Fire With Fire Read online

  “Let’s go hot-tubbing!” I suddenly announce to everyone in the garage. “Who’s in?”

  Ricky, Skeeter, and a bunch of other guys look my way. “Where?” Ricky says.

  I turn off the radio. “I know a place. A mansion. And it’s completely empty tonight.” Seems stupid to let Alex’s house go to waste.

  “But it’s kind of cold out,” Skeeter whines.

  “That’s why we’re going in a hot tub, dummy.”

  “I don’t want to get arrested,” Ricky says.

  I walk over to him and pull on the strings of his hoodie. “You won’t. I’m telling you. No one is home. And the kid has no neighbors.”

  Ricky shrugs. “Okay. I’m in.”

  It’s me, five guys, and one of their girlfriends who bugs the shit out of me, so I never bothered learning her name. Pat stays back. He says he wants to keep working on his bike, but I know the truth: He has a thing with hot tubs. They skeeve him out. The heat, the germs, all the bodies cooking together in one big bathtub. I don’t blow up his spot, though, mainly because I don’t want to gross everyone else out.

  Which affords me a real opportunity. Tonight, I’m going to let Ricky get what he’s been after. The kid’s been flirting with me for weeks. And I could use a good make-out. I don’t even care that I have school tomorrow. I haven’t kissed a boy since . . . Lind. I think about calling to invite Mary, but decide against it. It might scare the poor thing to see my moves in action.

  We put two sixers of beer in a plastic bag, hop on a bunch of bikes, and tear over to Alex’s place. The lights in his house are all on, like someone’s home, but I know it’s empty. I have to drag Ricky up the driveway.

  “You sure about this?” he keeps saying.

  I crack open a beer and take a sip before offering it to him. I get close to his face and say, “You know it.” I like flirting with Ricky. He’s sweet. He’s two years older than me, a year younger than Pat. We were both at Jar Island High together at some point, but back then he was dating someone else. Sarah? I forget. Anyway, he dumped her this summer, after she cheated on him with her professor at the JICC. That’s the kind of shit that goes on in our community college, which is why I need out of here.

  The fence is locked, so we have to climb on top of the trash cans to get over. As soon as we land on the other side, the backyard lights automatically turn on. My heart stops, and I’m just waiting for a siren or something. We all hold still, and then they click off. “See?” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s fine.”

  Alex’s pool is closed for the season, half drained and covered with a tight tarp. Oh shit. I take off the cover of Alex’s hot tub, and thank God it’s full of water. It’s a pretty pimped-out model, with buttons that make different colored lights go on and a built-in stereo. We all get in, crank the jets, and it doesn’t take long before it gets toasty. Ricky doesn’t have a bathing suit, so he goes in in his underwear. He’s wearing black boxer briefs, and he looks freaking hot. His body is cut, you can see every ab muscle, and he’s got a wicked scar from when he got his appendix removed.

  I’m in my black bikini and a black tank. I push Tim’s girlfriend out of the way so I can sit next to Ricky.

  “This place is sick!” one of the guys says.

  “Damn, I wish I was loaded,” says Skeeter.

  It sort of pisses me off, because most of these dudes will never have money, will never get to experience this side of Jar Island living. Unless they become pool boys. Which some of them might.

  Tim asks me, “You know the guy who lives here?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ricky says, “You ever hook up with him?”

  “Hell, no,” I lie, because I know what my friends think about these kinds of people. They aren’t like us. Though it may be racist, or classist, or whatever . . . it’s freaking true. Alex isn’t like me. After all, he’s in a goddamned private plane, going to visit a school where his parents will most likely make a huge donation to get him accepted. I don’t know why he’s even in the college essay class with me. He doesn’t need a good essay when he’s got a blank check. I finish my beer and throw the empty can in the yard, like I don’t give a shit. I get close to Ricky. He puts his arm around me for, like, a second, but then takes it back.

  Um, weird.

  I get a stomach cramp. Have I read the signs wrong? Is Ricky not into me? I don’t know if I could take another Alex Lind scenario. A guy who’s only being nice, not actually pursuing me. My ego ain’t indestructible.

  I look across the hot tub, at all of my brother’s friends, watching us.

