Spark

by Brigid Kemmerer

  You’re. Not. Mom, he signed emphatically.

  “How was school?” said her father, oblivious, his eyes on his paper.

  “Fine,” she said. “We have a new math teacher. She’s better than the old guy.”

  “And how’s Simon doing?”

  Layne glanced at her brother. He wants to know how you’re doing.

  I know. I can read his lips. Simon jabbed his fork into his chicken, making a loud clink when it connected with the plate. He can ask me himself.

  Do you want me to tell him about what happened in the hallway?

  NO.

  Their father glanced up from the paper. “What’s going on?”

  “Simon just made the JV basketball team,” she said smoothly, used to covering for her brother’s hostile signing. Their father knew enough ASL to get by, but he’d never put the time in that Layne and her mother had. Most of what Simon said went right over his head.

  Something that irritated Simon to no end.

  Her brother could talk, though. He just refused to do it, since the first day of high school when half the freshman class had decided his affected speech meant Simon was a retard. She’d just about fallen over when he’d spoken in front of Gabriel Merrick.

  Especially since their father had tried no shortage of threats to get Simon to speak at home.

  “Basketball?” said their father. “Is that possible?”

  Simon flung his fork against the plate and shoved away from the table.

  “Get back here,” their father snapped. The paper dropped to the table. They had his full attention now—but Simon’s back was turned, and he was already going through the doorway.

  “He played all through middle school,” she whispered—unnecessarily, since Simon couldn’t hear her.

  “That was different,” said her father.

  She thought of those bullies in the hallway and agreed with him.

  Though she’d never say that to Simon, of course.

  “How’s the chicken?” she asked.

  “It’s fine,” said her father, spearing another piece before picking up the newspaper again.

  She’d burned two pieces before figuring out the timing, but she’d made sure to give her father one of the good ones.

  She’d already failed one parent.

  She couldn’t afford to let it happen again.

  CHAPTER 7

  Fire surrounded him.

  Gabriel dropped to his knees and ran a hand through the flames. It reached for him, licking along his palm.

  A blanket of flame—no, bigger than that. A carpet of flame, the size of his bedroom. The fire singed the edge of his jeans, and he told it to find something else to burn. It wouldn’t hurt him, but it could definitely burn his clothes off.

  The flames flicked higher than his head, now that he was sitting. One of the trees at the edge of the circle caught and started to burn.

  Then another.

  “Easy,” he breathed, feeding it his own energy, trying to pull it back, to keep it contained. Usually when he played with fire, Nick was with him, choking oxygen from the air if the flames got to be too much.

  The fire listened, waiting for guidance.

  Curious, Gabriel gave a little push.

  For an instant, it felt incredible, the strength—no, the potential —in the flames surrounding him. He could level this whole forest with a thought. So much power, right at his fingertips, awaiting his direction. True control.

  And then he lost it.

  Seven trees caught and blazed. Eight. Nine. Fire suddenly stretched as far as he could see. Gabriel tried to rein it in, to pull the fire back to his area, but now it had fuel to burn and it didn’t care what he wanted.

  The flames mocked him, each crack and snap a taunt. Burn. Destroy. Consume.

  The smoke turned thick, blinding, black against the red of the flames. Fire completely surrounded him, and he lost track of which direction was home.

  A tree fell, crashing through the leaves right beside him.

  Gabriel skittered sideways. Another danger: The fire wouldn’t hurt him, but a tree to the head sure would. Flames curled along the trunk, obscuring it from view almost immediately.

  “Stop!” he said. Jesus, he needed Nick.

  And he hadn’t even grabbed his cell phone on the way out of the house.

  He couldn’t see how far the flames reached, and he hadn’t been out walking too long. Their house backed up to the woods along with a dozen others. Would the fire leap onto porches and roofs? Would he end up taking out half the neighborhood because he’d wanted one leaf to burn?

  He knew what it was like to cause destruction. He’d started the fire that killed his parents.

  Don’t think about that.

  But he couldn’t think of anything else. He had to make it to the house. He had to get his brothers out.

  Another tree fell. Gabriel bolted, praying he was going the right way.

  He ran through fire forever. It felt incredible, and he hated it.

  Then he heard men shouting, and before he could process that, someone tackled him and sent him to the ground.

  Wet leaves were in his mouth; red lights flashed through the trees above him. Hands were hitting him everywhere. He smelled wet wool. His arms were trapped somehow; he couldn’t even find his hands to fight them off.

  What. The. Fuck.

  He spat leaves, but didn’t get them all. “Stop!” he yelled. He didn’t even know who he was talking to. “Stop it!”

  “Medic!” A woman’s voice, right close to him. “He’s conscious!”

  People crouched over him. Firemen, with hats and gear and everything. Gabriel couldn’t even tell which was the woman. Sirens and radios and diesel engines created a racket behind them.

  “I’m okay,” he croaked around the crap in his mouth. “I’m okay. I don’t need a medic.”

  He needed to get off this ground. He needed to make sure the fire hadn’t made it back to the house.

  They were pulling a blanket away from him. His clothes had to be ruined; he could smell the singed fabric, feel the rough edges against his skin.

