The Complete Burn for Burn Trilogy: Burn for Burn; Fire With Fire; Ashes to Ashes (54 page)

Reeve’s kissing her, so soft and gentle, like she’s a porcelain
doll that will break in his arms if he’s not careful. She’s never
looked prettier. Like an angel. Roses in her cheeks, her shiny
hair whipping around them. It’s like a movie. Two teenagers,
kissing in the parking lot, Christmas carols in the background,
the tree all lit up behind them.

And then there’s me. In the background. In the shadows.
Watching.
Step one.
It worked. He loves her now for sure. The way he’s looking
at her right now, like she’s the girl of his dreams. He can’t believe
his luck. It’s all unfolding exactly the way it’s supposed to.
So why am I hurting so bad? This is what I asked Lillia to do.
I’m getting what I wanted. I should feel glad.
Why does it feel so terrible?
I’m clenching my fists so tight my fingernails leave red crescent moons on my skin. I feel a surge, a heat roar up inside me.
As bad as I’m hurting now, he’ll hurt ten times worse. That’s the
only thing that keeps me going.
CHAP
TER F
OR
T
Y -FIVE

I’m sitting on the ground, the cold seeping
through the butt of my jeans, in the middle of the damn treelighting crowd. I rip off my mittens with my teeth, fold down
my combat boots, and check my ankles for blood.

You know, there is such a thing as concert crowd etiquette.
Common-sense rules to abide by so that everyone in the audience
has a good time. It’s true even for punk shows, where people in the
pit beat the piss out of each other. So it should definitely be true
for this shit show.

I learned about the rules at my very first show at Paul’s
Boutique. Kim and I were up in the sound booth. She had a
bouncer’s flashlight with her and kept beaming it on different
offenders so I could watch their transgressions live.

It basically boils down to this.
One: Never pretend that you have a friend close to the stage
just so you can push up close. People will call out fake names, like,
“Hey, Jimmy! I’m coming!” and then weasel their way to the front.
It might fool one or two people in the very back, but ultimately
you end up at the stage, clearly by yourself, and people get pissed.
Two: Even in the tightest of crowds, you must always respect
people’s personal space. Like, it’s fine to brush up against someone
once, but that’s it. And if you carry a purse or a bag, you hug it to
your chest so you won’t knock people with it.
Three: If you’re super tall, don’t be a dick and stand in front of
a short person.
Now, even though it’s never come up at any of the shows I’ve
been to, there has to be a rule about how to navigate a crowd when
you’re pushing a double-wide stroller packed with two screaming
babies through a crowd of people like a damn snowplow.
I stare daggers into this Mother of the Year as she coyly spins
around and gives me the most pathetic
I’m sorry!
face. Meanwhile,
her wailing kids are drowning out the whole damn choir.
I get back to my feet and look for Lillia and Reeve in the crowd,
but they’ve both disappeared. That dummy Ashlin and her meatbag Derek, too.
I spin around and stand on my tiptoes and try to see where
everyone may have run off to, but the crowd is so thick, and
the family standing behind me is giving me weird looks, so I
turn back toward the concert. Lillia will give us the juicy stepone details later. I know she’ll make it happen.
Anyway, I’m interested in hearing Alex sing. I’ve been trying
to get him to play me one of his songs, but he never does. I told
him that tonight could be like a practice for his USC audition. He
still hasn’t sent in his application, as far as I know.
After two boring songs, the band kicks in to “Baby, It’s Cold
Outside.” Alex steps forward, along with some other girl I recognize as a drama geek. He’s got his guitar with him, and he starts
playing along.
I feel myself smiling. Forget this drama girl. She’s coming off way too Broadway, especially since “Baby, It’s Cold
Outside” is a sexy song. Alex is doing it right. Like how a
boy would talk you into something. Sweet, but with something hungry underneath. And he does have a great voice.
Clean and bright, and very confident. If he could be as confident in regular life as he is when he’s singing, dude would
go far in life.
After he’s done, he steps back up on the risers and blushes at
the applause. And people are applauding. Not the polite stuff.
Like they’ve seen something . . . special.