  Oh. Okay. That I can work with. He wants to be alone with me.

  “Shit,” I say suddenly. Everyone gets real quiet.

  “What?” Ricky whispers.

  “I think I heard something.” I climb out of the water. Damn, it’s bitter out. My whole body is steaming.

  “What? I didn’t hear anything.”

  Dummy. I grab Ricky’s arm. “Come investigate with me.”

  He gives me this pleading look, then glances over at the rest of the people in the hot tub. But they’re all back to giggling and speaking in whispers. They aren’t paying attention to us at all.

  “Hurry up!” I growl. I’m freezing my ass off.

  We walk out of the main yard and around to the side of the pool house. It hits me how awesome it will feel to kiss Ricky, basically right in front of Alex’s bedroom. I push him up against the wall and say, “So, we gonna do this or what?” But it doesn’t sound as sexy as I want it to, because I’m shivering so damn hard.

  His lips stop, like, millimeters away from mine. “Everyone’s right over there, Kat.”

  I put my hands up on his shoulders and drape myself against him, boobs pressed up against his chest. If nothing else, it’ll warm me up. “What are you worried about that for?” I whisper. My breath comes out in puffs. I close my eyes and wait for him to plant his lips on mine.

  Nothing.

  When I open my eyes, Ricky’s looking at me with these pathetic puppy-dog eyes.

  I let my arms fall to my side. “Seriously, Ricky? You’re blowing me off right now?” My voice is much less sexy. It’s straight-up pissed off.

  Ricky shrugs. “Come on, it’s cold. Let’s get back in the hot tub.”

  I walk away from him, teeth chattering so loud it’s all I hear. The last thing I need is to get hung up on another ball-less guy.

  Ricky tries to guide me to face him. “Kat, wait.”

  I’m already gone, headed to the hot tub. But instead of getting into the water again, I grab my shit from one of the outdoor lounge chairs. “Hey. The cops drove by and flashed their lights in the yard. We’d better bounce. Now.” Ricky comes back, and he hears me tell this lie, but he doesn’t call me out on it. Everyone rushes out of the water and heads barefoot to where we parked the bikes.

  I follow them out, but at the last second I glance over my shoulder at all the shit we left around Alex’s yard. The empty beer cans and the cigarette butts.

  “You coming?” Ricky asks me.

  I don’t answer him. And he doesn’t ask again before he leaves me behind.

  I find a trash bag inside one of the garbage cans and start walking around the yard, using my cell phone light to find the trash in the grass. Not long into it, snow begins to fall. My shirt is soaked; I don’t even have a ride home. FML.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  * * *

  LILLIA

  IT’S SNOWING OUTSIDE. TEENY TINY flakes that barely stick, but it looks beautiful. I always did love Boston in winter. The city looks like something out of a Charles Dickens novel.

  We’re waiting for a table at Salt, my mom’s and my favorite restaurant. They have the best lobster bisque; the waiter serves it tableside in a silver urn. We had a seven o’clock reservation, but Mrs. Lind took so long getting ready we missed it, and now it’s almost eight and we still haven’t had dinner. I feel faint.

  “This is ridicul
ous,” Mrs. Lind says loudly, so everyone can hear. She’s in a fox-fur coat and black stiletto boots that go up past her knee.

  “They should have one for us any minute,” my mom says. “I see them clearing a table for four now.” Even though she sounds as serene as ever, her lipsticked red lips are a thin line, and I know she’s annoyed.

  “We’ve been waiting for half an hour,” Mrs. Lind huffs. “On a Wednesday.”

  “It’s a five-star restaurant,” my mom reminds her. “And this isn’t the island.”

  Mrs. Lind shakes her head from side to side, her coppery hair swishing around her shoulders. “I’m going to say something to the hostess.”

  “Celeste,” my mom pleads.

  Luckily, the hostess comes over to us then and says our table’s ready. “At last,” Mrs. Lind huffs, and Alex and I exchange a look.

