Revenge/Protest: usually anger directed toward a specific entity
Excitement: a fire setter probably gets a kick out of fires, sometimes sexual
Mental Health Concern: as in arson is a symptom of another illness
Concealment: fire setter has another crime to hide
Vandalism: arson being the result of boredom or revenge
Profit/Economic Gain: something to do with insurance
But can it really be that simple? As Ms. Bracket says, everything starts at the psyche.
60
Montage
Just last weekend was the second time I encountered Brooks’s dad. It was a work party. Luis’s law firm’s anniversary or something, held at a ritzy resort in Laguna Beach, on the edge of a bluff—one wrong step and you’re in the Pacific.
The cloudless night was wrapped in light, the expansive lawn lit by tiki torches and fire rings and hanging white bulbs and tea candles in mason jars. Adults interspersed around fire pits perched by the rocks and high tables by the outdoor bar, clutching cocktails and bacon-wrapped dates. Voices were slanted, loud, dripping with the September wind—not hot and frantic like at home, thirty minutes east, but coastal calm and cool.
Brooks and I were the only teenagers in attendance.
It was a late invitation, at least for me. Brooks had called me that morning, frenzied by the opportunity for a fancy night. Special, something different, something nice, you know, and it’d make my dad happy, my dad really wants to see you again, so come, please? I could hear his smile through the phone, feel his lifted mood in the whoosh of his words. Of course I said yes.
When he picked me up, Brooks kissed my cheek. “I’ve never seen you in white,” he said.
I’d borrowed Grace’s winter dress from freshmen year—a soft peach number that clung to my waist and fell to my knees. The sheer neckline reminded me of my ballet costumes. I fingered the fabric. “This isn’t white.”
In slacks and a button-down, his hair not a greasy mess but tousled, cologne ad–worthy, Brooks was freshly shaved, smelling of soap. Standing upright, jaw high. Brooks. My Brooks. He held my hand to his mouth, kissed my knuckles.
“I couldn’t care less about the dress,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”
At the party he led me to the dance floor—temporary parquet spread out across the lawn. So close, his hands on my waist, mine around his neck. Buffeted by drunken shimmying adults. I’d never danced with a partner before—never made it to that level in ballet—but with Brooks leading me, holding me, it was second nature. It exhilarated me.
We moved from the dance floor to the grass. Brooks circled his arms around my waist, and we swayed across the soft ground. It was better away from the lights, easier to pretend we were alone.
Last Saturday, he looked and felt and smelled like June, like hope and passion, like our date to Balboa Island, the Ferris wheel and the sand, the warm pebble-garden nights in July.
“What would you say if I said I hope we’re together forever?” he asked.
He wasn’t shaking or fiddling with his Zippo or spitting about how things would soon change. September was ending, so maybe I could set my obsession with Cameron aside. He’d tell me the truth eventually, let me see the quaking aspen photos when his wounds healed. He was everything.
“I’d say forever and ever,” I said. But I was dancing on glass, too aware that we were no longer what we’d used to be—that I didn’t know if I even still wanted what we’d been.
“You’ve saved me,” he said. Which is funny, because I’d thought he considered himself to be the one doing the saving. That that was what he wanted.
We twirled and Brooks dipped me, held me tight. A camera flashed.
“The stars have arrived!” Luis sang.
He held his phone in one hand, a full wine glass in the other. He was rested and taller than I’d remembered, so far from deflated. Though maybe it was the wine, or his tan cotton shirt, the party glow, or the woman at his arm. Regardless, Luis looked good.
“Hi,” Brooks said, flatly, a voice I use with my own dad if don’t know what else to say, if I want him to go away.
Luis studied me. “Audrey, you’re a knockout,” he said. “Isn’t she a knockout, Brooks?”
“It’s one of her many merits.”
Luis looked at the woman. “Did I not tell you, Jena? Are they not great together?”
“Lovely,” Jena agreed.
“This place is incredible,” I said. “Thank you for having me.”
Luis raised his phone in response and, without warning, snapped another photo. “Now don’t get mad at me,” he said. “Don’t freak out, Brooks, but can I just tell you, Audrey, can I just tell you how grateful I am for you, how happy I am—”
Brooks moaned. “Dad, don’t.”
“No, no, don’t don’t me,” Luis said, his lips wine-stained. “She ought to know how glad I am she’s around. What she did for you. Never thought you’d get past everything—what with Cameron—poor dear Cameron—” Brooks was sweating, clenching my hand in his. “But you’re like a different guy now. And it’s kind of cool. Jena, isn’t my son cool?”
“Great,” Brooks said. “Got it. I’m cool.”
Luis stepped closer, teetering drunk, and said, “Cheers to you, Audrey.”
He raised his glass just as Brooks shifted abruptly—as if to step between his dad and me, as if to turn me away—and knocked Luis’s wine from his hand. A sticky cool splash across my chest. A sour sweetness on my lips.
Brooks said shit and Luis said shit and I rubbed at the fabric, because that was my first reaction. Luis said sorry, and Brooks snapped and told him to let us be, and Luis said he’d show me the way to the bathroom. Jena took my hand and announced she’d take me to the ladies’ room and ordered Brooks and Luis to the bar for club soda.