Meanwhile, Alex is looking around the crowd, I guess for his
friends. But they’ve all left him.
Poor guy. I don’t get why no one in his circle of friends can see
how great he is.
Alex’s eyes find me. I wolf-whistle and then throw up the rock
sign with each of my hands. Like he’s a rock star. Or at least on his
way to being one.
He breaks into a smile, and despite being freezing, my whole
body warms.
I look to give the same rock signs to Mary, because I’m freaking proud of her for getting up in front of everyone like this, but I
can’t find her, either. Where the hell has everyone gone?
The mayor steps up to the podium and signals for the Christmas
tree to turn on. And it does, for a second, before it flickers out.
And all the other light too—the streetlamps, the shop windows,
the traffic lights—until it’s completely dark out. Then everything
starts flashing, on and off, like there’s some kind of issue with the
power.
Damn, does this whole island need to be rewired?
I’m about to run for my life for the second time this year, but
then everything clicks back on, good and strong, and everyone in
the crowd applauds like it’s a true freaking Christmas miracle.
Which, hell, maybe it is. But I’m bouncing out of here either
way, to be safe.
CHAP
TER F
OR
T
Y -SIX

I’m at lunch with everyone on Wednesday when
two sophomore girls nervously approach our table. They look
so young, both of them, in jeans that are way too blue and way
too baggy, track-and-field fleeces, and Converse sneakers.

“Um, Rennie? Could we ask you a quick question?” the one
with the straw-colored ponytail asks.
“If you’re not too busy,” the mousy one adds.
Over the past few weeks I’ve become very adept at pretending Rennie does not exist. Almost as good as she is at pretending that I don’t exist. So I go back to the pages of my history
textbook and pretend to be utterly absorbed by a portrait of
Eli Whitney.
Plus, I already know what this is about.
The two girls produce a clipping and place it down on the
table for Rennie to see. From what I can tell without totally
obviously looking, it looks like maybe something cut out of a
teen magazine. Or a department-store catalog? “We were wondering if this dress would work for your party.”
Rennie’s New Year’s Eve party is all anyone can talk about. It’s
going to be at her mom’s gallery, the last hurrah before Ms. Holtz
sells the place. It will be Rennie’s pièce de résistance, her masterpiece. It’s a twenties theme, and she’s pulling out all the stops;
she’s been hoarding bottles of gin and champagne from Bow Tie
for the past month. It’s been easy enough with all the company
holiday parties they’ve been hosting; according to Rennie, there
are plenty of bottles at the end of the night. And everyone’s going
to be in costume, too. Girls have been coming up to Rennie showing her pictures of their dresses and getting approval on 1920s
hairstyles. I actually spotted her, forehead wrinkled with concentration, reading
The Great Gatsby
during a free period, which is
hilarious, because we were assigned that, like, freshman year.
I was the first one Rennie told about this idea, back on the
first day of school. Rennie has practically invited the whole
school to the party, but she hasn’t invited me. She hasn’t flat-out
banned me, but she hasn’t invited me either. I don’t want to go,
but it’s not like I have a choice. It’s the final stage of our plan.
Rennie tears into both of the girls. “Are you serious right
now? First off, this is a prom dress, not a New Year’s Eve
dress. And it is not flapper-esque. See the cinched waist? And
that awful-looking poufy skirt? It’s a lame fifties-housewife
costume.” She actually crumples up the paper and chucks it on
the cafeteria floor.

For as long as I’ve known her, Rennie has been on me to have a
party at my house. I’ve always said no, because the kind of party
my parents would let me have is not the kind of party any of our
friends would be interested in going to—i.e., no alcohol, no loud
music, no skinny-dipping, no hooking up in random bedrooms.
It would be more like karaoke and a cheese plate.

And the truth is, I’ve never been that into the idea of hosting a
bunch of people. It seems so stressful, making sure everybody’s
having a good time but also making sure they’re not wrecking
the house. It is a perfect party house, though. My mom designed
it that way, with an open floor plan and high vaulted ceilings
and plenty of room to move around in. And the movie night I
had a few weeks ago worked out fine.

That night, an opportunity arises. We’re cooking dinner
when my mom suggests the three of us surprise my dad this
weekend in New York, where he’s speaking at a medical conference. I remind her how I have to work on my college apps, and
she says, “Lillia, you hardly ever get to see your dad. This will
be such nice family time. We’ll see a show, go to brunch, check
out that new art installation at the Met. Maybe get a massage.
We can do some Christmas shopping too! Didn’t you say you
need new riding boots?”