  It’s been like this since we got here—just shy of tense. Like, my mom wanted to stop by her old interior-design office before dinner, so she and I could say hi to Bert and Cleve, her friends who’ve known me since I was a baby. They’re partners, and they travel all over the world getting inspired by rugs in Marrakesh and ceramic tiles in Provence. They send Nadia and me the nicest Christmas gifts—lavender oils and crystal bracelets and jars of Dead Sea mud.

  But we couldn’t go because Mrs. Lind was all, Grace, we need to stop by Hermés before it closes; I want to get your opinion on that end table I’ve got my eye on. So we did that instead. Alex kept making a pretend gun with his fingers and pretend shooting himself in the temple. I kept lingering by the enamel bracelets, hoping my mom would notice and add one to my Christmas wish list. I super-casually pointed out one I liked and she was like, Not going to happen, Lilli; you do not need a six-hundred-dollar bracelet. Mrs. Lind tried to tell the saleswoman to add it to her bill, and my mom said absolutely not, which Mrs. Lind made a face at. I felt guilty about that, because if I’d known how much it cost, obviously I never would have said anything. Though I had to admit, wearing it to school and seeing the look on Rennie’s face would have been worth the six hundred dollars.

  And then, when we were touring the BC campus, my mom wanted to look at the library and the art building and Mrs. Lind kept complaining about her feet hurting. I knew what my mom was thinking because I was thinking the same thing—why would you wear four-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels on a campus tour? So impractical.

  The hostess ushers us toward the back, to a sleek leather banquette. I sit down next to my mom, and Alex and his mom sit down across from us.

  Mrs. Lind picks up the wine list. “Red or white, hon?” she asks my mom.

  “I might have a glass of sauvignon blanc,” my mom says, reaching over and tucking my hair behind my ear. To me she says, “You look so pretty tonight, honey.”

  “Oh, Lil’s always a knockout,” Mrs. Lind says. “God, I wish I could still dress like that.”

  I smile a humble smile, through my lashes. I did take extra care with my outfit. I feel like on Jar Island it’s whatever, but people get more dressed up in Boston. They care more. I’ve got on a snug heather-gray sweater dress with a white patent-leather belt that cinches around my waist and a pair of platform booties that I bought for this trip. I curled my hair and pushed it all over to one side in a low ponytail. When I came out of the bathroom, Alex told me I looked nice. He was wearing a navy cashmere sweater, but after he saw me, he went and changed and put a light blue button-down and a tie underneath.

  As soon as the server comes over, before he can say a word, Mrs. Lind says, “We’ll have a bottle of sauvignon blanc and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.”

  My mom looks alarmed. She’s not a big drinker. “Celeste, I don’t know—”

  “Live a little! We’ll let the kids have a sip of the champagne. The wine is for us.” Mrs. Lind winks at me, and Alex and I shrug at each other.

  “A tiny sip,” my mom says to me.

  Alex and I drink a thimbleful of champagne each, and our moms finish the bottle. With each new glass they get sillier and sillier, and the tension from before fades away.

  “To the future!” Mrs. Lind says, waving her glass in the air.

  “To our babies!” my mom says, clinking her glass to Mrs. Lind’s.

  Mrs. Lind touches the top of Alex’s head. Mournfully she says, “Where have our babies gone?”

  I swear, everyone in the restaurant is looking. That’s when they start sharing stories about us. My mom tells the table about the time she took me to the zoo. I was scared of all the animals, and when Mom paid for me to ride one of the elephants, I completely lost it and peed on him.

  “She ruined her dress,” my mom chokes out, sputtering with laughter. “It was the sweetest dress, too—it was white, and it had a lace pinafore and puffy sleeves. I bought it in Paris when she was tiny. . . . She looked like an angel in it. Lilli, do you remember that dress?”

  I cross my arms. “No.” In a lower voice I say, “Please, no more stories, Mom.”

  “Ooh, wait, I’ve got a good one,” Mrs. Lind shrieks. She proceeds to tell us about how hard it was to get Alex to stop breastfeeding, and the whole time Alex is glowering at her like he wants to take her out with his salad plate.

  While the moms are busy cracking up, Alex kicks me under the table. He mouths, They’re so wasted.

  I mouth back, I know.

  We share a secret smile, and I wonder—what would it be like if we were here together? At the same college, I mean. I think it would be like having a piece of home with me.

