(You) Set Me on Fire

by Mariko Tamaki

  From my vantage point I could see the scratches on her high-heeled patent pumps.

  I heard Shar’s voice, what I thought was Shar’s voice, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  “Hurts.” The word spurted out with a cough, a piece of my front tooth, and a horror-movie amount of blood.

  Shar’s voice, getting closer, zoomed into focus. “My phone’s not working! Call an ambulance!”

  “Is this your friend?” driver woman screamed, dropping to her knees, beige nylons with little white flowers, and putting her face, very tan, white eye makeup, close to mine. Apparently my face was a source of some concern. She bit her lip.

  “CALL AN AMBULANCE!” Shar screeched.

  Tell them it’s me, I wanted to whisper, but my mouth hurt too much.

  Fumbling through her purse, the woman found her phone and dialed frantically.

  “JESUS CHRIST! Hello 911? There’s been an accident. A girl just fell. On … WHAT STREET IS THIS?”

  I went to roll over onto my back but the woman put her hand down on my shoulder, pinning me with two pointy fingers.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake don’t roll over. That’s the last thing I need. Lose my job and then fucking paralyze some kid. Yes. We need an ambulance, there’s been an accident. No. No, she’s not hit. I don’t think I hit her. I think. I think she fell. Yes. She’s bleeding. Yeah it looks like a lot to me!”

  I closed my eyes.

  “OH! Hey! Hey! Don’t fall asleep okay?! She’s losing cons— She’s passing out. Hey girl!” She snapped her fingers twice at me, her gold nails flashing in the headlights. “HEY! YOU! Come here and look after your friend. Keep her awake.”

  There was a pause. Then footsteps as Shar stepped around me. Sat down on the street in front of me. Took my scraped-up hand in hers a I was thinkingy%;margin-left: 0em;s I let my face sink to the pavement and waited for the now familiar sound of the ambulance siren.

  The result of breaking my fall with my face? Five stitches on the inside of my lip, one on the outside where my tooth actually cut right through to the other side. I had scrapes and bruises on my hands and knees. A scratch on my cheek. My tooth would need to be capped.

  I was patched up, told I could go home. I was also told that I was very lucky.

  “If you’d been hit by a car instead of just hitting the pavement,” the ER nurse tut-tutted, “you’d be dead.

  Think about that while I go get you something to help with the pain.”

  Shar sat in a little plastic chair by the bed with our coats in her lap, staring at the floor, periodically making eye contact then pulling her eyes away. The curtain that hung around the bed for privacy was giving everything a soft minty tinge, so her hair looked kind of elfin. A couple times I almost forgot she was there she was so quiet. When the doctor discharged me Shar watched while I got my coat and shoes on, kind of out of the corner of her eye. Then we caught a cab back to dorm.

  I just sort of autopiloted to her room.

  I sat there for a while in silence, perched forward on her bed, Shar standing over me, still in her coat, her arms crossed over her chest.

  “You should sleep,” she said.

  She took a few steps toward the door and stopped.

  “Are you staying?” I asked, still blurry, reeling.

  Steps and voices echoed through the hallway.

  “Sure.”

  I crawled under the sheets and, after a while, she crawled in behind me. She slept like a porcelain doll, barely curled up next to me in the bed that was really too small for two.

  At one point in the night I felt her touching my back, whispering.

  “What did you say?” My voice was scratchy.

  “Nothing. Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  She was up before I was the next day. Left a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a muffin from the cafeteria next to my bottle of pain meds on the table, with a note.

  Take one with food. Gone to class.

  I swallowed my pill with cold coffee and just about coughed it back up again when the cold sludge hit the back of my throat. My whole body felt like a crash. Like a mangled wreck that had been left on the side of the road to rot. It took everything I had to pull myself out of bed and into the bathroom, at which point I got a view of my face.

  Zombie love.

  A face only a zombie could love.

  I was standing by the mirror, balancing with my hipbone on the sink while I pulled out my bottom lip to survey my stitches, when Rattles walked in.

