Fire with Fire (Burn for Burn #2)

Fire with Fire (Burn for Burn #2) Page 9

She finishes tying a knot before she says, “I didn’t know you left,” annoyed, like I’m interrupting something important.

“I went for a walk.” And then I add, “Sorry,” even though I don’t have anything to apologize for. I point down at the bundles and ask, “What is that stuff?”

With one hand Aunt Bette grabs a sprig of something and rubs a leaf between her fingers. “Ancient herbs.” It looks like rosemary. Or maybe thyme? I can’t tell in the dark. “O-kay,” I say. “Well, good night.”

At the foot of the stairs I spot a teacup on the floor. Inside is a bundle of dried leaves wrapped up with twine. It’s burning red embers and letting off a twisty curl of smoke up to the hallway ceiling.

What in the world?

I call out, “Um, Aunt Bette? Is it safe to leave this thing smoking in the hall?” I worry that I sound like a patronizing jerk, but really. It’s kind of unnerving.

Aunt Bette doesn’t answer me. Whatever. I step around it, careful not to breathe in any of the smoke, and make my way to my room.

CHAPTER FOUR

After talking with Mary after school, I go home, make Dad a microwave dinner and hammer a bowl of cereal, and then head to the ferry. The sun has gone down, and the wind is stinging. I zip my sweatshirt up to the neck and pull the hood tight over my head. I should have started wearing a coat weeks ago, but I hate the one I got last year. It was a peacoat, charcoal gray, a real navy-supply one. I found it at the thrift store, but it wasn’t lined, and the wool made my skin itch. Maybe, if I get to the mainland early, I can stop by the thrift store and see if they have something else.

Down at the ferry landing it’s the opposite of what it’s like in the summertime, when the parking lot is full of cars and there are lines of people queued up to climb aboard. It’s totally dead, except for a few delivery trucks and a couple of cars. Most of the workers I know have left for the season, so I’ll probably have to pay for my ticket. I go up to the window, but the ticket guy is friends with my dad and refuses to take my money. Which is awesome. It happens a lot for me, but I’m grateful each and every time.

I’d freeze my ass off if I sat on the observation deck, so I find a seat inside in the café. There’s a table of four old folks drinking tea and thumbing through a book of birds, marking down the ones they saw today. I turn on my music and close my eyes. I swear to God, I hope I die young, because I can’t ever imagine myself doing that shit.

And then I get this tight-stomach feeling—guilt, I guess— knowing that it’s been weeks since I’ve been to the store to see Kim. Not since our little fight, when I needed use the copy machine to photocopy Alex’s g*y-ass poems for our revenge scheme. I was so wrapped up in getting that done I didn’t give Kim the time of day when she obviously needed a friend to talk to.

Hopefully she’ll forgive me.

The thrift store doesn’t have winter coats, unfortunately. Only summer shit from people cleaning out their closets. I walk the mile over to Paul’s Boutique. Day of the Dogs won’t come on till late, but it’s better that way, because Kim and I will have a chance to catch up. I decide in advance not to talk about any of my shit. Tonight should be about her unloading on me. Maybe things worked out between her and Paul. Who knows, maybe his wife didn’t actually know they were doing it. I hope so.

I walk into the store, and there’s someone I don’t recognize behind the counter, some skinny dude with a mullet and a full sleeve of tats. So I head straight to the back, where the shows are, and try to walk through the door. It’s a lot darker inside the garage space, and a few people are already pushed up to the front of the stage to make sure they have a good spot for the show. Someone grabs my arm.

“Ten-dollar cover.” I turn and see Paul himself. Paul’s hair is cut pretty short, and it looks more silver than I remember. He’s got on an old Sex Pistols T-shirt, tight ripped jeans, and canvas sneakers. He’s short for a guy, but in good shape. Kim says he’s really disciplined about going to the gym since he got clean. Apparently, years ago he was into some pretty hard drugs. Like needle drugs.

Anyway, I smile, because I’ve met him before. “Yo, Paul.” He doesn’t let go of my arm. “Ten-dollar cover.” I yank myself free and glance over to the sound booth,

wondering if Kim might be in there. But it’s empty. “You deaf?”

“Where’s Kim?” I say, and I know I sound pissed. Paul looks taken aback. “You know Kim?”

“She’s a good friend of mine.”

Paul averts his eyes. “She doesn’t work here anymore.” “What? Why not?”

“She stole from the store, so I fired her.”

I narrow my eyes. I spit out, “You’re a liar.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” I’m so angry I’m shaking. “You’re a liar.

Kim would never steal from you.” I know this for a fact. Kim would never, ever, ever steal from Paul. She worked so freaking hard at her job. Partly because she loved music, and partly because she loved him.

He points his finger in my face. “What do you call letting people in to see shows for free, huh? When’s the last time you paid to see a band?”

“You piece-of-shit coward.” I say it loud enough so that people standing near us turn around. “You f**k your employees, and when you get caught, you fire them.” He snorts like he could give two shits, but I can tell he’s livid. “All right, kid. You’re out of here.” He throws his tattooed arm up and starts waving to Frank, the bouncer, leaning against a big amp. Frank comes over, and he looks anything but happy to throw me out.

“I hope your wife knows what a dickbag her husband is!” I’m screaming at the top of my lungs. “I’d be happy to tell her myself!”

“Come on, Kat,” Frank says, wrapping his arm around me. I start flailing and spewing all the curse words I know in one long stream.

Frank leads me into a back hallway, near the tiny room where the band hangs out until it’s time for them to go onstage. I can hear them now, warming up their instruments, laughing and talking with each other.

“You okay?” Frank says.

I’m fighting the urge to cry, so I punch the wall hard. “Where’d she go?”

Frank shrugs. “They had a big fight a few weeks ago and Paul gave her twenty-four hours to pack up her stuff in the apartment upstairs. She did it in three, and on her way out she took all the cash out of the safe.”