I know she thinks she’s going to get me with the shopping,
but I stand my ground. “Daddy will be stuck working the whole
time. It’s not like he’s going to the spa with us.”

“He’ll be able to meet us for dinners,” my mom argues.
“Mommy, I need to work on my applications. Things have
been so crazy with schoolwork that I haven’t been able to concentrate on them the way I need to.” I mean it too.
My mom sighs. “All right. We’ll go another time.”
“You and Nadi should still go,” I tell her. “I’ll be fine by
myself, promise.”
I can read the indecision on my mom’s face. She really wants
to get off the island; she’ll take any excuse to escape. The winters drive her crazy here. It makes her feel claustrophobic, not
being able to leave, with the weather so cold and wet and gray.
Plus, she loves New York. She lived in New York when she was
in her early twenties, and she gets all nostalgic when she talks
about running around the city with her friends.
Nadia’s listening from the couch, and she chimes in, “Please,
pretty please, can we still go? I want to go shopping!” Hastily
she adds, “And also I want to see Daddy.”
“I don’t know. A whole weekend alone?”
In a strong, firm voice I say, “Mommy, I’ll be okay. I stayed
by myself last month and it was totally fine.”
“Well . . . I do love New York at Christmastime,” she says,
looking back at Nadia, who squeals. “The whole city is wrapped
up like a present.” She looks back at me and says, “You can have
Rennie stay over here to keep you company.”
“Maybe,” I say, and Nadia raises her eyebrows. I turn away
and start filling water glasses.
“What’s going on with you two?” my mom asks. “She hasn’t
been around much lately.”
“Nothing. We’re both just busy.”
I can tell my mom was gearing up to ask another question.
Time for a subject change. “Mommy, when you guys are in
New York, can you pick me up some of that face cream I like
from the spa you go to? The one that smells like sugarplums?”
“Maybe Santa will put it in your stocking,” my mom says
with a wink.
So this is how I come to be having my first ever party party. I
tell everybody at the lunch table on Thursday, and the sour look
on Rennie’s face makes the whole thing worth it in advance.
“Friday night, seniors only,” I say. “Super exclusive. I don’t
want any random sophomores or whatever. Only the people we
like.”
Which means not you, Rennie.
“Your mom’s letting you have a party?” Rennie looks
skeptical.
I’m about to snap at her, but then I realize that these are the
first words Rennie has spoken to me in over a month. I force
a swallow and say, “My mom won’t be here. Nadia, either.”
Rennie’s face gets pinched. “What about booze? Let me
guess, this is going to be a dry party. Diet Coke and lemonade,
am I right?”
I ignore her and touch Reeve’s arm. “Reeve? Can you ask one
of your brothers to get me a few kegs for tomorrow? I can pay
you after school.”
“No prob,” he says, gulping down a carton of milk. He wipes
his mouth. “Tommy owes me for helping him move last week.
Do you want some liquor, too? Something sweet for the girls,
like peach schnapps or whatever?”
Hmm. I don’t want things to get too too crazy. But Rennie’s
was watching so I say, “Maybe a bottle of tequila. For shots.”
To the table I say, “But I don’t want it to get, like, out of hand.
Can you guys please help me keep things under control? My
mom will kill me if the house gets wrecked.”
Reeve nudges my foot under the table, his sneaker to my
bootie. “I’ll be your bouncer,” he promises, giving me a look.
“Only VIPs at Princess Lillia’s party.”
I’m tempted to sneak a peek at Rennie, to see the look on
her face, but there’s no need. I know she’s seething inside.
Guaranteed. To add more fuel to the flames I say, “And there
won’t be a theme. Themes are so over.”
“Sounds good,” Alex says. “Let me know if I can help.
Whatever you need.”
“Maybe you can pick up the pizzas?” I ask.
Alex nods. “No problem.”

After school Reeve texted me and asked him to help find an outfit
for Rennie’s party, and I said yes, only because I hoped it would
get back to her. So here we are at Second Time Around, a thrift
store near Reeve’s house that his mom told him about. Reeve’s
in front of a full-length mirror, trying on a double-breasted pinstriped jacket. “Um, I think that’s a women’s suit jacket!” I say,
and I collapse into a fit of giggles.