Arson (8 page)

 

Chapter 14

 

 

A BLURRY STARE FIXED Arson's eyes on the gaudy cross hanging from the splintering red door. His palms stuck to the grime on his wrists, some ice cream toppings he'd neglected to clean off. The more he stared at the cross, though, the more the image of a weak and dead Savior stung. It didn't make sense how so much power could be contained and then beaten, left for dead. Where was justice in that? How could God let his own son die? He knew there were those who believed, but it just wasn't that simple. Not for him. He couldn't stare for much longer, eyes now heavy with the weight of the world. They fell to his watch. It was 7:28.

Arson felt a deep throbbing in his chest. He didn't like it. After all, she was just a girl. Just a girl with a mask. He had nothing to prove. “This isn't a date,” he repeated over and over.

He couldn't even remember how busy it had been at Tobey's earlier. Didn't really care. But Murder Breath's big, vulgar smile stuck out to him. “Try to stay awake, Arson,” the slob had said. “You look like a zombie, and it's scaring away paying customers.”

But the day at Tobey's wasn't total misery. A young boy about seven or eight came in with an action figure practically glued to his hand. The kid wouldn't let it go, not even to enjoy a sundae. The action figure had a creepy face. In some sick way, it reminded him of Emery.

The ticking hand made its way to the sixth dial on the watch, and Arson's hands folded into fists. His knuckles cracked, palms squished together. Was he dressed okay? Suddenly he cared about how he looked. What was the matter with him? This wasn't even a date, was it? But he couldn't help examining what he was wearing: khakis, some two-year-old brand X sneakers, and a hooded sweatshirt.

In the 007 movies he'd watched and studied over the years, he'd always noticed how exact and perfect the couples looked. Bond was handsomely outfitted to reflect his boldness and bravado, an air of mystique. Man, a guy like that could make the straightest men on earth look twice. Bond's mistress always shined as well—precious stones no middle-class American could even spell hung across intricate yet often deadly neck bones, eyes that reflected sunlight, and a figure aching for romance. In every sense of the word, flawless.

But in all fairness, there was no comparison between Arson and them. Bond's idea of fun rarely included rundown bowling alleys.

Each passing second welcomed unease. The watch was a ticking time bomb. The second hand approached nine then flickered its way to ten. Almost time to gather his strengths, knock, and brace himself. He must have blinked at least a dozen times in the ten seconds that followed, tapping his foot to a beat from a song he'd heard on the radio at work.

Five seconds left.

Four.

Three.

Two.

He took a deep breath and—

“Well, fine! Ground me! I don't have a life anyway! Haven't had one for years, thanks to you!” Emery slammed the door behind her.

Arson breathed deeply again. 
Heck of a welcome
, he thought.

“Hi,” she said with a long-winded sigh. “My mother and I were having a little discussion about something.” She ran her fingers through her hair, tense. “But you were on time. Twenty points.”

“Yeah, well, by the looks of things with your mom, maybe this can wait. It seemed very
hostile
 in there.”

“You should see her when the second row of teeth comes out. Vicious. Besides, if it's so hostile in there, why in the world would you want to send me back? You can't see it, but I'm totally rolling my eyes. Minus five points.”

Arson shrugged and stared at the dingy floorboards.

Reaching out her hand, Emery lifted up his chin. “Hey, just because you can't see me doesn't mean I can't see you. It 
is
 okay to look at me from time to time.”

What was this girl's deal? The first time they met, she had practically wanted him crucified for looking at her, and now he appeared insensitive for looking away?

“But if you're freaked out—”

“No, it's not that,” he replied immediately.

“Good, then let's get out of here before Frankenstein's bride summons me back to the chambers. We've got some bowling to do. Might as well start raising the white flag, because you don't stand a chance.”

Arson shrugged. This girl seemed capable of changing moods at will, like she could shut out her pain so long as it meant having a good time.

“C'mon,” she said. “I'll race you there.”