  “What happened?” she asked. Her voice was still rodent-small.

  “Tripped,” I said, discovering as I spoke that the stitches on the inside of my lip felt like a bouquet of wriggling ants.

  “Tripped?” Leaning over the next sink, Rattles surveyed her own face. Then twisted the taps to turn on the w and walked out the door. ccky ater.

  “Off a curb,” I added. “Into the street.”

  Steam collected on Rattles’s mirror. She cupped her hands under the water and splashed her face.

  “Right,” she said into the sink, her skin dripping. “Sure. Tripped.”

  As she patted her face dry with a little pink towel, I glanced at her wrist, looking for scars. Then I remembered it was a chipped bone. Broken on the inside.

  “Yeah, well,” I non-responded. “Anyway.”

  Snapping off the taps, Rattles turned and walked out the door.

  By the time I got back to the room there was a message on my phone from the Dean of Students. Jotting down the number on a stray pizza box, I curled up on the bed to dial back.

  “Hello, this is the office of the Dean of Students, St. Joseph’s College; this is Rita Ambrose speaking. May I have your name and student number?”

  “Allison Lee. 9328888.”

  “Miss Lee.” The voice on the other end was vaguely robotic. “The dean would like to see you today. I have an appointment scheduled at three p.m. Do you know where the dean’s office is?”

  Wow. What if I’d had plans? Or a class. Did I have class? What day was it?

  “No?”

  “We’re in the Pape Building. North end of campus. Walk in the doors and take a right, then two lefts. Office number is 4077.”

  By the time I pushed through the glass doors of the Pape Building, two hours later, I was covered in sweat, slightly high from the meds, and five minutes late. The secretary, in a navy suit and matching glasses, pointed me toward a row of pink chairs lined up against the wall and told me to wait.

  “Can you tell me what this is about?” I asked dozily.

  “Sit there please and Dean Portar will be with you shortly.” The Dean of Students, it turned out, was not exactly what you’d imagine a Dean of Students to be. What I imagined at least. I pictured someone like a Hogwarts’s instructor: aged, grey-haired, and wise. Dean Portar looked more like a fitness instructor in a suit.

  Once I was in her office I sat for a long time in a tiny chair in front of her huge desk, fighting the urge to fall into a drugged coma, while Dean Portar glanced over what I assumed was my file.

  Which made me wonder, briefly, exactly how many files of mine there were out there, and whether they all contained roughly the same information; that is, whether all my files pointed to the same conclusion. Like, THIS GIRL IS A FUCK-UP.

  All around Portar’s office were framed ad-campaign photos for the college, students looking happy in the sunshine, walking together either to or from class, giggling at their new-found social and intellectual lives, I’m sure. In one photo a basketball player in a varsity-type jacket chatted with a kid holding a painter’s palette. In another, an Asian girl and a black guy looked to be sharing a book in the library.

  As if anyone actually shares a book in the library.

  None of the girls in the pictures had stitches. None of the boys had zits.

  things I needed to be doing a">OHAfter a couple minutes Dean Portar picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. Then she made a small note in the margin. Then looked up and smiled.


  “So,” she said, her blue eyes taking a long scan of my battered face, “how are you finding your first year at St. Joseph’s?”

  It seemed a hard question to answer given the state of my appearance. “I’m adjusting,” I replied, wincing slightly as my ant lip tickled my bottom front teeth.

  “Let’s look at your course work.”

  Let’s. Let’s do that.

  “I’ve got … Let’s see. Hmmm. Well we have a B and one C. And we’ve got one, two … Two passes.” Tap tap with the pen. Pause. “How would you say things are going this year?”

  “Fine.”

  “Everyone has an adjustment period. Let’s take a step away from academics for now.” Dean Portar flipped the file shut. “There was an incident. I’m sorry you had to go through that experience.”

  “Yeah. It’s fine.” I sounded slightly stoned, I realized, and pulled myself up so that I was at least sitting straight.

  “It would be safe to say it’s been a turbulent semester so far?”

