Watch You Burn Read online

  Cam smiles with too much teeth. He’s sucking up to Dad. I bet driving me around is not what he thought his “assistant” job would entail.

  “Okay, thanks,” I say, and try to sound genuine. I don’t want to be a problem to Cam—to anyone here.

  Dad and Cam start to turn around and leave me alone to ponder my newfound life in this motel. My stomach growls, but I’m not touching Dad’s sad attempt at romance in the fridge. I cringe before calling out, “We need some groceries. There isn’t much in the kitchen.”

  Dad finally has the sense to look embarrassed. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and hands me a stack of bills.

  Cam’s eyes narrow. He looks at the money and then at me. I crumple the bills into my hand and hold the sides of my coat together. Even though I’m completely covered, I suddenly feel as bare as Monica.

  I point toward my room. “I need to get dressed.”

  Cam moves out of the way to let me pass, but then he takes a step like he’s going to follow me.

  “Uh, I’ll meet you back here in, like, a couple of hours?” I slip into my room and hold the door shut behind me. A minute later, when I peek out the curtain, Cam is sitting in his truck, motionless, eyes straight forward, like a puffy-blue-coated guard.

  * * *

  —

  Once I’m dressed, I peek out again. Cam’s still there. When I see Dad later, I’m going to have to tell him that he’s hired a creep for an assistant.

  My stomach growls in complaint, but I’m not asking Cam to take me for something. I’m sure going shopping later will be enough of his company for one day.

  When I look out again, Cam’s eyes are closed. Is he sleeping? On the job?

  I slowly open my door. He doesn’t move. His mouth is open, as if he’s snoring inside the truck.

  It’s worth the risk to get away from here for a while. I dash out of my room and into the condemned section of the motel along the inside of the construction fence.

  I’m not supposed to be here. No one is. The engineers have declared these rooms unsound and pasted red notices saying so on every wall.

  But it’s my exit—a secret passage that I discovered yesterday. A hole has been busted in the back wall of one of the rooms. It’s big enough for me to step through. An opening has been cut into the fence on the other side, but you have to push on it to see that it’s there. That’s how I got out to go on my walk unchaperoned.

  I fight back the weeds and push through the chain links. I emerge in an old parking lot, with my back to the trees. This whole section of town is being redeveloped. Across the street is a crumbling strip mall with a drugstore and lots of empty spaces with newspapered windows and For Lease signs.

  The rest of my new “neighborhood” consists of more abandoned storefronts and empty fields surrounded by fences and signs that say “Vargas Properties. No Trespassing.” Cramped duplexes and small stuccoed houses fill in the blocks around them. Everything is gray and depressed, as if under an overcast sky, even though the sun is shining.

  I glance over my shoulder as I cross the street. Cam hasn’t followed me.

  Henderson’s Drugstore is a local knockoff of Walgreens. It even has that same cheap-perfume-and-cardboard smell.

  In the back, there’s a real emergency exit with “Alarm Will Sound” printed across the push bar. I like that. The exit and the alarm.

  I wander up and down the aisles until I find a box of granola bars that will have to do for breakfast.

  The clerk at the front checkout greets me with a friendly smile. “That must be an interesting place to live.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She points toward the Los Ranchitos. “I saw you pull up yesterday.”

  “Oh. My dad’s doing the construction.”

  She rings up my granola bars, and I automatically swipe my debit card before I remember Dad gave me cash. Money’s not something I have to worry about. My debit card is tied to an account Mom has filled with more than I could ever spend on things like snacks.

  “Be careful in this part of town. Stay far away from the colony,” the clerk says as she hands me my bag.

  “The what?”

  “You know, Russell’s Utopia.”

  I shake my head.

  She points vaguely toward the trees and sighs. “It’s the reason no one comes around here. In the 1920s, there was an artists’ colony along the river. They called it Russell’s Utopia. I don’t know who Russell was, but his colony obviously wasn’t very utopic. It’s been abandoned for a long time. The squatters from the motel have moved in there now. Before, I’d see the regulars wander by, but now that they’re hidden in the woods…it’s attracting a different kind of person.”

  I take my bag. “I’ll be careful,” I say, and inwardly roll my eyes. It’s not like Mom didn’t already tell me to be careful a hundred thousand times on the way to the airport in Ohio.

  I rip into a granola bar before I’m out the door. Cold air hits my face. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help it. To the right of the Los Ranchitos, I see it: The colony. The remnants of fallen wooden houses disappear into the weeds. Newer plywood and sheet-metal shanties and tents crowd together in the trees.

  There are people there. People in the dry brush. The granola bar sticks in my throat.

  My scar starts to itch. I snap my head away from the trees. No. I’m stronger than this, I remind myself. This is my fresh start. I’m out of Ohio. No one knows me. I can be anyone I want to be here.

  I check the time on my phone. Cam’s going to be expecting me for our trip to the store.

  Sliding through the hole in the fence and into the condemned section is easy. Getting back to my room without being seen isn’t.

