Fire with Fire
Page 61
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.
CHAPTER FORTY-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.
I spend the rest of the day wondering why Rennie is the only one to ever throw parties. Why she and she alone gets to be the gatekeeper to all social activities on Jar Island. 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.
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.
CHAPTER FORTY-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.
I spend the rest of the day wondering why Rennie is the only one to ever throw parties. Why she and she alone gets to be the gatekeeper to all social activities on Jar Island. 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.