  * * *

  The next night, Alex and I are hanging out in the den of my family’s Boston apartment, the TV flashing a show that neither of us is really watching. I think it’s because we’re so beat. Thank God we go home tomorrow. Even if I have to go straight to school.

  Alex is in the middle of the couch, his legs folded underneath him, in a pair of his track pants and an Academic Decathlon T-shirt from last spring, when we lost the championship by two stupid questions. I’m draped sideways on my dad’s favorite leather armchair in leggings and a baggy sweater, under one of the snuggly cashmere throws my mom is obsessed with. She’s bought at least ten of them, all in cream.

  We’re flipping through the glossy university brochures that we got on our tours today, laughing at the obviously staged photos. We went to Tufts in the morning, BC in the afternoon; then we split up so Alex could go suit shopping and I could go to Wellesley, the girls’ school.

  “Oh, come on,” Alex says, and presses his lips together to stifle a laugh. “Lil, tell me what’s wrong with this picture.” He turns the brochure around and points at a page-size photo of a student in a lab coat and goggles, proudly holding up an empty glass beaker.

  I crack up when I figure it out. “Oh my gosh. They couldn’t even put anything inside the beaker? Don’t they have a prop guy or an art director?”

  Alex starts laughing so hard he can’t breathe. “It’s like, dude, I don’t know what you’re smiling about. You’re going to fail your experiment unless you put something in that beaker.” He shakes his head and then puts the brochure down on the coffee table with the others. “Pass me a cookie?”

  I toss him a new sleeve of Chips Ahoy!, since mine has only five left inside. The brochure in my lap shows pictures of students in their dorm rooms. There’s one where four girls are smiling up from a pair of bunk beds inside a room that looks about as big as a prison cell. “I don’t know how I’m going to live in a dorm. My bathroom is bigger than that room we saw today.” I take the last sip of milk in my glass and kick off my blanket. “You want something to drink?”

  Alex nods. “Water, please. You’ll probably join a sorority, don’t you think?”

  I shrug. “Maybe. It depends on where I end up, I guess. What about you? Do you think you’ll pledge a fraternity?”

  “Ah, I don’t know. I think a lot of those guys are meatheads.” Alex watches me get up. “Maybe you could live here. This apartment is sick, Lil.”

  “Shhhh,” I say, and nu
dge my chin toward the hallway where the bedrooms are. My mom’s in the master bedroom; Mrs. Lind’s sleeping in the guest room. “Mom’s already freaking out about me leaving, and my dad would love to keep me under lock and key here with him.”

  Alex reaches for the remote and puts on sports. “I doubt anything will wake our moms up tonight.”

  He’s probably right. They popped open a bottle of red wine once we got back at the apartment. I swear, they’ve probably consumed more alcohol in the last two days than the freshmen we saw in the dorms. Their wineglasses are on the table, still relatively full, with two different colors of lipstick on the rims. I stick them in the dishwasher, empty what’s left from the bottle, and put that in the recycling bin. Hopefully, my dad won’t be mad at my mom for opening it. Every word on the label is in French. He keeps all his best wine and champagne here.

  On the way over to Tufts this morning, I could tell my mom was getting annoyed at Mrs. Lind. Mrs. Lind was running the GPS on her phone, trying to navigate us out of traffic, even though my mom knows Boston like the back of her hand and obviously had the best way to get across town. Mom had wanted to get us there early, so we could park at one end of the campus and walk to the admissions hall, but Mrs. Lind kept saying that the spots Mom tried to park in were too small for our SUV. We were almost late, so Mom used the valet parking at a nearby restaurant and tipped the guy big since we weren’t actually eating there.

  It takes me a few tries to remember which kitchen cabinets have the glasses. I pour us both waters. I haven’t been to the apartment in over a year, but Dad’s here all the time, working at the hospital. We have a cleaning lady, and a person whose job it is to keep the house stocked with food and stuff, so he doesn’t have to worry about anything. God forbid he’d actually have to go to the store and buy a carton of milk.

  When I get back to the den, Alex is staring out the windows at the city below. I put our glasses down and stand next to him. It’s snowing again.