The Fire (9 page)

“A girl who loses all her teeth and doesn’t get false ones,” said Vicki, loudly, so the words would follow Jonah and sink into his vision. “Like that girl who pumps gas at the town dock and eats ten jelly doughnuts at a time. She’s only seventeen. That’s a wharf rat.”

Katy said desperately, “I don’t think that would happen to Christina. She has plans. She’s going to amount to something.” Down the hall Christina Romney danced alone, the ceiling lights turning her hair to spun gold, and then to threads of silver.

“What about Anya?” countered Gretchen. “She was supposed to graduate first in her class, and what happened? She dropped out of high school last winter to work at the laundromat. That was her big starry future. Folding other people’s underwear.”

“I am afraid,” said Mrs. Shevvington sadly, “that all too often that’s what happens to island girls. All they can do is work at the cannery, canning fish.”

Vicki laughed. “Benj can catch ’em,” she snickered. “Christina can can ’em.”

“We can certainly hope Christina does not fall into the same grim future as those examples,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “You girls must keep an eye on her.”

All their eyes were on her. She was dancing back toward them now, and they had no idea what they would say to her, or think of her.

“That’s what school is all about,” said Mrs. Shevvington softly. “Forming a community to help one another. Poor Christina is in a time of trouble. This appalling obsession with fire is becoming quite an emotional problem.”

Katy remembered the woman on the dock — only seventeen years old! Could that happen to small, slim, brave Christina? Mrs. Shevvington knew about these things. And Mrs. Shevvington said …

At lunch, although she was starving, Christina ate nothing. She took food from the cold line — a sandwich, a yogurt, an apple. Talking brightly to Jonah, she removed each piece of food to her lap, wrapped it into a napkin without looking, and slid it carefully into her bookbag. There, she thought proudly. Food for Val.

“Look out for the Shevvingtons,” muttered Jonah. “I know you think you’ve seen everything they can do, but they’re crafty. They’re going to turn all the girls against you. You’ve got to pay attention, Chrissie.”

Christina thought of all she had accomplished lately: getting into the Institute as Iris Murch, making friends with Val, smuggling Val into the storm cottage, and all the while telling Benj how to raise money, and having him fall in love with her. It was amazing how much strength you got just from knowing that a boy adored you. You could take on the world when a boy ached for you. The Shevvingtons. Hah! Small potatoes. Hardly worth a thought, let alone panic. “Jonah, I’m smarter.”

Jonah’s face curled: nose, lips, even cheeks, making a big, dumb, seventh-grade face. “Don’t be so cocky.”

“You’re just jealous, Jonah, because I’m going out with Benjamin.”

“Oh, it’s going out now, is it? You’re dating now, huh? Fine. Date him. See if I care.” Jonah crumpled his brown lunch bag, threw it violently into a trash can, and stomped away.

In woodworking, Christina painted her summer fire.

“What color is fire anyway?” she muttered to herself. She struck a match and studied the flame, how it was yellow, blue, white. The flame from the match was not much to get excited about. “I want a fiercer fire,” she told the teacher. She mixed scarlet and orange into her yellow, until the tips of the flames glittered savagely.

When she turned from admiring her work, Mr. Shevvington was standing behind her. “Christina?” he said. The word floated like a leaf, staying aloft. As concerned principal, Mr. Shevvington talked with the woodworking teacher about poor Christina — about how the administration was worried. Was Christina, perhaps, a bit unnatural in her interest in fire? A bit … not to exaggerate … but … a bit
dangerous
?

Christina set her summer fire against the wall to dry. He didn’t scare her. She was full of philosophy and love. She was protected by the colors of her hair, by Benj’s crush, by her own isle, far out at sea, waiting for her to come home.

Mr. Shevvington’s big sad eyes caught the eyes of the class. He tilted his elegant head to the side, pitying Christina. The class, like sunflowers worshiping, tilted with him, growing sad, full of pity. Mr. Shevvington shook his head slowly. Once.

The class shook its head slowly. Once. Like a decision: a decree.

She’s crazy. She’s not one of us. Keep your eyes on her.

Christina stared into her summer fire, thinking of Val.

