Arson (6 page)

 

Chapter 11

 

 

EMERY EASTED TOWARD THE strange boy lying facedown in the water. Weighing her steps. Counting her heartbeats. 
One. Two. Four. No, go back one
. She made a mental note not to get worked up one bit, told herself it was nothing, but that didn't stop chills from racing up and down her body. Part of her struggled to calculate what she might say; the rest of her wondered what he was doing. Was he coming up for air? He was so still. Emery studied him, his back arched against the surface enough to stay afloat. No signs of movement. Who exactly was he trying to impress anyway? Maybe her mother wasn't completely wrong; maybe this boy and whoever else occupied the shack behind her really were from some strange, distant world.

Is he ever coming up
? Emery checked her watch, beams of sunlight reflecting from Mickey Mouse's nauseatingly joyous grin. His smiles had seemed like miracles when she was five, but there was nothing funny about a boy drowning himself. This wasn't a game anymore. Perhaps this was a—if he would simply move, kick his leg or something, then she would know he wasn't dead. 
Oh no
, she thought. Anything but that.

She never liked to admit it, but watching people die terrified her, right down to her bones. It always made her question what lay on the other side. Heaven or hell? God or the devil? At the thought, Emery fidgeted, thinking back to the time when Tina, her cousin, had been found on the bathroom floor, eyes rolled back in a deep sleep. The panic of that night revisited her now. The slow breaths that followed felt like a spell, a spell that even now forced fear upon her. It was a miracle her cousin had survived. That was more than enough drama for an entire lifetime.

“Hey!” she yelled, flailing her arms to try and get his attention. “Hey, you!”

Alien boy didn't move. He'd been under the water now for over two minutes.

“It's time to come up. Whatever the problem is, I swear you can handle it. It's not as bad as you think.” Butterflies swarmed inside her belly, but they felt more like bats, chewing away everything but the anxiety.

“Not again.” She winced, diving from the dock headfirst into the lake. As she hit the water, her mask slipped off. Swimming underneath the boy, she fought to bring him up for air. Suddenly, his eyes opened. Paralyzed in fear, she screamed, heart racing, her throat swallowing the bitter water that fought to enter. She sank deep. He noticed her, but she wasn't ready for those eyes.

Immediately, the boy went into a panic. Bubbles popped from his mouth as he emerged. The mask drifted by him, startled him. He reached out to grab it, taking in more oxygen.

Emery's ferocious struggle to breathe outweighed logic. He tried to help her, but she rejected him. Her fingers slid down her face; the rough spots of the scars made her regret diving in at all. What was she thinking? The fate this boy might have endured would have been better than seeing her without her face.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Where is it?” Emery said, shivering. The cold water stung in spite of the summer's heat.

“What were you doing? Why did you dive in after me?” A black shirt hugged his chest. Jeans clung to his waist and sagged as he started to climb up the dock.

“Are you insane? I was trying to save you from making a colossal mistake!” Emery was nervous, painfully nervous. “Where is my face? Give it back to me!”

“I don't need anyone to save me,” the boy spat, brushing back his soaked, ash-brown hair.

“Please, just give it back. I want my mask. If you want to, go back to drowning yourself for all I care, but I need that mask back. Now!”

“What are you talking about? And why are you covering your face?” he asked, staring down at her from the dock, eyes locked.

Emery observed the boy through narrow slits her fingers had allowed. Letting her hair fall down, she said, “What are you looking at?” Emery climbed up onto the ground. 
Put me out of my misery
, she thought.

 

* * *

 

“What is it?” Arson asked her. He should have been more careful, shouldn't have been trying to clear his head, not with new neighbors. New, nosy neighbors like this girl.

“It's a mask.” Her voice was muffled because she buried her face in the fabric of her shirt. “What, you've never seen a mask before?”

“I have, but not one like this. It's freaky. You know, for a girl. You friends with Michael Myers?”

She shrugged. “Typical.”

“Why do you wear it?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” She seethed. “It's for my safety. Against aliens.”

He grinned. “You believe in aliens?”

