Five Fires

by Laura Lippman

  “Arson,” Wendi says. “There’s yellow tape up and everything.”

  It’s been a slow day—a Friday in August, so the main highway is clogged and people are in their hives, as I think of it, just staying put. Like in the high school cafeteria. Did you know that queen bees are determined before they’re born? The potential queen eggs are laid in queen cups, and the queen develops differently because she gets more royal jelly, the name for a protein that’s secreted by the worker bees’ glands. There can be only one queen bee. Tara was one of the wannabes. Wannabees? Anyway, I guess she learned her lesson. She wanted royal jelly and she got it.

  That’s pretty funny. I wish I’d thought of it at the time. I’d have told Daniel Stone and he would have laughed, I bet.

  “Why are they so sure it was arson?” I ask.

  “They found something. Unlike the others. It looked like the person tried to set it in the trash can, but everything was wet after the rain. So someone broke the lock on the gate they pull over the snack bar at night, turned on the gas. It blew up like a fireball.”

  “That could be an accident,” I said. “I mean, the man who works there—he’s from that place for grown-ups that need help. He might have left it on. Plus someone would have to climb the fence.”

  “Boys climb that fence all the time,” Wendi says. “The lock on the gate had been broken, and gas doesn’t just ignite.” She’s excited. Jordan won’t be at the pool anymore, so she won’t have to hang around there, watching him behind her sunglasses. Wendi is a redhead. Having to keep tabs on her lifeguard boyfriend hasn’t been good for her looks. She has fair skin, set off by her bright red hair and green eyes. Did you know that only 2 percent of the population has green eyes? I didn’t, until Wendi told me. I checked it out: turns out she’s right, although 20 percent of Hungarians have green eyes. I asked Wendi if she was Hungarian and she said no, they were Lutheran.

  I leave, taking my tips, leaving behind a dollar in the jar for Wendi, knowing she won’t do the same at the end of her shift because she’s closing. Wendi doesn’t understand that there’s a psychology to the tip jar, that you want at least a dollar in there all the time, because it gives people the idea to tip. It sets the tone. My mom hates tip jars. “If anyone’s going to have a tip jar, it should be me, on my feet at the cash register at Happy Harry’s for seven hours.” She’s not wrong, but there’s nothing I can do about it except rub her feet, bring her coffee in bed the weeks she works the night shift. I did that this morning. She was awake, staring at the ceiling.

  “Did you hear the sirens last night?” she asked me while sipping coffee from a mug I made for her when I was ten. Well, I didn’t make it, but I decorated it. She was the one who told me the fire was at the community pool. She saw the trucks on her way home. I decide to go by there, too, after work. I plan to take law enforcement classes at Del Tech, although I doubt I’ll be an arson investigator. Arson is scary. You have to be crazy to set fire to something. I mean, something that’s not supposed to be set fire to. Every fall, just before Halloween, there’s a big bonfire in Belleville, a pep rally for the game against our big rivals from Christiana. Everyone goes. It’s my favorite night of fall. It makes up for not having trick or treat anymore, now that I’m too old for it, for the cold, gray days that come rushing in once it’s November. Winter usually isn’t a big deal here. Schools close more often for fog than they do for sleet or snow. But last year, we missed eight days for snow and had to make up five of those days. Except for the seniors, which didn’t seem fair. They graduated, and the rest of us still had another week.

  There’s a yellow-crime-tape scene at the pool, just as Wendi said, a state trooper’s car. Not the first time I’ve seen that in Belleville, but it’s real rare. Tara’s standing off to the side, watching them. I’d thought I’d avoid her, coming by here, and I make a point not to catch her eye. But when I start walking home, she falls in step beside me.

  “What do you think?” she says.

  I look down at her feet. “About your new sandals? It’s a shame how muddy they are.”

  “They’re not new. They’re the same sandals I wear every day. No, I meant what do you think about this fire?”

  “None of my business, I guess.”

  “That didn’t stop you. Before.”

  My mom taught me that when you don’t like what someone’s saying, just don’t say anything.

  “I was a Brownie,” Tara says. “And a Girl Scout, before I moved here. I bet you think that’s corny. But I was disappointed that they didn’t have a troop here. I had so many badges and insignias, the most of anyone in my troop back home in Philadelphia.”

