Playing with Fire Page 4

I raise one eyebrow, “You think I’m odd?”

  He shifts. “No, not like that. But you just kind of, I dunno. I don’t know how to make it make sense. I just saw you and knew I wanted to know you better.”

  I take another bite. “So this is a science experiment? Did you bring the chloroform? Because it’s not a party till someone brings the chloroform.”

  “See, that’s why I wanted to get to know you better. You’re sharper than most girls I know. Quick and smart. And you clearly aren’t afraid of anything. So why haven’t you told me to get lost yet?” he asks with a smile.

  “I don’t know. You kind of intrigue me too, I guess. You never do or say what I expect you to. It’s kind of annoying,” I point out.

  “Fair enough.” He chuckles. “But kind of charming, too, right?”

  I raise my eyebrow again. “I’m gonna stick with annoying. But we’ll see how the night goes.”

  He clutches his hand to his heart, pretending to be wounded. I smile and nudge him with my elbow. I don’t even think about it, but the moment it happens, something curls into a ball in my stomach. It feels easy. Warm.

  “So, are you going to put me to work or what?” he asks as I scrape the bottom of my mostly empty takeout box.

  “I warn you, I am a bit of a slave driver,” I joke, getting down from the counter and tossing my empty container back into the bag.

  His eyes sparkle impishly. “I hoped as much.”

  I pick up a small box of books and heave it into his lap. “These go on the shelf in the living room.”

  He grunts dramatically as he carries the heavy box into the other room. I grab a box of my own and follow him.

  “Wow, you have quite the library,” he says as we shelve the two boxes.

  “These are just my hardcovers. The paperbacks are in my room,” I mutter, checking the title in my hand to make sure I put it in its proper place in the series order. I stuff it in its spot between two others.

  “So obviously you like to read…” he prompts, leaning back on his palms.

  “Yep,” I say, picking up the next book. Actually, that is a severe understatement. I devour books like a fat kid devours cake.

  “What do you like?” he volleys back.

  I pause, and then slide the book into its spot. “Um, a little of everything. Except true crime.”

  “Why not true crime?”

  I stop and look at him, half laughing. “Why?”

  He leans forward. “Well, we’re sitting here talking, or I’m talking, and you aren’t saying anything.”

  I bristle. “Maybe I’m not a chatterbox, but I thought I was holding up my part of the conversation.”

  He shakes his head. “No. I mean you aren’t saying anything important. Tell me something.”

  “What? Like the human head weighs eight pounds?”

  “No. Something about you. Tell me something about yourself that you aren’t sure you want me to know.”

  I take a deep breath. “I’m really not that interesting.”

  He smiles, leaning forward and plucking the book out of my hands. “I find you very interesting, but don’t avoid the question.”

  “You didn’t ask me a question,” I respond, laughing again, this time uncomfortably.

  He stares at me. “All right, what’s your least favorite movie of all time?”

  “That’s an odd question. Okay. My least favorite movie is Legends of the Fall,” I answer, taking the book back from him and searching for its place on the shelf.

  “Why?” he asks, looking surprised. “I thought chicks loved Brad Pitt movies.”

  I shrug, turning back to him only after I’ve shelved my book. He’s looking at me expectantly. “I suppose because everyone is so miserable all the time, like they just can’t catch a break in life. Every second of their lives is hard and sad and they never get to be with the people they love.”

  “So watching them struggle and hurt makes you hurt, too?” he asks quietly.

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. “I guess. Are you taking psychology, too?” I try to joke, but I can’t make the smile reach my eyes so I look away.

  “So you live here with your dad? Where’s your mom? Divorced?”

  The question startles me. I don’t know why, it’s a perfectly normal question. I guess it’s just still hard to talk about, especially with a total stranger. When I answer, my voice is barely a whisper. “Dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  I shrug. I hear him move behind me and for a minute, I’m afraid he’s going to try to hug me or something. Hearing stuff like that can make people react in off ways. They want to comfort you, but they aren’t really sure how. As I brace for his touch, I hear him tear open another box. He chuckles, and I glance over my shoulder to see what’s so funny. Oliver clutches a small, purple picture frame to his chest.

