(You) Set Me on Fire

by Mariko Tamaki

  I think that’s true. Although it seems like a bit of a weird thing to say when you consider how destructive fire is. How is it possible that something as mundane as smoke could be the real killer?

  “Okay, Allison, but you were never in any danger of dying.” She didn’t say it like she normally would have; instead, she was leaning forward with a serious look in her dark eyes. Confrontational.

  She seemed … upset. Or not upset. Withdrawn. Like a person sitting deep within themselves or retreating there, leaving their face empty like a sandbox after recess.

  “Look. Let’s forget it, okay? Let’s talk about something else.”

  When breakfast was over Shar said she was tired and wanted to go back to her room to nap. I walked her back to dorm, and then, because I couldn’t think of what else to do, headed to class.

  Introduction to Women Critical Thinking, c’s Studies. Jefferson Building. A class composed entirely of women, except for, of course, Jonathon, who apparently no longer wore a top hat. I grabbed a chair at the back of the classroom and noticed that everyone had a typed and stapled stack of papers with them.

  At the front of the class the professor sat next to a big box she’d labelled “ESSAYS” with a red marker.

  Essays? Scrambling through the recycling bin that was my brain, I scanned every memory I had for that phrase. Essay. Essay? I had a vague recollection of a couple stapled sheets of paper sitting under the stack of unopened course packs.

  Shit.

  The lecture that day was about this woman who said that we needed to stop depending on people in ivory towers to tell us what to do and what to think. The professor (Professor Women’s Studies?) made this big show of wandering through the seats as she talked, bangles jangling as she touched people’s shoulders, like a kid playing Duck, Duck, Goose, only really serious.

  Who is telling us what to think, the professor wanted to know. “Thoughts? Someone? Who is telling us what to think?”

  Is it me, I wanted to say, or are professors all really paranoid about what people are thinking and why?

  Jonathon raised his hand. “Ah perchance could it be said, ah, that we are all soaking in the irony that you, uh Professor, are in a position to tell us what to think? Or at least have a heavy hand in moulding our thoughts when grading our fledgling papers?”

  The class collectively turned to give Jonathon a disdainful glance. Fledgling papers?

  What a weirdo.

  “Well, yes,” Women’s Studies replied, raising her wrist so that her bracelets clanged together like wooden spoons in a drawer, “although I think we’d … I think I’d like to think our job is to guide you, not mould you. We want to make you think, not tell you what to think.”

  “Of course.”

  The debate raged on for another forty minutes before class finally let out and I slunk up to the front of the room.

  “Excuse me? Um. Professor?”

  Up close, I could see Professor Women’s Studies had red lipstick on. It matched her long red Women’s Studies scarf and red skirt and runny mascara that matched nothing.

  “Yes?” she asked, rooting through a giant bag for something obviously very small and/or not in there.

  “Um. I was in a fire?” More of a question than a statement. “I think we have a paper due today?”

  Is there any way one cancels out the other?

  Red lips spread out into a wide O. “At Dylan Hall! Yes, I heard about that. I’m sorry … what’s your name?”

  “Allison. Allison Lee.”

  “Are you asking for an extension on the paper that was due because of this recent fire?”

  “Yes?”

  “I think that’s perfectly reasonable. Although I will point out to you that in fairness the paper was assigned weeks ago.”

  “Uh. Yeah. Okay well. Never m things I needed to be doingt ccky —”

  “Oh don’t give up so fast.” Women’s Studies smiled.

  “Just send me an email reminding me why you have an extension.”

  Of course this meant that I’d still have to somehow write the paper. On what I had no idea. I didn’t even know who the ivory tower person guiding my thoughts was supposed to be, although I figured I could go home and Google it. Heading into the bustle of inter-class traffic, a multi-celled vibrating creature sporting a variety of smells and sounds, I put my head down and tried not to let my freak-out explode out the front of me.

  A hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder.

  “Hey!”

  Jonathon.

  “Hey,” I responded weakly.

