The Complete Burn for Burn Trilogy: Burn for Burn; Fire With Fire; Ashes to Ashes (50 page)

You deserve everything you’re getting, because you’re a bad
person.
My stomach lurches. “Reeve, I was—”
“No, you were right. I’m not a good guy, Lillia.” He wipes
his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I did something to someone a long time ago. I hurt someone bad.”
“Who?” I breathe. Mary. He has to be talking about Mary.
“A girl . . . The more I think about it, the more I think maybe
this is me getting what I deserve, so I can’t—I can’t even be
upset about it.” He nods to himself. “In a way it’s like a relief.
I’ve been waiting all this time for my punishment. Maybe . . .
maybe this is it.” He sounds so resigned. So hopeless. It makes
my heart hurt.
I rest my head on his shoulder. “Don’t talk like that,” I whisper. It’s crazy, but I feel genuinely bad for him.
He lets me sit like that for a moment and then he says, “Can
you please go?”
I sit up straight to look at him, but he won’t look me in the
eye.
That’s when it comes to me. An idea. And before I’ve really
thought it through, I’m telling him a way to fix things.
“We have this family friend. He’s my dad’s coworker’s son.
He’s a football player. Not a star quarterback like you, but still.
He took a fifth year of high school at a prep school, and it was
like a whole other year for recruits to check him out.” I say all
of this super calmly, like he hasn’t been crying and he didn’t tell
me to leave. I say, “You could do that, Reeve. If you train hard,
and you get your grades up, I bet you could get a scholarship at
a prep school somewhere, and then colleges would look at you
again. It would be your second chance.”
He lifts his head; his eyes are red. “I told you, Cho. I don’t
deserve a second chance. I’m no good. You shouldn’t even be
around me.”
“I don’t want to hear you talking like that,” I snap. I never
thought I’d feel this way, but maybe Reeve does deserve a second chance.
Reeve looks startled. Then he says, “Why would some fancy
school give me a scholarship? My grades aren’t good enough for
a scholarship.”
“Duh, you’re an amazing quarterback. If their team sucks,
they’re basically paying to make it better by having you go to
their school. I could ask my dad to talk to his friend, get more
information. This could be your ticket out.”
He’s shaking his head. “I don’t know. It seems like a long
shot.”
“Don’t give up on yourself. All you need is more time to heal
and get strong again. Sure, spring workouts might be too soon
for you, but what if you had another year to recuperate? You
might not get to go to some big football school, but at least it’ll
be a real college and not the JICC.” Reeve opens his mouth, but
before he can answer, I grab him by his shirt collar. “Listen to
me, okay? It’s worth a shot. I’ll help you study, if that’s what
you’re so worried about.”
Reeve almost smiles, which makes me feel so good. “Oh
yeah? That’s generous of you, Cho. Just so you know, I’m actually not a Neanderthal; I’m a pretty smart guy.”
“I never for one second thought you were dumb,” I tell him,
dropping his collar and smoothing it out. And then, like it’s
already decided, I say, “Tomorrow you make an appointment
with Mr. Randolph and see what he knows. He’s bound to have
some contacts at prep schools; I think he went to one. Then
you register for the December SAT test date.”
“I already took the SAT,” Reeve says. “My score was fine.”
“Fine?” I repeat. I give him a doubtful look.
“Yeah. It was easy. At one point I put my head down and
took a nap. I think maybe I had a hangover that day.”
“Well, what was your score?” I challenge.
“1920.”
Oh. That
is
pretty good. I’ve taken it three times, and it was
only on the third try that I broke 2000. So Reeve is smart. He
does have a chance at going to college. “Then take the test one
more time. If you scored that high without even trying, who
knows what you could do if you studied?”
I tell myself not to feel guilty for helping him. If I can fix
this, if I can help make it so he still gets his football scholarship . . . everything will still end up the way it’s supposed to.
Mary can still have her pound of flesh, and Reeve can still go
to college.
I clap my hands together, cheer-style. “So first we reorganize
these keys and then we go to the library. And if you do a good
job, you’ll get a snack after.”
Reeve smiles for real this time. “You’re a piece of work, Cho.
Did you know that?”
I smile back smugly. “Oh, trust me. I know.”
CHAP
TER THIR
T
Y -F
OUR

I’m practically sleepwalking as I shuffle down
the hall to English class. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I
stayed up super late to finish reading
The Scarlet Letter
for
today’s discussion. I’m too shy to actually talk in class, but Mrs.
Dockerty loves to randomly call on the quiet kids.

