Fire With Fire (28 page)

Okay, Lil. Showtime. I’m nervous, but I’m excited, too. To
make things right, to fix what I’ve screwed up. To feel like myself
again.

The door opens, and it takes me a second to recognize the person who answers.
Rennie. She folds her arms across her chest. She’s dressed in
a football jersey and a pair of leggings, bare feet, her hair pulled
up in a sloppy bun at the tippy top of her head. I feel completely
ridiculous and wrong in my fancy clothes.
“I can’t even believe you’d have the nerve to show up here,”
she spits out.
“I need to talk to Reeve,” I say.
She lets out a harsh laugh. “You think he wants to talk to you?
He’s through with you. He finally sees you for what
you
are. A
fucking bitch.”
Helplessly, I look past her into the den, hoping he might see me
standing here and change his mind. Or at least give me a chance
to explain. But the den is full of boys, Reeve’s brothers and some
other men I don’t know. Nearly all of them are wearing the same
jersey Rennie has on; all their eyes are pinned to the television
screen. Behind that is the Christmas tree, every single branch decorated. On the coffee table I see Rennie’s seven-layer taco dip, the
one she always makes for sleepover parties in her mom’s blue casserole dish. And in the back of the house I see Reeve’s mom in a
holiday apron and flannel slippers, stirring a big stockpot.
I call out Reeve’s name and try to push my way past Rennie,
but she pushes me, so hard I stumble in my heels and almost fall
backward. She says, “You’re not welcome here. Reeve hates you
now just like I do.”
“He can tell me that himself,” I say, craning my head to see
inside.
“He’s not downstairs,” Rennie informs me, as she slouches in
the door frame to block my view. “We’re upstairs in his room.”
She over-enunciates the “we’re” part to make absolutely sure I
hear it. I hear it, of course, and my imagination goes wild. Of
Reeve and Rennie lying in his bed, his head in her lap, her running
her hands through his hair, and suddenly they start to kiss. Reeve
knows exactly how to hurt me best, and so does Rennie. And I bet
both of them wouldn’t hesitate to do it. “You should know better
than to compete with me, Lil. You know I always win.”
I lift my chin. I’m not going to grovel at Rennie’s feet, like she’s
the lady of the house and I’m a beggar off the street. “Tell him I
stopped by.” I try to pick up the poinsettia to push it inside the
house, but Rennie shakes her head and starts closing the door.
“They have a cat, and poinsettias are poisonous to cats.”
A voice behind her shouts, “Who’s at the door?”
Rennie calls out, “Nobody,” as it shuts in my face.
On my way back to the car, I tell myself that this is for the best.
Reeve and I are done. I’m finally off the hook. And even though
it’s a huge relief, I still cry my eyes out the entire way back home.
CHAP
TER FIF
T
Y -ONE

Kat and I are standing near the start of Lillia’s
block. She’s on the phone with Pat. She’s been trying to get him
on the phone for the last few minutes.

“Yo! What the hell! You’re supposed to come pick up me
and Mary from Lillia’s, remember?” I can hear Pat’s voice on
the other end. He doesn’t sound as chilled out as he was on
Halloween night. His voice is sharper, more stressed. “Are you
serious?” Kat makes an unhappy snort, and silently mouths to
me that the car isn’t working again. Then she screams, “Call a
damn mechanic, then!” into the phone. Pat shouts something
back, and Kat hangs up on him.

“Fool needs to get his ass back to trade school.” She tucks the
phone into her jean pocket. “I could try Ricky, but I think he’s
working, and anyway only one of us can fit on his bike. We can
walk back to Lil’s house and get her to drive us.”

“Or we could walk,” I suggest half-heartedly. I figure Kat
will ixnay that plan right away because it’s far for both of us,
and it’s kind of cold out. I don’t mind it but she doesn’t seem to
own a proper winter coat. To fight the falling temperatures, Kat
keeps layering on sweatshirts and thermals and her army coat.
She’s practically bulletproof at this point.

“All right,” she says, “we can head up the State Road and
split off near the high school.” She unrolls her sleeping bag and
wraps it over her shoulders like a big cape. “We’ve got plenty to
talk about anyway.”

So we start walking. At first we walk quick, but then we’re
slow and leisurely about it, as if this were a summer afternoon.
It’s pretty out. The sky is heavy with the threat of snow, and
every so often we pass a house lit up with holiday lights.

The whole way, we go through Lillia’s decimation of Reeve.
Second by second. Kat has a great memory; she remembers
more details than I do. I was so nervous, hoping things would
work out the way we’d planned. So I am her captive audience,
clinging to every moment.

“I only wish I could have seen Reeve’s stupid mug when Lil
shut him down!” Kat whoops. “Damn. You think Lillia’s parents have surveillance cameras?” She turns and faces the wind,
and it blows all the hair straight off her face. “I feel like rich
people always have security cameras. Plus, her dad’s a little psycho protective over her.”

Kat takes out her phone and texts Lil. “Tell you what, Mary.
If they do, I’m going to get you a copy of that shit on infinite
loop, so you can watch the moment of Reeve’s heartbreak over
and over and over again, whenever you want. Merry Christmas,
baby. You’ve been such a good girl this year.”

