Spark

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “The custody stuff still wasn’t straight,” said Michael. “Chris was sick, and I didn’t know how insurance worked, if we even had it, what with Mom and Dad . . . and then you two got in all that trouble at the mall. The social worker started saying it was too much for me, and she was going to recommend foster care—”

  “I didn’t know that.” Gabriel looked at him.

  Michael shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?” He took another long sip and shook his head. “Anyway, I thought I was going to lose it. I was so angry. Angry at you two for not keeping out of trouble, angry at Chris for getting sick, angry at stupid stuff like missing graduation. I was worried she was right, that I couldn’t do it. And what was worse, I was angry at Mom and Dad for leaving me with such a frigging mess.”

  Gabriel almost held his breath. Michael had never talked like this before. Especially not to him.

  “I was so mad,” said Michael. “I hated them. I actually went to the cemetery and started swearing at the headstones. Punching them. I almost broke my hand. I looked like a lunatic.”

  Another drink.

  Gabriel stared.

  “But I wanted them back so badly,” said Michael. “I would have done anything . . . well.” He took a breath and turned his head, meeting his brother’s eyes. “You know.”

  “Yeah.” Gabriel paused. “I know.”

  Michael turned and looked out at the night again. “So I’m kneeling there in the grass, wanting them back, feeding fury into the ground.” Another drink, this time a long one. He finished off the bottle. “The ground opened up and pushed their coffins to the surface.” He paused. “And not just theirs. Like twenty of them.”

  Gabriel almost dropped his beer. He was horrified—but also a little fascinated.

  “Were they open?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  Michael shook his head. “It scared the crap out of me. I mean, aside from the obvious, it was the middle of the afternoon—”

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean, what did I do?” Michael swung his head around. “I put them back.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “No kidding.” He made a face and added, “I don’t even know if I put them back right.”

  “You mean, Mom and Dad—”

  “No, they’re right. Just . . . everyone else.” Michael paused. “Jesus. What a week that was.”

  “I’m surprised you came home,” said Gabriel, and he meant it. He’d never thought about what would have happened if he and his brothers had been thrown into foster care. If he and Nick had been split up.

  “I did,” said Michael. “And that night was when I found the fridge. Fully stocked and all. I don’t even remember what made me go into that corner of the garage, but I swear to god, it was like Dad was standing right there, saying, ‘Here, kid, you look like you need a drink.’ ”

  He stopped talking, and Gabriel let silence fill up the space between them for a moment.

  Then he looked over. “Thanks.” He paused. “Does anyone else know?”

  “No. Just you.”

  That meant something. The beer, the story—Michael was saying he trusted him. Gabriel wasn’t sure he deserved it.

  “You’re not alone, you know.” Michael hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure Gabriel would keep listening. “Fire’s not my thing, but the pull, the power . . . I understand it. Nick and Chris do, too.”

  Gabriel didn’t say anything.

  Michael sighed. “I’m just saying. You’re friends with half the school, but you don’t have any real friends. You’re with a different girl every week, but you’ve never had a girlfriend, you don’t—”

  “Wait a minute. Are you seriously trying to talk girls with me?”

  “No—Gabriel.” Michael sounded frustrated. “I’m trying to talk about being alone—”

  Gabriel couldn’t decide if he was pissed or amused. “When was the last time you spoke to a girl? Are you even aware the firefighter chick was checking you out?”

  His brother faltered. “She’s just a girl from school.”

  “You should call her up. Ask her out.”

  “Please.”

  “God knows getting some would probably improve your mood.”

  “I think that’s enough.”

  Gabriel didn’t often think of Michael in terms other than overbearing and pain in the ass, but the secret beer had him wondering what else he didn’t know.

  “Have you gone out with anyone since Mom and Dad died?”

  Michael didn’t move, and Gabriel didn’t think he was going to answer. But he finally nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “Once, when I was twenty-one. She said I had too much baggage.”

  “What a bitch.”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m a real catch. I’m shocked they’re not lined up at the door.”

  Gabriel reached out and gave his ponytail a yank. “Maybe if you didn’t look like Charles Manson, they would be.”

  “I do not look like Charles Manson.”

  Gabriel gestured at the door. “Go tap-tap on your laptop and look him up. Dead ringer.”

  Michael laughed. It was a good sound, one Gabriel couldn’t remember hearing since . . . forever.

  But then Michael stood up, and Gabriel lost the smile. He shouldn’t have mentioned the laptop. Their landscaping business was probably on the brink of collapse since Michael had spent ten minutes not being an asshole. That familiar wall was going to fall back into place between them; Gabriel could feel it.

  Michael stopped and turned. “I won’t tell Chris and Nick.”

  Gabriel glanced up, surprised. “Thanks.” He paused. “I won’t either. About . . . the other stuff.”

  And then Michael was sliding the door open, pushing through, leaving Gabriel alone on the porch. Game over.

  But Michael stopped before sliding it closed. “You know, they won’t be home for a while. You want another beer?”

