Lies You Never Told Me(60)

I run for the window, flinging myself out shoulder first. A rush of cool air floods my lungs, and then impact, my body flattening against the ground. Mr. Barstow and Catherine are already staggering across the street.

I struggle to my hands and knees. The heat swells behind me, and I hear another roar as something else collapses. I can feel embers against my bare skin, singeing the hair off my arms. A fire truck screams up to the house just as I manage to find my feet and run across the road.

Up and down the street neighbors are out on their porches now, watching the blaze. Dog howls echo off every building, mixing with the wailing alarms. I kneel in the cool, moist grass, gulping down mouthful on mouthful of air.

I scramble to Catherine on all fours. She’s coughing, her face streaked with grime. I rest a hand on her back.

“What are you doing here?” she says. Her voice is raspy.

“I had to see if you were okay. Then the fire was moving too fast, and I had to . . .”

Just then, two ambulances roar up behind the fire truck. Within seconds we’re swarmed by paramedics. One, a middle-aged woman with a tight gray braid, kneels next to Catherine, wrapping a blanket around her. Another tries to lead me away from her.

“No, I have to . . . I have to stay with her.”

“Come on, son, we need space for everyone to breathe.” I let him steer me by the elbow a few feet away, but I crane my neck to look past him, back toward the Barstows.

Mr. Barstow’s glasses are gone, his face filthy. He gives the EMT an uneasy glance, clutching the messenger bag tightly to his side. I wonder what was worth almost dying for.

The image comes back: the kiss. His hands twining around her hair, his lips against her neck. It sends a shudder through my entire frame, a shudder that turns into a cough when it hits my scorched lungs.

Before anyone can stop me I lurch to my feet and run back across the grass, dropping to my knees at her side. She has an oxygen mask pressed to her face now, but her eyes are wide and startled above it. Her pupils flare, the spinning lights reflected in their depths.

“I saw you. Through the window. I was in the yard and I saw what he did to you,” I whisper, the words spilling out of my mouth before I can second-guess myself. “Let me help you. Let me . . .”

She recoils as if I’ve hurt her. One of the monitors the gray-haired paramedic attached to her starts to beep more quickly. The woman stares at me fiercely.

“Look, kid, you need to back off . . .” she starts to say. But before she can get far Catherine takes the mask from her face and tosses it to one side. Her hands slam against my chest, pushing me away.

“Leave me alone.” Her voice is strangled. I stare at her.

“Catherine . . .”

“No. I’m done with you, don’t you fucking get it?” She’s trembling. I stare into her face, trying to see some sign that this is a put-on, that she’s acting for her dad’s benefit. In the fire’s shifting light she looks half-mad.

I put my hands on her shoulders by reflex. All I want to do is comfort her, but she screams at my touch. It’s not loud—her voice is hoarse from the smoke—but it’s loud enough. Suddenly two burly paramedics swoop in on either side of me.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters the gray-haired woman. “Get this idiot to the hospital before he makes more paperwork for all of us.”

All the strength leaves my body as the paramedics help me firmly into the ambulance. I’m like a puppet with its strings cut, limp and powerless. Behind them I catch a glimpse of Mr. Barstow, a strange, twitchy look on his face as he edges closer to Catherine.

On the far side of the street the fire still blazes against the night. And I know, just looking at it, nothing’s going to stop it, no matter how hard the firefighters try. It’s too hot, too out of control.

It will consume everything in its path.





THIRTY-FOUR


    Elyse




It’s the slowest week of my life.

I go through all the motions. I go to school, I go to work. I do my homework. When I see my mom, I speak in terse monosyllables.

There’s a minor scandal at school about both me and Brynn dropping out of the play. Frankie Nguyen corners me after English one afternoon, his face livid with anger. “Kendall’s going to be Juliet,” he says bluntly. “You’re ruining the whole show.” Laura and Nessa won’t even talk to me. When people ask why I did it, I just mumble something vague about family problems. It doesn’t seem to help my case. I spend the whole week eating lunch alone, sitting on the floor next to my locker.

I try not to let it bother me. Soon none of this will matter anymore . . . but a part of me shrinks in humiliation and resentment. The mental image of Kendall in my gold brocade dress makes something sharp twist into my gut.

Aiden keeps up appearances too—which means he leads the rehearsals for the week, trying to get Kendall up to speed. I wonder what will happen when he doesn’t show up for Saturday’s closing show. By then, though, they’ll barely need him. The play will move ahead on its own steam, and by the time they break down the set we’ll be in another state.

Under my bed, my backpack is ready. It’s packed with a pair of jeans and a few shirts, clean underwear, my toothbrush. My beat-up paperback copy of A Wizard of Earthsea.

At night, when I’ve finished my homework, I stare out the window. I whisper Juliet’s lines to myself. I picture her holding her vial of fake poison, saying her goodbyes to all she’s known. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins . . . my dismal scene I needs must act alone.