The Fire (4 page)

“We will want to have a class party, of course,” said Mrs. Shevvington, “to celebrate the end of school.”

Everybody wanted a party. Even people who had had a terrible school year wanted a party.

“We’ll have it at my aunt’s summer house,” Vicki commanded. Vicki was wealthy, and never lost an opportunity to say so. Her aunt owned a house right on the ocean, one of the few with actual sand rather than rocks and cliffs. The beach was only a few yards wide, but you could spread a towel on it. Maybe two or three towels. Above the beach was a wide meadow, and there they could play volleyball, softball, and Frisbee.

“How generous of you, Vicki, dear,” said Mrs. Shevvington. She was sticky, like the back of a stamp. She caught children to her: first their eyes, later their souls. The smile searched the room like a fisherman trolling. The children ducked their heads, staring into the corners of the room, or down into their laps. They all had their own ways of avoiding the smile.

It was Robbie that the smile caught today. It changed his posture, made his breathing ragged. His thin, little boy’s chest plopped nervously up and down.

“Robbie,” said Mrs. Shevvington, in her cruel, teasing voice, “I will put you in charge of organizing the class party.”

“
I
want to be in charge!” cried Vicki. “It’s on my aunt’s beach.”

“I think Robbie has hidden qualities of leadership,” said Mrs. Shevvington. Her lips were thin as pencil lead. She drew a smile with her pencil lips and laughed. “Well-hidden qualities, of course.”

Robbie flinched.

“But we want to encourage Robbie, don’t we, class?” said Mrs. Shevvington. “We want to bring out his best, don’t we?” Her sticky eyes absorbed their snickering laughter. “Come to the front of the class, Robbie.”

They all knew Robbie hated standing up alone; he couldn’t talk once their faces stared at him; his cheek would twitch. It would not bring out his best. It would destroy him.

Destroy, Christina thought.

For a terrible, selfish moment she was glad that the smile had caught Robbie and not her.

“Oh, Mrs. Shevvington,” Vicki pouted. “He can’t do anything right. It’ll all be spoiled.”

“That’s been true in the past,” Mrs. Shevvington agreed. “But every student of mine should have many chances.” Her eyes ceased to blink. They narrowed; they pierced Robbie like Indian arrowheads. Slowly Robbie got out of his chair. Mrs. Shevvington’s eyes hauled him past Vicki, past Gretch, up to the front of the class. Two dozen pairs of eyes watched him now. “Don’t shuffle, Robbie,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “You look like a second-grader who needs to be excused.”

Robbie flushed an ugly mottled purple.

The class tilted toward Christina, waiting for her to stand up for Robbie, the way she always did. Christina avoided their eyes. How many times have I gotten involved? she thought. Complained to my parents, told other kids’ parents, let the guidance office know what she’s like. Don’t you see how Mrs. Shevvington undermines us, and lays traps for us, and lets us bleed in front of everybody? I say to them. But the grown-ups always say, Christina, why must you always exaggerate? Why must you tell so many yarns? Mrs. Shevvington is trying to build your self-esteem; she’s a fine teacher; you just have a bad attitude.

Christina ignored Robbie. She pretended to study her English book. There on the inside cover were penciled doodles. Candles, flames, and the tips of matches. A shiver took possession of Christina’s spine and slithered over her tanned skin. She could not remember drawing those. She usually doodled tic-tac-toes.

Fire, she thought. The candle. Did I — ? No, I couldn’t have. I don’t do things like that.

Mrs. Shevvington’s little black eyes abandoned Robbie; they focused on Christina; a smile like fungus on a rotted log grew out of Mrs. Shevvington’s thin lips. Christina traced the fire doodles with her finger.

Robbie’s cheek jerked. He wet his lips.

“Robbie’s older sister was also weak,” said Mrs. Shevvington, her eyes centering on Christina. “It’s in the family genes. Val Armstrong had to be institutionalized.”

Christina was the only seventh-grader with courage. She thought it was because of her island upbringing. She was granite, Christina of the Isle. Any other day, she would have retorted, “
Your
son had to be institutionalized, too, you know, Mrs. Shevvington. Your genes are nothing to brag about, either. You only said that to be mean.”