  Gabriel smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Gabriel dribbled the basketball a few times and threw, making the basket for an easy three-pointer. He was alone on the court, killing time until Nick was done with whatever after-school do-gooder activity he’d signed up for.

  Layne hadn’t said a word to him in class.

  Gabriel hadn’t known what to say to her, either.

  Dribble, dribble. Shoot.

  Basket.

  If Nick hadn’t broken his leg, Gabriel would be finishing the soccer season this week. He’d played under his twin brother’s name so he could get around the school’s stupid rule limiting students to playing on two varsity teams per year. Gabriel missed the team, the camaraderie, the physical exertion fed by a common goal.

  He didn’t really miss any of the guys.

  It made him think of Michael’s comments.

  Stupid. He didn’t need friends. He had his twin brother.

  His phone chimed. Speaking of Nick.

  Go ahead without me. I’m going home with Quinn.

  Of course. Gabriel shoved the phone back in his pocket.

  Nick hadn’t even talked to him last night. Usually they did the postmortem when one went out without the other. But maybe Nick didn’t feel like he had to. He’d been with Chris, after all.

  Whatever.

  Dribble. Shoot.

  The ball hit the rim and ricocheted sideways, toward the bleachers.

  Gabriel swore and jogged to retrieve it—but Layne’s brother stepped out of the shadowed corner by the door and picked it up.

  Simon wore basketball shorts and a loose T-shirt, the clothes making him look smaller than he really was. Sweat darkened his shirt and matted his hair at the temples—he’d probably been out running. The JV coach always made them run at the end of a practice, Gabriel remembered.

  If Simon had stayed late for practice, did that mean Layne was still around?

  She’d said her little brother dragged her to all the basketball games last year, so Sim
on had seen him play. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that it meant Layne had seen him play, too.

  He should have apologized. In class. He should have said something.

  Yeah, and how would that go? I’m sorry I stopped those douchebags.

  He scanned the bleachers, as if he could have missed a lone girl sitting there while he shot baskets.

  Empty.

  Gabriel shook it off. “’Sup, Simon.”

  The kid grinned and held out a fist like he had yesterday.

  Gabriel hit it. “How was practice?”

  Simon lost the smile. His face was flushed from the run, and with the sudden darkness in his eyes, it made him look angry.

  “Not good, huh?” said Gabriel.

  Simon signed something furiously.

  Gabriel frowned. “Dude. I’m sorry, I—”

  Simon made a frustrated noise, then a gesture that didn’t need much translation. Forget it. He tossed the ball to Gabriel and turned away.

  “Hey,” said Gabriel. Simon kept walking, and it took Gabriel a moment to realize that the other boy couldn’t hear him.

  He jogged a few steps and caught him by the arm.

  Simon swung around. His eyes were red.

  Gabriel fished his cell out of his pocket and held it out. “Here. Text it.”

  Simon’s eyes widened. He took the phone and worked the buttons like his thumbs were on fire.

  Then he held it out. Gabriel read.

  I can practice, but can’t play. Coach says liability.

  Gabriel frowned, but he understood. If Simon couldn’t hear, how could the coach call plays? How could the other kids get his attention on the court? He wouldn’t hear a whistle or the buzzer.

  Simon took the phone from him again.

  I’m good. Not a liability.

  Gabriel smiled.

  Simon took the phone a third time.

  I just want to play.

  Gabriel lost the smile. He understood that.

  “You’re good?” he said.

  Simon clenched his teeth and nodded.

  Gabriel slid the phone into his pocket and tossed the ball back at Simon. “Prove it.”

  The kid was faster than Gabriel expected, light on his feet and agile. Fit, too—he was all over the court despite just finishing practice. His ball control sucked; Gabriel could tell he was used to getting by with speed. He missed half the shots he took.

  At first Gabriel tried calling out pointers—but then he remembered again that Simon couldn’t hear him.

  Yeah, he saw where the coach was coming from.

  Finally, he caught the ball and held his hands in a T. He’d been playing in jeans and a hoodie, and his own hair felt damp.

  “You need to slow it down, buddy.”

  Simon was breathing hard. He nodded.

  “He needs to remember the bus schedule,” said a voice from the bleachers. “We’ve already missed the late one.”

  Gabriel turned. Simon didn’t. Layne sat there, a textbook open on the bench beside her, a notebook in her lap.

  “How long have you been sitting there?” he said.

  She glanced at the watch on her wrist. “Like twenty minutes.”

  God, he was baking in this sweatshirt. He swiped a hand across his forehead. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  She glanced away, tucking a loose piece of hair back into her braid. “Because Simon never gets to play.”

  “So you missed the—hey!”

  Simon had smacked the ball out from under his arm and was tearing off across the court.

  Layne laughed, but then she caught herself and sobered.

  They stared at each other across twenty feet of gym floor. Gabriel pushed the hair back from his face. “You need to go?”

  She clicked her pen. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

  Gabriel wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. He couldn’t figure out her tone. It certainly wasn’t friendly.

  The ball hit him in the arm. Simon was back, dribbling beside him.

  His expression said, We playing or what?

  “Go,” said Layne. “Play.”