 

* * *

 

An hour and a half at a bowling alley might have been the result of an enjoyable, free-spirited evening on any other night, but tonight the time spent—wasted—was enough to shatter egos. Arson was sick with embarrassment. He couldn't bowl to save his life. Countless gutter balls and misses made the spares and one strike seem like things better left unmentioned. The game was not without its certain elements of fun, but it was time to face the music; he didn't have any kind of skill.

“I don't bowl often.”

“Well, that's no excuse for letting a girl beat you in a child's game,” Emery said, releasing the ball from a tight grip. She watched with anxious tenacity as it rolled all the way down the middle of the aisle, sending pins flying backward. Another strike.

The sound of ricocheting pins made Arson cringe in his seat. Hoping she wouldn't notice, he secretly entered points in his score rather than hers.

“Don't even think about it,” she quipped with a rigid finger.

“Do you have eyes in the back of that mask or something?”

“Or something.”

Emery danced back to her seat while Arson moseyed to his spot on the floor. Discomfort crept inside his shoes. He found a ball, feigned a smile with sunken shoulders, and fell in line with his target: a white upside-down triangle consisting of ten ridiculing items braced to shatter his ambition before he even let go. Slinging one hand back, Arson's wrist made a quick snap, sending the ball down the aisle and shattering most of the pins. Victory! Almost. Arson eyeballed the two pins at opposite ends as large mechanical arms began cleaning up the scattered remains.

“Impressive,” Emery chimed. “Didn't know you had it in you.”

Arson was silent for a moment, unable to absorb the compliment or the sarcasm it was laced with. Instead he glanced around the big, smoky room, noticing how the crowd eyed Emery. He pretended he could hear what they were thinking. Cruel jokes hidden behind awe and bewilderment. It was like their eyes revealed what was in their hearts, their minds. Some sort of disgust or self-righteous contempt. Whispers here and there, puzzled glances from worried parents and punk teenagers. They had no compassion, no discretion; they just stared, like she was a freak. They were the same looks that often found him in the lonely hallways at school. Arson hated them. What, did they expect her to put on a show? Throw on a hat and juggle some fruit? It made him sick.

“We can leave,” he said, leaning over, waiting for Emery's reaction. “You know, if you're uncomfortable here.”

Emery leaned in and said, “Quit while I'm ahead? Are you crazy?”

Arson waited for her to be still.

“It's cool. The world is always gonna have an opinion about this thing.” She pointed to her mask. “It's easy for them to judge.”

He nodded. She appeared so strong, almost impervious to each spying eye that found them. At least tonight. Smiling, he decided to get his head back in the game and try to forget about the unkind audience.

When the shoot to his left spit up his bowling ball, Arson slid his fingers into place, took a deep breath, and thrust it down the lane. He studied its revolution with excitement as the ball collided into the right-side pin and then suddenly flipped to the other end. Another spare. Not the best, but he'd take it.

“Could this be a chance at redemption?” Emery laughed, taken aback by what she referred to as obvious luck.

“Brag all you want, but I still have a shot at winning this thing.”

“Maybe on your planet, alien boy.”

“How do you do that? One minute you're building me up with a compliment, the next you're tearing me down?”

The mask replied, “It's a gift. I didn't know you were so sensitive.”

“I'm not.”

“Well, don't waste precious time trying to make sense of the female psyche, Arson. That's a game you will 
always
 lose.”

While Emery waited for a new set of pins, Arson went up to the counter at the front of the building to order nachos. There he noticed a big guy with tattoos on both his arms, skin darker than coal. Flashy necklaces dangled from his thick neck and got confused in the threads of unwashed chest hair. “Four beers,” Arson heard him say. “And three shots.” The bartender replied, “All for you, pal?”

The burly guy just grunted back.

To his dismay, Arson felt like lead had just been dropped inside of him. The big guy bit the chapped flesh of his bottom lip, sizing Arson up with eyes that said, 
Don't you dare look at me with that tone of voice
.

