Made You Up(30)

Kids crowded all along the back of the bench, barricading any escape. I barely kept myself from punching Celia. I didn’t realize I was squeezing myself closer to Miles until he coughed and tilted his chin up to avoid my head.

The scent of tobacco and wood shavings filled my nose. His jacket. It was the kind of smell I’d only previously caught off my parents’ pipe-smoking, dirt-digging history colleagues. I was close enough to him to get a clear whiff of something else . . . pastries. And one more. Mint soap. It was like someone had mixed together all the best-smelling things in the world and made Miles bathe in them.

“Get me out of here,” he muttered. The arm he’d been holding out behind me dropped, and his hand brushed down along my side. Hairs shot up all over my body. Miles’s face went red. “Sorry . . . arm was getting tired . . .”

We were nose to nose. Straight nose. Square jaw. Clear eyes. Yes, I thought, yes, very cute. Cuteness confirmed.

“I’m going to try to find a way out,” I said breathlessly, twisting around. My task was made much harder by Celia, still trying to get Miles’s attention.

And also by the flicker of light behind Celia, the pungent smell of burning hair, and someone yelling, “YOU’RE ON FIRE!”





Chapter Fifteen




The two seconds between the realizations that I wasn’t on fire and Celia was were a very blissful two seconds.

Celia screamed and batted at herself, making it hard to see if the fire had caught her hair or her clothes or both. Someone ran up behind her and dumped a bucket of water over her head, dousing her. She stood motionless for a moment, the ends of her hair curled and black, her makeup running in streaks down her face.

“WHO DID IT?”

Everyone stared at her. She’d been sitting too far from the fire for it to reach her, hadn’t she? The back of her sweatshirt was as singed as her hair. She didn’t seem hurt, though. She seethed, eyes roving through the crowd, until she zeroed in on me.

I had my camera pointed at her. I’d gotten it out before I realized that her burning hair was not a delusion.

“You were right next to me!” she screeched.

I shoved my camera into my pocket and tried to retreat, but the bench hit the backs of my knees. “You think I did it?”

“You were RIGHT. NEXT. TO. ME. Who else?”

I don’t know. Only the ten or so people behind you.

I stood there looking stupid, because that’s what I do when I’m accused of something I didn’t do. Forget making a case or, you know, denying that I’d done it.

Denying hadn’t helped me in the past.

“Oh my God, you did do it! What the hell is wrong with you?” Celia grabbed at the burnt tips of her hair, her face contorting in rage. She looked between Miles and me, then cranked her bitch level up to eleven. “You’re jealous!”

I stared at Miles. Miles stared at me. We both stared at Celia.

“The f*ck?” Miles said.

Then Celia lunged at me, and everything fell to pandemonium. Someone pulled me over the bench and through the sea of bodies as everyone converged, ready for a fight. People were going every direction, yelling, screaming, the music suddenly louder than ever.

As soon as we broke free, I saw it was Art dragging me along, his mammoth muscles straining against his shirt. I would have been thankful if it wasn’t for the fact that he usually showed up when Miles was pulling a job. If Art had been there waiting to yank me out of harm’s way, then Miles must have been involved with the fire, right?

I set my jaw; as soon as we were back on the driveway, I yanked my arm out of Art’s grip, grabbed his huge shoulder, and spun him to face me. “Did Miles do that?”

“No,” he said immediately. He scrubbed at his short hair.

The brush of invisible fingers crawled up the back of my neck. I jabbed a finger at him. “You had better be telling me the truth, Art Babrow. Not just what Miles tells you to say.”

“Scout’s honor,” Art said, holding up his hand.

I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t. It felt like I had cotton packed down my throat. I was suffocating. I tugged on my hair with both hands, turned in a full circle to make sure there were no cameras on the houses or the lampposts, and set off down the sidewalk.

“Where are you going?” Art called. “I know you didn’t drive here yourself.”

“I’m going home!” I yelled.