I should have been doing a few pages a night, but of course
I left it to the last minute. It’s such a sad story, and I can’t say
that I enjoyed it. It hit a little too close to home. The scars that
Hester carried all through her life, the guilt and shame she felt
even though it wasn’t her fault. And when she died at the end,
I was in tears.

Needless to say, it was not a fun read.
I walk through the classroom door. I’m the first one, which
is odd, especially since my last class was on the other side of the
high school and it feels like everyone is counting off the minutes
until Thanksgiving break begins. Not even Mrs. Dockerty is
here yet. She’s probably in the bathroom or something. I fall
into my seat and lay my head on the desk and rest my eyes for
a minute.

I wake up with a start, my cheek stuck to the cover of the
paperback. I lift my head slowly, trying to figure out how long
I’ve been out. The class is suddenly full; everyone is in their seats.
But there’s no Mrs. Dockerty. Instead a man is sitting on her
desk. I guess we have a sub. I quick wipe my mouth and take
out my paperback.

“What did you think about Bartleby’s decision never to leave
the office? Did it make him sympathetic? Or were you frustrated?”

A bunch of hands fly up. I glance down at my copy. I don’t
remember an office anywhere in
The Scarlett Letter
. Or a character named Bartleby. Maybe I didn’t read closely enough?

The sub calls on one of my classmates, who says, “I thought
it was annoying. If you’re not happy working at a place, why
would you stay?”

Another kid across the room says, “He’s unhappy, but he
doesn’t know how to fix it. He’s paralyzed. He’s got nowhere
else to turn. Life at the office is all he has going for him. Without
it, he’s nothing.” This kid doesn’t even wait to be called on.
Which is crazy. Mrs. Dockerty is very strict about not talking
out of turn.

The substitute nods, pleased. He hops off his desk and gives
a stack of papers to each row of desks. Once he’s up, I see something on his desk. It’s a brass name plate. It says mr. frissel.

I realize this as the papers are being passed to me. The boy
sitting in front of me turns around.
It’s David Washington, the boy I kissed on Halloween night.
I don’t think he recognizes me without my makeup and the
pink streaks in my hair. But I definitely recognize him.
I get up with a start. “I—I made a mistake,” I announce.
I grab my things and run out the door. But not to the class
I’m supposed to be in. I head straight home. It’s a half day
anyway.
When I get there, I’m still upset, so much so that my hands
are shaking as I set my bike against the side of our house. Only
one light is on inside, over the kitchen sink. The rest of the
rooms are dark, like the sky.
I hear a knock around the front of the house. I edge past the
corner and see two of the ladies from the Jar Island Preservation
Society, with phony smiles plastered on their faces. They’ve
stopped by before, always unannounced. I already know Aunt
Bette will not answer the door.
I was there the first few times they came. We stood together
in the doorway as they recommended landscapers who could
come help clean up one yard or passed the name of a handyman who might replace the broken shingles in a way that would
“maintain the original integrity” of the house.
Sure, our house isn’t in the best shape. Not when you compare it to the other homes on the block. This part of Jar Island
has the oldest houses; almost half have been officially designated
as landmarks. And some people take that designation super seriously, making sure that every detail is true to the period and that
any renovations are done with special materials that would have
been used at the time, like slate and cedar.
But old houses take a lot of upkeep, and that’s never been
Aunt Bette’s forte. Mine either. The whole place could use a
fresh coat of paint. One of the wooden front steps has rotted
through. And yes, our yard catches all the dead brown leaves
from our big oak, but I don’t see what the big deal is. The ground
is covered in snow; everything will stay white until March.
Not to mention that all of this stuff . . . it’s not hurting anyone. And it’s none of their business even if they do want to
make it a landmark. This is our house, part of the Zane family
since Jar Island came to be. I watch the two ladies retreat slowly
down the steps.
But like anything you don’t deal with, they keep coming
back. We’re going to have to do something about them; otherwise they’ll just keep coming around.
I plan on saying exactly that to Aunt Bette as I walk through
the back door. But I don’t, because she’s talking on the telephone.
“She’s upset all the time. There’s no reasoning with her. I
tried to tell her that she needs to not focus on this Reeve boy. I
never told you this because she swore me to secrecy . . . but he
was terrible to her. I told Mary she’ll never find peace that way,
but she . . . she screamed at me.” Aunt Bette pauses. “No. No, of
course not. You don’t need to come. I’ve got it under control.”
Oh my God, she’s talking to my mother about Reeve. I run
in the room and stand right in front of her and stare daggers.
Aunt Bette’s eyes go wide. She’s surprised to see me at this time
of day.
“Erica, I . . . I have to go.” And then she hangs up.
“I can’t believe you just did that. You promised me you’d
keep that a secret!”
Aunt Bette falls into her seat and starts rubbing her temples.
“What does it matter now?”
I completely resent how exasperated she’s acting, like my
very presence is taxing. “Are you serious? I trusted you!” I say,
curt. “And I come home to find you talking about me behind
my back? How do you think that makes me feel?”
Aunt Bette shrugs. “I’ve stopped trying to guess how you
feel, Mary. I’m staying out of it.”
I point at the phone. “That’s not staying out of it!” I am quivering with anger. “And now I’ll have to explain everything to
them at Thanksgiving.”
“Your parents aren’t coming for Thanksgiving.”
“Why?”
She looks at me and says, “Your mom doesn’t have such
happy memories of this place.” She says it with more than a hint
of bite, which I guess I deserve, but it still catches me off guard.
“Call Mom back. Call her and tell her that everything’s okay,
that they should come for Thanksgiving.”
Aunt Bette stands up. “If you want to see her so bad, Mary,
why are you here? Go home and be with her.”