Kat laughs. “Maybe not by typical Santa standards, but you
definitely deserve this.” She gets suddenly serious. “I hope this
helps you. Makes things better.”

“It has, Kat. More than you even know.” As soon as I say the
words out loud, they feel true.
Kat pumps her fists. Then she starts to sing, “Heartbreaker,
love taker, don’t you mess around with me,” and her voice carries on the breeze. We pass a house where a man is up on a ladder, hanging lights, and he almost falls from the shock of it.
Hopefully, Lillia will text back, because I would have loved
to have seen Reeve’s face too. Even so, I know it worked—my
plan worked. Reeve’s heart is broken. There’s no doubt about it.
The whole thing reminded me of that day down at the docks,
when Reeve told all those guys that he wasn’t my friend. My
heart broke that day for sure.
Now we’re the same.
“Oh, hey. How old is your aunt Bette? Does she have any
dresses from the twenties?”
Kat, she’s not that old! She’s only forty-six.”
Kat guffaws. “My bad. I just thought she might have some
vintage stuff you could borrow for New Year’s Eve.”
I swallow. “You don’t mean Rennie’s party?”
“Um.” Kat looks blankly at me for a second, then starts shaking her head. “Here’s the thing. I overheard someone talking
about the bouncer password. Everyone at school will be there. I
thought it will be fun to crash. She won’t even notice us.”
“What about Lillia? She won’t want to go there.”
“We’ll convince her. What else is she going to do?”
When we get to the high school, Kat waves good-bye and
heads toward T-Town. I pick up the bike path and head home.
I can feel it, inside. The peace and the quiet where the rage
used to be. It’s like the lowest of low tide; all that bad stuff has
gone out to sea. I suck in a deep breath, and it hits me like a ton
of bricks.
I can go home now. Not to Middlebury.
Home
home. Back
with my parents.
Now that Reeve’s gotten his, now that I’ve got closure, what’s
keeping me on Jar Island? I love Lillia and Kat to death, obviously, but they’re both out of here next year. It’s not like I’ve
made a ton of other friends. It’s the perfect time to say good-bye
to Jar Island. I came, I saw, I conquered. I’ll tell my parents to
come here for New Year’s, and I’ll leave with them.
There’s a twinge at my heart, thinking about leaving Aunt
Bette behind, especially the way the house is. And the way our
relationship is. But maybe she can come with us. Why not? She
could use getting off this island as much as I could. Mom and
Dad could hire someone to work on the house while it’s empty,
get it back to tip-top shape by summer.
Yes, this is the plan. I stop at the water, watching a ferry chug
off. I imagine being on it, sandwiched between my mom and
dad. All of us so happy, back where I belong. With my family.
With my life on track.
I fight the urge to immediately tell the girls. I don’t want to
upset them, or let them try to convince me to stay, or at least to
finish out the year. I feel the sort of peace that comes from any
good decision. It’s the right thing to do.
When I get home, I decide to start packing. No time like the
present! I feel like I’ve got so many more clothes than when
I came here. I’m not sure how; I don’t remember ever going
shopping.
I pack all my summer stuff first, the things I came with.
Then I make a few trips down to the basement and out to the
garage to get the stuff I left behind the first time. Like my old
Nancy Drew books and the photo albums. I sing while I do it,
all the Christmas carols that Mr. Mayurnik taught us in chorus.
I feel so so so good. I’ve never felt better.
Aunt Bette doesn’t ask me what I’m doing. She watches me,
quiet, from the living room. The rest of the house is a mess, a
complete mess, but I can get started on that later. We’re both
going to have to pitch in if we want to have this place cleaned
up before Mom and Dad come.
Aunt Bette gets a call after dinner, and I can tell right away
that it upsets her.
“What is it?” I say.
She sinks into a kitchen chair. “One of the galleries where I
sell my paintings is closing down. They want me to come pick
up my work tonight.” She glances at the clock and rubs her temples. “Now, actually.”
“Gee. Nice of them to give you a heads-up.” I say it sarcastically, with a mean laugh. But Aunt Bette doesn’t even crack a
smile. “I’ll go with you,” I tell her. “You might need help carrying stuff.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, Mary, I don’t—”
“It’s no trouble. I’m finished with my homework.” That’s a lie,
but whatever. How long would this take? As weird as things have
been between us lately, I’m still worried about her. She might
need me. She doesn’t have friends like I do, to have her back.
Anyway, there’s something about this that feels like good
timing. Hopefully, Aunt Bette will leave Jar Island with my parents and me. And now that this gallery isn’t showing her work
anymore, well . . . what reason does she have to stay? She could
get a fresh start somewhere else, like me.
I meet Aunt Bette in her Volvo. I was thinking she’d change
into a pair of pants and a nice sweater, but she’s still in her
housecoat. And her hair is wild. I don’t think she’s combed it
today. And maybe not yesterday either.
