crate fills, he hoists that giant thing on one of his broad shoulders and strolls off. His sister May takes his place. She’s only a ninth-grader but her hands are just as fast as her big brother’s.

  May Shipley glances shyly at Skye from time to time, and she’s always smiling. Surely there’s a mean Shipley somewhere? This place is like being transported to the Land of Happy, Healthy People. It’s kind of startling.

  Skye plucks hundreds of apples from the ground, and then also from the trees. Some of the apples are a funny variety that has weird, rough skin the color of a paper grocery bag. They’re the only thing on this farm that doesn’t look like it’s part of a storybook.

  “They’re not pretty, but they make good cider,” Griff explains.

  Whatever. Skye will pick apples for the rest of her life if it means working shoulder to shoulder in the orchard with Benito. Her hands are freezing and the light is already fading, but it’s the nicest day she’s had in a long time.

  Then Ruth Shipley comes down the row to announce that dinner is ready.

  Skye rises from a crouch beneath a tree, and Ruth frowns down at her feet. “Where are your socks, honey?”

  “Laundry day,” Skye says quickly. She doesn’t have many socks, because you don’t need
them in Georgia, where she and her mom lived last. She doesn’t have a winter coat, either, but that’s a problem for another day.

  Ruth just smiles and tells her to leave the apple crates where they are and make herself a plate of food.

  Zara Rossi spends the afternoon in the cider house, feeding apples into the water bath whenever Mr. Shipley tells her to. It’s a wet job for a cold day, but there’s a perk. Griffin appears every ten minutes or so with a new crate of apples and a smile.

  Griff is a football player who’s going to Boston University next year. Half the high school is in love with him. But a girl can dream.

  When it’s finally time for dinner, Zara’s hands are raw and red from all that cold water. She’s shivering when she comes out of the cider house. The first thing she sees is Ruth Shipley fussing over someone. “Take these,” she says to Skye Copeland, pressing something into the girl’s hands. “Wool socks are magic in this climate. Try them and they’ll change your life.”

  “Thank you,” Skye says as spots of pink stain her exquisite cheekbones.

  “Now let’s get you some food,” Ruth Shipley says. “Griff! Will you make a plate for Skye?”

  “I’ve got it,” Benito says quickly.

  “Good lord,” Zara’s friend Jill mutters from beside her. “Like she can’t get her own food? Do her hands not work?”

  “Seriously,” Zara hisses. But she knows why people fall all over Skylar. The girl has the kind of rare, unholy beauty that other girls would sell their souls to have.

  “I wish she’d just go back to wherever she came from,” Jill grumbles.

  So does Zara. In the first place, Zara can’t stand how her twin brother looks at Skye—like she’s a gift from heaven. Benito has it bad.

  Jill can tell, too. Hell—anyone with eyes can tell. Whenever Skye shows up, Jill’s mood turns sour. So that means Zara’s life gets a little less pleasant. Jill wants Benito badly. It’s dawning on Zara lately that her twin is the only thing Jill has ever wanted that she couldn’t acquire.

  Zara wishes her brother would just take Jill out on one date, or invite her to the Christmas dance or even fuck her in the back of Damien’s car. Something. Maybe it would make Jill nicer.

  If only.

  “Come on,” Jill snarls.

  Zara follows her dutifully toward the food table. As a permanent guest in Jill’s home, Zara is expected to do whatever Jill wants.

  Jill craves attention in all forms. She views herself as Zara’s benefactor. Jill feels entitled to Zara’s loyalty. After all, Zara is merely the daughter of their housekeeper. Yet Zara gets to live in Jill’s brother’s room while he’s in college in Albany. She gets to borrow Jill’s clothes (at Jill’s whim) and ride in Jill’s white Volvo to school.

  In return, Zara is expected to kiss Jill’s ass twenty-four-seven, and to help steer Jill into the path of her uninterested brother.

  Hard to do when Skye takes up all her brother’s time. Benito is never alone, so they can’t talk like they used to. This stupid year is killing Zara. She lives with the school mean girl. She misses her twin.

  And who’s fault is that? That turd Jimmy Gage—Skye’s stepfather. The man threatened her family, and now prevents Zara from living in her own home.

  That whole family can just fuck right off.

  Zara is burning with rage by the time they sit down at a picnic table with Benito, Skye, and Griffin.

  “Hey, Z,” Benito says from behind his pulled pork sandwich. “How you been?”

  “Cheeky,” she snaps. Her brother doesn’t even hear the sarcasm. Nobody in her family can see that she is drowning. “Look,” she says to Benito. “You better have brought something in the trunk of the taxi for me.”

  “Demanding much?” her twin asks with a wrinkle of his nose. But he lifts his chin toward the driveway. “I did, though. You’re welcome, and I love you too.”

  This makes Jill giggle. Because everything Benito says makes Jill giggle.

  “Cool,” Zara says, biting her sandwich and hating the sound of her own voice.

  Maybe she’ll get to talk to Benny later. The kids always get drunk in the woods after a day at the Shipley’s. Since Griffin’s parents don’t want a bunch of teenagers getting bombed in their orchard, they’ll take the party down the road a bit and build a bonfire.