After my thirteenth-birthday-party disaster, when the only kid
from my class to show up was Reeve, my parents became very
concerned. Concerned and smothering.

Dad had the idea to throw me another birthday party, as if the
first one had never happened. This new party would be somewhere on the mainland. He had it in his mind that the ferry ride
was too much to ask of people. He refused to believe that no one
came because no one wanted to be associated with me. He casually suggested that we make it more mature, cooler for a group
of budding teenagers. Either roller skating or bowling.

I told him no way.
Mom wanted to start riding the ferry with me, to and from
school. She said it would be fun. She’d bring the newspaper
with her, or a book. I wouldn’t even have to talk to her if I
didn’t want to. We could sit quietly with each other and enjoy
the scenery. I refused, of course. The ferry ride was my time
with Reeve. It was the only time I was happy.
Around them I made an effort not to eat so much food at
dinner, and they’d look so hurt when I’d tell them to please not
give me so much pasta.
They were trying so hard it made me feel worse. I started
shrinking into myself. I didn’t want to hang out with my parents or do fun stuff on the island on the weekends. I hated how
hard they were trying to fix this for me. It couldn’t be fixed.
Not by them. And I hated seeing them hurt. I wanted to shield
them from the hurt. I could take it. But I didn’t want them to
suffer.
The worst of it was when the two of them knocked on my
door late one night. The semester had ended at Montessori. I’d
brought home a crappy report card. I never got bad grades.
Dad sat on my bed,; Mom leaned against my desk.
He said, “Do you have any interest in changing schools?”
Mom said, “You could go here in Middlebury. You wouldn’t
have to do the ferry anymore; you could have a brand-new
start.”
Vehemently, I shook my head from side to side. “I don’t want
to change schools.”
Mom zoomed right along, fixing a bright smile on her face.
“Or we can move. Your dad and I have always talked about
going back to the city some day. Picture it, Sunday afternoons
at the art museum, picnics at the park.”
I said it louder. “I don’t want to change schools!”
Dad patted my leg. There were tears in his eyes. “We want
you to be happy. That’s all we want.”
“And all I want is to stay at Montessori,” I said. With Reeve.
CHAP
TER THIR
T
Y -FIVE

Nadia and I are lying on the couch watching TV, and
my mom’s on her computer working on her Thanksgiving
spreadsheet. It’ll be a small Thanksgiving this year. My dad’s
brother’s family is coming from New York City, and our
California grandma was supposed to come, but she decided at
the last minute she didn’t want to make the trip, which upset
my mom. Next year, she keeps saying, we’ll go to California
instead.