  “I guess. It would be safe.”

  “Have you been using any of our support systems?” she asked, gesturing with her pen to a stack of familiar neon-bright “ANXIETY” flyers.

  “I’m good. Fine. Thanks.”

  I must have tipped my head up just enough that she suddenly noticed, from her seat, the stitch on my face.

  “Oh my goodness. Is that from the fire?” She pointed at my stitches with her tapping pen.

  “Uh no. I tripped on the sidewalk coming home yesterday.”

  Tap tap. My file flipped open. A small note was made in the margin—in red ink.

  Possibly something along the lines of “Might not be school problem so much as this girl’s own personal date with destruction. Check with lawyers.”

  “Right. So you’ve had it seen to.”

  “Well. Doctors put the stitch in there, so.” Not to point out the obvious, but come on.

  More tapping. Then another note.

  “Fine. Well, Allison, I’ve brought you in here to update you on the state of our investigation into the fire. You should know that we’re addressing the matter as part of a larger issue we’re having this year with bullying and harassment.”

  The phone on her desk rang. The dean paused to look at the display and then continued. “I shouldn’t call it an ‘issue.’ A darker element of school life, possibly. Although to call it something other than an ‘issue’ does not suggest that we tolerate any form of harassment here at St. Joseph’s. I will tell you that we’ve had a series of incidents we’re looking into and that we’re taking all of them very seriously. In this case, we do, in fact, immediate">OH have a lead in the matter of the fire, and are following up on it. I know some of the parents of Dylan Hall students were concerned that not enough was being done.”

  At this point she stopped and leaned forward, head bent down. “If you would like me to contact your parents to discuss the matter I would be more than happy to do so.”

  “No no.” My back broke into a cold sweat just thinking of any conversation between the dean and my father. “No, I’ve spoken to them.”

  “Fine. I wanted to have you come in so I could check in on the matter with you in person. Which we have done. I’m going to make a note of that for my files.

  Well then. Of course we want our students to feel safe on campus. And I’m part of a larger support system with the goal of maintaining that safety.”

  She paused again, eye drifting down to my lower lip.

  I nodded, neck like rubber. Totally safe. Gotcha.

  “I’ll give you my card in case there are any other issues or if you’d like to speak to someone in the administration about this matter.”

  I forgot my hands were all scraped up until I reached forward, leaning out of my chair, to grab the card and my hand popped out of my sleeve like an injured mole. Sitting back in her seat, Dean Portar took a second to give me a look that suggested a mix of concern and what might have been disappointment.

  Déjà vu to say the least.

  “Right. Well thank you for coming in, Allison.”

  “Thanks.”

  I couldn’t get out fast enough. I sped past the robot receptionist and pushed my way out the door and into the hallway, where I just about went flying over Jonathon.

  Who was sitting on the floor outside the office.

  “Hey … Jonathon!” My first thought was whether or not he’d want his notes back, or if he’d consider helping me on my next paper.

  “Greetings.” Tucking his chin into his chest, Jonathon squirmed into a more upright position against the wall.

  “Um. Hey. Thanks for the notes. I’m still working on the paper but, um, yeah. Thanks. It was really nice of you to help me.”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to, uh, see you the day you dropped them off.”

  “That’s quite all right.”

  “Cool.”

  Oddly enough, despite my history of basically deflecting Jonathon as much as possible, his bent head and uncharacteristic lack of motor-mouthing were freaking me out a bit.

  “Are you okay?” I finally asked.

  When he looked up his face was red. Boy tears. Boy tears on a hot pizza face. Jonathon shuddered for a bit, and sucked back a few sobs before answering. “I just do not particularly feel enthused about my visit with the dean, shall we say.”

  “Oh. Is it about the fire?”

  “The fire? No.” Unfolding and refolding his legs he fished a tissue Mariko Tamaki, c out of his pocket and blew hard. “It’s a. It is a, shall we say, trivial matter blown into grandiose proportions by a school administration that is terrified of being the subject of some news documentary on campus hazing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Can I ask what happened to you?” he said, sniffing back a tear and cocking his head to the side to get a look at my scratched profile.