  “What’s that?” I ask, trying to remember what picture might be in that frame.

  “You know, I never would have pegged you for a cheerleader.” He snickers.

  My face drops instantly. Lurching backward, I try to grab the frame from him, but he leans away, just out of my reach.

  “I wasn’t a cheerleader,” I say petulantly. “It was freshman year, and it was the pom squad.” Even to me, that excuse sounds lame. A sweater monkey is a sweater monkey.

  He holds the picture out to me, and then snatches it back as I reach for it. “I think you look cute,” he taunts, his voice raising an octave on the word cute.

  I give him my best glare. “Look, if you value your life, you will hand me that photo right now and never speak of this again.” I hold my hand out and wait.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is,” he says, handing me the frame. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of my friends are cheerleaders.”

  I run my thumb over the picture. It’s an odd feeling, like looking at a stranger inside your skin. I don’t know that girl anymore. It was the smiling face of before Farris. Before my boyfriend dumped me. Before Mom got sick. Before all my friends turned against me.

  “I wasn’t always like this, you know,” I whisper. “I used to be fun. Normal.” Happy, I add silently.

  Oliver scoots closer until his shoulder touches mine as we sit side by side.

  “Oh, I think you’re fun. And as for normal, well, normal is overrated.” He smiles and it’s like the sun peeking through the clouds, brightening everything. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

  “You wondered why I stepped in like that today, when you were giving Reid a hard time. It’s because I’ve been in that spot. Back against the wall while everyone tells you how worthless you are and how much they wish you were gone. Only no one stepped up for me.” I shake my head, trying to shake away the memories. “It does things to you. Inside.”

  I lay the picture on the floor facedown and hand him another box. “And that’s as much as you’re going to hear about it.”

  With a single nod, he takes the box, pulling it open. “Looks like speakers and cables in this one,” he says, changing the subject like a pro.

  “Just sit that one in the corner.”

  He obeys, opening the next box. It’s a pile of old circuit boards, hard drives, and wires.

  “What’s all this? You building a rocket or something?”

  I take the box, setting it in my lap. “Sort of. I like building computers.”

  He does a quick double take. “Like, you build computers?”

  I raise one shoulder to my chin. “See, I’m a wealth of surprises myself.”

  “I’m seeing that. It’s an odd hobby; how’d you pick it up?”

  I rummage through the box as I answer. “Mom was an artist. She could paint, make pottery, stuff like that. Me…not so much. But computers, coding, switches, and circuits? It’s music to me. It just makes sense inside my head. I can look at a string of code, tell you exactly what it’s supposed to do, and how elegantly it’s designed. It’s my art.”

  He whistles. “That’s impressive. So do y
ou have a cool hacker name?”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not one of those. Hacking, it’s all about the ego. It’s like breaking something just to prove you can. Not really my style. I like creating. Games mostly. I designed a Battlestar Galactica game that would knock your socks off.” I pause. “You know, if you were into gaming.”

  “I game,” he says, looking affronted.

  “Cool, what do you play?” I realize once the words are out that they sound like a challenge, which I don’t mean to do at all.

  He squirms. “I like Monopoly. And Clue. And Risk. And I play Call of Duty on the PS3 sometimes.”

  I lower my chin, smiling. “That’s cool. I like tabletop games too.”

  He relaxes back, as if he’d been nervous. Good, let me make him nervous for once.

  An hour, three root beers, and a lengthy discussion about the sexist treatment of females on Battlestar Galactica later, I hear my dad’s car in the driveway. My first thought is, Oh shit! But I’m sixteen and it’s not like we’re doing anything wrong. Still, deep down, I worry about Dad’s reaction.

  The door swings open with more drama than is really necessary and my dad, all six feet, six inches of him, trudges through the door. Oliver seems perfectly at ease, despite the entrance.

  “Hi, Dad!” I greet him with just a little too much enthusiasm.