Her hands are trembling. We’re driving kind of fast, taking
the turns too sharp.
“You’re nervous.”
She glances at me out of the side of her eyes. “Mary. Please.
Do not say a word, okay? Not to me, not to the owner. I want
to get in and out of there as fast as I can.”
“Okay. Sure. You won’t even know I’m there. Promise.”
Hopefully, I won’t have to say anything. But if I need to, I’m
not going to hesitate.
The gallery is down in T-Town, at the end of a small stretch
of businesses. There are about half as many stores here as there
are on Main Street in Middlebury, and none of them are as nice.
Of all the parts of Jar Island, T-Town probably gets the least
amount of tourists. It’s more a place for the locals. So I’m not
surprised the gallery went under.
The gallery is a white building on a corner. It has a big window in front, and across the bottom of the glass, in gold-stencil,
it reads
art in the jar
, lowercase letters because I guess that’s the
thing? A temporary wall is directly behind the window. I figure
that’s where they hung the best paintings. It’s bare now, pockmarked with nail holes.
The front door is propped open. I can see a ladder inside, a
bunch of drop cloths, open cans of paint. There’s a woman sitting cross-legged on the floor in the center, her hair tied back
in a black scarf. She’s thumbing through some papers inside a
cardboard box.
Aunt Bette turns off the car and takes a few deep breaths. She
walks in. I watch her from the car. The woman doesn’t smile;
she doesn’t even seem to say hello to Aunt Bette. She just points
toward the back.
I get a twinge in my gut. A not-good feeling. I decide to
walk in.
“I’m here to help my aunt,” I say as I come through the door,
but the woman doesn’t acknowledge me. I step past her and head
toward what looks like the main gallery space to my left.
Only this gallery isn’t one big room. It’s a lot of small rooms.
I’m trying to figure out where Aunt Bette went to, and I end
up getting turned around. I’m about to step through another
doorway, when I realize I’m back at the main entrance.
“She looks like a witch!” a girl whispers. And then two people laugh.
I crane my neck around the door frame. Sitting with the
woman is Rennie Holtz.
Oh my gosh. This is the gallery that Rennie’s mom owns.
“Like a homeless witch! I wonder if she got here by broom.”
Her mom lets out a laugh that sounds like a goose honking.
“Quiet, Ren.”
Then Aunt Bette comes into the room. She’s got her arms full
of her paintings. She’s about to scurry out when Rennie’s mom
stands up. “Um, Bette? I wondered if I might give you some
unsolicited advice.”
Aunt Bette doesn’t answer her right away. She walks toward
the door and peeks outside at her car. I guess she’s looking for
me. And when she doesn’t see me, her eyes dart around the gallery. I duck out of sight.
“Bette?” Rennie’s mom says again. I hear Rennie snicker.
“Yes. Yes. Sorry.”
I edge my head around the corner again.
“I had a lot of trouble with your new work. To be frank, it
was making some people uncomfortable. I’m not saying it isn’t
intriguing. It is. But I don’t think that kind of darkness is what
most buyers are looking for.” My eyes narrow on the canvases in
Aunt Bette’s hands. They are all muddy, dark, haunting. Slashes
of blacks and grays. Nothing like her old paintings. It looks
like the stuff of a madwoman. Painting hasn’t brought her back
to the real world; it’s drowned her further in darkness. “You
should go back to those darling lighthouses and seascapes.”
Aunt Bette’s face hangs. “I don’t paint to sell. I paint my
world. And this is what it’s like now.” She turns to leave.
Rennie’s mom mutters, “She’s gone off the deep end.”
“Cuckoo!” Rennie says. And they both crack up laughing.
I am about to flame.
I look around the room. I want to do something to make
them stop. I narrow my eyes on the open paint cans on the floor
and will them to tip.
Tip tip tip tip.
They start to shake.
“Mary!”
Aunt Bette shouts from the front door. Rennie and her
mother look wide-eyed.
I rush out past them and follow her to the Volvo.
“I told you not to come inside!” Aunt Bette is furious.
“What’s the matter with you?” Her hands squeeze the steering
wheel so hard the skin turns white.
“They were calling you crazy. They were saying you’re a
witch, that you’ve lost your mind.”
I expect her to get mad, to defend herself. Instead Aunt Bette
stays silent and rolls up her window tight, sealing us both inside.
I burst out, “Why do you let people treat you that way? You’re
not a doormat! Have some self-respect!”
“I’m not like you, Mary. I don’t want to be like you.”
It stings, to hear her say this. I’ve always looked up to my
aunt. I’ve always thought she was the coolest lady, someone I’d
want to be like someday. I don’t even recognize her anymore.
I fold my arms and turn toward the window. If Aunt Bette
doesn’t want my help, that’s all the more reason for me to go.
“I’ve decided it’s time for me to go back home. Right after New
Year’s.” I can’t help but throw in a dig. “And then I’ll be out of
your hair forever.”
I wait to see if Aunt Bette will say anything. If she’ll take
back the mean things she just said. But if anything, she looks
relieved.
This is what Aunt Bette wants. Me out of her life.
CHAP
TER FIF
T
Y - T
W
O