The Fire

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Christina tried to decide whether this was worth a fight or not. There were any number of arguments about sitting techniques.

  But Benj said, “I think she is graceful.” Benjamin passed the creamed potatoes Christina’s way.

  Christina hated sauces. There was something sinister about them, whether they were milk-white, hollandaise-yellow, spinach-green, or tomato-red. They hid the true food. You could not be sure what those little chopped things were, down at the bottom of the sauce. It hadn’t been so bad when Dolly and Anya still lived there. Anya could always be counted on to surface from her foggy world to identify lumps for Christina. “That’s an onion. That’s a mushroom.” (Dolly never ate anyway, her skinny little arms and legs barely stapled to her body. So it hadn’t mattered to Dolly.)

  How Christina missed Anya! Anya was as beautiful as sea foam, her thick dark hair a cloud around her translucent skin. But Anya had had no strength. Not like me, thought Christina with satisfaction. I’m like the Isle: I’m granite. Behind the safe cover of her tilted milk glass, Christina sneered at the Shevvingtons. It felt pretty good.

  “Guess what,” said Benjamin Jaye.

  Christina choked on her milk. “Since when have you ever told us anything at all,” she asked him, “let alone said to guess at it?”

  Benjamin grinned at her.

  Even the Shevvingtons blinked at the sight of Benj grinning.

  “Is that a grin?” Christina teased.

  Benjamin grinned even wider.

  “You know how!” she cried. “Benj! You’re so cute when you grin.”

  Now he blushed.

  His younger brother said, “This is disgusting. Stop it, Benj. Just tell them.”

  Benj said, “The marching band is going to Disney World next fall. All we have to do is raise the money for forty-four of us to make the trip, and we get to be the Disney World band for the day! Me.”

  “Oh, Benjamin!” Christina screamed. “Florida? You’ll fly down? In those wonderful band uniforms! All scarlet and gold braid, and white shoes. All those years of playing the trumpet are finally paying off. That’s so great!”

  Benjamin, who had possibly the world’s largest appetite, was too excited to eat. Christina had never come across a boy who could not eat. Benj kept filling his fork and then setting it back down on the plate, untouched. “We’ll take a bus down to Orlando,” he said. “Flying’s too expensive. But a really nice bus, with a bathroom and a snack bar. We’ll stay five days.”

  “Five days at Disney World,” breathed Christina. “That is so wonderful, Benj. You’ll have the best time. How much money do we have to raise? I’ll help. You’ll need tons. Millions. We’ll have car washes and bake sales and hike-a-thons.”

  Mr. Shevvington said, “At this point, the school has not yet given permission.”

  Benj dropped his fork, his face speaking instead of his tongue. You might refuse to let us go to Disney World?

  Christina glared at Mr. Shevvington. “You won’t even be here next year,” she said hotly, forgetting she had learned this by eavesdropping. “You’re getting a job in another state. So there.”

  “It won’t matter if they have permission or not,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “They can’t raise that kind of money. A scrubby little Maine village like this? Hah!” she sniffed. “Don’t set your heart on it, Benjamin, because it will not come about.”

  “Anyway,” said Michael, his mouth all pouty, “why should everybody raise all that money for just you guys? Forty-four of you get to go to Disney World, but we don’t. I don’t play an instrument. So why should I help?”

  Christina was outraged. “Because he’s your brother,” she said. “You’re mean, Michael. You’ve been getting all the glory all year with your games and your trophies. Now you don’t want your own brother to have any?”

  Michael said, “He doesn’t work as hard as we did. Band is just a dumb class, like art or cooking. Athletic teams have to practice every day after school. And Saturdays. What do they have to do for Band? Just show up, is all.”

  The brothers glared at each other.

  Mrs. Shevvington said, “You’re right, Michael. Benjamin rarely practices. And of course, he doesn’t make that much of a contribution to the band anyway. After all these years, he’s only third trumpet.”

  Benj, on whose face emotion so rarely showed, flinched. He stared down into his creamed potatoes so he would not have to see his brother’s jealous eyes and the Shevvingtons’ cruel mouths.

