Davey sits bolt upright. “Do not—!”
The moment Woods opens the door, the small fire becomes a larger one. The mug rockets out of the microwave and explodes on the carpet. The fire—well, most of the fire—lands on a fuzzy blanket. The flames poof. Woods snatches the other sock—the one whose mate is now ablaze—and beats at the fire. He only fans the flames.
We are all screaming. There is more fire. More sparks. Both shoot out of the microwave; the antique appliance dismounts the counter and lands on the carpet with an explosive bang.
I imagine my father sitting up down the hall, scratching his head, lifting his nose toward the ceiling, sniffing. A yell gathers in his throat.
“Give me something to beat it out!” I shout, and Mash laughs so hard that he vomits again.
“Puke on the fire, man,” Fifty says.
Davey shucks his jacket; Janie runs into the bathroom and returns with a damp towel. The jacket is working but not fast enough. Janie Lee throws the towel over the whole mess in a big Ta-da-I-will-fix-this fashion.
The fire is suddenly enormous.
“Was that the towel off the floor?” demands Woods as Davey rolls his eyes and says, “I’m calling 911.”
Janie Lee shrinks from Woods’s tone, nodding furiously. There’s commotion in the hallway. The counter, where the microwave previously sat, is also on fire. The alarm begins a high-pitched wail and the sprinklers descend from the ceiling as if they are Jesus in the second coming. We are all getting soaked as Woods yells, “We used that towel to mop up vodka!”
It’s hard to tell what is fire and what is smoke and what is microwave, but incredibly, I see the toe of the sock that started it all. Dad is going to kill me.
“Time to peace out,” Davey says, gesturing toward the exit.
The fire alarm continues to pierce our eardrums. Woods throws open the door to the hallway. “Abandon ship!” he shouts gallantly. Always directing traffic. He’s glistening with sweat. We all are, but he’s glorying in it.
Mash throws last week’s bulletin onto the fire before heading to the hallway. Fifty gives the wall a pound and yells, “Wakey, wakey. Church’s on fire.” Davey issues me a long look. He’s got some I told you so in those eyes. I’ve got some I know, I know in mine.
I grab Janie Lee in her sweet pink sweatshirt and UGGs and drag her behind me into the hall. She’s as soaked as the rest of us and not wearing a bra, and that’s gonna be a problem when we hit cool autumn air.
I think: I didn’t mean for all this to happen. I also think: I effing love Einstein the Whiteboard adventures. I have a moment of true fear when Woods plunges back inside the youth room. Before I even have time to process this, he reappears, coughing, and says, “Help me, Billie.” He darts into the smoky room again.
In I go to rescue Woods, who wants to save his precious whiteboard. Einstein is too near the fire. The edge is already melted, and I assume too hot to touch. “I’ll get you another one,” I promise him.
Not what he wants to hear. I drag Woods away and shove him toward the back stairs.
Around us, kids are evacuating. They’re carrying phones and sleeping bags and pillow pets. Two sixth graders are getting on the elevators while Fifty screams at them, “Take the stairs! Didn’t you learn anything in kindergarten?” A very familiar form is swimming upstream against the evacuees: Brother Scott McCaffrey. My tired and scared and angry father frantically counts everyone he sees. He flings opens doors, yells, moves to the next room. Precise words are impossible to hear over the fire alarm. But as I watch him check Youth Suite 201, I see he’s putting two and two together.
Likely conclusion: where there’s smoke, there’s Billie.
Janie Lee and I quick-walk toward the exit. She pulls me against her and says right in my ear, so I hear it over the noise, “Billie, I think maybe I’m in love with Woods!”
“Jesus,” I say, and hope it counts as a multipurpose prayer.
2
Fire trucks arrive at the curb—sirens blazing, ready to dispense water and large-coated men. Maybe the firefighters can put Dad out after they finish with the church. He’s doing a roll call from his clipboard, blazing brighter than any flame we have made. Everyone is wet, amped, and accounted for. A couple of the junior high–ers are crying.
My crew has their butts on the asphalt, their backs against the church van. Janie Lee’s pressed against me, and for once and only once I wish she’d give me space. She says, “I left my glasses in the bathroom.”
“You’ll get them back,” I tell her, avoiding any form of eye contact.
Within twenty minutes, it’s clear that the church will remain standing. But within those smoking, flaming, hosing minutes, the deacons have arrived. Hands are on hip replacements. Judgment is rampant. I overhear:
“Those youth can’t be trusted.”
“The preacher’s daughter is the worst.”
“I wonder if he’ll do anything this time.”
“He’ll have to.”
Dad walks purposefully toward the Hexagon, eyes blazing, knuckles white against the clipboard. He’s about to crank it up and let us have it when his phone rings. The cell is ancient, has a ringer that rivals the fire alarm. He recognizes the number, and clearly expects whoever it is to yell at him about the fire. With a sigh and a warning look at us, he jams a finger in his ear and retreats.
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Say that again; I can’t hear you. Oh, I see. Oh.” Dad stops, his body stiffening. “I’m sorry. I’ll have him call. Yes, him too.”
He flips the phone closed—all the fight from his face morphed into sorrow. September in the South is still hot, but Dad shivers. He pinches the bridge of his nose and doesn’t move. Woods grips my right elbow; Janie Lee leaves fingerprints on my left arm. Something worse than the church flambé has just happened.
He calls Mash and Davey over. A private conversation ensues that leaves them hugging and Mash indignant. “But Big T was just . . .” We watch Mash deflate like a balloon, words gone.
Dad gathers the rest of the group and explains the tragic facts: Tyson Vilmer had a massive heart attack and ran off to meet the Lord while we were blowing up a sock. Without a word, with most everyone choking back tears, we link hands and say prayers of comfort for the Vilmer family.