  He coughed, and then someone was pressing an oxygen mask to his face.

  God, he didn’t need a damn mask. He needed to get to the house. His brothers would be trapped. He needed to stop the fire. He needed—

  Cold steel touched his wrists. What were they doing?

  Cutting his clothes off.

  Gabriel fought. Hard.

  Then hands were pinning him down, men yelling that “whoa, whoa, whoa” they did when someone was absolutely out of control.

  “Take it easy.” A fireman was kneeling over him, adjusting the oxygen mask now that he was pinned to the ground. The woman’s voice again, but he couldn’t see anything but her eyes. “We’re trying to help you. Is anyone else out there?”

  He shook his head fiercely. “Let me up. Let me up. I need to get my brothers.”

  She glanced up at the woods, where fire still raged. “In there?”

  “No. Home.” He fought again, but there must have been a lot of guys holding him down. He couldn’t get purchase. “Please. The fire . . . spreading—”

  “We’ve got it,” she said. She put a hand against his face. He could smell smoke on her palm, but it felt nice and reminded him of his mother for half an instant. “Just settle down and let us see how bad the burns are.”

  “They’re not,” said a guy near his feet.

  “What?” She turned her head.

  “They’re not,” the guy said. “Hannah, this kid doesn’t have a mark on him.”

  “Please,” said Gabriel. He sounded pathetic, his voice croaking like an old smoker. “Please let me up. I’m okay.”

  She was staring down at him with something like disbelief.

  “Sit him in the back of the bus,” said another guy. “Let him get some more oxygen in there and we’ll reassess.”

  “The bus” turned out to be an ambulance. Gabriel sat, wrapped in a b
lanket, breathing oxygen he probably didn’t need, watching his flames turn to smoke, flashing lights from the fire trucks bouncing off the billowing darkness.

  They’d taken his name and address, and then left him alone so they could deal with more important things.

  But then that girl firefighter was back, her helmet off, a spill of blond hair tucked into her reflective coat. She was younger than he’d thought, early twenties maybe. Her expression was all business, no compassion now that he wasn’t dying.

  “What happened?” she said.

  I started a fire. Gabriel shook his head, looking at anything but her face.

  “They found a lighter in your pocket,” she said. “Were you smoking out there?”

  He coughed. “No.”

  “Did you start a fire on purpose?”

  He shook his head again and felt his throat tighten. His eyes burned. He had to swallow twice. No way he could lie right now; she’d see right through it. He couldn’t even think straight to come up with a story. “I was just walking.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  He shook his head. At least that was the truth. “The leaves were on fire.” He coughed again, and it hurt. Maybe he did need the oxygen. “It spread fast.”

  She took the mask out of his hands and pressed it to his face again. That compassion was back. “No kidding.”

  “Gabriel.”

  He jerked his head up. Michael stood a few feet behind her, the emergency lights flickering off his hair and clothes, turning his eyes red and his expression frightening. It was an intense look, a fierce look. A grown-up look.

  Gabriel couldn’t cut through the guilt to snap at him. He wanted to wilt like that stupid kid had when Gabriel pulled him away from Layne.

  He could already hear Michael’s voice. We’re supposed to be lying low. You could have burned down the house. You’re such a disappointment.

  Or maybe that was his own voice.

  Gabriel swiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please—”

  But then his brother grabbed him by the back of the neck.

  And just when Gabriel thought Michael was going to haul off and take a swing at him, he pulled Gabriel forward and wrapped him up in a hug.

  Michael held him for a long time, and Gabriel let him.

  Finally, Michael pushed him back by the shoulders and looked at him. “Are you all right?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  Michael ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I swear to god, you guys are going to give me gray hair before I hit twenty-five.”

  He wasn’t mad. Gabriel stared at him.

  “Just some smoke inhalation,” said Hannah. “We can run him to the hospital to be sure.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “No way.”

  “You’re one lucky kid,” she said.

  Gabriel snorted and looked at the woods, the smoke pouring into the night sky. Lucky.

  “Are Chris and Nick all right?” he said.

  Michael nodded. “They aren’t even home. They left right after you did.”

  So they’d never been in danger at all. That loosened something in Gabriel’s chest.

  Michael was looking at Hannah. “Is he all right to go home?”

  She looked doubtful. Gabriel stepped closer to his brother, putting some distance between himself and the ambulance, suddenly worried they were going to make him go to the hospital, anyway. “Michael, I’m fine.”

  “Just chill out and let her be the judge, okay?”

  Hannah was staring now. “Michael,” she said. “Mike Merrick.”

  “Yeah?”

  Her cheeks looked pink, but it might have been the strobe lights from the fire truck. “Hannah Faulkner.” She paused. “We went to school together.”

  Michael was staring back at her blankly. “Hey.”

  His brother, the master of conversation.

  “You don’t remember me.” Her expression evened out. “I was a year behind you.”

  “Oh.” Now Michael looked flustered. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s been a while.”

  Then they just stood there looking at each other.

  Gabriel cleared his throat. “So can I go home or what?”