  Christina thought, So that’s what they’ll do these last eighteen days. Try to hurt everybody in sight. Look how quickly they stabbed old Benj. First time he’s ever been filled with joy, and they punctured him right away.

  Benjamin tried to take a sip from his glass, failed, and put it back on the table. The glass shook.

  “You don’t feel well,” observed Mrs. Shevvington, a tiny smile slitting her face.

  Benj shrugged.

  “Seconds please,” said Michael, pointing toward the serving bowls.

  “Eat what Benj left on his plate,” suggested Christina, “since you’re the one who spoiled his appetite.”

  “Christina!” said Mrs. Shevvington. “Your manners are deteriorating every day. I am appalled at you. Go to your room.”

  “No,” said Christina. “Benj and I are going for ice cream.” She stood up, heart pounding. Disobeying the Shevvingtons was scary. She did not look at their eyes. His would be glittering like a seagull’s, as it swept down to peck open a tern’s egg. Hers would be little stones, as if there were not a person inside; just gravel.

  “Your fourteenth birthday is only a few weeks away,” said Mr. Shevvington, “and you are behaving like a spoiled toddler.”

  Benj said, “I forgot about your birthday, Chrissie. That’s neat. It’s hard to believe you’ll be fourteen.”

  That was so much speech coming from Benj she felt they should write it down and save it for his grandchildren to read.

  “We should do something special,” added Benj. “Since your mom and dad can’t give you a party until you get back to the island for summer.” He touched his jeans pocket where his wallet made a rectangular bulge. Benj worked at the gas station and saved every cent toward the new motor he wanted for his boat. It had not occurred to Christina that he would pay for the ice cream. She had expected to use her allowance.

  If he paid, it would be like a date.

  She hid her giggle at the mere idea of Benjamin having a date.

  “I’m coming for ice cream, too,” said Michael, jealous over even a tiny thing his brother might have and he wouldn’t. “We’ll try to think of something for Christina’s birthday.”

  Mrs. Shevvington’s smile was horrid, her little yellow teeth lined up like broken candy. She purred, “Perhaps we can think of something to do with Christina.”

  Chapter 3

  CHRISTINA, IN THE MIDDLE, was by far the smallest. Her tri-colored hair flew in the wind like flags.

  Michael was on her right. He talked loudly of sports and teams. She had never noticed before that Michael was something of a spoiled brat. Look at him, she thought. He can’t bear it that Benj would even have an ice-cream cone that he doesn’t have, let alone Disney World. And he certainly isn’t going to let anybody talk about my birthday.

  Mrs. Shevvington’s words battered her head. Perhaps we can think of something to do with Christina. It did not sound like parties and confetti; it sounded like doom and destruction. She kept thinking of that creepy candle in the coffee can.

  Benjamin was on her left. She came up to his shoulder. And what a shoulder it was. Curving muscle burst out from below the T-shirt, threatening to split the cotton. Benj, who never talked, talked steadily — right through his brother’s babble, as if they were unaware of each other. He talked of Epcot and Space Mountain and his marching band uniform.

  Behind them came the Shevvingtons, who had decided that they, too, needed a first ice cream of the season.

  The five of us look like
a family, Christina thought. People who don’t know us would think What an interesting set of parents, what beautiful children.

  That was enough to make her lose her appetite for ice cream. The idea of being Christina Shevvington instead of Christina Romney! “Yuck,” she said out loud.

  “You don’t like the band uniforms?” said Benj.

  “You don’t think I’m the best ball player?” said Michael.

  They were on the sidewalk, going down the treacherous rim of Breakneck Hill. Below them the tide slithered into Candle Cove like a muddy pancake, and then, hitting the rocks, spewed violently, like a pancake being whipped in a blender. The highest tides in Maine occurred in this very cove. Every few years, the tide picked an ignorant summer person off the rocks, or caught him in the mudflats, and sometimes the body was found and sometimes it wasn’t.

  Christina shivered, although the evening was hot. What will the Shevvingtons do with me? she thought. Will I be found? Here she was with two strapping boys who liked her — and neither one would believe it if she said the Shevvingtons were plotting against her. They were too busy thinking of baseball and Florida. She wrenched her mind off cliffs and drowning, fires and candles. “It’s such a terrible decision what kind of ice cream to get, don’t you think?” she babbled. “I love vanilla. I love chocolate. But each year they kick off the season with a new flavor, and it would be criminal not to taste it.”