  Across from her, Skye is cleaning her plate. Zara notices this, but it only makes her angrier. That skinny girl can eat. Zara will simmer with teenage resentment, instead of coming to the logical conclusion, which is that Skye is starving because she’s too stressed out when she’s at home to eat.

  Mrs. Shipley comes around as they’re polishing off the dinner, handing out envelopes. Skye takes hers with a confused frown. “Thank you?” When Mrs. Shipley moves on, Skye peeks into the envelope. “Thirty bucks. This is a paying gig?”

  The boys beam at her, like she’s adorable. But Zara rolls her eyes. What does the poor fool think they’re doing out here in the cold, if not for thirty bucks and pulled pork?

  Except for Jill, who has all the money she needs. Jill is here for Benito. Not that he’s noticed.

  “Let’s go hang out,” Griff says from the next table. “I stacked the firewood already.”

  Zara shoots up from the table and hurries off to toss her paper plate in the compost bin so she can follow Griffin. But he’s halfway across the meadow with another girl by the time she turns around.

  Nine

  Skylar

  Benito is a cop. Now that’s something I didn’t see coming.

  He stands beside me in the living room of Rayanne’s house, holding my hand, saying nothing.

  “Nobody’s here,” the other cop says after a very thorough check.

  “I got that,” I say in an almost normal voice. “But it looks like she’s been robbed.”

  The cop exchanges a significant glance with Benito. And I am totally lost.

  “No sign of forced entry,” the cop says, tapping his notepad against his palm. “Can you be sure if anything was taken?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’ve never been to this house. Rayanne typically comes to see me in New York, but this whole visit is weird.”

  “Will you tell me about it?” Benito asks.

  “Sure,” I say with a sigh. Rayanne had told me to make contact with Benito, and now that I’m seeing evidence she’s in serious trouble—and I’ve learned he’s some kind of cop—it seems like the right thing to do.

  Still, if this is some kind of prank, I will kill her with my bare hands.

  “Unless I can help you two in any other way, I’ll be going now,” the uniformed officer says. Benito thanks him and the cop waves goodbye and makes a move toward the door.

  “Come on, honey. Let’s go,” Benito says.

  “Where?” I ask, and it comes out sounding a little breathy. I’m too old for Benito to be solving my problems for me. Although I’m still holding his hand, which I don’t remember taking. But, damn him, it feels nice, if only because I’m terrified right now.

  “You’re coming with me,” he says, and his voice is awfully authoritative. Or maybe that’s just my desperation talking. But I follow him out onto the porch. “Back down the hill to the mill building. I need to ask you some questions.”

  I pull Rayanne’s door closed, and the lock clicks behind me. Benito watches me closely, but he’s not the only one with questions. “You’re a cop?” I demand as soon as the officer’s taillights disappear. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’m a detective for a special department of the state police.”

  “Wow.” My mind has been blown too many times tonight, but if I had a few minutes to think about it, I’d probably decide that Officer Benito makes some sense, given his teenage penchant for keeping certain people safe.

  Me, in particular.

  “Here’s the question of the hour,” Benito says quietly as we leave the porch and head for the green. “Do you want to report your rental car stolen?”

  “No,” I sa
y quickly. “Besides, it wasn’t. Rayanne paid for the rental. Technically it’s hers. It’s more like she stole…my weekend.” And my trust, which hurts worse. “She asked me to meet her at the visitors’ center off of 89. But while I was inside the building, she took the Jeep and left me a phone and a creepy note.”

  Benito’s expression is incredulous. “Creepy how?”

  “I’ll read it to you when we get back down this hill,” I say with a shiver. The temperature has dropped a lot, and so has the adrenaline in my system. Suddenly I’m freezing in my skirt and my little cashmere sweater. So I pick up the pace.

  Wordlessly, Benito slips his leather jacket off and drapes it over my shoulders.

  I stop on a dime under a streetlight. “No,” I say, shrugging it off again, eyeing his thin-looking black T-shirt. “It’s yours.”

  He takes the jacket from my hand but doesn’t put it on. Instead he shocks me by stepping into my space and wrapping his free arm around me in a hug.

  Startled, I look him right in the eye. This is possible because I’m a six-foot girl in heeled boots. Our gazes are locked and level. Just like old times. And I feel the same flush of excitement I always did when he was close to me.

  This is not good.

  “Skye,” he whispers. “I don’t know what’s going on with you or Rayanne. I don’t know where you work or who your friends are. But I will keep you safe and out of trouble if I can.”

  I blink. It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying when our bodies are touching. He looks bigger and older but just the same, too. Except for that beard that briefly tickled my jaw. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” His voice is thick. “It never did. I’m here for that. I’m here for you.”

  My throat is suddenly tight. Twelve years ago, I’d never known what I’d done to deserve Benito. He was the greatest gift I’d ever been given. And he disappointed me in a very ordinary, teenage-heartbreak sort of way. He’d stood me up for prom. Big deal, right?