  Under the soft light of day that filtered through the hallway’s industrial window, Jonathon’s face looked like it was about to peel apart, possibly to reveal a smaller, smoother Jonathon underneath.

  Jostled slightly by the crowd, he smiled nervously. “Are you all right? I heard there was a fire. And that you were in said fire.”

  I concentrated on looking at the collar of his shirt. “It wasn’t my fire,” I said. “I mean, it didn’t really get ME.”

  “Of course,” Jonathon chuckled, “what a concept. I’m fairly certain that no one has the market on fire.”

  “Right.”

  “I was just going to suggest,” he said, putting his hand out, palm up, “not to take up your time. Only that. I overheard. And. If you require any assistance with your paper I thought. I thought perchance I could be of some service.”

  My phone buzzed. Three missed calls. One from a campus number. Two from Shar.

  “Do you have any notes I could borrow?” I cut in.

  Jonathon smiled, raised his hand in kind of a weird giddy wave. “Yes! Yes. Well yes of course you can imagine I have a veritable cornucopia of study aids.”

  “On you?”

  “Ah no. Unfortunately, ha ha, or fortunately, that privilege will require another meeting. I could bring them by your dorm if you like. You’re in Dylan Hall, correct?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Um. Maybe you can leave them at the desk for me? Or.”

  Jonathon looked kind of majorly disappointed. “Well, if you’re not in.” The swarms of class commuters dissipated, leaving the hallway nearly deserted aside from Jonathon, me, and some kid who appeared to be passed out on one of the benches outside the lecture hall.

  “Oh I’m just really busy and my room is all … Maybe you could bring them to my friend’s room because that’s where I’ll be until, you know, until my room is cleaned? Floor six room eight.”

  “Of course I— That would be …”

  “Okay great! Bye.” I didn’t even wait for him to finish. I dialed Shar as I headed down the hall, almost running.

  “Get over here, Bugs Bunny garbage pail.on0” she snapped. “And bring some food.”

  I ran into Carly on the stairs between the third and fourth floor at Dylan. As soon as she saw me she pulled me off to the side.

  “Holy crap! Where have you been?! I’ve been calling you for DAYS. Are you okay?” A feather of blonde fell over one eye, leaving her other eye to do the majority of the work of the concerned stare.

  “Yeah I’m just. You know. Eating.” I shook my paper bag of burgers and fries.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Uh, with Shar, for now.”

  “With Shar.”

  “Yes.”

  Carly bit her top lip. “Okay,” she sighed. “Will you maybe just text me to let me know how you’re doing?”

  “Sure.”

  Digging into her fries, Shar said someone had given her a dirty look when she went to take a shower. Not a dirty look, a suspicious look, she said. A fucked-up look.

  “DON’T say it was my imagination, Allison.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  After burgers we rented The Hours, which is a movie lass="body-tex

  THIRTEEN

  February, fall in love

  By February, I was essentially living in Shar’s room full time. It was not exactly the most convenient set-up. Most Dylan Hall rooms aren’t desi
gned for double occupancy. My room had become a (very expensive) storage closet where I kept all my stuff, like, for example, the notes and books for the classes I wasn’t really attending.

  I’m not sure if there were any rumours about WHY Shar and I were sharing a room or what was going on IN the room. It wasn’t a sex thing. I mean, nothing really happened between us, sex-wise, although I guess I thought there was always the possibility that something might.

  A lot of our cohabitation had to do with the fact that, since her visit with security, Shar rarely left her room. The very idea of it stressed her out and made her really angry. We’d almost always have some sort of weird fight when talk switched to the possibility of leaving the room. Shar would get all cold and super pissed whenever I uttered some derivation of “What’s wrong” in relation to this topic.

  It was kind of crazy making, but then on the rare occasion we did go out, Shar developed this habit of grabbing onto me, leaning on me. All of which made things, not okay, but, I don’t know, it made sense somehow.

  Shar needed me.

  In related news, with the investigation ongoing and unsolved, Katy’s parents came from Halifax and moved her into a condo downtown that had this really fancy security system. Katy told people it was because she didn’t feel safe at Dylan.

