Fire with Fire
Page 63
“Cool,” I echo.
He looks so happy that I wonder if maybe he’ll try to kiss me again.
Reeve opens the passenger-side door for me, and I climb in, my scarf trailing behind me. Before he shuts the door, he picks up the end of my scarf so it won’t get caught in the door, and he winds it around my neck. Then he runs around the other side and starts the car and turns the heater on. “It’ll get warm pretty fast,” he tells me, and I nod. I have to keep telling myself that none of this is real; it’s all going to be over soon. I can’t let myself get swept away because I have feelings for him. I can’t have feelings for him. I have to control it.
Reeve pulls up in front of my house, and before I get out, he says, “Everything’s set with the kegs. I’m going to pick them up tomorrow after school. I can grab the pizzas, too.”
Surprised, I say, “Oh, thanks, but Alex said he’d pick them up.”
“I’ll do it. It’s on my way.”
“Okay. Thank you. I’ll give the pizza place my credit card number when I place the order tomorrow.”
Reeve gives me a weird look and says, “I can afford a couple of pizzas, Cho.”
Great, now I’ve offended him. I’m trying to think of what to say to make it less awkward, and then he goes, “I can come early with everything and help you get set up, if you want.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “People are going to notice, you know.”
Reeve shrugs. “What?”
“Come on, Reeve. I’m just saying that if we want things to stay, you know, between us, we should probably be more discreet.”
Reeve reaches out and tucks some of my hair behind my ear. “We’re not going to be able to hide this forever.”
“I know that. But we can’t, like, throw it in everyone’s faces either. People will get upset.”
He rubs his eyes. “I’m just going to do what feels right. If people have a problem with that . . . well, then they can go to hell.”
I nod. What else can we do? Then I go with what feels right to me at that very second. I lean across the center console and give Reeve a peck on the cheek. I do it so quick I don’t get to see the look on his face, and then I hop out and run to my front door.
I’m breathless and flushed by the time I run up the stairs and to my room. I’m brushing my hair in front of my vanity when Nadia steps inside in one of our dad’s big Harvard sweatshirts and her fuzzy slippers. “Hey,” I say. “I thought you were going to the barn.”
“I am, later.” She comes and sits on my bed and watches me, her arms hugging her knees. “You look happy.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. Was that Reeve dropping you off?”
I notice something in her voice. A sharpness. “Yeah. A bunch of us were hanging out downtown and he gave me a ride home because he was on his way over to Alex’s.”
Nadia doesn’t say anything. She knows I’m lying. I know I’m lying. And so the lie just sits there between us. Then she says, “I saw you kiss him.”
“On the cheek!”
She shakes her head, looking at me like I am a stranger. “But you know it’s not right. Whatever you’re doing with him, it’s not right.”
“Why can’t it be right?” My voice sounds weak, desperate.
I hate that Nadia’s looking at me like that—like she’s disappointed in me. Like I’ve disappointed her. “Because you know how Rennie feels about him. He’s hers.”
“No, he’s not. She thinks he is, but he’s not.” I feel tears spring to my eyes as I say, “I don’t even know how you can defend her after the way she’s been treating me. Have you really not noticed? It’s been almost two whole months of her ignoring me in public, talking about me behind my back. And I know you and all your friends have been making decorations and stuff for her New Year’s Eve party. How is that supposed to make me feel? You’re supposed to be on my side, Nadi. You’re my sister, not hers.”
“It’s not about what she’s doing. It’s about what you’re doing.” Nadia looks like she is about to cry too.
“Nadi,” I begin. I’m not sure what I can say to make this better. Before I can figure it out, my sister gets up and leaves. I call out her name again, but she doesn’t come back.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
My Friday nights are getting less and less exciting these days. Lillia’s having a big rager and I’m sitting on the floor of the den, trying to untangle a knot of holiday lights. It’s a pretty, glowing puzzle. Pat and Dad went to buy us a Christmas tree from the YMCA with a coupon from the newspaper. Pat was all, “I want one that smells piney. Some of them don’t.” I put my hands on his shoulders and said, “Tall and cheap, Pat. That’s your mission.”
It still feels weird to spend money on Christmas trees. Back when Mom was alive, we’d go out “tree hunting.” That’s what she called it, anyway. I think other people might use the word “trespassing.”
After dinner, when the sun had set, the four of us would go for a walk in the woods behind our house. Each of us would have a flashlight. When we’d find a good tree, Dad and Pat would each take a side of an old-timey handsaw, and they’d push it back and forth. Mom and I would quietly cheer them on, mittens dulling our applause, and sip hot cider from a thermos.
This was the only thing illegal my mom ever did. We’d drag the tree back to the house, and the whole time we’d tease her about it. Pat would get quiet and say in a whisper, “Judy! I think I hear sirens!” and then he and I would bust up laughing. But Mom refused, she flat-out refused, to spend money on a tree when the woods were full of them. Never mind that the woods weren’t our property. They belonged to the Preservation Society, bought in an effort to keep parts of Jar Island undeveloped.
My cell buzzes on the coffee table. I reach over and click open a text.
Can we talk? Please? I feel my lip curl up, like I’ve tasted something sour. This is the second time Rennie has reached out to me. First the daisy in my locker, which was so beyond emotionally manipulative I can’t even, and now this. I never responded to the daisy. I’ve looked straight through her when I’ve seen her at school. And I’m definitely not going to write back now. I mean, come on. Why the eff would Rennie think that I’d want to open that door again? It was barely a month ago that she was trying to start shit with me at the Greasy Spoon.