Using the last of his cash, he placed the money on the stained countertop, grabbed his order, and brought the nachos back to the table where Emery was erasing like crazy.

“What are you doing? I worked hard at that to get the math right.”

“Oh, really? Would that include stealing my points?” She began penciling in the correct score to the best of her recollection.

He sighed. “Guilty.” A sad look moved across his face, his lips droopy as they inhaled their first nacho. Instant hopelessness washed over him. While Emery worked diligently to fix the scores, Arson peeked down, trying to get a glimpse of her face. He found himself imagining her as one of the characters he'd read about in the comics. In seconds, her head turned and found him eyeing her.

“Can I help you with something?” she said playfully.

“Nope,” he said, defeated.

“Arson, I have to admit that was pretty clever. But very low. What kind of girl would I be if I let you win by cheating?”

He frowned. “What if I said I'd share the spoils with you?” He held out the nachos for a brief moment and then drew them back.

“An ultimatum. Now that's a hit below the belt.”

He shrugged.

The sound of his crunching over the next three minutes must have felt like needles in her ear. He knew she wanted them and that it was only a matter of time before she gave in. But instead she folded her arms and faced the other away.

After realizing that in a few minutes they'd have to give the aisle to somebody else, Arson held up a tissue as a sign of surrender. Rolling his eyes, he handed Emery the bowl of nachos. She took them, turned away, and lifted up her mask, but slightly so that he couldn't get a clear view of her face. After swallowing one nacho, she dropped her mask back down and handed him the bowl.

“All that for one nacho?” he said, squinting.

“Like I said, the female psyche is something boys can't understand.” She got up and thrust another bowling ball down the lane.

For the first time, she didn't hit a single pin. The ball teetered to the right and sank inside the outer slot. A gutter.

“Sorry, aliens only,” Arson chuckled, relishing the moment.

Emery threw a second and only got one pin. She sat down with a sigh and lifted her mask to feed herself another loaded chip. As she listened to the music buzzing through the speakers of the small bowling alley, crackling and staticky, the sound of some pop star she didn't care to remember echoed out. “Man, when's the last time they changed the jukebox around here?”

“Forgive me, Your Highness, this isn't palace bowling. Now, if you don't mind, I need some concentration.”

“While you attempt to beat me, even though we both know it's impossible, I'm going to select something with a little more…anything.”

Arson threw the ball down the aisle and didn't really care what pins he knocked down. He was more concerned with following her back to the jukebox with his eyes. Her polka-dotted shirt swished back and forth above skinny jeans. He studied those Converse sneakers covered with scribbled words and that mask that ignited dormant feelings once reserved only for Mandy.

He didn't care about winning the game anymore. Besides, winning was never actually a possibility. Why had he picked bowling anyway? Tons of bum teenagers and old drunks frequented this dump, like the slob at the counter, who was currently checking out his date, laughing with a beet-red face at what Arson could only imagine was her mask. He didn't like it.

Arson wanted to be next to Emery. His hands felt hot as he studied the drunken man's facial structure, wondering how it would look with burns.

Grandma would tell him not to think that way, never to think that way, but he couldn't help it. It was the way he was made. “They'll come for you, love.” That's what she'd say. “Don't let that evil outta you 'cause they'll come, and I'll leave.” Those few words might have been the only thing saving that low-life's miserable face.

Arson ran to meet Emery at the jukebox. With a hand on her shoulder, he said, “Hey. I think you might have some competition for first place.” It was a complete lie, but it sounded legit.

She selected a song. Some Michael Bolton tune statically echoed through the old speakers. Arson's face shifted from worry to immediate disdain. He groaned and tried to select a song that better suited the evening.

“No, leave it.”

“This is terrible. How did it even make it to a jukebox?”

“For this moment. To be different. Every first date in the movies has some lame pop song echoing out a speaker, right? You know it sucks, but you're humming it for days. It helps you remember the way everything was. The way it all felt. So, to enhance the experience, I selected quite possibly the worst song in the jukebox just for us, for our little experiment.”