To be honest, I expected a slow burn that could have easily been stomped out. A scorch or two on the floor that would serve as a reminder of the time I burned Barbara and her violation suit. But that’s not what happened.
The polyurethane-soaked paper inside the suit goes up in a whoosh—the flames at least six feet high. The material of the sweat suit melts away like wet cotton candy, and it is a raging inferno of Barbara.
I drop the lighter and fall back a step, the heat singing the hair on my arms. The fire alarm sounds, and the students run from the cafeteria. I notice Jameson running toward the fire—toward me—just as the overhead sprinklers all burst and begin to rain down throughout the school.
Smoke, screaming, and a rush for the door. It is complete mayhem.
Mr. Jones does his best to get students toward the exit, but Mrs. Montgomery is gone. Figures she wouldn’t help. The water is freezing cold, but it feels nice on my arm, where I’m sure I’ve been burned by the flames.
Jameson calls my name, but before I respond, Mr. Jones grabs me by the shoulders.
“The police are on their way, Ms. Banks,” he says through clenched teeth. The sheer terror on his face is almost enough to make me feel sorry for what I’ve done. But in the end my principal didn’t have my back. I’m more disappointed than anything. So, no. I’m not sorry. And I tell him so.
And as he roughly leads me through the raining water toward the exit door—sirens already sounding in the distance—I pass by Jameson.
He watches me with shiny eyes, and just as I pass, Jameson whispers, “You’re my fucking hero, Lucinda Banks.”
“So that’s how you ended up here?” Jenna asked.
“Yep. Arrested and charged. My mom had a lawyer-friend who negotiated a compromise: this place.”
“And did they change the dress code after that?”
“Nope,” Lucinda said, the injustice still burning. “Now they all wear uniforms.”
“How come you didn’t burn the Bend down over these nasty-ass uniforms?” Jackie asked.
“Because we all have to wear them and not just the girls,” Sunday said. “That was the point of the story, right?”
We’d gone back to carrying Georgia when the crutches had begun to hurt her arms and shoulders, but we’d made good progress. Jaila and Jenna seemed to think we were on the right track and might actually make it back to camp by nightfall. I wasn’t as confident, but I also didn’t give a shit. I had everything I needed right there in those woods.
“I don’t know,” Georgia said. “You didn’t have to set the dummy on fire.”
Lucinda opened her mouth to speak, but Tino cut her off. “I get it,” he said. “If you don’t show them how far you’re willing to go, they’ll never take you seriously.” He was the last person anyone had expected to defend Lucinda, but there it was. “I mean, look at all of us, stuck in this shit hole camp for whatever. Doug and our parents and our teachers—they think we’re probably nothing but a bunch of animals, but we showed them who we really are. We showed them that they can’t ignore us.”
Jaila stopped to take a drink from her canteen. We’d had the chance to refill an hour back, but the day was getting hotter, and I hoped I wouldn’t run out. “I don’t see how being sent to prison camp is anything other than being shipped out of sight and out of mind.”
“And,” Sunday added, “I’m not sure anything we did is worth being proud of.”
“You didn’t turn in that boy when you could have,” Tino said. “And I bet the next school Lucinda goes to won’t try to stick her in a uniform.”
Cody stood beside Georgia, grinning. “Mike probably won’t ever mess with me again.”
“See?” Tino said. “It’s about respect.”
“But you earn respect.” Jaila was looking in the direction we were supposed to be walking, and I wasn’t sure she’d meant to say anything out loud. But then she turned to Tino. “It’s like you said: we’re not animals.”
Tino nodded. “That’s right. We’re people, and this is us letting everyone know we won’t be ignored.”
“That’s why I did it,” Jenna said. Her voice was louder than normal, like she was finally done whispering.
Sunday nudged Jenna with her shoulder and offered her a comforting smile. “Tell us,” she said. “Tell us the rest.”
“THE CHAOS EFFECT”
by Marieke Nijkamp
I’M NOT A PYROMANIAC, I already told you. But according to the Minnesota criminal statutes, the car fire is arson in the second degree. Who knew Grandpa’s car was that valuable? Who knew he even had anything of value left? It makes me wonder if Dad had it fixed up for him; it’s exactly the type of thing he would do.
It hardly matters. In the end everything burns. And every morning I scatter the ashes on my way to school.
*
I don’t remember the first night. I blocked it from my memory, and I’m perfectly happy to never access it again. I remember too many nights since. The creak of the door opening. The light from the hallway falling into the room—one long yellow bar of light that edges all the way from the door’s threshold across the floor scattered with clothes—and the books from school across the comforter, lying haphazardly over the bed—to the wall just behind me. The footsteps.
The touches.
The smell and caress of his sour breath.
The impossibility of escape.
He always smiles in the morning.
*
Paper does not burn as well as matches. It smolders and curls and almost immediately turns to ashes, until there’s nothing left of the drawings I made, the equations I solved, the formulas that help me make sense of the world. I don’t understand them anymore, anyway.
*
I do remember the first night when I let myself go numb. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop him. I could only pretend it wasn’t happening, pretend I didn’t feel his hands on me, his skin against my skin, his grunts in my ear.
I tried to scrub his touch off once. I took a scalding hot shower. I emptied an entire bottle of shower gel. I scrubbed until my legs were raw and my fingers bled.
It didn’t help. Not even for a day. I hurt all over and still smelled of bergamot and orange blossom when he came a few nights later. So I decided there and then—I could pretend to go numb. I could pretend not to feel. I could pretend not to feel for long enough that I would start to believe it.
Until I forgot what it meant to feel altogether.
*
Adam gave me a T-shirt for my fifteenth birthday a couple of months ago. It’s an olive-green top with “F(X) = |X|” printed on the front. The back simply says “AVOID NEGATIVITY.” He found it in a thrift shop, and he was so proud of it. It was the first time he bought me a present all on his own. He wrapped it himself.
The shirt has languished in my wardrobe ever since. I told him I was keeping it for a special occasion. And I did.
It burns surprisingly well.
*
The worst times are when we’re all alone through the night. On days when Dad’s work sends him to offices in other states and he takes Mom along for a quick getaway. When Adam is at T. J.’s because the large house spooks him in the dark.
When it’s just us and there’s no one to sneak around for, no need to worry that anyone might walk in.
Those are the nights that last forever.