  I poke my head around the corner. Dad is guiding a bulldozer through the gate. There’s a smile on his face. This project is a huge opportunity for him. The opportunity. Even Mom, who always mentions him through gritted teeth, was impressed. It’s the only reason she let me come here—that, and Brian’s subtle but firm insistence that it would be “good for me” to get to know my father better. Brian’s a great actor. He almost had me believing him.

  Dad thinks I’m in my room right now. I need him to keep thinking that. No one can know that I’ve found a secret way out.

  Cam’s still in his truck. I won’t know if he’s awake until I get closer.

  When Dad’s back is to me, I tiptoe out to the parking lot. I keep my focus on Cam as I step lightly over the chucks of cement and debris in my path. He won’t hear a thing.

  I’ve been practicing.

  Cam’s eyes stay closed. I stop in front of my door and slowly turn the knob until it pops open. I toss my Henderson’s bag inside and slam the door closed.

  Cam snaps to attention.

  “I’m ready,” I say, and climb into the truck.

  He blinks hard. His face is slightly red. He knows that I know he was sleeping. But I don’t say anything. I’ll save that little secret in case I need it later.

  “So you want to work in construction?” I ask as I buckle my seat belt.

  Cam’s eyes slide over to me. “Mike Vargas is my father,” he says, as if that’s the answer to every question.

  “Ah.” At least I know how he got the job. Dad probably didn’t have a choice but to hire his boss’s son. Great. The sleepy creep stays.

  After several minutes of painful silence, we pull up to the grocery store. “You can wait here. I won’t take long,” I say.

  Cam shakes his head and gets out.

  “Or you can come with me,” I mumble to myself.

  Inside, I grab a cart and head down the produce aisle. Cam trundles along behind me. I feel like I’m being followed by store security. He watches every move I make. Every apple I pick up to check for bruises. Every box of cereal I put in the cart.

  I don
’t know why he’s doing this. No one here knows my secret, but it’s as if he’s afraid I might stuff a frozen lasagna under my coat and make a run for it.

  I turn down an aisle of miscellaneous things that don’t fit into other categories. My eyes drift up to a top shelf. My scar twinges.

  I throw my arms out to the side. “You know what? I forgot we needed milk. Will you go get some?”

  Cam doesn’t move.

  “The faster we get everything, the sooner we can go.”

  I see the debate playing out in his head. He wants to leave the store, but for some strange, creepy reason, he doesn’t want to leave me.

  He finally nods and trudges down the aisle toward the dairy section. As soon as he’s out of sight, I reach up to the top shelf.

  My fingers tingle as I wrap them around the matches. I examine the print on the box and glance over my shoulder. I’m supposed to be good, but good is a spectrum. This isn’t that bad. Besides, I’m not going to use them. I’ll just put them in a drawer. A tiny compromise to make the itch calm down.

  I pretend to scratch my neck and drop the matches down my shirt. My coat’s half zipped up. No one will see a thing.

  Cam comes back with a carton of milk. His eyes wash over my face. I feel it burning hot, like my scar. The box of matches sends little sparks of excitement through me as it touches my skin.

  “That’s everything,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  Cam raises an eyebrow. I know he’s wondering about the smile I can’t wipe off my face.

  * * *

  —

  Later that night, I look at the matches in the dresser drawer for the hundredth time and dig my nails farther into my skin. It’s been a long day. Once I got back from the store with Cam, it was a long, boring day. I stayed in my room. I didn’t sneak out and go for a walk. I did everything the new me is supposed to do.

  The rake of my nails across my scar smears a line of blood on my arm.

  The sleeping pills are on my nightstand.

  I don’t take one.

  * * *

  —

  It’s just past midnight. I have on black jeans. Black soft-soled shoes. Black hoodie—hood up. Hailey’s hat is on underneath it, holding back all my hair. I slip out of my room and away from the bulb that hangs over the sidewalk. Once I’m in the dark, I’m invisible.

  It’s cold. Steam puffs out in front of me. I take short shallow breaths so that there’s less to exhale. Nothing to give me away.

  I creep into the condemned section; out the crack in the wall; through the fence. My shoes make a soft whoosh sound, but nothing more. I bought them when I was still in Ohio. I tested them out on Becky Sloan in an empty hallway at school. She didn’t turn around until she felt my breath on her neck. When she screamed and dropped her books, I acted apologetic, but my insides trembled with delight.

  I go around the back of the Los Ranchitos—away from anyone who could be stumbling to the artists’ colony.

  Into the trees and down to the river.

  In the moonlight, sandbars covered in dried-up weeds create an abstract pattern over the water. The other bank is more cottonwood forest. It’s thicker and wilder on that side; no houses, no colony—just agricultural fields. In the distance, a narrow bridge connects the two sides.

  It takes twenty minutes to get to the bridge. It’s one lane in each direction. Hanging off the side a few feet below the road is a pedestrian walkway. It’s in the shadows and pitch-black. I don’t know who or what could be waiting in that darkness.

  I almost reconsider. I almost turn around and go back to the motel. But my scar itches and burns and screams. I’ve needed this release since I left Ohio. Just this one time and it will be out of my system. Then I will be the new girl I’m supposed to be—Jenny who lives in the Los Ranchitos instead of Jenny with soft-soled shoes and a secret.

