Fire with Fire

WHAT FEELS LIKE HOURS LATER, I STUMBLE OUT OF the woods and onto a residential street. I’m not sure what time it is, or even how long I’ve been out walking. The moon is still high in the sky, and there’s no sign of dawn.

From the look of the houses, quaint cottages on tiny plots of grassy marshland, I think I might have gotten all the way to Canobie Bluffs, which means I’m on the complete other side of Jar Island from where I live. It’s going to be a long walk back to Middlebury. And the thought of doing the big hill in these heels, well, it makes me want to cry all over again. But I can’t, even if I want to. I don’t have any tears left.

The only thing I have to be grateful for is that I didn’t hurt anyone. I . . . I couldn’t live with myself if I had. The energy I felt tonight, it was like homecoming times a hundred. Even now it’s not all gone. I can still feel some of it inside me, churning, like the ocean at low tide.

I’m walking in the middle of the street, wishing I could close my eyes, snap my fingers, and be in my bed. It’s quiet out in the neighborhood. The trick-or-treaters are long gone. Nothing but the last of the summer locusts that haven’t died and the occasional car a few streets away. Nearly all the houses have their lights off. You can tell the ones that are empty summer rentals—they don’t have pumpkins or mums or any fall decorations. Everyone else is asleep, so it must be late.

I walk for a few blocks. Then a car turns down the street and catches me in its headlights. It slows down as it passes me. Then stops.

I can’t see who’s inside; the glass is tinted. The window reflects my face, the punked-up, tearstained Halloween version of myself. Luckily, the tears haven’t done much damage to my makeup. If anything, they make me look more tough. But it’s completely fake, because I’m not tough. I’m not strong. I’m an epic mess.

The driver’s-side window dips down.

“Hey, biker girl.”

It’s the boy. The boy from the maze line. His mummy bandages are off, unrolled in a pile on his passenger seat. Now he’s in a long-sleeved jar island high cross country T-shirt and jeans. Without the bandages I can tell for sure: He’s cute. He’s black, light-skinned, light eyes, dimples. He’s lean and tall, too tall for his car. His knees nearly touch the steering wheel, even though he’s got his seat all the way back.

He might even be taller than Reeve.

“Can I give you a ride somewhere?” I walk around the front of the car, eclipsing one headlight and then the next. He reaches across and opens the door for me, like a gentleman.

“My name’s David.” He clears his throat. “David Washington.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“What’s yours?”

I turn toward the window, so I don’t have to look at him. “Elizabeth” is what I say. It just comes out, and I’m glad. I don’t want to tell this guy anything about me.

Jokingly he asks, “Did you get lots of Halloween candy tonight, Elizabeth?”

“Nope,” I say with a sigh. “In fact, my Halloween was the exact opposite of sweet.”

“Well, let’s fix that right now.” He points down at the cup holders in his console, which are both packed full of goodies. “Pick anything you want.”

I can’t remember the last time I ate candy. But why should I even care about getting fat again? It’s not like Reeve is ever going to look at me.

I pick out a lollipop for myself, then slowly unwrap it. The bulb is bright pink. I put it in my mouth, and it tastes so so sweet it’s almost sour. David gives me a funny look. “I haven’t had candy in forever,” I explain. And then, because that doesn’t make much sense, I add, “I used to be fat.” He laughs, as if I’m making a joke. I twirl the lollipop in my mouth, let it dissolve. “It’s true. And I used to get teased all the time. Bullied, actually.”

David looks slightly uncomfortable at that. I wonder if maybe he’s bullied people, in his lifetime.

I turn and face him. “Do you think I’m pretty? My friend thought you were flirting with me at the maze.”

David looks taken aback. “Yeah. You’re pretty. Real pretty.”

“Well, I don’t look like myself tonight,” I tell him, with more urgency than I intend. “I don’t wear this much makeup.”

He shakes his head. “But that’s the point of Halloween, right? To wear a disguise?”

I realize that I have been wearing a disguise. I might not look like the sad little fat girl anymore, but that’s definitely who’s underneath it all.

He looks nervous. I can tell he’s not sure what to say. “You know what? I used to have a lazy eye. I had to wear a patch for three years to build up the muscle.” He smiles as he confesses this. “Can you pick which eye? I bet you can’t.”

I stare into his face. His handsome face. I can’t tell, so I don’t even try to guess. Instead I say, “Can you take me home?”

