Fire With Fire (15 page)

I scramble over to my towel because I’m freezing cold. I’m
wrapping the towel around me like a blanket when he suddenly
swims under the dividers and over toward me like a shark. He
hoists himself out of the water, not bothering with the ladder.
He hasn’t done a single lap.

Silently, I hand him his towel. He looks at me right in the
eyes and says, “You know what? I wasn’t going to say anything
. . . but yeah, Lil. Let’s talk about my injury.”

I’ve been bracing myself for this moment for weeks, this
exact moment, and it’s finally here and yet still I’m not ready. “I
have no idea what you’re talking about.” I turn to leave, but he
grabs my arm.

“I know it was you who put something in my punch at homecoming.”
It feels like the floor is coming out from under me; my
knees are weak, and I’m two seconds from passing out.
“Tell me why,” he says, his voice harsh now. His green eyes
are boring into mine, and I’m looking back at him, trying not
to flinch, trying not to give anything away, and forcing myself
to maintain eye contact. Don’t they say liars can’t look you in
the eye?
I try to shake him off, but his grip is too strong. “What
punch? What are you talking about? Let go of me!”
He doesn’t let go. “You don’t remember giving me a cup of
punch? We were sitting at the table. You were bitching at me
for leading Rennie on. Then we ??? You don’t remember any
of that?”
I say, “Reeve, you were wasted at the dance!”
His eyes narrow. “No, I wasn’t. They did a drug test on me
on the hospital. It came up positive for MDMA.”
Oh. My. God. “I don’t even know what MDMA is!” I cry.
“It’s ecstasy. And you know that because you’re the one who
put it in my drink.”
“You were drunk by the time you got to Ash’s house. I saw
you guys drinking out of a flask, you were drinking in the limo,
you were drinking at the dance! How can you be so sure that
the punch I supposedly gave you had that MD whatever in it?
Because I know so many drug dealers!”
At this, Reeve finally releases my arm, and I massage it even
though it doesn’t hurt. I can see marks from where his fingers
were. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me.” He’s confused, he’s still
angry, but I can see that he wants to believe me.
Reeve’s mouth gets hard; his eyes narrow. He spits out, “Those
guys you met on the beach were drug dealers! Rennie took me to
their house so I could score weed for our fishing trip.”
My whole body goes cold.
“Oh, you didn’t know the guy you gave it up to was a drug
dealer?”
It’s the way he says it, the way he looks at me. With such
disdain. Disgust.
Rennie told him. He knows everything. A hotness rises up
inside of me then, and I slap him across the face as hard as I can.
He stumbles backward, and there is a red imprint on his cheek
from my hand. We stare at each other. His face is shocked; mine
must be blank, because that’s how I feel. Numb. I say, “You
have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it to me,” he says.
“Didn’t Rennie already tell you?” I say. In this moment I
hate her like I’ve never hated anyone in my entire life.
“No. She didn’t tell me anything. I saw it with my own eyes.
I was there that night. At that party.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It was that house over on Shore Road. A piece-of-shit rental
my dad manages. I rolled up over there after Alex’s party died
out. I saw you and Ren doing Irish car bombs on the kitchen
table, and then I saw you guys go upstairs with them.”
I’m reeling. He was there. He saw.
I start to turn away from him, wrapping my towel tighter
around me. “Then you already know.”
“Yeah, I know you’re not the goody-goody everyone thinks
you are.”
I stare him down, my chin quivering with the effort of looking at him and not crying, not running away. “Then I guess you
also know that I was so drunk I could barely keep my head up
and that Rennie was right across the room, with the other guy.
That I think I said to stop, I think I did, but I can’t be
sure
I
did.” Then I do start to cry, because I can’t anymore, I can’t
keep it inside me.
Reeve recoils. “I—I didn’t know any of that.” He lifts his
arm like he’s going to try to touch me, but I must flinch, because
he drops it.
It’s so humiliating, saying these things to Reeve, of all people,
Reeve who hates me. Why did I ever say anything at all? That
was my secret, mine and Rennie’s. It wasn’t for anybody else to
know. Especially not him. I cry harder, my tears mixing with
the pool water dripping from my hair.
“I’m sorry,” Reeve says. “Please don’t cry.”
I sink down onto the bench. He doesn’t make a move; he
just stands there awkwardly. “Then don’t talk about things you
don’t know for sure,” I say, wiping my cheeks with the corner
of my towel.
“You’re right,” he agrees quickly. “I’m a dick. I never should
have brought it up.”
I’m still crying; now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.
Tears roll down my cheeks, and I keep wiping them away with
my towel.
The muscle in his jaw twitches and he rubs it. “Lillia . . . if
I had known you were that drunk, you have to know that I
would never have let you go upstairs with that guy. I’d have
stopped you.” He squats down in front of me so we’re at eye
level, and he balances his hands on my knees. When I flinch, he
quickly backs away and balances his elbows on his thighs. He
pleads, “Please stop crying.”
I nod. I let out a big breath of air. There’s an odd sense of
relief in telling someone. In saying it out loud. I feel . . . a little
bit lighter. A little tiny bit. But it’s something.
We stay like that for what feels like a long time, and then he
shifts, and I can tell his leg is bothering him. “Does your leg
hurt?” I ask. My voice pings off the walls; it’s like the room isn’t
used to sound anymore, we’ve been quiet that long.
“Not at all,” he says.
I stand up and offer him my hand, which he takes. He
stretches his leg out, massaging it. “You shouldn’t push yourself
so hard,” I tell him. “You should listen to your doctors.”
Reeve shrugs his shoulders, and his back muscles ripple. “I
have to push myself if I want to get a scholarship.”
Sniffling, I say, “Well, hasn’t your physical therapist told you
you’ll make it worse if you overdo it? I’m sure he has. Or she
has. If he or she’s any good.”
“Oh, so you’re a doctor now too?” Reeve says, smiling
slightly. “Looks like we’ve got another Dr. Cho on the island.”
I start to dry my hair with my towel. “Yup. So you better listen to what I say.” Then I sit down and open up my bag, pulling
out my leggings and my zip-up hoodie. “I hate going outside in
the cold after swimming. It feels like I’ll never be warm again.”
“See, that’s why you should be wearing a swim cap.”
I shudder. “Never. I would look like a peanut head.”
Shaking his head at me, Reeve says, “Princess Lillia. Always
so vain.” He sounds gentle, though. Affectionate. He sits down,
near but not too near. “Then let’s not go yet. Wait for your hair
to dry more.”
So that’s what we do. When I’m in my car, I text Kat. I don’t
explain exactly how it happened, but I say that I’m finally getting somewhere.
CHAP
TER T
WENT
Y -FIVE

