Spark

by Brigid Kemmerer

  She kept running his words through her brain, as if they were a math problem, and all she had to do was find the right equation to solve for X.

  The night I drove you home was the first night—

  The first night that what?

  Her mother yanked back the curtain, making the hangers rattle in the steel track. Though she was wearing a white tennis skirt and a pink trimmed sweater, her eyes were perfectly lined, her mascara unsmudged. Even her lipstick looked freshly applied.

  Layne wondered how much time she’d spent getting ready to come see her daughter in the hospital.

  She wondered if she’d actually been playing tennis.

  “Baby? You okay?”

  “I’m great,” said Layne flatly. Baby. As if her mother gave a damn. She’d spent more time on the other side of the curtain than she had in here.

  “I’m going to flag down the doctor,” her mother said, her lips pursed. “Don’t they know what I do for this hospital? I’m going to give these people a piece of my—”

  “No,” said Layne evenly. “There are sick people here. I can wait.”

  Her mom opened her mouth to protest, but then her cell phone started ringing, and she stuck a manicured hand into a designer bag to fetch it.

  Layne sighed. She was ready to go home and get a shower. Her clothes smelled like horses and fire, the sweetness of alfalfa hay mixed with soot and ashes. She hadn’t even unzipped her jacket, knowing the turtleneck underneath was soaked with sweat.

  And she needed time alone.

  She needed time to think.

  A nurse came around the corner wearing pink scrubs with lollipops all over them. Some papers and a clipboard were in one hand, and she glanced between Layne’s father—tapping away at his iPhone—and her mother, who was gushing about something to do with a celebrity polo match.

  So concerned.

  The nurse faltered.

  Layne held out her hand. “Here. Can I just take it?”

  “Your parents need to sign, sweetie.”

  Layne looked at her father. “Dad. Hey. Signature.”

  He put a hand out without looking up, hitting a few more keys on the phone.

  Unbelievable. It reminded Layne of the day in Gabriel’s driveway, when he’d been so dismissive of Michael.

  Layne looked at the nurse. “I’m sorry. They usually act like they give a crap.”

  That got her dad’s attention. “Watch it. I was supposed to be in court this morning.”

  Layne looked back at him in mock surprise. “I can’t believe I forgot to add this to your schedule.”

  Her mom laughed into the phone and held up her hand. “Oh my goodness, that is too much. Let me step into the hallway. There’s a lot of commotion here . . .”

  Layne scooted off the stretcher. She wished Simon were here, but her father had sent him to school. “Let’s just go,” she said. “You can get back to court, Mom can get back to ‘tennis,’ and I can get back to school.”

  Her father had his head bent over the form—probably reading what he was signing. “You’re not going to school. The doctor said for you to stay home and rest, make sure there aren’t any delayed effects.” His hand scribbled across the bottom of the form.

  “He also said I was fine.”

  “End of discussion.”

  Of course it was. Layne sighed.

  Her father handed the forms back to the nurse and looked at Layne. “I rearranged my schedule. I’ll stay with you until Simon gets home.”

  It should have made her feel better. It didn’t.

  It made her feel like an obligation.

  She didn’t even say good-bye to her mother—not out of any sense of spite or anger, but the woman had disappeared down some corridor to take her call, and there was no sign of her. Maybe she’d forgotten the whole reason they were at the hospital to begin with.

  Layne just folded her legs into her father’s BMW and stared out the window.

  She wondered if Gabriel was all right. He’d been in that fire, too. And he hadn’t had the luxury of medical attention.

  He’d run when he’d seen fire trucks. That had to imply some sort of guilt.

  But the look in his eyes after the fire—there’d been no guilt there. Only horror. Sadness. Regret, as he told her that some horses had been trapped.

  The barn had been her sanctuary. She’d mourn its loss as much as she would the other horses. Gabriel had understood that. Respected it.

  She knew he had.

  My secret has to do with fire.

  Layne wished she could call him. To demand answers.

  But she was afraid to call him. She was afraid the truth would be more devastating than all these hypotheticals.

  Her father disappeared into his study when they got home, making Layne wonder why he’d even bothered to stay with her. He’d tried to be supportive in the car, talking about how they’d find another place for her to ride, to move her horse to another facility, all concrete, easy things that should have been reassuring but weren’t at all, really.

  She stripped out of her clothes in the bathroom, clenching her eyes shut as usual, hating the sight of her naked body. She couldn’t see, anyway; her eyes kept blurring with tears that she chased off. She kept her mind occupied by flinging her clothes into two piles by feel: keep or trash. The jacket was disgusting. Trash. The boots were expensive and could use a good cleaning. Keep. Turtleneck, keep. Socks, keep. Riding breeches, trash.

  Then the memory of that moment in the grass hit her, full force.

  Your scars aren’t all you are, Layne.

  She gasped and pressed her hands to her eyes, letting her shoulders shake with emotion but refusing to let the tears fall.

  Gabriel saw her. Really saw her, despite the scars, despite her imperfections. He’d kissed his way across her abdomen, saying all the right things and touching her in ways that had made her want to cash in her V card right there. She’d never felt like she could have a relationship with a boy, had never thought anyone would look past the destroyed flesh marking half her body.