  The day before she left, which happened to be the day before Valentine’s Day, she came to Shar’s room to drop off a present for me—a gift from one survivor to another, she said, handing over a large paper bag. It was a shell, a big white conch shell with a pink, sort of sexually pink-looking, inside. It was heavy and cold to the touch, like marble.

  “Wow.”

  Down the hall, Katy’s mother, a frizzy-haired woman dressed in mom jeans and a sweatshirt with a big anchor embroidered on the chest, paced, swinging a set of car keys around her finger.

  “Take care of yourself.” Katy said.

  “Okay. Wow. Sure. Thanks, Katy.”

  Later, turning the shell over and over in her hands, Shar frowned. “Why are people always giving you stuff these days?” she asked.

  “She probably just doesn’t want to pack everything,” I offered, rolling over on the bed and brushing the pizza-crust crumbs out from under me.

  “Or maybe you’re shell sisters now?”

  I grabbed the shell from her and placed it, pink up, on the desk. “No such thing,” I said.

  “It looks like a vagina,” Shar snickered.

  Not surprisingly, Valentine’s Day was a big deal at St. Joseph’s. In fact, St. Joseph’s didn’t just celebrate Valentine’s DAY but Valentine’s WEEK, a whole calendar of events, launching with “couples’ romantic dinners” at the various dorm cafeterias, where valentines enjoyed Sloppy Joes served on kaiser rolls cut into heart shapes, Caesar salad on the side.

  I cannot imagine why anyone would want to have

  a romantic dinner in a dorm cafeteria. At one of the other residences, couples got pelted with rolls by renegade (I would imagine single) students.

  There was a Valentine’s RAVE. Hope went. It was run by the engineering department. Apparently, there was a booth where you could go to make out and get your picture taken making out. They had to shut it down halfway through the night because people were using the booth for purposes other than kissing— with photo evidence to boot. A couple of happyfaced-boy and back-of-girl’s head pictures ended up very briefly on the college online social board.

  And finally there was the film club’s anti-Valentine’s ZOMBIE LOVE party for the launch of the musical To Zombie, with Love. There was a big green oozing zombie heart on the poster. Carly embroidered a large green heart on the back of her coat and pasted up posters all over campus. The week before the party she and the film people in Dylan Hall all dyed their hair bright green, leaving a wake of green foot and fingerprints, sinks stained Jell-O green, and shower curtains tinted toxic yellow.

  I’d caught sight of them all crossing campus from Shar’s window, a whole flock of evergreen to minty coloured heads, bright against the snow, loose turf heading to class.

  True to form, after a week of decidedly not making special Valentine’s Day plans and making fun of the people who did, on the day of, out of the blue, Shar decided she wanted to go out. One minute she was sitting on her bed turning Katy’s shell over and over in her lap, the next minute she was up and getting dressed.

  “We’re going out,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “Out.”

  We headed uptown, ending up at this crazy fancy martini bar. It was all velvet and black leather. All the drinks had fancy names and came with a salad of garnishes. When our Goodfellas arrived, topped with black olives and giant pickle slices, Shar pulled the shell out of her bag and set it on the table next to the orchid centrepiece. Picking up her drink, she sucked the olive off the little plastic sword then reached over and clinked the shell with the side of the glass.

  “Cheers, Allison. Here’s to YOU taking CARE of yourself.”

  I paused, my lips on the rim of my glass, and watched Shar as she gulped down her drink and smiled.

  “DO it.”

  “What?”

  “Toast the shell! Toast to your good health, Allison!”

  My glass hit the side of the shell with a half-hearted clack.

  By the time we left the bar, the world was a blur. We zigzagged down the sidewalk and across the street, me following Shar as she charged forward and walked out the door.ed me toward a little bridge. When she got to the middle she stopped and steadied herself against the railing. After struggling a bit, she pulled the shell out of her purse again and held it high over her head.

  “What are you doing?”