And that settled that.
It was one of those fancy bathrooms with cloth towels and marble floors and shutter stalls. I was shaking. What would you say if I said I hope we’re together forever? I rubbed the toe of my shoe on the tile, and Jena worked to calm the bloodlike stain on my chest. Gentle pats with damp towels. Forever and ever and ever. My throat was threatening to close. You saved me. The wine and Luis’s drunken toast and Brooks so eager, Brooks so angry, Brooks so everything. Never thought you’d get past everything—what with Cameron—poor dear Cameron. I was heavy and damp.
“You go ahead and cry it out,” Jena said. “You’re certainly not the first to lose it over a stained dress.”
“It’s not the dress.”
A knock on the door. The club soda.
Jena cracked the can and dampened a new towel. “Don’t let Luis get to you,” she said. I was shivering, my skin cold where the wine had hit. “You okay?” she asked.
I forced a smile. “I’m fine.”
Nodding, she turned and swished out of the bathroom, her heels clicking on the tiles. “I’ll tell Brooks you’ll be out soon.”
I counted to one hundred before I left the bathroom, heading for the lighted walkway. But I froze when I heard Luis snarl his name. Cameron—
They were arguing, Brooks’s dad and Jena.
I pressed my body against the wall and listened.
Brooks is fine—I know what I can and cannot say—not something you can step into—
He was drunk. I stood there, straining to hear.
Cameron, I heard him say. Cameron.
61
7:11 P.M.
I’ve spent far too much of today in this truck.
But here I am, with Hayden, speeding on the Toll Road, headed toward the smoke, headed to the only place in town that stays open late. Corky’s Diner, which happens to be closer to our school, to our homes, to the fire than the hotel.
I swear it really is our only option, at least out of places that are fami
liar.
Hayden is messing with his seat belt and chewing his thumbnail. It’s like last night. Only we’re in my truck, and our roles are reversed. And it’s not like last night because I’m not running away. I’m moving forward.
“Thanks again for the ride last night,” I say. “It wasn’t my finest moment.”
“Honestly?” Hayden says. “It was the highlight of the past twenty-four hours.”
My windshield wipers occasionally swipe back and forth, clearing the accumulating ash from my view. I drive and follow the white lines of the road, pretending that the thickening ash is a winter storm. We’re not here, Hayden and I. We’re not driving through a fire in Orange County, but a blizzard in the Rocky Mountains.
“We should have just gone somewhere near the hotel, the Spectrum even,” Hayden says. “It feels like we’re driving into the fire.”
He’s right. This ash isn’t a good sign, but I say, “And miss out on Corky’s ambiance? No way.” He doesn’t respond, only stares straight ahead. “I’m sorry about Friday,” I say. “The T.”
“I’m not the only one you should be apologizing to,” he says.
I grip the wheel. “I wasn’t thinking. It was just, you know, one of those stupid things you do when you’re not thinking.”
“Ouch.”
“That’s not—” I shake my head.
Hayden doesn’t respond. When I glance over, he’s leaning against the door, leaning as far from me as possible as if to get a fuller view of me. He’s watching me, like I watched him last night. I wonder what he sees in my profile in the little bit of light.
“Okay,” he says.
And I’m going to say something more, but my phone starts buzzing in the front pocket of Grace’s shorts.
62
Biting My Knees
Last Saturday in Laguna Beach, Jena asked Luis to lay it out for her, to help her comprehend. It was hard to hear because the jazz band started back up again, but I stayed and strained to catch every word. It felt like darts shot straight into my ears.
An accident—
Kids, so young—
It was too fast—
Cameron—
It broke him—
Losing Cameron—
Only a boy—
Cameron—
And last Saturday night, their voices drifted further as they headed back to the party, and I moved from the wall and watched Brooks’s dad and his girlfriend walk the lighted path, arm in arm. The words echoed in the wind. Accident. Only a boy. The fragments split my skin. Kids, so young. Seventeen and twenty does not equate with young kids.
* * *
* * *
Shivering in Grace’s wine-stained dress, this is what I did:
I pulled my hair over my shoulder so it concealed the stain, and I crossed my arms against my chest for good measure and walked through the party until I found Brooks sitting on a bench, playing with his Zippo. He looked out to the black ocean. I kissed him on the lips, even though I wanted to ask why he’d lied, and I wanted to hold him because his grief felt too great, even greater than before, and I wanted to scream because he didn’t trust me, because—one way or another—he hadn’t told me the truth.
Brooks asked me what was wrong, and I said nothing.
* * *
* * *
This is what happened after:
Brooks drove me home, and we made out in the Audi parked on my street, and he tried to put his hand under my dress. But I needed one thing to stay the same, and I still felt sick. So I said goodnight, and then it was over and Sunday passed and the week carried on, except I had Luis’s broken explanation scattered in my mind. Then Thursday, our anniversary—I finally said something.
On Friday, there were only sparks and heat, because Friday I was numb and terrified, so I played pretend. Except Hayden, he wasn’t pretend. And last night was a new Saturday at Derek Sanders’s house and it was something, because I wanted it to be something. And now there’s today, another Sunday, and today—tonight—is shit. Shit shit shit.
