Fire with Fire

TODAY, WHEN WE RAN INTO EACH OTHER IN THE HALL, Lillia mentioned how she’d asked some of her guy friends if they could help her sort through the sound equipment and drive it over to the elementary school. It’s for her Fall Festival night, the event she’s running for the elementary school kids. But they all had practice.

“And of course Reeve pretended like he didn’t even hear me.” I shook my head knowingly. “Of course he did.” Lillia looked ready to cry. “It’s going to take me forever to load up my Audi by myself.” “Lil! I’ll totally help you.”

Lillia’s whole face brightened up. “Thank you so much, Mary.”

So now I’m scurrying over to the side entrance by the theater. I’m not very strong, but with two of us it should go a little bit faster anyway.

Instead of fighting the after-school rush inside, I cut across the back parking lot—which is when I see Alex’s SUV parked by the side door right behind Lillia’s Audi. He’s already there, taking boxes out of her trunk and loading them into his. The back door is open, and Lillia comes out the door, wearing an ivory-colored coat and a long scarf around her neck, struggling with a big cardboard box. Alex rushes over to help her.

“Alex!” she says, looking up. “Oh my gosh.”

I hang back and watch.

Alex takes the box out of her hands. “Here, Lil. You don’t want to get your coat dirty.”

“I’ve got it,” she insists, and he tries to take it from her, and they both laugh because she almost drops it. “You have to get to practice.”

“Give it to me,” he says, but in a sweet way. Lillia finally lets the box go. I think Alex is surprised at how heavy it is. It almost falls out of his hands, but he adjusts his grip before it can.

Meanwhile, Lillia scans the parking lot. I step forward and smile, but she waves her hand, like I don’t have to worry about it.

“Thank you,” she says breathlessly, when Alex lifts his head. “There are only three more inside.” She turns to go back into the theater door, but Alex stops her.

“Wait here. I’ll get them.”

Lillia leans against the car. The wind has picked up, and her hair is blowing around her face. “I owe you one, Lindy!” she calls out. “Thank you so much!”

I start to back away, and that’s when I notice it—about fifteen feet away to my left, Reeve, pulling up in his truck. He’s seen them too. He has a scowl on his face, and he puts the truck in reverse. He’s gone before they even notice.

When I get home, Aunt Bette’s Volvo isn’t in the driveway. And I hate to say it, but it’s kind of a relief.

I wish I could tell someone about how strange Aunt Bette’s been acting. I’ve been meaning to have a conversation about her with my parents, but it’s scary. My mom is Aunt Bette’s sister, after all. I don’t want to get her mad, or have her confronting Aunt Bette over what I’d say. I’m just . . . worried about her.

I set my book bag down in the kitchen and head upstairs, calling her name a few times in case she’s home. She’s so easily startled lately. I’ve been trying to be careful with her, give her space. I don’t want to make things worse.

At the top of the stairs, I notice Aunt Bette’s bedroom door is open the skinniest crack. She’s been keeping it closed. I walk up slowly and peek inside.

There are books all over the floor. At least a hundred of them, piled in teetering stacks on top of Aunt Bette’s Moroccan rug. Musty, cloth-covered books. The kind that sit and gather dust at the library. The kind that you find at a garage sale.

I step inside, careful not to touch anything, because I have a pretty good feeling that Aunt Bette would lose her mind if she knew I was poking around her room. I crouch down and try to read some of the spines, but most of the titles aren’t written in English. It looks like maybe Latin. And some Spanish, which reminds me that I am so far behind in Señor Tremont’s class it’s not even funny. There are a few books split open, but to pages that don’t have any words. Only, like, hieroglyphics. Symbols and numbers that make no sense to me.

Aunt Bette’s Volvo putters into the driveway. I jump up and turn to head out the bedroom door. That’s when I notice the shared wall that separates Aunt’s Bette’s bedroom from mine. The one to the right of her bed.

It used to be a wall full of art. Pictures. Paintings. Photographs. But everything’s been taken down, except for the tiny nails left in the wall. Even Aunt Bette’s dresser, the low four-drawer one that sat against the wall, has been pushed aside.

The whole thing is stripped bare.

Or at least I think it is. But when I take a step closer, I see that Aunt Bette has laced string, string the very same color as the eggshell wall paint, around the picture nails. I think it might even be the same stuff she used to wrap those smudge bundles. She’s woven them into some kind of pattern. Like a lopsided, crooked star.

The same star that’s in one of the pages of her opened books.

Oh God. What’s going on?

I dart out of her bedroom and into my own. Aunt Bette opens the back door and calls for me.

“Up here!” I say in a voice that I hope sounds normal. Then I pray she won’t come upstairs. Thankfully, she doesn’t. I hear the faucet come on, probably for her teakettle.

I take careful steps over to my bed and sit on the mattress. It’s pushed up against that shared wall. I reach out and touch it, feeling for I don’t know what. Energy. Heat. Something coming through from the other side.

Has Aunt Bette been putting spells on me?

I don’t think she’d try to hurt me, but I can’t say I feel totally safe. Especially when I don’t know how long that thing in her room has been up. And what it might be doing to me.

But there’s nothing coming through, nothing to feel besides a wall. A plain old wall.

Of course. What else would it be?

I guess when you live with a crazy person, it’s hard not to feel crazy sometimes too.