  I run on my toes across the walkway. There’s no one in the darkness to come after me.

  It takes a while to find the spot. One with lots of leaves and underbrush, but also with a clear path for me to make my exit.

  I pull the matches out of my pocket and flick one against the strip on the box. My heart races with ecstasy. Puffs of steam from my rapid breathing cloud my vision. I drop the match.

  It’s not enough. I need more. I strike another.

  It’s still as mesmerizing as it was when I was seven. I let this match burn down to the tips of my fingers before I drop it. Then I do it again and again. And again.

  My circle of fire glows against the night sky. It takes longer than I hoped to start gnawing away at the first tree, but when it does, everything picks up. Another tree starts to blacken; more brush lights up. Sparks crackle and pop and fling themselves into the air.

  I feel what I’ve been waiting to feel, what I haven’t felt since I watched the abandoned house go up in Ohio: Relief. Release. Control.

  But I’m not a monster. I don’t hurt anyone.

  I’m as high as I’m going to get and watching too long increases my chances of getting caught. I use my clear path to leave, feeling a little more empty with every step I take.

  When I see the flashing lights driving along the other side of the river, I run back to the bridge and crouch on the pedestrian walkway until the fire trucks zoom past.

  My heart returns to its normal pace. My scar purrs with contentment.

  I sneak back through the fence and the wall and cross the parking lot to my room. As I reach for the doorknob, something catches my eye; something that wasn’t there before.

  A cigarette on the sidewalk. Still burning.

  I couldn’t sleep. My euphoria dissolved on the sidewalk next to the burning end of that cigarette. I was filled instead with jumpy fear over whoever had been outside.

  I lay in my too-big bed under my too-warm covers all night, clawing at my scar and waiting for a police car to pull up. Waiting for a knock on my door.

  It never came. Either the person outside my room didn’t see me, or they didn’t turn me in. Whichever it is, I’m done. No more fires.

  In the morning, I don’t bother to put on my coat before stumbling to the office. Monica, fully dressed, is sitting at the table drinking her coffee and flipping through the newspaper. She looks up at me and smiles. Her eyes flit to my bare arm. Her face falls.

  “Good morning,” she says, trying to recover from the misstep. Dad must have told her about what happened to me.

  I grab a box of cereal and dump some into a bowl. I open the fridge. The milk’s gone. “Where’s the—”

  I’m interrupted by Dad opening the office door. He does it slowly, which is odd for him. Since I’ve been here, he’s thrown it off the hinges every time.

  He takes in my drawn, tired face; the fresh scratches across my scar; the fear in my eyes.

  Monica flaps her newspaper. “It looks like someone was camping illegally in the bosque. There was a forest fire.”

  Dad cringes. Monica just broke the cardinal rule. We don’t talk about fire. He steps forward and wraps his arms around me.

  “It’s okay, sweet pea. I won’t let anything happen to you. You don’t need to be afraid.”

  Tears fill my eyes. See? This is why I have to be good. For Dad. For Mom and Hailey. For the people who love me. The ones who would be devastated if they knew my secret.

  “I should go get dressed.”

  When I open the office door, I see a flash of gray. It moves so fast among the camouflaging debris that I’m not sure what it is. It runs into the condemned section.

  I’m tempted to follow it, but I can’t when Dad and Monica are on the other side of the office door.

  In my room, I peel off my pajamas and step into the shower. The massaging jets beat forcefully across my back, but they don’t do much to release my tension. The cigarette on the sidewalk freaked me out, but it doesn�
�t mean someone saw me heading for the woods. I’ll just have to be more careful from now on—not that I’m going to do it again.

  * * *

  —

  After my shower, I’m feeling a little better and ready to reclaim my abandoned dry cereal in the office. I open my door. The swoosh sends the gray blur—a kitten—running again. Its tail is tipped with white that bounces like a beacon into one of the condemned rooms.

  I’ve always wanted a kitten. Mom promised me one when I was in the hospital, but after I was released, she started dating Brian, and he’s allergic. No kitten for me.

  I glance over my shoulder. The construction crew is busy working on the other side of the parking lot. I don’t see Cam. Dad and Monica are huddled over plans laid out on a folding table.

  No one is paying attention.

  I dash into the condemned section where I’m not supposed to be and press myself against the inner wall of a room, out of sight of the crew.

  The kitten is on the floor in front of me, lapping up milk as it’s poured into a bowl.

  Poured into a bowl by a girl.

  The girl has her back to me. She murmurs to the kitten and reaches out to stroke it. I hold my breath so I won’t startle them, but it doesn’t work. The kitten’s head shoots up. The girl turns and jumps, sending the kitten off to hide in the debris outside.

  “It was hungry. I won’t take anything else. I swear.” She holds out the milk to me. Her eyes are wide and afraid, like the kitten’s. The look stabs me in the heart. Why is she here? A girl on the cold, dirty floor on a cold winter morning?

  And more importantly, was she here last night?

  I’m too far away to tell if she smells like cigarette smoke, so to disguise that my heart is racing and my palms are sweating, I force my face to smile.