Going Dark

by Robison Wells

I turned to see Celia.

  “You’re supposed to be at Aunt Mary’s house, Krezi,” she shouted from her car window. The trunk was smashed and deformed, held closed with a bungee cord.

  I wanted to cry, but I was all dried up. Too hot, and too tired, and too dead inside. Everything was gone. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how it started—where it started.

  “Do you know what Mama would say if she found you here? Of course you do. Get in.”

  I walked to her and obediently opened the door. Celia was glaring at me.

  “You got the car back,” I said. The windshield was replaced, and the upholstery was spotless—cleaned of all our blood.

  “What’s left of it,” she said. “It’s drivable. That’s about all I can say for it.”

  I felt the dashboard with my hand, expecting to find some dent from my face, but there was nothing.

  It was quiet for a few blocks. I could tell Celia wanted to say something—she kept sucking in a breath, and then stopping herself.

  “What?” I finally asked.

  “What do you mean, ‘What’?”

  “What are you not telling me?”

  She sighed. “Did the fire inspector come to see you?”

  “Yeah, a couple of days ago. He seemed like a nice guy.”

  Celia grimaced and gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Papa got a copy of the report. It says that the source of the fire is suspected to be wiring, but that the exact cause can’t be determined.”

  “So?”

  “So now the insurance company is talking like they’re going to challenge the report.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means,” Celia said, glancing over at me, “that they might not pay for the house.”

  “What? But they have to.”

  “Not if it was caused because of something we did.”

  “But it wasn’t,” I said, fear curling in on me. I couldn’t get that image of the flames in my hand out of my head. “We were both asleep!”

  “I know that, but Papa is talking about getting a lawyer.”

  “Where are we going to live?”

  “I don’t know.” Celia turned the corner and pulled up in front of my aunt’s house.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m going to work,” she said. “You’re going to get back inside and lie down.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  I climbed out of the car and watched her drive away, off to the Las Vegas strip. I wondered where she’d get a new usher uniform. All her work clothes must have burned up.

  I turned and headed toward the house, stopping on the front porch to take my temperature again.

  102.5.

  I should have gotten out of the sun, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Inside I’d just have to hear more of my aunt’s inspirational quotes, and pretend that everything was okay, and try to put on a happy face so Cesar wouldn’t get upset. I didn’t want to do any of those things.

  I stepped off the porch and walked around to the back of the house. I unscrewed the cap off my water bottle and swallowed half of it in a long chug. I wondered what it would be like to live in a place where you weren’t always fighting the weather. Nevada summers required constant planning to go anywhere—the right clothes, the right hat, the right sunscreen. Even in Celia’s car, we kept a twenty-four pack of bottled water in the trunk, just in case.

  I walked through my aunt’s backyard and into the barren desert behind.

  It didn’t take long before I was panting and sweating and wishing that the sun would go down. The only shade was behind one of the big rocks at the base of Sunrise Mountain, and I huddled myself into the shadow, leaning against the cool stone. I was breathing so hard and dripping wet.

  I took my temperature. 105. Someone told me once that if your temperature gets that high you’re literally cooking. I didn’t know if that was true, but it seemed that way. I drank the rest of the water I had with me, but it just felt like . . .

  It felt like right before you throw up—that panicked feeling of “I have to get to a bathroom right now,” where your body is telling you that something is coming and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. It was like that, but without the nausea.

  Santa Maria, I’m going to die! I was shaking, and I pressed into the boulder just to have something to hold on to, but nothing was helping. I felt like I was going to explode.

  And then something did.

  Whatever was inside me—that surge of sickness, that something terrible—overwhelmed me, and I felt something leave my body: a zap of electricity to set my hair on end and make my teeth sting. There was an enormous crack, louder than the sound of the car accident, louder than when Celia and I went to the Strip and watched them demolish an old hotel—and then the boulder split with a sharp crack down the center.

  I screamed and stumbled backward as the two halves of the rock—a huge rock, the size of a car—collapsed.

  A cloud of dust hung in the air.

  And I felt cool. Cool, like a winter breeze was blowing over me. But a breeze would have disturbed that cloud of dust, and it was just hovering in front of me.

  FOUR

  I RAN BACK TO MY aunt’s house, flinging the back door open and rushing upstairs. She called to me, asking where I’d been and telling me that my mama would be angry. But I didn’t care. I locked myself in the guest room, tears streaming down my cheeks.

  I fumbled for the thermometer and shoved it in my mouth, under my tongue. I waited, nervous—petrified—as its timer clicked down. Finally it beeped, and I pulled it from my lips.

  Ninety-nine.

  What was happening to me?

  I picked up the phone to call Celia. She didn’t answer. She never had her cell on when she was working.

  I tried to take slow breaths, pressed my fingers to my damp neck to feel my thrumming heartbeat.

  I dialed Mama but stopped myself before I entered the last number.

  What was I supposed to tell her? That I broke a boulder in half?

  No. Telling Mama would be confessing to starting the fire at the house. And if I started the fire, then the insurance wouldn’t pay. And if they didn’t pay, then what did that mean? That the family would be destitute? Because their daughter was a freak?

