“You were RIGHT. NEXT. TO. ME. Who else?”
I don’t know. Only the ten or so people behind you.
I stood there looking stupid, because that’s what I do when I’m accused of something I didn’t do. Forget making a case or, you know, denying that I’d done it.
Denying hadn’t helped me in the past.
“Oh my God, you did do it! What the hell is wrong with you?” Celia grabbed at the burnt tips of her hair, her face contorting in rage. She looked between Miles and me, then cranked her bitch level up to eleven. “You’re jealous!”
I stared at Miles. Miles stared at me. We both stared at Celia.
“The fuck?” Miles said.
Then Celia lunged at me, and everything fell to pandemonium. Someone pulled me over the bench and through the sea of bodies as everyone converged, ready for a fight. People were going every direction, yelling, screaming, the music suddenly louder than ever.
As soon as we broke free, I saw it was Art dragging me along, his mammoth muscles straining against his shirt. I would have been thankful if it wasn’t for the fact that he usually showed up when Miles was pulling a job. If Art had been there waiting to yank me out of harm’s way, then Miles must have been involved with the fire, right?
I set my jaw; as soon as we were back on the driveway, I yanked my arm out of Art’s grip, grabbed his huge shoulder, and spun him to face me. “Did Miles do that?”
“No,” he said immediately. He scrubbed at his short hair.
The brush of invisible fingers crawled up the back of my neck. I jabbed a finger at him. “You had better be telling me the truth, Art Babrow. Not just what Miles tells you to say.”
“Scout’s honor,” Art said, holding up his hand.
I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t. It felt like I had cotton packed down my throat. I was suffocating. I tugged on my hair with both hands, turned in a full circle to make sure there were no cameras on the houses or the lampposts, and set off down the sidewalk.
“Where are you going?” Art called. “I know you didn’t drive here yourself.”
“I’m going home!” I yelled.
Home. Home was good.
“Isn’t your house a few miles away?”
“Probably.”
“The fuck,” someone said. The privacy fence gate clacked closed. “Where are you going? I told you to keep her here.”
I looked behind me; Miles had caught up to Art. I marched back, planting a finger in the middle of Miles’s chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You torch someone’s hair and let her blame me? Because apparently I’m jealous? What kind of retribution is that? The books were one thing, and the desk, and all that other stuff—but this is ridiculous.”
Miles rolled his eyes. “Would you shut up and stop assuming you know everything?”
“Would you stop being such a jackass?”
It came out of my mouth too quickly, a reflex reaction to the guilt flooding my stomach. I had no proof, but I wanted him to stop talking. It worked—his mouth snapped shut, his hands balled into fists. A muscle worked in his jaw. I glared at him as he floundered, but I floundered, too; I couldn’t think of what to do next.
Home. Had to get home.
I kept picturing a Celia-led mob chasing me down the street, screaming about my devilish crime like Puritans at a witch trial. I hadn’t done anything wrong—I never did anything wrong—it wasn’t my fault. . . .
“Alex, I can take you home,” Art said.
Always be polite. “No, thank you.”
I turned and started walking again. I didn’t care where. Anywhere other than here. Art said something else. The words hit me and bounced off. I kept my eyes forward. The street went very quiet.
Ahead of me, Miles stepped out from behind a tree.
How had he gotten there so hellishly fast? He’d been standing behind me not ten seconds ago, and now he emerged at least three houses down the street. He ambled toward me with his clothes in tatters, like he’d gotten mauled by a bear. When he got close, the smell of alcohol and pond scum invaded the air.
Where his freckles had been, a hundred little holes pulsed blood down his pale cheeks.
“I don’t want to talk to you.” I tried to walk past him, but he loped backward, keeping his eyes on mine. His hands hung limp at his sides. His fingers looked longer than usual, like he had too many knuckles. My stomach knotted. I didn’t know what he’d done to his freckles, but I couldn’t let him see how much they creeped me out.
He wouldn’t leave.
I wanted him to leave.
“Go away!” I yelled at him. He didn’t blink. His eyes were bluer than ever, bluer than they should have been in the darkness. The sun glowed behind them, melting them from inside like candle wax. The color seeped from his skin.
“Alex!”
Someone grabbed my arm. Spun me around.
Miles was there, too. Except not bleeding. And his clothes weren’t torn. And his eyes were the right shade of blue. I pulled my arm away and backed up. And ran into Miles.
“Who are you talking to?” Miles—regular Miles— asked. Art was right behind him.