“Whatever. Look, can I have it back?” she said, reaching. “The freak show's over.”

Arson handed it over and stepped away, giving her some room to gather herself. He couldn't imagine why she would need a mask or why she wouldn't let him see her face. In a society where most girls hid themselves behind thick gobs of makeup, she hid behind a creepy mask.

“Thank you,” Emery sighed. “Please don't look at me.” She turned around, noticing that her clothes were completely ruined. The long skirt, which before the triumphantly stupid rescue had swung at her shins with wrinkled burgundy grace, was now torn in two different sections. Her shoes would surely take hours, if not days, to recoup from the underwater fiasco. Her shirt was covered in grass stains.

As she turned around, she caught him staring at her again. “Quit it!”

“Man, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“Well, sorry if rescue diving wasn't on my agenda of stupid things to do today.”

The girl's slow and spooky breaths were almost haunting. “No one asked you to dive in and save me, whoever you are,” Arson replied, hawking a wad of sticky saliva into the dirt.

“You're twisted, you know that? Someone tries to help you and you throw it back in their face. My mom was right.” Emery started pacing the spotty lawn, her feet squishing and sliding between wet socks. “All I wanted to do was come over here and cordially introduce myself to the alien.”

Arson wiped the water from his face, but confusion remained. “What's with this alien thing?”

She sighed. “It's just my family didn't know you—I still don't even know you—whatever. My mom and I were talking last night and…forget it. I've finally made contact; that's all that matters.”

He stared at her inquisitively. “Mission accomplished?”

“If you call ruining my clothes, losing my mask, and you staring at me like I'm the bearded lady 
accomplished
, then yes, it was a roaring success.”

There was an amusing mystique about her. In all his life, people had been made up of the sweet and the sour, the beautiful and the ugly. But she was unpredictably unique, somewhere in between, somehow indefinable.

“What's your name?” Arson finally asked, shoulders shrugged.

She paused briefly. “Emery. What's yours?”

“Arson.”

“Arson? Okay, weird boy. Weird name. Guess it adds up.”

Arson tilted his head. “Coming from the girl who wears a mask.”

She didn't say a word.

“I'd invite you in,” he began, “but Grandma's about to get up. She's not exactly hard-pressed to meet new people. Usually I'm not either, but you 
did
 try to save my life or whatever.” He said it half-smirking.

“Even though you weren't really drowning,” she said, now showing how ashamed she was of it. “Next time I'll just wait it out, read about your underwater tragedy in the obits.”

Arson grinned. “Well, I gotta go.” As he stared at the cabin, he noticed Grandma's shadow linger over the porch like a vulture in the valley.

“Yeah. We should get cleaned up,” Emery agreed, chilled by the old woman's presence.

“Guess I'll see you around,” he called out halfway toward the cabin.

A smile pulled her lips up against the flesh of the mask.

 

* * *

 

Grandma sat with prying eyes and disapproving lips as Arson walked in. “You're getting awfully friendly with the new neighbor,” she said. Her words held him still. “Awfully friendly indeed.” A smug yawn stretched her wrinkly mouth, and her wrists tugged backward, yanking the fabric through the slit her fingers had made. From the looks of the threads in her hand, she was sewing a new blanket.

“I know,” Arson said. Shivers slid down the back of his wet neck.

“Would you close that door, love? We don't live on a farm, for heaven's sake.”

Arson stepped back and pushed the door shut, the wind escaping from beneath the wooden frames with a soft whisper. He knew what was coming. He never meant to upset her, but he was well aware that he'd already done that.

“Now lock the door, just in case.” She looked at him; her eyes were rings of fire on his cold skin. “Come sit by me, won't you?”

Slowly Arson drew near, apprehensive but willing.

“Go on. I'm not gonna bite you, just wanna talk, that's all.” A graceful set of dimples sucked her cheeks in a bit as she made the request, tapping the seat beside her. She looked innocent enough, white hair scaling across her shoulder and eyes that baited him.