63
7:18 P.M.
“It’s Grace,” I say.
I know it’s illegal and terrible to text and drive, and I know Hayden is probably judging me or maybe fearing for his life, but once I start I can’t stop, because this is what Grace has to say:
I found service and CNN reported that a firefighter died . . . Any word from Brooks? They didn’t say a name. I’m freaking out. But they totally would have called you, right?
Like, I’m sure he’s fine. He’s Brooks. (And oh my gosh YAY for Maya! So happy and relieved and ahhhhhh she’s a star!)
Also Hayden and I were evacuated too!
I can’t believe someone’s dead.
“Audrey,” Hayden says.
Hayden’s hand is on mine as I clench the steering wheel because I’m still driving, but I dropped the phone, and it’s now lit up on the floor of the cab.
Maybe Brooks is fine, maybe he’s alive, maybe he’s drinking a beer or spraying water on the fire, but that doesn’t change the fact that someone’s dead.
Guilt like that.
It takes you places.
“Audrey, pull over,” Hayden is saying. “You should pull over.”
For the second time today, I pull onto the shoulder of the Toll Road, an isolated stretch of concrete in untouched foothills. I roll off gently and click on the hazards.
“What’s going on?” Hayden asks.
No cars pass. We’re too close to the fire. Those evacuated are long gone, and those allowed to remain home have sealed their doors and windows.
“A firefighter died,” I say. “Grace read it on the news.”
“Oh.” He exhales. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I say, my most honest answer of the day.
I wait for him to ask me what happened, but instead he says, “Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“I have an idea,” he says, “for our project, and I think right now is a prime moment to give it a try, so close your eyes.” He touches my hand. “Think about anything other than what you just read, but don’t leave the truck. Stay right here, but remember something.”
My legs are shaking and my nose is stuffed up and I don’t have a tissue and it’s too damn quiet. Hayden’s breath. My own. The clicking of the truck’s hazards. The whoosh of the wind against the cab. A helicopter overhead. With my eyes closed, I see white stars on black. I see the fire. The smoke curdling into the morning sky. I think of what Luis said the last time I was parked on the side of the Toll Road, and I think of what Brooks said in Balboa after he lit those matches.
I think about what was said on TV. Arson. Someone is dead.
Hayden touches my hand again.
Remember something, he said. Don’t leave the truck.
So much of my time with Brooks has been spent in his Audi—in motion, in between, like today. Brooks has never been in my truck, my grandma’s old truck. I only got my license two weeks ago, plus it’s habitual: Brooks has always picked me up in the Audi. He drives and we kiss. He said it was okay; it was okay that I didn’t feel ready yet, that he’d wait forever if that’s what I wanted. He said we were like the aspen trees that he and his brother used to hike to see. That’s what I remember: not my truck but the quiet moments between him and me, the warm moments when we were weaving through the canyons, as if moving toward a dream.
I can feel Hayden watching me when he asks, “Do you have a memory?”
I nod.
“Okay. Let’s go outside.”
Hayden opens his door, and we tumble out onto the weed-choked shoulder. He looks around. “Crap,” he says.
Which is an understatement.
I’ve traveled up this Toll Road dozens of times, but now it’s another world. The stench of smoke is consuming, as thick as it was in my
house this morning, only stretched out, relentless, like we’re in a dome. I’m coughing. A helicopter bounces in the dark. I can’t see the stars. My eyes sting.
We’re in the wrong canyon to see flames, but I know the fire is close. Closer than I originally thought. It’s near, being fed by this wind. My heart batters. No nighttime reprieve for the firefighters.
“This is bad,” Hayden says.
My phone vibrates. A call. I know the number now: Luis. I silence it. I can’t. Not now.
Every inhale hurts. “Why are we out here again?”
“My idea.” He scrunches his face, looks at me. “Okay. Try to think of another memory now that you’re outside.”
“You’re not going to make me dance at the end of this, are you?”
“Only if you want to.”
I lean against the truck and let the wind strike my skin. I close my eyes. Last night, on Derek Sanders’s parents’ balcony, the flames like the guiding beams for an airplane’s landing—and Brooks and me, losing it, all the while, refusing to let the other go. Us on the floor, the smoke smelled close, the wind was so strong, but in comparison to this moment, the fire was merely background noise.
Right now the fire is everything.
I open my eyes. Hayden isn’t facing me but looking down at the tract homes across the valley. The stucco houses in the square yards are safe—not in the fire’s path. It’s after 7 P.M., but only a few lights are on. Families are inside, continuing their lives. How many heard the news of a dead firefighter on CNN?
My phone vibrates again. Maya. I answer.
“Audrey,” Maya cries. “A firefighter died. Is Brooks—”
“He’s okay. He’s going to be okay.”
“You can’t know that. I don’t understand how you can be so calm. How can you—I don’t get it—” I hear Mom shushing her, trying to calm her down. I hear the TV in the background. The word again. Arson. And Maya is telling Mom it’s a sister thing, and a door slams, and then silence.
Nothing Left to Burn Page 21