  “Criminal, Chrissie?” Benjamin considered her word carefully. “It’s not that severe.”

  “She’s exaggerating, Benj,” explained Michael, making his brother sound stupid. “That’s what Christina does best anyhow. Stretch a story to fit.”

  The Shevvingtons laughed. “That’s true, Michael. Christina tells more yarns than anybody in Maine.”

  Christina knotted her fist. She felt like appeasing the appetite of the tide with Shevvington bodies.

  “There’s a solution to your ice-cream problem, Chrissie,” explained Michael in a condescending voice. “It’s pretty high-tech. That’s why you never thought of it. Just get a three-scoop cone.” He laughed at her.

  Christina’s fist came straight up to Michael’s nose, but he had grown up with her, and he was ready for it. He caught both her wrists, disarming her as easily as he would a toddler. He laughed. “No point in struggling, Chrissie,” he said. “I’m a hundred times stronger.”

  His fingers closed around her wrists like locks. She scrabbled at him, trying to get free. Nothing happened.

  “Michael, you are so strong,” said Mrs. Shevvington, full of admiration. “Why, you could toss Christina over the cliff as easily as an empty lunch bag.” The wind tore her chuckle out of her mouth and tossed it into the sea.

  Empty. It was the Shevvingtons’ word. That was what they did to their victims. They emptied them. Emptied their bodies, and put their souls to rest forever in the silent guest rooms of Schooner Inne.

  Christina struggled. She felt like a little animal, a kitten dragged to the vet — to be held down for shots — to be put to sleep forever.

  Michael will be their instrument, she thought. That’s how they’ll do it to me. Mrs. Shevvington isn’t going to let these eighteen days go unused.

  Benjamin had his brother in a wrestling lock. “Let go,” Benj said, for whom two words would always be enough. Michael’s fingers went limp. Christina was free.

  “My goodness but you’re prickly, Benjamin,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “Can’t you take a joke?”

  Benjamin glared at Mrs. Shevvington. If her eyes were pebbles, his were boulders. Suddenly Christina felt herself sister to Benj. They were carved of the same granite, from the same quarry, from the same island in the sea. “Come on, Benj,” she said, grabbing his hand, “let’s get there first.”

  In the morning, Benjamin did not stride off to school by himself but waited for Christina. She was astounded. Last summer the brothers had informed her in no uncertain terms that friendship must be left back on Burning Fog Isle; she must not expect them to associate with a lowly seventh-grader. She of course had tagged after them anyway, until they growled, “Christina, buzz off.”

  Today, the sun came up like a trumpet announcing summer! Summer! Summer!

  And Benjamin Jaye held the heavy green door open for Christina, and shortened his big strides to match hers. The wind tugged her tri-colored hair, separating it. This was a good sign. (Christina never read horoscopes. She listened to her hair.) “You really want me to help with the fund-raising, don’t you, Benj? I promise I will. You don’t have to walk with me. Anyway, I’m meeting Jonah at the gate.”

  Benj said nothing, but she had not expected him to. They walked on. Such a glorious day! She was wearing a pretty cotton dress, with a tulip-flared skirt in watered pastels. She even had a new purse, nubby cotton, all fat and sagging and full of her own things. She loved purses. They were sacred. People might say how pretty your purse was, but they never went into your purse. You could have secrets in it if you wanted. “You know what I was thinking last night?” said Christina. She hoped for a syllable, but Benj raised both eyebrows instead. “At least it’s a two-eyebrow morning,” she teased him.

  He laughed.

  “I was thinking that for Disney World, we’ll need grown-up money, not kid money,” explained Christina. “We need to do things that attract tourists. They’re the ones with the money. Now listen up. Clam chowder is the town specialty.”

  “Lobster is,” Benj corrected her.

  “Lobster, too, but listen. I need clams.”

  They were at the gate, and there was Jonah. Jonah was sort of Christina’s boyfriend. Nobody in seventh grade actually had a boyfriend, but Jonah was a boy, and he liked her a lot, and sometimes they said they were “going together.”