  She grinned, held the shell over the side of the bridge and, with little fanfare, opened her hand to let it drop. It hit the road below and shattered into a million porcelain skull-like fragments. There was a squeal in the distance, the sound of truck brakes grinding, rubber skidding against asphalt. We turned and ran, off the bridge and up the street, Shar cackling hysterically. Tomato juice and vodka pumped through my body, crude oil.

  Many many blocks later we ground to a halt at the gates outside campus. With one hand leaning on a tree, gasping for breath, a shout jumped out of my throat.

  “FUCK, SHAR!”

  She grinned, wobbling on the grass as her heels sunk into the now soft turf. “Ha ha!”

  “Whatever. That was MINE.”

  “Oh wah wah! You sad you lost your shell from your BFF?”

  “What? No!”

  She stepped forward and into me, pushed me against the tree. She planted a kiss on my lips, then another, this one hard, teeth flashing over my bottom lip until they sank down, bit in.

  “Mmphf!”

  A soft chuckle pushed into my mouth, down my throat. The bark of the tree on the back of my head. Shar’s icy hands on my face.

  It is apparently possible to feel a million things at once, have them pop up and down in your insides like lottery balls.

  Stop. Don’t stop. Stop. Don’t stop.

  When she pulled away she had that familiar look on her face, a look of determination and smug contentment. Black eyes. Pushing off the tree, she backed up, focused on me.

  “Let’s go, Sonny.”

  Just north of where we stood, we could hear strains of the Clash. Green light leaked through the doors and windows of the Student Union building.

  Zombie party. Grabbing me by the elbow, Shar beelined toward the light like a moth drawn to a green flame.

  I didn’t want to see Carly. More than anything, at that moment, I didn’t want to see Carly or any of the film people with their green turf heads. I especially didn’t want to be in the same space with Carly and Shar, Shar and anyone really, but especially Carly and Shar.

  “No no no no. Let’s go,” I whispered, jerking my elbow back like a frightened puppy on a leash.

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m tired and I want to go home now. I’m drunk.” I’d manag
ed to pull us to a halt and was now intent on standing my ground. “Plus we have to pay to get in.”

  It seemed important, at that moment, to focus. I tried very hard to breathe in a level of sobriety from the cold air but it just made my head buzz more.

  I didn’t see Carly and Danny until they were right behind us, all painted up, arms full of plastic bags loaded with party snacks.

  “Hey!” Danny trilled, his face blurred by a mask of white and black and red. “More party-goers! Amazeballs! Are you coming to see our masterpiece? We’re doing a midnight screening.”

  I could feel Carly standing beside me, hear her shifting the bulky bags in her arms. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her minty green face, red lips. “Yeah,” she said, kind of quietly.

  Shar snickered. “Oh yeah, right, the ZOMBIE movie! Nice face, Superstar.”

  Danny arched a caked white eyebrow. Carly nudged my shoulder.

  “If you want to come in,” she said, her voice low, measured, and careful, “you know you’re more than welcome. I’d love for you to see the movie. But if tonight’s not a good time, I can show it to you later.”

  “SUPERSTAR!” Shar chuckled. “Why. Are. You. Talking. So. QUIET. LY?”

  “You know what, Shar?” Carly snapped. “I’m not actually talking to you at the moment, okay?”

  “Okay, Superstar,” Shar singsonged. “Don’t want to rile up the Oompa-Loompas!”

  “WOW,” Danny mouthed, and moved closer to Carly, who dropped her bags at her feet.

  , he’d

  FOURTEEN

  Accidents (keep) happen(ing)

  The car that almost hit me was driven by a woman in her thirties who I guess was (also) having a really fucked-up day. Her front tire stopped about an inch away from my splayed-out hand, which I would later discover was covered in road rash. When I raised my head, only recently cracked against the asphalt like a walnut, I could see the warbly reflection of my bloody upper lip in her bumper, which was splattered in dirt (and almost my brain).

  “JESUS CHRIST,” the woman screamed as she jumped out of the car, her heels click, click, clicking as she ran over. “JESUS CHRIST! JESUS what happened!?! YOU! Do you know this girl?! What happened!? Did she trip?”