  She blinked and looked back at him. “Yes. Let me get one of the EMTs so your brother can sign for you to go.”

  It took twenty minutes, but eventually he was sitting beside Michael in the front seat of the work truck. Now that they were alone, Gabriel wondered if his brother’s relief would morph into that anger Michael always carried around. Normally Gabriel would poke at him, provoke him into a fight.

  Right now he just wanted Michael to yell, to slice into some of this guilt that had Gabriel in a choke hold.

  But his brother didn’t say anything.

  After they’d pulled into the driveway, Gabriel moved to slide out of the cab, but Michael caught his arm.

  Gabriel braced himself.

  Michael said, “Take your clothes off in the garage, and put them in the bin. Don’t touch anything until you take a shower.”

  That was it?

  Gabriel stared at him for a moment. It felt like he needed to clear his throat again. “Why?”

  “You’ll see why when you look in a mirror.”

  Michael went into the house and left him to strip down to his shorts. Here in the light of the garage, Gabriel could see his hands and forearms were blackened with soot. His clothes were practically unrecognizable. Even his shoes wouldn’t be salvageable.

  They all went in the trash.

  Gabriel paused with his hand on the door. The air was cold and he didn’t want to stand out here too long, but he wondered if this was it, if Michael would be waiting to lay into him now.

  But his brother was just cleaning up the dinner dishes, so Gabriel went upstairs to take a shower.

  Michael had been right: Soot lined his face, and his hair was full of charred bits of leaves and bark. His hands left prints all over everything. After he toweled off, he took one of those Lysol wipes to the sink and the light switch. Oh, and the door.

  Destroying the evidence.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about his parents.

  The summer of Michael’s senior year, Seth and Tyler and the other Elementals in town had gotten serious. They’d tried to kill Michael. Their parents had taken the whole family over to Seth’s house to talk.

  It had turned into a full-scale battle.

  Gabriel’s anger had started a fire. At twelve, he’d had no control of his abilities.

  His parents hadn’t made it out of that house alive.

  And tonight, he could have caused that kind of damage again.

  Michael wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room now, but Gabriel didn’t go looking for him. He just walked out the back door and dropped into one of the Adirondack chairs on the porch. The smell of smoke hung thick in the air, but he didn’t feel any fire nearby. The firemen had been thorough.

  He usually told Nick everything, but this, right on the tail of their dinner argument . . . Gabriel suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of telling his twin. Just the thought had him fidgeting, reaching for the lighter in his pocket.

  But he didn’t have it. The EMTs must have kept the one in his jeans, and he hadn’t grabbed another from his bedroom.

  Gabriel sighed.

  The sliding door opened, and then Michael was clomping across the porch. Gabriel didn’t look at him, just kept his gaze on the tree line.

  Michael dropped into the chair beside him. “Here.”

  Gabriel looked over. His brother was holding out a bottle of Corona.

  Shock almost knocked him out of the chair. They never had alcohol of any kind in the house. When Michael had turned twenty-one, they’d all spent about thirty seconds entertaining thoughts of wild parties supplied by their older brother.

  Then they’d remembered it was Michael, a guy who said if he ever caught them drinking, he’d call the cops himself. Really, he’d driven the point home so thorough
ly that by the time he and Nick started going to parties, they rarely touched the stuff.

  Gabriel took the bottle from his hand. “Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

  Michael tilted the bottle back and took a long draw. “I thought you could use one. I sure can.”

  Gabriel took a sip, but tentatively, like Michael was going to slap it out of his hand and say, Just kidding. “Where did this even come from?”

  “Liquor store.”

  Well, that was typical Michael. “No, jackass, I meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” Michael paused to take another drink. “There’s a mini-fridge in the back corner of the garage, under the old tool bench.” His voice was careful, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to share this secret.

  Gabriel didn’t look at him, hiding his own surprise. “You hid a fridge?”

  “I didn’t. Dad did.” Another drink. “I found it after he died.”

  They both fell silent for a while, Michael probably reliving it, Gabriel imagining it, his brother at eighteen, finding their father’s stash of beer. Gabriel wondered if Dad had only been hiding it from his sons, or if he’d kept it a secret from their mother, too.

  Not like it mattered.

  “Please tell me this beer isn’t five years old,” he said.

  “It’s not.” Michael smiled.

  And that, too, was almost enough to knock Gabriel out of the chair.

  He stared out into the darkness for a moment, and then took another sip. “You’re not mad?”

  Michael didn’t say anything, just took another drink.

  Gabriel felt his shoulders tighten. The cold of the bottle bit at his fingertips.

  “You remember that summer Chris got mono?” said Michael.

  The question came out of left field. But Gabriel did remember. Right after their parents died, Chris had gotten really sick. A pediatrician had diagnosed him with mononucleosis and given him antibiotics, but his “illness” had probably been more due to the fact that none of them were sleeping, and it was the driest summer Maryland had seen in years. Chris suffered without water.

  “You and Nick got into it with Seth and Tyler that week,” said Michael. “At the mall, of all places. You remember that, too?”

  “Yeah.” Gabriel remembered the security guards pulling them apart.