  “Clams?” said Jonah. He poked Benj in the chest. “Well, you got one, Chrissie.” He laughed hysterically.

  Benjamin took Jonah’s extended finger and began to snap it off. “Benj!” said Christina, getting between them. What could have made Jonah — a scrawny thirteen-year-old — start something with Benj, who could have modeled for a gym-equipment ad?

  “I don’t like clam or lobster jokes,” said Benj. “Just because I keep silent when there’s nothing to say, Jonah, doesn’t mean I’m a crustacean.”

  Christina looked at the pair of them. How obvious the age difference was! Jonah was actually slightly taller than Benj, having grown like a stilt all winter. But he was skinny, with a lopsided, loping bounce. Benj’s arms were twice as thick. His tan had never faded because he worked year round at the sea and at the gas station. He already had a lobsterman’s squint, from the sun glaring off the water. It did not seem that two and a half years separated the boys; it seemed like ten.

  “Anyway,” Benj prompted her. He ignored Jonah, as sixteen-year-olds always ignored seventh-grade boys.

  “Anyway, I think we could get all the restaurants in town to donate a vat of their own special recipe of clam chowder. We could set it up at the wharf. Decorate each dock like a particular restaurant. And people could buy a ticket and taste twenty kinds of chowder.”

  “Yuck,” said Jonah. “I hate clam chowder.”

  “Nobody cares about you,” said Christina. “It’s tourists we’re interested in. We need money so Benj can go to Disney World.”

  Jonah rolled his eyes. “Christina,” he said, just as Michael had, “that’s the high school. Who cares? It’s their problem whether they can raise the money. Do you know how much time and effort it would take to do that chowder thing? Let them raise their own money. Besides, you couldn’t do that till July or August when tourists are really here, and you’ll be out on that island of yours.” He made Burning Fog Isle sound like a garbage dump.

  Her island of wild grass and roses, of salt spray and seabirds floating? Christina lowered her head as if to batter Jonah to his senses. Nobody got away with saying bad things about Burning Fog when Christina Romney was alive to stop them. Jonah dashed off with a bunch of boys who were climbing up on th
e school roof to retrieve the mittens, tennis balls, and book reports thrown there during the year. “I’ll get you later!” yelled Christina. Jonah, safe on the roof, lay down on the shingles and shrugged.

  Benjamin took a breath as if to ask Christina something. The wind suddenly ripped in from the sea, and a whiff of low tide filled their noses. Christina’s cotton dress whirled up. She caught the hem, and from her windblown pocket fell a book of matches.

  “What’s this?” said Benjamin, frowning. “Christina, you’re not experimenting with smoking cigarettes, are you?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be dumb. Those aren’t my matches. They must have been on the pavement.”

  Benjamin gave her a strange look. “Chowder’s a good idea,” he mumbled, and walked away.

  What was that all about? thought Christina.

  “Christina,” came a whisper.

  She looked around, seeing nobody. There were dozens of kids outside because the bell hadn’t rung yet. Why would anybody whisper?

  “Christina!” it hissed.

  She shivered. It sounded like the tide calling her name. That was what Anya thought, Christina remembered, when she was going mad. The sea is a mathematician, Anya had cried; the sea keeps count, the sea wants one of us.

  Anya had been entranced by the tides. Listen, she would whisper, her long fingers holding Christina like a net holding fish under water. The tide is saying, “Come! Come here and drown with me!”

  A cloud covered the sun.

  The trumpet-gold day turned to shadows.

  Christina shivered uncontrollably.

  A damp cold finger touched her neck, and she screamed, leaping backward.

  It was only Robbie. Ordinary old Robbie Armstrong from English class. “Robbie, you scared me,” she accused him, panting for breath. “I dropped my purse.” Why am I so jumpy? she thought. A minute ago I was happy.

  Her scream had drawn attention. A strange, silent, serious attention. Eyes stared at Christina — and at the ground around her.

  On the pavement, where children of another generation had painted hopscotch lines, lay a dozen books of matches. Her cloth purse was not as fat as it had been: all those matchbooks had spurted out when the purse hit the ground.