David does most of the talking on the drive. He moved here from California two years ago, with his mom, after his parents got divorced. Mostly we talk about how weird it is to live here. I appreciate that David doesn’t bash it. He’s not like Kat, who I know can’t wait to move somewhere else, because everything about Jar Island annoys her. David is very measured. For example, he hates the fact that there is no good Mexican food, which I guess is a California thing. But he loves that he can still surf here.

He offers to give me a lesson.

At a red light he takes one hand off the steering wheel and slips it into mine. “Your hands are so cold.” He seems embarrassed; the words kind of fall out. I fight the urge to pull my hand away. I think, This is who I was supposed to be. A girl who isn’t afraid to flirt with boys, a girl who is confident and fun and wants to have a good time. And really, I never used to be shy. Not until Reeve broke me.

I have him drop me off in front of my house. He pulls up to the curb, puts his car in park, and then leans over.

He kisses me.

I kiss him back.

It’s my first kiss, my very first one. David puts a hand through my hair and gently cups the back of my head. His mouth tastes sugary, like candy corns.

I kiss him because this is the life I should be living.

Except the only part that feels good is the part of him wanting me. I only wish I could want him back.

He pulls away from me and says, quietly, “I’m going to look for you at school on Monday, Elizabeth.”

I don’t say anything. My eyes are on the clock—it’s almost midnight. David closes his eyes and leans in for another kiss. Slow motion, movie style.

This time I turn my head.

The disappointment on his face is immediate.

“I should go,” I say.

“Wait. Give me your number.” He turns to the backseat, looking for his phone.

In those few seconds I bolt from the car and run up to the house. I don’t like David; I don’t want to kiss him. This isn’t my life; this isn’t who I am. I’m not . . . normal. I can’t pretend I am, not even for a night.

I sneak in the back door. I figure Aunt Bette is already asleep, but then I catch sight of her in the living room, peeking out the curtains.

“Were you spying on me?”

Aunt Bette gasps like she’s been underwater. She spins around and stares at me. “Who was that boy?”

I’m annoyed that she was watching me. It’s creepy! Don’t I deserve some privacy? Like Kat said, I’m a teenager now; I’m not a little girl anymore. “He’s no one. I’m going to bed.”

Aunt Bette follows me up the stairs. “I know you missed out on having these kinds of experiences, and my heart breaks for you, but this needs to stop.”

“What has to stop? Why can’t I kiss a boy if I want to? Or hang out with my friends? I made one mistake a long time ago and you won’t let me forget it!”

Aunt Bette reaches out to touch my arm, but then pulls her hand back fast, like I’m raging hot. “You have so much anger inside you. It . . . radiates.”

I stare her down. “You know what? I am angry. At you.” I fold my arms. “What are all those books in your room? Are you putting spells on me?”

“Mary, I—”

“Those freaky strings you’ve got hanging up on your bedroom wall. What are they for?”

Aunt Bette is shaking. “Mary. It’s for protection.”

“What do you mean, ‘protection’?” Aunt Bette looks like she doesn’t want to tell me, which makes me want to know even more. She starts backing up through the hall, but I keep closing the distance. “What are they exactly?”

Aunt Bette puts up her hands. “They aren’t working, anyway.”

I scream, “What are they?” at the top of my lungs.

Aunt Bette sinks to the floor. “They’re binding spells,” she tells me, in a whisper of a voice.

Binding? My mind immediately flashes back to that morning when I couldn’t open my bedroom door. And the way that smoke made me feel so sick.

Could her spells have worked?

I shake these insane thoughts from my head. How could I believe this nonsense for even a second? Aunt Bette isn’t a witch. These aren’t actual spells. She’s just . . . crazy.

I crouch down so I can look her in the eyes. “Aunt Bette, you need to get out of the house. You need to start painting again. You need to go out and live your life, not try to keep me locked up in here with you.” Aunt Bette cradles her head in her hands. She won’t look at me. There’s no reasoning with her. I don’t even know why I’m trying to talk sense to a crazy person. “I want that string thing taken down. Tonight. And I want you to stop burning your little smudgy things, the chalk stuff . . . it stops, or else I’m going to call Mom and Dad and tell them all about the weird things you’ve been doing to me.”

She starts crying. And maybe it makes me a terrible person, but I don’t want to hear it. Not tonight, when my heart is already broken.

Actually, no, it’s not just my heart. It’s my whole life that’s broken.