Tuesday is our third meeting of the college
prep group. A few kids have dropped out, which I totally
don’t get. Hello! It’s essentially a get-out-of-class-free card
every couple of weeks.

Alex is already there, clicking away on his laptop computer.
I sneak up behind him to scare the shit out of him, but then I
notice what website he’s looking at.

The University of Southern California.
Funny. I thought Alex was only applying to two colleges.
Early decision to the University of Michigan, and Boston
College as a safety.

He clicks a drop-down menu with all the undergraduate
majors listed and selects the songwriting program.
Before I can say anything, Ms. Chirazo walks over to us.
Alex quickly closes his laptop, as if he was looking at porn or
something. I pull out the chair next to him and take a seat.
“Okay, you two. I’ve read both your essay drafts.” She sets
the papers down on the table, Alex’s and mine. Alex’s doesn’t
have much written on his. A couple of check marks in red pen.
Mine is covered in scribbles.
Damn. I snatch it away so Alex doesn’t see.
“Alex, I love what you’re exploring here. I think you make
a strong thesis about how class and privilege disappear on the
football field, and success hinges only on hard work. But I want
you to make sure that you aren’t too critical of your parents’
wealth when you relate back to your own life. I’m hoping you
can temper some of those places to sound a bit more grateful for
the opportunities you’ve been afforded.”
Alex nods. “Sure, of course.”
I slump in my chair. I thought Alex’s essay was fine, it
was well-written and tight, but I also know exactly what Ms.
Chirazo is talking about. There were a couple of points where
I felt like he was being kind of a doof. Where he’d say things
like,
I never knew how rich my family was, and how that might
make people think of me differently.
Come on, dude. Your SUV costs more than a year’s tuition
at Oberlin.
Ms. Chirazo turns her head to me. “Now, Kat . . . I was surprised by your essay.”
“Pleasantly surprised?” I say it with zero enthusiasm, because
I already know she hated it.
I wrote about how freaking bizarre it is to grow up in a place
like Jar Island. How it shelters you from the outside world. I
talked about my friendship with Kim, how music has made the
world seem a lot bigger, and talked about how ready I am to get
the eff out of here and start living my life. Obviously not in those
exact words, but it was pretty much an indictment of this place.
It was a counterpoint to Alex’s essay. It’s kind of hilarious, how
Alex and I basically wrote about the same thing. It’s not like we
planned it. We’re definitely in sync with each other, though.
“I thought Kat’s essay was great,” Alex says. “Jar Island
is
a
weird place to live, and that should help her stand out.”
Bless his bleeding heart.
Ms. Chirazo’s glasses are on a chain around her neck.
She puts them up on her nose and reaches for my paper. “I
agree. I’m not saying that your essay isn’t good, Kat. It is.
I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Jar Island in quite the way
you present it.” She starts turning pages, and presses her lips
together tight. “My biggest problem is that it doesn’t tell me
much about you. It’s more about this place. And remember,
we’re trying to make the admissions committees think of you
as a real person.” She sets the paper down and turns her chair
toward me. “Have you considered writing about losing your
mother at such a young age?”
My jaw drops. Did she really go there? I swear to God, Ms.
Chirazo freaking gets off on the fact that my mom is dead. She
brings it up every freaking chance she gets!
“I considered it, and then decided against it,” I say, using all
my energy to sound calm and not rage on her. That’s probably