  If he’s upset, it doesn’t show. His face is calm, unreadable, except for the subtle raising of one eyebrow. No one but me would’ve even noticed it, I’m sure.

  “Hey there, kid. Who’s your friend?” he asks.

  I realize in that moment I have no idea what Oliver’s last name is, and I don’t think king of the dick sacks is going to cut it. “Oh! Dad, this is Oliver. Oliver, this is my dad, Lieutenant Colonel Barnett.”

  “‘Sir’ is fine,” Dad corrects me.

  Oliver stands like he’s been training for this moment all his life, the Parent Olympics, and holds his hand out to my father. “Oliver Knight, sir. Nice to meet you.”

  I let out a nervous breath. The boy has skills.

  Dad shakes his hand, then looks around at the scattered empty boxes and mess. “I see my daughter’s put you to work, but it’s getting late, so…”

  Oliver nods. “Yes, sir, I should get going.” He looks at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I walk him to the door as Dad crosses into the kitchen. “Sure. And Oliver, thanks for the food and the company. It was nice.”

  “Call me Ollie. All my friends do.” He smiles. “And anytime.”

  Oliver pauses on the step for a minute, looking like he wants to say something else, but changes his mind and walks over to his orange Dodge Dakota pickup truck. I close the door against the sight of his taillights and proceed into the kitchen where Dad is no doubt waiting to ambush me.

  He sits at the table, rummaging through the open box of framed pictures. I’ve been saving the wall stuff for last. Base housing frowns upon things like nail holes in the walls, so I wanted to get Dad’s okay before I hung anything. He plucks out a picture of Mom and me a few months before she died. The cancer had already taken her hair by then, but she was still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. She was sitting on the edge of our gray sofa, a bright yellow scarf wrapped around her head. I was sitting half in her lap as she played with my hair. We were both laughing. She did that a lot, right up until the end. Even when the meds had taken everything else, her smile still shined like the sun. A lump forms in my throat, and I have to swallow it down. There’s no crying. It’s an unspoken agreement between us. We don’t cry, because once we start, we might never stop.

  I take a deep breath and come up behind Dad, hugging his shoulders. He pats my hands twice and pulls away.

  “So, first day and the boys are already following you home, huh?” he asks, slipping the photo back into the box. I reach into it behind him and pull the picture out, walking it over to the bookshelf in the living room and setting it carefully on the top shelf. I graze my hand over Mom’s face once before going back into the kitchen.

  “Yeah, that’s me. I’m like the Pied Piper of Cherry Point. You’re gonna have to beat them off with a stick,” I say flatly.

  He doesn’t think it’s funny, based on the expression on his face. It looks more like he’s just taken a big bite of something sour.

  “Sit down, Farris.” He pushes a chair out with his foot.

  Crap. He never calls me by my name; it’s always kid, unless I’m in trouble. This could be ugly.

  Sitting down, I fold my right leg under me. I haven’t found the seat cushions that belong to these chairs yet, and they are pretty darn uncomfortable without them. “Yeah, Dad?”

  I hold my breath. How bad could it be? It’s not like he caught me making out with Oliver or anything. And if he had? part of my brain thinks defiantly. I silence the small voice as quickly as it comes.

  “I know you’re sixteen, and I know you’re developing feelings—” He screws up his face. “And...I wish your mother were here,” he says, pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes.

  “Whoa. Time-out.” I signal it with my hands. “Let me just stop you right there. This is quickly turning into a bad after-school special, so I’ll just say this. Please, please don’t lecture me about being responsible or anything like that. I know how badly I’ve screwed up in the past, but I’m working really hard to get myself together again. And I promise, I have no intention of doing anything stupid.”

  He is quiet for a minute. “I know all that, honey. I want to trust you. I want you to go out, have fun, and just be a teenager. I know that every once in a while, you’ll break curfew, get into trouble—not big trouble—and just be a normal kid. And what happened…” He trails off.

  What can he say? That it wasn’t my fault? Because it totally was and we both know it.