  “Nothing.”

  “Lovers’ quarrel?”

  “What?!” I took a step back, unconsciously slipping my hand up to touch the stitch on my lower lip.

  “I’m so sorry. Please, don’t go. That was a terrible joke. I have a macabre sense of humour at the best of times. I don’t suppose you could just pause with me for a second?” Jonathon wiped a teatter yet, how

  FIFTEEN

  Jewel

  I spent twenty minutes standing in front of the student listings board waiting for Carly.

  On that particular day, students at St. Joseph’s were partaking of the following:

  A volleyball game between the St. Joseph’s Grits and the Laurentian College Blazes.

  A Christian Fellowship movie night (The Last Temptation of Christ) with a cake and non-alcoholic cocktail party to follow.

  A vegan potluck thrown by the St. Joseph’s Students for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (SSETA).

  A concert by the Wild Pluckers in the Jacob Paul Recreational Building (free admission).

  Also the Dollar Bills Council (an economics thing, according to their logo) was presenting a lecture on mutual funds in room 423 of the Student Union building, two doors away from where the Student Anxiety Support Group held its weekly meeting.

  Students passed in front of the board, checking room numbers, racing off in different directions, with and without books, cell phones, and (semi) matching outfits. Everyone looked busy, happy. It was what you’d picture college to be: full of purpose and activity. At one point Rattles zoomed by, looking as if someone had just told her something really funny. She was holding some tall blond boy’s hand, leaning back to yell at someone who was lagging behind.

  “We’re getting a burger first. Hurry up!”

  If she ate fast she could still make her Anxiety meeting, I thought. Although maybe she didn’t need it anymore.

  As I stared at the board, it occurred to me that I knew as little about any of these groups as I did about what was happening in any of my classes.

  Like, we had a volleyball team?

>   Five minutes later I finally spotted Carly, with her slightly faded green hair, sprinting through the crowd at me like a knight on a white horse (only a little more frazzled).

  She was wearing a pair of white painter pants stained green and blue and an old man’s overcoat with a bright fuzzy blue sweater underneath. I looked like a prison escapee. Carly looked a bit like an escaped mental patient.

  “You didn’t leave!” she gasped. “Just. Just gimme a second. Catch my breath. I ran all the way here from the Daily Joe.” Locking in on my face, her mouth popped open. “Holy SHIT what happened!?”

  “Oh. Nothing. I tripped. On the curb. It’s nothing.”

  A band of future corporate executives breezed past, smelling like cologne and new electronics.

  “You tripped off a curb or on a curb?”

  “Off.”

  “Okay.” Carly paused, and walked out the doorin c running looking through the crowd like a woman on the run. “Okay. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go to this place I know for coffee. It’s, like, five minutes away.”

  “I can’t stay long,” I protested, although technically that wasn’t true.

  A worried look slipped over Carly’s face. “Just one coffee, okay? I swear like half an hour TOPS.”

  The coffee shop was literally a hole in the wall, a concrete bunker tucked under one of the industrial buildings just east of campus. Carly sat down at a little metal table in the far corner of the room and ordered two coffees from the (also green-haired) waitress.

  “It’s like a green-hair conspiracy,” I muttered.

  “Oh, that’s Dusk. She’s in the film club,” Carly said.

  “Her name is Dusk?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Waiting for Carly to talk, I rubbed my palms, which were insanely itchy, on my jeans.

  Dusk came back with the coffees and a shy smile.

  “So. Wait. You tripped?” Carly asked, stirring huge squirts of honey into her mug.

  “Yeah. Off the curb. It was right after I saw you guys. I just. You know, it was one of those things where you think you have your balance and then—” I let my hand fall to the table, BANG. Spoons, cups, and saucers bounced in unison.

  The Goth couple at the table next to us turned to give me a look. It was like getting a mean stare from two angry Shih Tzus in studded collars.