  That moment, that had been perfection.

  And then it had all gone up in smoke. Literally.

  She shivered and rubbed at her eyes. She was still standing in the middle of the bathroom, sniveling in her bra and underwear. All she could smell now was smoke and sweat.

  But first, she wanted to see what he’d seen. She wanted to see just how bad the scars were, as if they’d changed since the last time she’d dared take a look in the mirror.

  Quickly, before she could change her mind, she swiped the tears away, opened her eyes, and stared at her reflection.

  And despite the chill in the air, she kept right on staring, not believing what she was seeing, despite the evidence right in front of her.

  Her scars, every last one of them, were gone.

  CHAPTER 33

  Gabriel sat in math class, hating the empty chair beside him. He couldn’t focus. Five hours ago, he’d been dragging Layne out of a burning barn.

  Now he was listening to Anderson prattle on about negative numbers.

  He’d been able to pull enough energy from the sun to ensure his hand wasn’t broken, but when he went for his lighter to draw more power from a true fire, he didn’t have it.

  Whatever. The pain felt good.

  He hadn’t wanted to come to school. But Nick had a good point: If he was already a suspect—even an unofficial one—not showing up for school on the same day as a fire might raise a huge red flag. He’d spent most of first period fidgeting, watching the door, absolutely certain that cops were going to come storming into the classroom any minute to arrest him.

  Absolutely certain that Layne would have turned him in.

  But as time went on, as students went about their business, he realized that nothing had changed.

  He hadn’t seen Hunter yet, and the morning was too complicated to sum up in a text message. But when he hit the cafeteria, Calla was already sitting with Hunter.


  Gabriel sighed and slung his backpack over his shoulder, heading for the gym.

  The halogen lights were off, but sunlight streamed through the grated windows near the ceiling. The long stretch of beige floor was usually empty at this hour, but at the opposite end of the room, a kid was shooting free throws from the line. And from the looks of it, he was hitting every one.

  Simon.

  Gabriel stopped short. Would Layne have told her brother? Was Simon waiting here to confront him, to ask what exactly had happened this morning?

  But that was crazy. He’d only just made the decision to come to the gym himself. And why would Simon be shooting free throws before a confrontation? Gabriel couldn’t make it work out in his head.

  Everything was making him paranoid today.

  At the very least, if Simon was here, it meant Layne was okay.

  He walked into Simon’s line of sight, and the boy’s expression brightened.

  “Hey,” said Gabriel. He held out a fist. Simon hit it.

  But then the boy quickly gestured for Gabriel’s phone.

  There was a fire at the farm this morning. Layne was there. They took her to the hospital.

  It answered a lot of questions—and created just as many. Gabriel stared at the words and wondered how to play this. He looked up and didn’t have to fake concern. “Is she okay?”

  Fine. Doctor says take it easy today. Precaution.

  “Makes sense.”

  I emailed her from computer lab. She wanted to come to school. Dad said no.

  Gabriel nodded. “Figures.”

  Can you stay for the game this afternoon?

  This afternoon. He’d planned on it earlier this week, because he and Layne had fallen into the routine of watching Simon’s practice. He’d just assumed they’d watch together.

  “As long as I’ve got a ride, I’ll stay,” he said.

  Simon’s face broke into a grin.

  Gabriel gestured for the ball. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got time. Let’s play.”

  It felt good to lose himself in the sport, to have some distraction. His hand ached, but he played through it. Simon was getting good—practice was clearly paying off. Gabriel used the signs Layne had taught him, but he didn’t need them much. When Simon ducked under Gabriel’s guard to steal the ball and make a basket, Gabriel started to wonder if the kid shouldn’t just be playing—he should be starting.

  One of the gym doors slammed somewhere across the court, but Gabriel ignored it.

  Until Ryan Stacey stepped onto the court and intercepted a pass.

  His face was still bruised from Friday night, and the split lip hadn’t healed, making his smirk look a little crazy. “Looks like the retard has a girlfriend.”

  “Looks like you didn’t get the message last Friday.” Gabriel could feel the anger coiling in his chest, ready to be let loose on this jerk.

  But hands caught his arms, holding him back.

  Ryan had brought friends.

  At least four guys, but Gabriel couldn’t see who else was behind him. Probably the same losers who’d been beating on Simon last week. Gabriel tried to fight them, but there were too many—and with the lights off, he couldn’t pull any power from the electricity in the room.

  Gabriel felt sure Ryan was going to take the chance to hit him—but the guy was going after Simon, who was backing away.

  “Hey!” said Gabriel. “You touch him, I’ll break your goddamn arms off.”

  Someone hit him in the back of the head, sending stars across his field of vision. Ryan caught up to Simon and gave him a solid shove in the chest, hard enough to knock him to the court.

  Simon scrambled backward, but Ryan was leaning down, a hand drawn back, ready to slam a fist into Simon’s face.

  Gabriel redoubled his struggles, but he’d never be fast enough.

  “Hey!” a new voice yelled from the corner by the bleachers. An authoritative voice.

  The coach’s voice.