  It sounded like a challenge.

  Gabriel grabbed the edge of his sweatshirt and dragged it over his head. Half his T-shirt came with it, but he yanked it down.

  When he flung the hoodie onto the bench, Layne was staring at her textbook, the edge of her lip between her teeth.

  Her cheeks were bright pink.

  Interesting.

  Then Simon was throwing him a pass, and the ball was in play.

  Gabriel had never been so aware of an audience before. He played harder, feeling her watching him. But when he looked up, her head was always bent over her notebook, her pen moving along the paper.

  Oof. The ball hit him in the stomach, hard. Gabriel caught it automatically and glared at Simon. “Dude, what the hell?”

  Simon grinned. He pointed at him, then Layne, then signed something.

  Layne shot off the bench. “Simon!” She came across the court and smacked him in the arm.

  “What did you say?” said Gabriel.

  Simon was just laughing silently.

  Gabriel glanced at Layne. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.” Her cheeks were red for sure. She grabbed Simon’s arm and tugged, then signed as she walked. “Come on. We’ll call Dad to pick us up on his way home.”

  “I can give you a ride,” said Gabriel.

  “Don’t be silly. He won’t be more than an hour or so.”

  An hour? “That’s stupid. And your brother seriously needs a shower. Let me give you a ride home.”

  Simon nodded emphatically, and then signed something.

  Layne gave a huge sigh and turned for the bleachers. “Fine. Whatever.”

  While she was packing her things, Gabriel grabbed Simon’s arm and turned to face him. “What did you say?”

  Simon grinned and gestured for his phone.

  I said you’d play a lot better if you weren’t staring at my sister.

  Gabriel fiddled with the dials when they pulled onto the main road, trying to get some heat going. Layne was curled into the front seat, her backpack on the floor. Her eyes were locked forward, her hands in her lap. Lights from oncoming cars flickered off her glasses.

  “You warm enough?” Gabriel said, just to break the silence.

  “I’m fine.” Her voice seemed very small in the confines of the car.

  “You’ll have to give directions.”

  She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. “We live in Compass Pointe. You know where that is?”

  “Yeah.” Compass Pointe was the rich neighborhood at the north end of town, the kind with eight-bedroom houses and servant quarters over the garage—though he didn’t know any that actually had servants. Michael did the landscaping for three houses out there, and they were three of his highest-paying customers.

  “Shouldn’t you be in a private school or something?” he asked.

  “My father says he got by on a public education, and that should be good enough for anybody.” She paused. “He’s a defense attorney. A good one.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not driving a BMW to school.”

  She bristled. “First of all, my parents have the money, not me, and second of all, I don’t have a license yet. I didn’t think you’d be the kind of guy to get all weird about where I live—”

  “Whoa!” God, it was like he couldn’t avoid colliding with the chip on her shoulder. “I’m just saying. Heather Castelline lives out here and no one can get her to shut up about crap like how much her manicure costs.”

  Layne made a face. Her arms were folded across her chest now. “I’m not Heather Castelline.”

  Gabriel snorted. “Obviously.”

  Layne didn’t say anything, just turned her head and looked out the window. Her sudden silence smacked him across the face as effectively as a hand would have.

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t figure her o
ut at all.

  And it was making him crazy.

  Then he noticed the little sniffing sounds, the way her fingers had a death grip on her biceps.

  “Layne?” He glanced over. “Are you crying?” Simon was silent, oblivious in the backseat.

  She didn’t turn her head. “Forget it.”

  What had he said? He wished he could pull the car over, but they were in the middle of three lanes of traffic on Ritchie Highway. He didn’t even know how to play this. “I don’t . . . what’s—”

  “I don’t know why you have to be so mean all the time,” she said, turning her head just far enough that he could see there were definitely tears on her cheeks. “Do you have any idea what it feels like, the way you treat people?”

  “What the hell did I say?” he demanded.

  She sniffed. “Obviously.”

  Jesus, this was so infuriating. “Obviously what?”

  “You said obviously. Obviously I’m not Heather Castelline. Well, you know what? Not everyone is a hot blond cheerleader, Gabriel Merrick. I’m sure in your world, every girl should have a perfect rack and great legs and flaunt them for your benefit, but we aren’t all such paragons of perfection.”

  Wow.

  Gabriel stared out the windshield at the traffic. The ridges in the steering wheel were biting into his palms. “I guess you told me.”

  This was worse than fighting with Michael. At least he could haul off and hit his brother and tell him he was being an asshole.

  But Layne was still crying silently, staring out the window, her shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly.

  When he came to a red light, he looked over. “Hey.”

  She didn’t look. “I said, forget it.”

  “I know what you said. Look at me.”

  “If I look at you, Simon will know I’m crying.”

  The light turned, and he had to look back at the road anyway.

  He spoke into the silence, hearing his voice come out rough. “When I said ‘obviously,’ it was because Heather Castelline is a total bitch who’ll only give you the time of day if she needs something from you. Nicky went out with her once, and he spent two days swearing he’d rather cut his balls off than date a girl like her again.”