I look up, or down, maybe. The policemen are still watching.
“Her parents are crazy,” I say. “They got half the library banned. Did you know that? Sophomore year, I remember all of that. Janie wanted to read Mrs. Dalloway, and Virginia Woolf was a lesbian. And they didn’t want Janie to become a lesbian. Her uncle’s on the school board, and her parents made him ban half the library.”
“I remember that,” says the less fat one. “A few years ago, right?”
“Sophomore year,” I say. “And she crawled into my room one night and we took my dad’s car and went to Goodwill. We bought books—she had a list of banned books. She left them in the trunk and the next morning we went to school early and she set up a library in her locker.”
I don’t tell them how she made me tie a black T-shirt around my face like a ninja mask. I don’t tell them how I didn’t do much more than watch her. I don’t tell them how she looked, her hair falling out onto her shoulders and freckles sharp. I don’t tell them how I loved her, how I loved her apocalyptically. I don’t tell them how she stole her dad’s credit card, or how she took his favorite book from his bedside and burned it while I watched.
It’s a good snapshot of us. Representative. Janie, furious and full of ideas. Me, following.
“You drove to Goodwill as sophomores?” asks the police officer.
“Janie drove,” I say. “Janie had her permit.”
“Right,” the fatter one says. He is cautious now, slow. I am talking too fast, using my hands too much. I take a breath while he says, “That’s right. It’s all right.”
The less fat one keeps scribbling.
I might be getting her into trouble.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say to them. “Especially not her parents. Especially not her dad. Janie and her dad don’t like each other. Does he know about Nepal? He would never let her go to Nepal.”
They still do not look at me.
“Who else have you talked to?” I ask them.
The less fat one narrows his eyes. “Just about the whole school, kid.”
“The whole school?” That’s a lot of people. “Huh.”
“But we’d like to talk to you again in particular, Micah,” says the bigger one. “And a couple more people too.”
“Who?”
“Some of Janie’s friends. Piper. Wes, Ander.” He watches me too closely. “Did you know them?”
“Not really,” I tell them. “Janie likes Ander, so I hate him on principle.”
“I should hope she likes him,” the bigger one says. He’s trying to smile, he’s trying to lighten the mood, but we’re in a fucking hospital and my head is broken. “They were—they are dating.”
“Are they?” No one told me that. Or maybe they did. I shouldn’t be surprised. So they’re dating—Janie always gets her way.
They do not ask me why I hate Ander on principle, but it’s because I am in love with her and always have been. Maybe I already told them. I don’t know.
My head hurts.
“I know, kid, and I’m sorry about that. We’ll be on our way soon enough,” says the less fat one, and sure enough, he’s putting his notepad away. I said that out loud; I thought I was getting better about telling the difference. “You just rest up, kid.”
“There was a fire,” I say suddenly, and they pause on their way to the door. “A bonfire.”
“There was,” says the fatter one.
My hands. My fingers aren’t bandaged. None of me, except my head.
“A lot of people were burned,” I say slowly.
They policemen look at each other.
“Am I burned?”
The less fat detective twitches; he wants to reach for the notepad, but the other one stops him. “Were you at the party, Micah?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I can’t, I can’t remember.
“Okay, okay, son,” the fatter detective says. His voice is calm again. His hands are up. I take a breath. “Get some rest. We’ll talk soon.”
Waldo doesn’t have many parties. There aren’t really any colleges around, so no one knows how to throw one. People drink in their basements after prom and blast music in earbuds so their parents won’t wake up upstairs. Waldo doesn’t have big parties, parties people talk about, parties people go to. Parties everyone goes to.
But Janie did.
There was a party and a bonfire.
There was a party and a bonfire at Janie’s new house. I remember, suddenly, as we leave the hospital and the sun hurts my eyes.
The fire was enormous.
I think about this as Dewey drives me home. I thought my dad would have to pick me up, but I’m eighteen. I am an adult. I keep forgetting. I wish I remembered our birthday. Janie must have done something crazy for our eighteenth birthday.
At one point, I ask Dewey why he’s doing all this, and he says my dad is paying him. That makes a little more sense, except of course that my dad has no money.
There was a party and a bonfire and the bonfire was enormous.
I repeat that to myself as Dewey bumps along roads that no amount of construction can smooth. They’re still trying, though. They’re always trying. At the corner of our neighborhood is another tractor laying down pebbles along the shoulders.
Janie loved those pebbles.