  The guys holding Gabriel scattered and ran. Ryan tried to follow, but he was under the net, and the coach beat him to it, even while dragging a full mesh bag of balls. Though he wasn’t a big man, Coach Kanner could be plenty intimidating, and Gabriel enjoyed watching Ryan’s face go pale under those bruises.

  Until he realized Simon was just as pale, his breathing quick.

  “Come on, Coach,” said Ryan. “We were just messing around.”

  “You don’t mess around on my court. You’re out of the next two games.”

  Ryan’s eyes just about bugged out of his head. “What? But that’s not—”

  “Want to make it three?”

  “Whatever.” Ryan turned away.

  The coach called after him. “Stacey!”

  Ryan looked like he was going to keep walking—but he must have wanted to stay on the team. He turned. “What?”

  The coach raised an eyebrow.

  Ryan sighed. “Yes. Sir.”

  “See you on the bench at four.”

  Ryan stormed through the doors into the locker room, shoving the door behind him to make the sound echo across the court. Gabriel would have mocked the dickhead, but he knew better. He was already on shaky ground with the coach. Instead, he put out a hand to pull Simon to his feet.

  The coach looked at the younger boy. “You all right?”

  Simon nodded. His face was red, his jaw clenched.

  Gabriel felt for him. Simon could play—but he couldn’t play, for real, in a game. He was small, and though a few years would probably take care of that, a year was an eternity. Especially a year spent getting your ass kicked.

  And all that was on top of not being able to hear.

  The coach rubbed at the back of his neck. “I caught some of your playing earlier. You’ve been working hard.”

  Simon nodded.

  Then the coach gave Gabriel a good-natured shove in the arm. “Unless you’re just getting lazy.”

  “Nah.” Gabriel smiled. He’d forgotten how much he missed the easy camaraderie of a sport. Had it really only been a couple weeks? “It’s all him.”

  Coach Kanner looked back at Simon. “Think you can play like that this afternoon?”

  Simon’s eyebrows went way up. He nodded vigorously.

  “We’ll give it a try,” said the coach.

  Simon nodded again.

  The coach held up a finger. “One time.” Then he slung the bag of balls over his shoulder and turned for his office at the back of the gym.

  Simon turned wide eyes to Gabriel. He gestured for the phone.

  Holy crap.

  For the first time since the weekend, Layne fired up her computer.

  She didn’t even bother with her e-mail, rolling her eyes at the bolded number showing how many unread messages she had.

  Seriously. Didn’t they have anything better to do?

  She couldn’t stop thinking about fire. About arson. About Gabriel.

  And her scars.

  She’d stared at herself in the bathroom for what must have been a good twenty minutes. At first she’d wanted to yell for her father. She’d wanted someone else to see what she was seeing, to pinch her arm and prove she wasn’t dreaming.

  But her father would want explanations, and she sure didn’t have one.

  What had happened in that barn?

  That night I drove you home was the first night—

  A notebook sat open next to her laptop. She had to think back. The night her father had worked late. The night Gabriel had played basketball with Simon. Wednesday.

  Wednesday, she wrote on the paper.

  She went to the local news Web site and searched for the word arson.

  Bingo. There’d been an article on Thursday about a fire Wednesday night. A family of four, though only three had gotten out. The reporter had interviewed the mother, a Mrs. Hulster, who said that the fire chief had declared the house too dangerous to search, that no one could be alive inside.

  Yet somehow a firefighter had been in there. Someho
w, her daughter had been pulled out.

  Hulster. It sounded familiar.

  Alan Hulster! Of course! Taylor had been talking about the fire the next day in class.

  Had Gabriel seemed upset? Had he known about it?

  Layne tapped her pencil on her paper. She couldn’t remember.

  She skipped to the next article. Another fire, another suspected arson. The firefighters had been ordered out, but one fell through the floor. He should have been trapped—he should have been killed.

  But again, someone dragged him out.

  So Wednesday, Thursday . . .

  Friday was the night of the party. Layne had been with Gabriel, until late.

  No arson.

  Saturday. A day full of highs and lows. A day that ended with her father being a jerk in the Merrick driveway.

  She scrolled to the next arson article and clicked on the link.

  A day that ended with a fire in a townhome community. She’d already seen this article—Ryan Stacey had forwarded it to her with mocking comments.

  This time she actually read it. A four-alarm fire, an entire row of homes completely consumed.

  No fatalities. Only one serious injury.

  She stared at the timeline she’d drawn on her paper.

  One of those articles quoted a fireman as saying “this guy has a hero complex.” That the arsonist was setting fires just so he could go in and save the victims.

  That didn’t match Gabriel at all.

  Or did it? Had he done that exact thing this morning?

  She remembered her question from the hillside. Did you hurt someone?

  And the haunted look in his eyes. No. Just the opposite.

  That seemed to point in both directions.

  Her head hurt.

  A knock sounded at her door, and Layne turned off the monitor before her father could see what she was looking at.

  He leaned into her room, looking frustrated. “What time is Simon supposed to be home?”

  She glanced at the clock. It was after four. “His first game is today. The activities bus drops us off around five-thirty.”