  Back home in Philadelphia. Exactly, I think. That’s your home. Go back there.

  “I was really good at camping. I can start a fire by rubbing two sticks together. Honest,” she adds, as if I won’t believe her. But I believe her. About that, at least.

  “Big deal,” I say. “I suppose anyone who watches Survivor knows how to do that. Or who has YouTube.”

  “Yeah, but can you do it?”

  “I don’t want to do it. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I had so many badges. So many insignias. You could barely see my uniform for all of them. And that was in—”

  “Philadelphia, I know. You were forever talking about Philadelphia.” I’m tired of Tara, tired enough to be rude. “Nobody liked it. How much you talked about Philadelphia, how everything was better there. You kept saying all you wanted to do was go back there, and you did. So why are you here?”

  “Believe me,” she says, “it wasn’t my idea. But I’ve got to finish up.”

  “You mean you have to get your credits before you can go to college.”

  “Something like that.”

  We walk a few blocks or so and she doesn’t talk for a while. We’re almost to my house when she says: “Did everyone really hate it?”

  “What?”

  “When I talked about Philadelphia? I did it only because I was homesick. And new.”

  “Well, ‘hate’ is strong. But you did talk about it. A lot.”

  “Daniel seemed interested,” she says. “He asked me lots of questions. He said he was considering Penn.”

  “Oh, I know you thought Daniel was interested.”

  “You’re mean, Beth.”

  “No. No, I’m not. I was never mean. You were. You never talked to anyone. You never talked to me, and you only talk to me now, because I’m one of the few people in town who wouldn’t run away from you. You were stuck-up.”

  “I wasn’t.” She looks close to crying, and I admit I feel something I haven’t felt in a while. It’s powerful yet scary, making someone like Tara cry.

  Today she doesn’t even ask to come in, just stands on the front walk for a while, staring at my house. It frightens me, the way she looks at our house. I don’t sleep at all that night, not even after Mama comes home, because I can’t tell her what I’m scared of, what I suspect.

  The sirens sound at 1 a.m.

  This time it’s only a few blocks away, but on the other side of Alamo, which makes a world of difference. I bet you’re thinking: But you said the streets are named for trees and flowers. Well, alamo means “cottonwood.” Belleville was settled by a group of priests, including one who was Spanish. The houses on the other side of Alamo are the grandest ones in town. The Stone family lived at the dead end of Iris; their land backs up to the river. The sirens keep going and going and I can’t help myself. I sneak out my bedroom window. It’s not something I’ve ever had to do, but I’ve practiced a couple of times, in case my life takes a turn and I become the kind of girl who sneaks out of windows at night and goes to meet other kids. Wendi does that. Tara did, too, as everybody found out. I bet even Becca Stone did it.

  I follow the sounds and the smells and the lights and find myself standing across the street from Tara’s old house at the corner of Iris and Oak. She’s out front, alone, hugging her arms as if it were cold. But the nigh
t is warm, and the fire makes it warmer still. “Step back, step back,” the firemen say. I’ve never seen someone fight a fire before. It’s amazing how fire moves, how quick it is. I watch a flame race up a tree. “It’s going to jump, it’s going to jump,” someone shouts, and the firefighters aim their hoses at the house next door, trying to wet it down. The paint is bubbling on the place next door, and the windows give way from the pressure. I feel bad for the people there, but the fire is strangely beautiful. There are people in town who say they want to end the bonfire, in part because it’s dangerous, especially after this summer of drought. They say it’s irresponsible, bad for the environment. But it’s a tradition; it’s what we do in Belleville. Traditions are important.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Tara.

  “No, you’re not,” she says. “I’m not, either. It’s not as if my family were ever coming back here, you know. And they can’t sell it. Whoever did this did them a kindness.”

  “But where will you stay now?”

  “With you?”

  “Our house is pretty small, just the two bedrooms, and my mom—”

  She laughs in my face. “As if I would ever live with you, Beth. You know the house was empty, that I’ve been staying somewhere else. Is it true your real name is Bethesda, that your mom saw it somewhere and thought it was pretty?”

  “It is pretty.”

  “Then why don’t you use it? Why didn’t you use it when reporters took your photograph and asked your name? Were you ashamed?”