  “Krezi?” my aunt called from the hallway. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, trying to make it sound like I wasn’t panting for air.

  “You shouldn’t be outside, hon,” she said. “You need to rest. Cesar’s taking a nap if you want to come down and watch TV.”

  “I’ll be okay.” I went into the bathroom and took a cold shower and hoped that the fever would never come back.

  I called Celia, and left her a message that I needed to talk. Now. Afterward I lay in bed, all the blankets off, and tried to read a book.

  I took my temperature every ten minutes.

  101.

  101.3.

  101.7.

  102.

  School was supposed to start in two days. I couldn’t go like this. But could I stay in my aunt’s house? What if I burned it down, just like I’d burned down mine?

  Had I really just done that? It seemed so obvious now, but impossible just the same.

  I called Mama and told her about the fever.

  “I’m sorry that I haven’t been coming to check on you, Krezi. With everything else going on, I’ve just let your aunt take care of it. I love you, my baby. I’m praying for you.”

  “I love you, too, Mama,” I said, not sure how much else I should say. I needed help, but I couldn’t give any sign that I’d started the fire. “I’m just wondering if I should go to the doctor.”

  “How high did your temperature get?”

  “One hundred and five.”

  “Was that while you were outside? Your aunt told me you went somewhere. You know it’s too hot out there, and you’re already so sick.” I could h
ear the exasperation in her voice.

  “Yes,” I said. “But it’s always high. I really think I should go in.”

  “Is it still high?”

  “One hundred and two.”

  “What about the other warning signs they told you to watch out for? Seizures? Vomiting? Confusion?”

  “Confusion, a little. But even if I didn’t have a concussion, wouldn’t a fever of one hundred and five be a reason to go to the ER?”

  “Krezi, you didn’t have a fever of one hundred and five. If you did, you would be dead. Saints save us.” I could picture her crossing herself on the other end of the line.

  “Mama, I’m just telling you what the thermometer said.”

  “It must have been broken. The best thing you can do right now is sleep. School starts in a couple days. Just sleep and rest and don’t think too hard, and you’ll be back with your friends soon.”

  I told her I would, even though I was surprised. That didn’t sound like something Mama would say. Usually she babied me and worried over me. She hadn’t even invoked the name of the Blessed Virgin, which she did whenever I was the least bit ill.

  I took my temperature again. 102.8. It was climbing too fast. What if . . . what if something happened again?

  Celia came over that night, carrying three big bags of clothing for us from Walmart. They were nothing fancy, but she didn’t have a lot of money, and I didn’t complain.

  “Did you have to buy a new uniform?” I asked, looking at the Luxor Hotel RealityFlux logo on her shirt.

  “Ugh, yes,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Can you believe this awful shirt costs thirty-five dollars? And do you think they cared that my house had burned down, and it wasn’t my fault that my other shirts went up in flames? Not a bit.”

  Guilt raged inside me, but I tamped it down. I didn’t know what to say. “You should find a new job.”

  “It’s not that bad. It’s air-conditioned, and the pay is decent—better than I could get as a waitress—and I’m not really qualified for anything else. I get to watch the magic show every night—I’m six months into the job and still haven’t figured out how he does anything.”

  “It’s magic,” I said with a nervous smile.

  “Yeah, right,” she said, leaning back in the rocking chair in the guest room. “Your face doesn’t look as awful.”

  “Oh, thanks so much,” I groaned.

  She giggled. “I mean it. In this light, it just looks like you have dark circles under your eyes, like you haven’t slept well.”

  “In this light,” I said. “I don’t think the fluorescent bulbs at school will be as flattering. Plus I have this stupid brace taped to my nose. I’m going to be the hottest girl in high school.”

  “High school isn’t all people make it out to be.”

  I sighed and flopped back onto the bed. “I love how people who aren’t in high school always brush it off like it’s no big deal.”

  “It just seems like it while you’re there.”

  “Oh, you’re so wise, Celia,” I mocked. “Share more of your wisdom.”

  She laughed and threw a pillow at me.

  I had the sudden sensation I’d had at the rock, a brief flash of that something inside me that wanted to get out.

  “Can I ask you something?” My stomach was churning with nervous energy.

  “What?” she asked, pulling a shirt from the Walmart bag and holding it up.

  All this time I’d been waiting to tell her, but no. I couldn’t. It was too stupid—too crazy—to explain. Crazy Krezi—that’s what Celia used to call me. It had been a joke for years, but I started to wonder if it was true. Was the fire inspector right? Was the fire in my hand all a figment of my imagination? Was the broken boulder just a hallucination from a high fever and a concussion?

  “What is it?” Celia asked, folding the shirt and setting it on the bed.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I asked, and dug in my pocket. “Can you get me a new thermometer when you go to the store? Mama doesn’t trust this one.”

  She smiled. “Already trying to fake sick to get out of school?”

  “Whatever. Can you do it? I swear, my fever has been through the roof.”