  When he speaks again, his voice is tentative. “I’m afraid sometimes that you’ve had to grow up too fast, losing your mom the way you did. I don’t want you to miss out on anything.”

  I have to catch myself before the wave of disgust I’m feeling registers on my face. Even my dad wants me to just be normal. Well, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m trying.

  Maybe I’m not normal. Maybe I never will be again. But maybe, just maybe, I can fake it.

  The months I’d spent taking care of Mom had given me reason to grow up fast. Every night, for 392 nights, I went to bed wondering if I’d have a mother when I woke up. I held wet washcloths to her head when she threw up, and at the end, I changed bandages, took temperatures, and fought to keep a smile on my face for her. Inside, I was dying just as much as she was. I was probably the most responsible fourteen-year-old on the planet. That’s why it was such a shock when I blew up. I’d been wound so tightly for so long, I figured I needed a break. And, boy, did I get one.

  And it had cost me everything.

  “Okay, Dad. I’ll start this weekend. I got invited to go out with some kids Friday night. I promise to be a good twenty minutes late getting home.”

  He smiles half-heartedly. “Deal. And as for this Oliver boy…keep an eye on him. He reminds me of myself at that age.”

  I scrunch up my face. That is just disturbing.

  It’s well past midnight when my head finally hits the pillow. Almost all the boxes are empty, broken down into neat, flat stacks and stored in the empty utility room. We don’t own a washer or dryer since officer housing usually comes with them, so I’ll be making a laundry run on Saturday. I fall asleep quickly, dreaming of spinning washer drums and dark, perilous water.

  The next two days, Oliver is conspicuously absent from school. I try to ignore it, the urge to look for his face in the crowded halls or the need to glance over to his lunch table, just in case. But there’s no denying it, so I settle for at least trying not to be too obvious. The week passes in a haze of memorizing classrooms, connecting names with faces, and mastering my elusive locker combination. My little lunchtime table group becomes customary, and I quickly fi
nd myself falling into a comfortable groove. After a few days, I forget to look for Oliver, or at least that’s what I tell myself. When Reid catches me looking over my shoulder at lunch Thursday, he waves his hand in front of my face.

  “These are not the droids you’re looking for,” he says playfully.

  I let my face fall, my voice going completely monotone. “These aren’t the droids we’re looking for.”

  Then I blink, as if pulling myself from a daze. He chuckles. “Wow, I didn’t think that would work.”

  I smirk and shrug one shoulder. “The force is strong with you.”

  As it turns out, Reid and I share not only a borderline-idiotic sense of humor, but also a disturbing ability to converse in Star Wars quotes—a talent we abuse for the remainder of lunch. Bianca and Cassy, both bottle blondes dressed in tight Gap jeans, look genuinely put out as they try to keep up with the nearly unstoppable flow of randomness spewing from our mouths. Derek grins every so often, catching a speeding reference, but doesn’t join in. Cassy’s face is soft, the kind of plumpness you see on babies and cherubic Michelangelo paintings. Her lashes are dark and thick and her skin is creamy white with a flush of natural pink on her round cheekbones. She’s really pretty, I realize. And she keeps glancing up at Reid like…

  Something clicks into place in my brain. She likes him. Of course she does. It’s on the way her chin is always tilted toward him just a fraction, the way she touches him casually, even in the way she tucks a strand of blonde waves behind her ear when he looks at her. I swing my gaze to Bianca. She’s thinner, her face more angular and tight. She’s holding herself more stiffly, her arms folded across her chest, legs crossed away from them. Either she’s not interested, or she’s painfully shy. It could really go either way. I take the opportunity to bring them into the conversation.

  “Have you ever seen Star Wars?” I ask in Cassy’s direction. She fidgets with her tiny silver cross necklace as Reid turns his attention to her. She blushes just a little.

  “Oh, no. I don’t think so. I’d like too though. It sounds really good.”

  “I’ve only seen the new ones,” Bianca admits, drawing a gasp and over-exaggerated chest clutch from both Reid and myself.