  “There’s no talking to you,” I say. “I said I was sorry, and you just turn it on me. You’re the mean one. And you’re named for a plantation, so who are you to talk?”

  I walk home. Belleville is a safe place. A girl can walk home at 1 a.m. in Belleville, knowing nothing would ever happen here. And if it happened, it would be because of a stranger, someone passing through, one of those long-haul truckers. A long time ago, before I was even born, a magazine put us on the list of the ten best small towns in America. I never read the article, but I heard about it. Last fall, everyone kept saying that. “One of the best small towns in America in which to live . . .” Although they never mentioned that was twenty years ago and Belleville never made the list again. But I guess we still are, despite what happened. Despite these fires. I bet it is heat lightning. That’s the only explanation. Even at the pool. Lightning could have sparked the fire if the gas had been left on, right? And heat lightning must travel to the ground, and I don’t believe Tara was a Girl Scout, much less that she knows how to rub two sticks together. She was the kind of girl who acted as if she needed protection from the silliest things—insects and dogs and puddles. Everyone remembers the story of how Daniel Stone lay down in a puddle—didn’t just put his jacket on it, but lay down in the puddle, the way Sir Walter Raleigh supposedly did, and let Tara walk across him. Sir Walter Raleigh never did that, actually, but Daniel Stone did, and half the school saw it. She traipsed across his back, giggling, as if it were her due.

  The trees seemed to be whispering as I climbed back through the window. A breeze is kicking up. It never fails, no matter how the weather changes: every August, before school, before Labor Day, a front moves through. It drops temperatures for just a few hours. The next day it’s hot again. But it’s not the same kind of hot. It’s like someone has knocked summer down in a fight and it gets back up, but it’s staggering, weaker. It’s going to get knocked down again. Again and again and again, until it no longer gets up.

  Then fall will come, my favorite season. In the fall, anything is possible. I’m going to buy some new clothes at Kohl’s up in Dover. I might go all the way to Wilmington, or even Baltimore, to get my hair cut. I’m going to be a senior. It probably won’t be as exciting as last year, but it might be. Last fall was the best fall of my life.

  Everything began at the bonfire, the first one. The cool kids had a plan to go drinking afterward. I don’t drink, so I couldn’t have gone even if they asked me. But I love the bonfire. I stood at the far edge of the circle, listened to the speeches, watched the cheerleaders flip so close to the flames. Their shadows were huge. We’ve got spirit, yes we do. Tara, the lightest, was hurled to the top of the pyramid. She had entered school the winter before, but we still thought of her as the new girl because no one newer had come along. New people are rare in our high school. I guess most families wouldn’t move when their kids were halfway through their junior year. Why did Tara’s family move here? They said it was because they wanted a simpler life, as if Belleville was simpler than Philadelphia. Smaller, sure. But not simpler. Still, Tara would not shut up about how amazing Philadelphia was. God, how tired everyone got hearing Tara hold forth on Philly cheese steaks, as if that skinny twig ever ate anything. You know how some people yell “Eat a cheeseburger” at skinny girls? I always wanted to yell, “Eat a cheese steak.” I didn’t, but it would have been funny if I had. I bet Daniel Stone would have laughed.

  The crowd dispersed, the boys leading the way. Daniel didn’t play football. He didn’t have the build for it. He played lacrosse, which in some ways was a bigger deal, because our lacrosse players went on to good college teams and our football players almost never did. Tara and her friend Chelsey scampered after him. Scampered like puppies trying to keep up with a big dog.

  “Where are we going?” I heard Tara ask.

  “Stone Manor,” Daniel said.

  “Stoner Manor,” put in his best friend, Charley Boyd.

  They giggled. I heard them. They giggled.

  Stone Manor was what Daniel called his sister’s playhouse. It wasn’t like any playhouse you’ve ever seen. For one thing, it was two stories, a replica of the Stone house, painted the same soft green color, the paint freshened every few years. The front door locked, not that it ever was. Most people in Belleville don’t lock the front doors to their houses—another detail that the reporters seized on. Did the Stones know what went on in the little house? They said they didn’t, but I guess they did. Look, kids drink and get high. I mean, I don’t, because of my mom, I have to be careful, but it’s not a big deal. Kids drink, and it’s up to girls to police themselves. Sorry, but that’s just how it is, even in a place like Belleville, where you can walk home at night without a worry. Tara was from Philadelphia, as she reminded us every day. She was smart. As she reminded us every day. She went to Becca Stone’s playhouse with Chelsey and four boys. Do the math. What did you think was going to happen?