He fell into the seat and kept still. Awaiting punishment was a far more difficult task than being honest with his grandmother. The way she looked at him, as if he'd committed crimes unable to be uttered, made his bones want to shatter. Her gaze was inescapable, and her mouth stuttered but didn't speak. Each wrinkle in her face had an opportunity to manipulate and condemn. Each passing second did the same.

“So, what's her name?”

He bit his lip, quickly spitting out, “Emery,” before having a chance to even think.

“That's a sweet name. I'll bet she's a sweet girl.” Grandma led another line of fabric through a loop with her needle; she looked focused, eyes never drifting from her work.

Arson knew she was playing nice but wondered how long it would last. “I guess. We only talked for five minutes.”

“Well,” Grandma said matter-of-factly, “five minutes seemed like enough time to get her clothes off and hop into the lake.” Her accusing, biting tone sliced through the air like a knife, cutting deeper than metal ever could.

Arson's elbows hit the table, frustrated. Right then, Grandma smacked them both hard with the back of her hand, her diamond ring splitting open a chunk of his wet skin. Tears of red slipped out.

“Like I said, she seemed…sweet.”

“We weren't skinny dipping,” Arson pleaded. “We weren't even swimming.”

“Of course not, heaven forbid.” Grandma's fingers guided her mood, the needle a forecast to the manipulation that would follow. Arson didn't like it. He wanted out of this interrogation, in which Grandma played both good and bad cop. The white walls and manila envelopes, the complimentary coffee and handcuffs, were replaced by condemning eyes, a needle, and bitter speculation. Convicts in movies rarely made it out of such cross-examinations intact. Winning just didn't seem possible.

“I swear. I think she was trying to rescue me.”

Grandma stopped sewing altogether and placed one hand on top of his. The bad cop was breathing now. “This little tramp is trouble. I feel it in my bones. Henry feels it too.”

Arson felt his eyes roll like marbles inside his head.

“Don't you dare mock me!” Grandma hissed, smacking the table. “And don't you dare mock your granddaddy. You know I don't like you going into that lake. You know how it bothers me. Don't you care about me anymore?”

Arson nodded weakly. He brushed the dark, wet strands of hair away from his face and tucked them behind his ears. She was suffocating him.

“You're not a fish, for heaven's sake. The Lord gave you two feet. You were meant to be on dry land, not holding your breath underwater like some crazy… Oh, what am I going to do with you?” She stood up and sighed, rubbing the crevices on her pale face. Her eyes were cold and condescending, two dreamless windows.

“It helps me think,” he replied.

“What on earth could you think about underwater that you can't think about in your own home?”

This wasn't his home. This wasn't hers either. It was only a walled building that kept them inside, dying little by little, waiting to consume them both. She didn't understand that, but he did. Home for them no longer existed. It was a fairy tale, a dream. Grandma needed to wake up.

“I don't know.” Arson shrugged. “The lake understands. It can sometimes be quiet underneath.”

“It understands? It's quiet.” She nodded mockingly. “I'm done listening to this nonsense. Get your skinny hide on up to your room.”

Reluctantly, Arson pushed the seat back and got up, the wet stain from his pants dripping off the chair. With a deep sigh, he marched to her command, like an obedient soldier, told what to do, how to think, and how to feel.

“You'll have plenty of quiet time to think. All by yourself.” With arms folded, Grandma followed him up the stairs, angry and militant.

She tossed a towel at him and shoved him into the bedroom. The sound of her turning the key, locking him inside, made his hands burn.

 

* * *

 

Arson reached for the photograph of his mother. He clutched it tightly until his hands became fists, the face of his mother quickly disintegrating inside his hot grip. Maybe if she were here…

Arson lay huddled on the floor. He'd changed his outfit and had plenty of time to dry off, but he still felt soggy, his clothes sticking to his body every chance they got. Anxious and uneasy, he rocked back and forth. The walls accused and the windows spied. Fury pumped through him. The heat in his hands didn't bother him the way it used to. He practiced lighting and quenching the fire in his palm. Played with it. Let it dance across each line and curve. First a spark, then a red gasp, and then a flame. A smile manipulated his lips. He hated the fire, but it seemed the fire understood him in ways no human could, in ways no human wanted to.