what she wants. For me to explode so she can force me to go to
more counseling sessions.
“Would you mind explaining your rationale?”
I huff. “Look. I have a lot of reasons, but I’ll give you one.
I don’t want to use the fact that my mom died to get people
to pity me. Not to mention I’m pretty sure I’m not the only
high school senior in the United States to have lost a parent. It’s
not as uncommon as people think. And there are kids out there
with way, way worse problems than I’ve got. Trust me.” I say it
pretty bitchy. “So I don’t need it to use it. My grades are stellar,
and I’m pretty sure I killed it on the SATs last time.”
“Your academic record is great, Kat. Especially the fact that
you’ve accomplished what you have in light of your situation.”
“My situation,” I repeat, my lip curling.
And then I feel it. Alex’s hand on my knee, underneath the
table, where no one else can see. He gives my leg an encouraging
squeeze, a sign to breathe, to not let this upset me so bad, to not
explode on this lady in front of the whole room.
I lean back in my chair and say, “Fine. I’ll consider it.
Whatever”
“I don’t mean to upset you, Kat. But please do think about it.
You can write about your mother without exploiting her memory. I think you owe it to yourself to speak about that experience and how you derived so much strength from it.”
I force a tight-lipped smile as Ms. Chirazo gets up, pats me
on the back, and moves on to the next group.
“Thanks for that,” I say to Alex, under my breath.
He bumps my leg under the table. I wonder if he’ll say anything comforting, if he’ll ask about my mom, or try and talk me
into writing that kind of essay. But all Alex says is, “Any cool
bands playing this week?”
I think about telling him that I’m going to a show with Ricky,
to see if it might make him jealous. But I decide against it . . .
because what if Alex is asking because he wants to hang out?
We’ve been having a good time together lately, like last summer.
I decide to play it coy. “There’s one band coming Thursday
that I might want to see,” I say. “What are you up to?”
“I’m going to Boston with Lillia. We’re leaving first thing
tomorrow morning. Taking two days off from school.”
Huh. Never mind. “Shit. I forgot. I have a date Thursday
night, actually. He’s in a band. Lead singer. They’re pretty big
in Germany.”
“Whoa. Cool.”
“Yeah, I know right?” Lillia didn’t tell me about any special
trip with Alex. “What are you guys heading to Boston for?”
“We’ve both got prelim interviews with admissions. It ended
up being this whole fight between my mom and my dad. If he
had his way, I’d only apply to Michigan. But my mom said I
should at least visit my backup school. Between us, I think she
wanted to go shopping.”
Okay. So it’s not like a romantic trip or anything. “You
should probably check out Berklee, too.”
“Huh?”
“It’s the number-three music school in the country. I think
they might have a songwriting major too.” Alex’s face gets tight,
and I suddenly feel guilty, like I’ve said something I shouldn’t
have. “Sorry. I saw over your shoulder.”
I wonder if Alex is going to try and deny it. Which would be
weird. I mean, what’s the big deal? “I don’t think so,” Alex says
quietly. “There probably won’t be time.”
“How you guys getting there? Driving? Leave a little earlier,
then. Or come back a little later. Whatever.”
Alex grimaces. He leans forward and whispers, embarrassed,
“We’re taking a private charter plane. I’d be fine with driving.
But my dad’s already out of town, and he thinks my mom is a
terrible driver, so he told us to take the plane. He pays to be a
part of this service, so it doesn’t actually cost us anything.”
A private plane. Jesus.
The bell rings. “Welp,” I say, and quick pack up my stuff,
“you two kids have fun.” But I don’t mean it. Not at all.
CHAP
TER T
WENT
Y -SIX