He looks so happy that I wonder if maybe he’ll try to kiss me again.
Reeve opens the passenger-side door for me, and I climb in, my scarf trailing behind me. Before he shuts the door, he picks up the end of my scarf so it won’t get caught in the door, and he winds it around my neck. Then he runs around the other side and starts the car and turns the heater on. “It’ll get warm pretty fast,” he tells me, and I nod. I have to keep telling myself that none of this is real; it’s all going to be over soon. I can’t let myself get swept away because I have feelings for him. I can’t have feelings for him. I have to control it.
Reeve pulls up in front of my house, and before I get out, he says, “Everything’s set with the kegs. I’m going to pick them up tomorrow after school. I can grab the pizzas, too.”
Surprised, I say, “Oh, thanks, but Alex said he’d pick them up.”
“I’ll do it. It’s on my way.”
“Okay. Thank you. I’ll give the pizza place my credit card number when I place the order tomorrow.”
Reeve gives me a weird look and says, “I can afford a couple of pizzas, Cho.”
Great, now I’ve offended him. I’m trying to think of what to say to make it less awkward, and then he goes, “I can come early with everything and help you get set up, if you want.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “People are going to notice, you know.”
Reeve shrugs. “What?”
“Come on, Reeve. I’m just saying that if we want things to stay, you know, between us, we should probably be more discreet.”
Reeve reaches out and tucks some of my hair behind my ear. “We’re not going to be able to hide this forever.”
“I know that. But we can’t, like, throw it in everyone’s faces either. People will get upset.”
He rubs his eyes. “I’m just going to do what feels right. If people have a problem with that . . . well, then they can go to hell.”
I nod. What else can we do? Then I go with what feels right to me at that very second. I lean across the center console and give Reeve a peck on the cheek. I do it so quick I don’t get to see the look on his face, and then I hop out and run to my front door.
I’m breathless and flushed by the time I run up the stairs and to my room. I’m brushing my hair in front of my vanity when Nadia steps inside in one of our dad’s big Harvard sweatshirts and her fuzzy slippers. “Hey,” I say. “I thought you were going to the barn.”
“I am, later.” She comes and sits on my bed and watches me, her arms hugging her knees. “You look happy.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. Was that Reeve dropping you off?”
I notice something in her voice. A sharpness. “Yeah. A bunch of us were hanging out downtown and he gave me a ride home because he was on his way over to Alex’s.”
Nadia doesn’t say anything. She knows I’m lying. I know I’m lying. And so the lie just sits there between us. Then she says, “I saw you kiss him.”
“On the cheek!”
She shakes her head, looking at me like I am a stranger. “But you know it’s not right. Whatever you’re doing with him, it’s not right.”
“Why can’t it be right?” My voice sounds weak, desperate.
I hate that Nadia’s looking at me like that—like she’s disappointed in me. Like I’ve disappointed her. “Because you know how Rennie feels about him. He’s hers.”
“No, he’s not. She thinks he is, but he’s not.” I feel tears spring to my eyes as I say, “I don’t even know how you can defend her after the way she’s been treating me. Have you really not noticed? It’s been almost two whole months of her ignoring me in public, talking about me behind my back. And I know you and all your friends have been making decorations and stuff for her New Year’s Eve party. How is that supposed to make me feel? You’re supposed to be on my side, Nadi. You’re my sister, not hers.”
“It’s not about what she’s doing. It’s about what you’re doing.” Nadia looks like she is about to cry too.
“Nadi,” I begin. I’m not sure what I can say to make this better. Before I can figure it out, my sister gets up and leaves. I call out her name again, but she doesn’t come back.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
My Friday nights are getting less and less exciting these days. Lillia’s having a big rager and I’m sitting on the floor of the den, trying to untangle a knot of holiday lights. It’s a pretty, glowing puzzle. Pat and Dad went to buy us a Christmas tree from the YMCA with a coupon from the newspaper. Pat was all, “I want one that smells piney. Some of them don’t.” I put my hands on his shoulders and said, “Tall and cheap, Pat. That’s your mission.”
It still feels weird to spend money on Christmas trees. Back when Mom was alive, we’d go out “tree hunting.” That’s what she called it, anyway. I think other people might use the word “trespassing.”
After dinner, when the sun had set, the four of us would go for a walk in the woods behind our house. Each of us would have a flashlight. When we’d find a good tree, Dad and Pat would each take a side of an old-timey handsaw, and they’d push it back and forth. Mom and I would quietly cheer them on, mittens dulling our applause, and sip hot cider from a thermos.
This was the only thing illegal my mom ever did. We’d drag the tree back to the house, and the whole time we’d tease her about it. Pat would get quiet and say in a whisper, “Judy! I think I hear sirens!” and then he and I would bust up laughing. But Mom refused, she flat-out refused, to spend money on a tree when the woods were full of them. Never mind that the woods weren’t our property. They belonged to the Preservation Society, bought in an effort to keep parts of Jar Island undeveloped.
My cell buzzes on the coffee table. I reach over and click open a text.
Can we talk? Please? I feel my lip curl up, like I’ve tasted something sour. This is the second time Rennie has reached out to me. First the daisy in my locker, which was so beyond emotionally manipulative I can’t even, and now this. I never responded to the daisy. I’ve looked straight through her when I’ve seen her at school. And I’m definitely not going to write back now. I mean, come on. Why the eff would Rennie think that I’d want to open that door again? It was barely a month ago that she was trying to start shit with me at the Greasy Spoon.
