Fire with Fire (Burn for Burn #2)

Fire with Fire (Burn for Burn #2) Page 54

I feel the anger, the jealousy rise up in me. Instead of being scared, I decide to try and focus it. I’ve spent too long trying to ignore what’s inside me. To dismiss it. If there is something going on with me, if there’s any truth to what Aunt Bette is saying, I need to know.

I stare at the lock on Reeve’s door. I stare hard and imagine myself pressing it down.

Reeve struggles turning his key. He can’t get the door open. “Ren,” he calls through the window. “I think the lock is frozen.”

Rennie slides across the cab into the driver’s seat and tries to open it from the inside. “I can’t get it!” she whines.

Reeve tries his key again. This time I feel the force of it fighting against me. I’m not breathing, I realize, and my chest is burning. It’s like arm wrestling. I’m losing. I feel myself losing. And then, suddenly, the lock pops up.

I fall against the wall and gasp for breath.

Aunt Bette was right. It is me. And I don’t know what I’m capable of. At least not yet.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I go to Ms. Chirazo’s office first thing on Monday morning. Well, first thing after hitting up the computer lab. I’ve got a stack of warm white pages in my hand.

“Hey,” I say, closing her door behind me. She looks up, startled, holding the cord to an electric teakettle that plugs into her wall. “Katherine? Is everything okay?” She motions to an empty chair.

I perch my butt on the armrest and drop the papers on her desk. “I did a draft of a new essay. Sorry. I didn’t have a stapler or anything.” I spot one on her filing cabinet and use it. Ms. Chirazo brightens. “Is this about . . .”

I nod. “But I don’t want to go over it in group.”

It was hard enough to write it alone in my room. The entire

time, I was crying and feeling so completely panicked by the idea of anyone, especially Alex, reading it that it made me dry heave. The thing is, my mom actually got into Oberlin. Only she could never go, because she couldn’t afford the tuition. If I get to go there, it’s like I’m making both of our dreams come true. In some ways it felt cheap to put it in those sappy terms, but it is true. And at the end of the day, I want off this island and into Oberlin with a big fat scholarship, so I’ll jump through whatever hoops Ms. Chirazo tells me to. And I’ve convinced myself that it’s not like I’m selling out my dead mom to get there. She’d want me to do whatever it took.

“It might be a little all over the place,” I say. “And I’m still not sure I’m going to use it. But . . . I’d be interested in what you think before I send it off this week.”

She nods. “Of course. I’ll try to have it read by the end of the day.”

“Don’t rush or whatever. It’s fine.” But I’m pleased. I stand up. “Thanks, Ms. Chirazo.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The choral practice room is a windowless room directly behind our auditorium. The walls are bright white and completely soundproof, and the door makes a funny suction sound when it closes. As we file in, it’s so bright it’s like artificial sunshine.

Mr. Mayurnik, the high school choral director, sits behind his upright piano. As the students walk through the door, he plays some jazzy, foot-stomping tune, pounding on the keys so hard the air feels like it’s vibrating.

“Welcome back, turkeys!” he calls out as we take our seats. “You survived the slaughter!” He means it as a joke, but that’s exactly how Thanksgiving felt. One hundred percent.

It seems like everyone has been dragging their feet today, our first day back at school after Thanksgiving break. I know I’ve been. But for me it’s not shaking off that happy, overstuffed feeling of too much food and too much sleep. The truth is that I feel empty. Drained. I guess that’s why my book bag feels extra heavy on my back, even though I’m carrying the same textbooks as always.

I spent the rest of the holiday weekend practicing. Seeing what I could do. Can I roll that pencil off that desk? Yes, barely. Can I make the wind blow? No. How about the curtains in my bedroom? Can I make them close without touching them?

Sometimes.

It feels crazy to be doing this sort of thing, and then to also be here now, back at school, like everyone else.

I am so not everyone else.

A thick packet of photocopied songs has been placed on every other chair. They have green paper covers with holiday clip art on them—holly leaves, a snowman, presents wrapped with bows, candy canes. Pretty much all my favorite things. I think about seeing if I can’t discreetly ruffle the pages or something, but I fight the urge. I have to be careful with this secret. Nobody can know. Not even Kat and Lillia.

Especially not Kat and Lillia.

It’s the one thing about this development that isn’t exciting. What would they say if I told them? Would they still want to be my friends? If that’s how it’s going to be, I’ll keep it a secret forever. My friendship with Kat and Lillia is the only thing going right in my life these days.

I take a seat where I normally do, in the last row. Alex Lind comes in a few seconds before the bell rings and sits in the front. When the semester first started and I realized that Alex was taking this class too, I thought about dropping, to be on the safe side. But I don’t think he knows who I am, beyond a girl he sees hanging around Kat or chatting with Lillia every once in a while. He’s never spoken to me.

After the bell Mr. Mayurnik stands up and speaks to us over his piano. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with a shiny bald head and a silver walrus moustache. His ties are always musically themed—piano keys, violin strings, clef notes.

He says, “Okay, ladies and gentleman. From this day forward, you are no longer turkeys. You’re little elves now. Not Christmas elves, mind you, because this is a court-ordered nondenominational, secular celebration.” He sighs deeply. “We should have been rehearsing these songs for weeks already, but the town elders wanted to approve the song booklet, and you know how fast things move in politics.” Mr. Mayurnik bangs out a slow scale to show what he means. Do. Re. Mi.

I have to share a booklet with the girl sitting next to me. I lean over her shoulder as she flips through the pages. My favorite classics, like “The Little Drummer Boy” and “Joy to the World” are nowhere to be found. Instead, it’s mostly “Winter Wonderland,” “Frosty the Snowman.” Generic holiday songs. Which is fine. I like those kind, too.