  Celia stood and put her hand on my forehead and then my cheek. “You feel hot to me. Maybe you shouldn’t have walked all the way to the house when you’re sick.”

  “I’ll be more careful.”

  FIVE

  TWO DAYS LATER I MOVED back in with my family.

  We had an apartment now. Just a little place, with hardly any furniture, but at least the family was together again.

  “Finish your cereal,” Mama told me as I was rushing through my meal. “You’re still healing.”

  I didn’t know what Froot Loops were going to do to help my broken nose, or the never-ending bruises under my eyes, but I tried to eat anyway.

  I must have lost at least five pounds since the car accident. I didn’t know if it was the concussion or the fever, but I always felt like I was on the verge of throwing up. Of course, all of me felt like something wasn’t right—it wasn’t just my stomach.

  Mama put her hand on my forehead and then told me to take my temperature.

  “I just drank milk,” I said. “I think I’m supposed to wait.”

  “Take your temperature. You’ll be late for the bus.”

  I put the thermometer under my tongue and stood up from the table. My backpack was waiting on the counter, and I pulled it on as my brothers scrambled around me.

  “Thith apartment ith too thmall,” I said out of the side of my mouth, keeping the thermometer in place.

  “It’s the best we can do under the circumstances,” Mama said, obviously frazzled.

  I tried to watch the ticking numbers with crossed eyes, and I moved to the door to get out of the way. After twenty more seconds it beeped.

  “One hundred and one,” I read to Mama. “I need to go to the doctor, not to school.”

  She put bowls in front of the boys and poured out cereal. “You need to go to school, Krezi.”

  “One hundred and one!” I said again, holding out the thermometer. “That’s not normal. That’s, like, supersick.”

  “Do you have any other symptoms?” Mama asked, shoving the Froot Loops box back on the shelf and reaching for the milk. “Anything else the doctors told you to watch out for?”

  “I have a headache,” I said. “And doesn’t a high fever count as a symptom?”

  “Krezi,” she said, slamming the milk jug down. “Do you want to know why I’m not taking you to the doctor? Because our house just burned down. Because we’re still paying our mortgage and also paying rent for this apartment that you think is too small. Because your papa has to work double shifts to try to put food on the table. Because the insurance company doesn’t want to pay for the house, because they think you girls must have had something in your room that started the fire.”

  I didn’t say anything. Everyone was quiet except for Cesar, who was slurping his cereal.

  “I love you, baby,” Mama said. “I’m praying for you. I pray for you every minute of the day. But go to school.”

  I nodded. She turned back to the sink, and I opened the door and walked slowly to the bus stop.

  First period was boring. I sat next to a girl I’d known from middle school, but we didn’t talk. I was too busy thinking about everything Mama had said. The teacher was going over vocabulary words and I was mindlessly writing them down and doodling on the page as she defined each one and used it in a sentence. When she got to the third, I felt my heart drop.

  “Insolvency,” Mrs. Romney said. “An inability to pay a debt. Of, or relating to, bankruptcy.”

  The kids around me were scribbling down the word, but I just stared at the teacher and the list she was reading from.

  “The man’s small business was failing, and he was in insolvency,” she said, giving an example sentence.

  Were my parents going to go bankrupt? I’d read Charles Dickens’s G
reat Expectations in eighth grade, so I knew about bankruptcies in the old days. They used to send people to prison if they couldn’t pay their debts. I was sure they didn’t do that anymore, but what did they do?

  What was my family going to lose besides the house? What were they going to lose because of me?

  I’d get a job. Even if it was something terrible, even if it was just working at the Pollos Hermanos on the corner. I could earn money. Maybe I could get a job with Celia—how hard was it to be an usher at a dumb casino magic show? We used to joke that Celia got the job because it was at the Luxor Casino and she was so pretty, but it wasn’t like her uniform was revealing or anything like that. A fifteen-year-old could take tickets just as well as a nineteen-year-old.

  After class I went to the computer lab and started searching for minimum-wage after-school jobs. There seemed to be plenty of them, though most wouldn’t hire anyone under sixteen.

  I took my temperature.

  103.

  I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, and then headed to math, money still weighing heavily on my mind. Minimum wage was $8.25. I worked through the budget on my notepad while the teacher droned on about something. It was a review of what we learned last year, and I knew all of that stuff.

  $8.25 times twenty hours per week, times four weeks in a month: $660. I could work twenty hours a week—that was what all of the jobs I saw online offered. Evenings and weekends. I could do my homework late at night, or when I wasn’t working on Saturday and Sunday.

  Maybe I could be a waitress and work for tips. I’d seen some of those jobs posted, too, and that might bring in even more money.

  Would an extra six or seven hundred dollars a month help keep my family from going bankrupt?

  “Miss Torreón?”

  I looked up from my notebook to see Mr. Vargas standing a few feet in front of my desk. The whole class was looking at me.

  “I hate to interrupt, Lucretia,” he said, “but do you want to join us?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping again at the sweat on my face and temples.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I knew I could go to the nurse and be sent home, but I also knew what Mama would say—she’d said it all this morning.