  She knew. She knew.

  And the video: What did it prove? For one thing, it proved it was only Daniel and Charley, not the other two boys, Wendi’s Jordan and a guy named Bobby Wright. Nothing happened to Chelsey. No one forced Tara to drink all that punch. Sure, she looks groggy and out of it, but she doesn’t say no. She never says no. It’s weird that Charley filmed it, but—I know this sounds odd—it looks kind of romantic. The bed even had a canopy, and Daniel whispered in Tara’s ear as he moved on top of her, slow and careful. “Are you okay?” he says over and over. “Are you okay?” He cared about her. I mean, he wasn’t in love with her, and that’s probably why she got mad, but in that moment it looked like he was being real sweet.

  And it was only after everyone started sharing the video that Tara filed charges. Said she didn’t remember. How could she not remember? Her eyes were open; she was with Daniel Stone. I’d remember every minute. She said Charley raped her, too, but there’s no video of that. Conveniently. She’s just a slut. And that’s why I wore the T-shirt to the second bonfire, the one where we stood up for Daniel and Charley and our town, Belleville. My T-shirt said:

  skankville

  population: 1

  The letters were white. Red and white are the school colors. Go Cardinals! There was a photo of Tara under the letters. And for once, I didn’t stand at the edge of the circle around the bonfire. I went straight up to it. I led the cheer. Slut, slut, slut, slut . . . And everyone yelled with me. I can’t imagine it feels any better, flying to the top of a pyramid.

 
The Wilmington paper ran my photo. It went everywhere. People around the world saw me. Some people said I was angry in the photo, but I wasn’t angry. I was righteous. Our town, our boys. That’s what the signs said. We love our town. We love our boys.

  On the internet, people wrote some nasty things about me under that photo. I learned to stop reading those comments, though. And while I’m on Facebook, I keep it tight, just my real friends or Candy Crush, so I didn’t see the things people said there. Daniel Stone told me personally that he was grateful for my support. He said it just that way: “I’m grateful for your support. That girl tried to ruin my life.”

  And Charley’s, too, I guess, but he complicated everything by agreeing he had done it. But, again, it wasn’t what you think. The police told him he could be put in jail because he was eighteen—he has a late-summer birthday, his parents held him back a year so he’d be more competitive at football—and Tara was only sixteen, but that wasn’t even true. They put him in a room by himself and said all sorts of things that weren’t true, that Daniel was blaming him, said it was his idea, that he was having consensual sex with Tara but Charley sneaked up on them, taking that video with his phone, then said he deserved a turn. Later, Daniel said Charley admitted that not a word of it was true. Who knows what really happened? Tara had no bruises, no marks. They couldn’t do a rape kit, because she didn’t even tell anyone for almost a week. She looks fine in the video. If she threw up and they carried her home, left her in her yard, well—they did ring the bell. They thought her parents were there. She had sneaked out before, several times. How could they know her parents had gone away for the weekend, that she wouldn’t be found until the morning? She just made up that story to keep from getting in more trouble with her parents.

  “Don’t drink around boys,” my mom told me. “You’ll get what you deserve.” This whole thing upset her. My mom is third-generation Belleville, used to lord it over my dad, who wasn’t born here. We didn’t like seeing our town in the news, seeing a good boy from its best family accused of a horrible crime. It’s not that we don’t understand date rape. We’re not stupid or unsophisticated. We watch the same TV shows you do, go to the same movies. We have Facebook and smartphones and DVRs and computers and internet. Just because there’s cornfields and Kiwanis barbecue and produce stands along the highway, just because you drive through at sixty-five miles an hour—the speed limit is fifty, by the way—with your windows up and your kayaks and your bicycles, you don’t know us. You don’t know anything about us. The Stones are good people. Their name is on the old theater and the scoreboard and the snack bar at the community pool, which hires mentally slow people and contributes its proceeds to the booster club. They own a grocery store and a seafood restaurant, and they’re not the least bit stuck-up. My mom would love to work for them instead of Happy Harry’s, but chains are buying up everything now.