After school, Christina slung her bookbag over her shoulder, careful not to squash Val’s sandwich, and headed for the storm cottage. She was scarcely out the door when Robbie cornered her. “Christina!” he hissed in her ear. “Something terrible has happened.”

“What?”

He cupped his hands around his lips and breathed in her ear. “Val is missing! My parents took me out of class fifth period to ask if I knew anything. They think she’s run away, but I think the Shevvingtons have done away with her.”

If she told Robbie that Val was fine, enjoying a storm cottage and freedom, Robbie would tell his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong would call an ambulance, and Val would be locked up in a hurry. “Robbie,” she said nervously, wondering what kind of an actress she would be, “that’s so scary. I’m so sorry.” Should I drop a clue? she thought.

Benjamin arrived beside them. He elbowed Robbie out of the way. “I have to go to work,” he said to Christina.

She nodded.

“But you can walk with me to the gas station,” he said.

She nodded again.

Robbie flattened himself against the wall, looking miserable and helpless. Christina had an unworthy thought: Val had chosen to go to a stranger for help, not her own brother. Even lost, Val had known it was Christina who was made of granite. I’m granite of the Isle, thought Christina, and the whole middle school is watching Benj and me. She loved being the center of their attention. She paraded a little more.

Jonah and Robbie fell in step with them. Christina knew they were waiting for her to join them, talk to them, solve their problems for them. She said nothing. It was powerful: being silent when people wanted you to talk.

“Benj gave you his silence for your fourteenth birthday,” teased Jonah. “Now he’ll be with one who knows how to talk, Chrissie, and you’ll be the silent Maine fisherman.”

Benjamin ignored Jonah as too young and scrawny to count. “Astrid and Megan said they’d be happy to work with you,” he said to Christina.

Robbie and Jonah faded away, like sails slipping from the shore. She felt herself stepping away from the entire seventh grade, moving up several years in several minutes.

For Benj’s sake, she would not hold it against Astrid and Megan that they had abandoned Anya. Perhaps they couldn’t help it. Perhaps there were extenuating circumstances. Anyway, somebody as mature as Christina could forgive that sort of thing. She took Benj’s hand and swung it.

“I got a B on an English paragraph today,” he told her shyly.

She could not recall Benjamin Jaye ever mentioning an academic subject. Benj filled desk space, but he didn’t actually do schoolwork. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “What was the paragraph about?”

Benjamin talked for several minutes as they walked down the blocks to his gas station. Why, he always had things to say, thought Christina. There just wasn’t anybody listening!

At the gas station, however, Benj was the youngest. This changed him. His feet as well as his tongue stumbled. The other men grinned at Christina and looked knowingly at the clasped hands. Benjamin dropped her hand quickly to grip a toolbox instead.

“Little young, isn’t she?” said an oil-stained man.

“I’m fourteen,” said Christina with dignity.

The men all laughed, and Benj blushed. “Goodbye,” he said, without looking at her. But she felt his heat.

He can’t look at me, she thought. He’s combustible: He’d catch fire. “Bye, Benj,” she whispered, running off, escaping from the same fire: the fire that would consume them both. This is like when I had a crush on Blake! she thought, forgetting what pain that had brought her, remembering only the intense wonderful burning of love.

She meant to follow the shoreline to the storm cottage and get the food to Val. But she spotted Vicki and Gretch shopping in the boutiques that were beginning to open up for the tourist season. She went in another direction, and there, up the alley, was Robbie Armstrong coming toward her. She’d already talked to Robbie.

She ran again, taking the corners at full speed, bumping into tourists, and dashing between city cars. At the Town Hall she ducked in the lower entrance. There were public bathrooms and a drinking fountain; she would waste a little time there until the coast was clear and she could wend her way to the storm cottage and Val.

Across from the water fountain was an office whose sign read
TOWN PERSONNEL
. Christina frowned slightly. She considered the word “personnel” and what it meant. Then she walked in. Behind a counter made of rows of filing cabinets sat a gray-haired secretary. “Hello,” said Christina.