But today she could not worry about Robbie, or his sister Val. For she could not get her mind off fire. She saw the flames on which they would roast hot dogs and the coals over which they would toast marshmallows. Vaguely she heard Vicki take over the picnic organization, after it was agreed that Robbie was too stupid; remotely she saw Robbie creep back to his seat. Gretch and Vicki discussed the menu. Suddenly it seemed very important to arrange for the bonfire. What if Vicki and Gretch forgot about the beach fire?

Christina interrupted. “First of all,” she said urgently, “we’ll need a huge fire. We should start gathering driftwood right now for the bonfire.”

“A fire comes first?” repeated Mrs. Shevvington. Her f’s and her s’s hissed and curled like snakes.
A fffjire comesssss ffffirssssst.
“How interesting, Christina. You have a special interest in fire, don’t you?”

Christina nodded. “I love fire,” she agreed. “Our bonfire should have flames up to the sky.” She imagined craggy boulders, the bonfire thrusting among them, framed against the sky and the sea. She smiled to herself.

Mrs. Shevvington’s eyes grew like puddles in a flood. “
Ffffflames up to the sssssky.
” she repeated. She turned to the class. “Say it with me,” she told them, and they said it with her, like some horrible rhyme:
A ffffire comesssss ffffffirssssst
…
Ffffflames up to the sssssky
…
Chhhrrrissssstina lovesssss fffffire.
…

Mrs. Shevvington’s eyes glittered like flecks of mica on rocks. In her furry voice, rasping like a cat’s tongue on soft skin, she whispered, “There have been several suspicious fires in town lately, haven’t there, class?”

A
S A HIKER IN
the woods checks herself for ticks, for the rest of the school day Christina searched herself continually for matches. She would never again wear clothes with pockets. She would stop carrying a purse. That would foil them.

The nerve of them! Sneaking into Christina’s room, touching her clothes, fingering her pockets, stuffing her handbag, starting rumors!

And they’ll laugh, she thought, because I knew all along and never could convince anybody. Every terrible thing that happened they weaseled out of because they could use their own son to blame it on! That bonfire last winter, when my whole wardrobe was burned in the snow — when everybody blamed me and said I was going island-mad. It was them, I know it was them.

Twice now — at least — the Shevvingtons had skulked through Christina’s room, opened her drawers, handled her clothing, played tricks with fire and matches.

They got Anya by working on her fears, she thought. They won’t do it that way with me. They won’t try to make
me
afraid. They’ll use rumor. They’ll arrange my world so that other people become afraid of me.

At the end of the day, Robbie, slinking down the hall like her shadow, crept up behind her. His fingers touched her like falling ice cubes. “Robbie,” snapped Christina, “if you hadn’t scared me out there —”

“Listen,” hissed Robbie.

“Stop whispering. You sound like a snake. Nothing but s’s.”

Robbie said, “I’m going to visit my sister Val in the institution. You know, the mental home where Mr. and Mrs. Shevvington talked my parents into putting her? The social worker has to visit a bunch of patients there this afternoon, and he said he’d take me along tomorrow after school. You want to come?”

Val, Val, who was crimson and blue.

Last winter, being punished for something she had not done, Christina had been confined alone in Schooner Inne. And that day, peeking into the empty guest rooms that ringed the tilting balcony, she understood why Mr. and Mrs. Shevvington owned a guest house, but did not advertise nor accept guests. Each room was a victim. No flesh and blood would occupy those rooms. They were already occupied.

With ghosts.

The Shevvingtons had even furnished the rooms to match. That was one of their hobbies: admiring their guest rooms, cherishing the memories of their collection of empty girls.

Anya had been number 8; the room meant for her had been fragile like lace, its carpets and cushions streaked with silver and gray — like storm clouds.

Anya had been saved. Christina and Blake had accomplished that.

But Robbie Armstrong’s sister, Val, whom the Shevvingtons had chosen the year before —Val had been lost.

Number 7 was Val. Carpet blue as the sea in summer, walls rich violet, like sunset. Dark like a crimson flower in a crystal vase. This was the living Val: Val before the Shevvingtons. And now Val was mindless on a narrow cot in a quiet hospital.

Or was she mindless? Would she have clues? Would she have knowledge? Would she be able to say to Christina, from the fragments of her left in the real world,
This is how to stop the Shevvingtons?

Room 8, meant for Anya’s ghost — stormy and fallen — could be redecorated. It could become Christina’s, a room of fire and islands.