The secretary smiled blankly. She seemed the kind of person who smiled well, but otherwise did nothing. Easy to con. “Um,” began Christina, her head full of possibilities but none clear enough to surface. “Um,” she said again. “There’s going to be a surprise party,” she said finally. “For the Shevvingtons. Do you know them? He’s the principal and she teaches seventh-grade English.”

“Oh, of course I know him. Such a fine man. I heard he’s leaving our school system, though! What a loss to the town.”

“A terrible loss,” agreed Christina. “And the seventh grade is giving them a surprise good-bye party.”

“How sweet! I didn’t know children were still so sweet in this day and age.”

“Well, they are,” said Christina, who was not. “And what we want is guests from towns where the Shevvingtons used to teach. Before they came to Maine. So … um … I need a list of addresses. And it has to be a secret. Or the party won’t be any fun. Promise?”

“I promise!” said the secretary gaily, and got right into the spirit of the thing, digging out addresses of schools where Mr. Shevvington had been principal before, and the names of the people who had written him recommendations. Mr. Shevvington had been in Louisiana and Pennsylvania, Oregon and New Jersey.

Christina slid the addresses into her bookbag. I’ve got it! she exulted. I’ve got a way to find out what they did before. I can locate the girls before Val! I can find out whose ghosts are locked into the first six guest rooms. I’m going to win. I’ll save Val and not only that, I’ll be saving all the girls who are out there, all unknowing, in the next town.

She said to the secretary, “This is so nice of you.”

“I’d love to come to the party,” said the secretary shyly.

“I’ll send you an invitation,” promised Christina. Party, she thought, hah! It’s going to be a hanging.

T
HE LONG HILLS OF
Maine rippled like a Chinese dragon.

The sky grew dark. Fog bulged on the oceantop like the dragon’s discarded skin; empty; ready to swallow victims.

Christina felt the sea dragon on her right side, curling forward over the waves. She felt the land dragon on her left, leaning through the trees and over the village.

She watched her feet instead, seeing her white sneakers grow wet as she wound among the rocks. She did not dare go on the upper path because summer people had come for the weekend, and they would leap forward the way summer people did, screaming, “What are you doing on my property!” Summer people were always frantic. They were always afraid of trespassers. They were always crying out, “I’ll sue you!” instead of just getting a tan.

Christina scrambled among the smaller rocks below the seawall, exposed by the tide, where the dead horseshoe crabs lay among the dank seaweed and the barnacles scraped her skin.

Out at sea the wind increased. It took the fog in its arms and flung it toward Christina. It touched her bare arms and fondled her bare cheeks.

When she was below the storm cottage, she picked her way up the boulders to the rickety porch. The fog chased her ankles. She tilted open the shutter. “Val?” she hissed. She slid into the living room. The fog tried to follow. The wind came through the crack with her, lifting the white sheets on the furniture. The white walls waved, and the white floor shivered. But nobody answered.

“Val?” whispered Christina again.

How strange the house smelled. She paused in the whiteness of the rooms, sniffing. The smell was oily and cruel. It smelled of cities and gutters.

Something primitive, ancient and evil, crept up Christina’s spine. The smell entered her nose and mouth, walked through her insides, and the entire world — all her flesh and all her soul — stank of the evil of it.

“
Val!
” she shouted.

What was the smell?

Had it sucked Val up?

She ran from room to room, and the smell ran with her. Every time her foot touched the floor she thought her sneaker sole might be eaten by acid. Every breath she took, she thought her lungs would decay. “
Val! Where are you? Are you all right? I brought food!
”

The cottage was empty.

No one lay on the bare metal springs of the ugly old cots.

No one sat at the white porcelain table or opened the single drawer in the kitchen.

Val was gone.

Christina ran back to her window entrance.

The wind had thrown the shutter back and it was stuck fast.

She pushed and pulled at it, but its handles were on the outside. She ran to the other windows but they, too, were fastened from the outside. The smell grew thicker and stronger as if it were growing up from the cellar. Its appetite had increased. It liked little girls.

She flung herself into the tiny kitchen, and jumped up onto the counter. The tiny window over the old deep sink did not open. It never had, it never would. She jumped back down.

On the table — the tiny kitchen table — stood an old coffee can.

Inside the can tilted an old candle.

The candle was burning.