Seventeen days were enough.

The minute school was out, everybody converged on Vicki’s aunt’s beach to study the grounds and make the important decisions. Most of the girls stood around arguing about who would bring the volleyball net and who would supply the radios and cassette players. Most of the boys scoured the beach for logs, pieces of smashed boat, steps off dock ladders, and other debris. Christina forgot Mrs. Shevvington. She loved being outdoors. Anything to do with the beach and the sea was home to Christina.

Christina and Jonah climbed over seaweed-slippery rocks, dragging wood, until the pile was taller than any of them. “Now that,” said Christina, surveying the mountain of wood, “will make a real fire.”

“Ssssshhhhhh!” said Jonah. He looked around uneasily. “Don’t talk so loud, you dumbo,” he whispered.

“Why not?”

“Didn’t you see Mrs. Shevvington looking at you? Her eyes stuck to you like chewing gum, Chrissie. There may be only seventeen more days till the end of the school year,” said Jonah, “but there’s next year to worry about, too. Eighth grade. Think of all they could plan over the summer, Chrissie. Be careful.”

Eighth grade. Room 8.

Did it mean something? Was it fate?

“The Shevvingtons don’t scare me anymore,” she said, which was a lie. “Besides, they won’t be here next year. He’s getting a job in Chicago, and they’re putting Schooner Inne on the market.” She looked down at the sand at her feet. She was foot-doodling. She often wrote her initials in the sand. But these were not initials. They were —

“Leaving?” repeated Jonah. He frowned. “But they have such a perfect setup here. The town adores them. They can get away with anything. Why would they leave?”

Candle flames. She had drawn fire. Was Mrs. Shevvington right? Who had drawn those English book doodles? The memory of the candle in the coffee can came back to her. Her own urgent voice saying fire had to come first.

Christina erased her sand marks. Her leg was shaking, as if she had just fallen or nearly had an accident. “Who cares?” she said. “They’re going.” Her head filled with candles and arson, with slippery cliffs and tumbling rocks.

Gretch was promising to bring a badminton set.

“Be sure to buy extra birdies,” ordered Vicki. Vicki had a small notebook in which she was writing down everybody’s promises. “See, Robbie,” she said, “this is how it’s done. When your hidden leadership qualities rise up, be sure to bring a notebook along.”

This is what they had learned in seventh grade: how to taunt each other. Mrs. Shevvington treated the seventh-graders like pets. Dogs to be kicked — like Robbie. Dogs to be put on a leash — like Vicki. Vicki would do anything Mrs. Shevvington told her to.

Jennie said eagerly that she had a shiny new croquet set; she would bring her croquet set.

“Nobody wants to play croquet,” said Vicki scornfully, “it’s slow and pointless. Don’t bring your old croquet set.”

The delight vanished from Jennie’s eyes. Shame replaced it. Jennie hung her head and scuffled her old sneakers in the sand.

Vicki and her best friend Gretch were “in.” This was a phenomenon Christina had read about, but never experienced till this year, as the island had so few children. Seventh-graders angled for the chance to share a table with Vicki and Gretch. Vicki and Gretch were given extra desserts. Their opinions were sought and their jokes laughed at.

Now Jennie was the joke.

Fat, ugly Katy stepped up close to the important notebook. “I’ll bring the marshmallows,” she offered. “And I can cut plenty of green twigs to toast them on. We have lots of good bushes on our property.”

Vicki smiled. She touched her own silk-smooth hair, admired her own slender ankles. “How suitable, Katy,” she said, in the smooth, vicious voice she had learned from Mrs. Shevvington. “Marshmallows match your face.”

Christina lost her temper. “I’ll give
you
a marshmallow face!” she yelled. She hit Vicki.

Jonah pulled Christina off. “Don’t give her a bloody lip,” he said, “or you’ll be in trouble again. Less than three weeks to go, Chrissie. Stay good!”

“
I
don’t get into trouble!” said Christina. How could her only ally talk like that? Jonah knew the truth; had always known the truth. “The Shevvingtons force me into it.”

“Oh ho!” said Vicki. “Now you’re going to blame poor Mr. and Mrs. Shevvington because you hit me. I’ll tell you something, Christina Romney. Not everybody believes that the Shevvingtons’ son did all the stuff you said he did.” Vicki covered her swelling mouth with a manicured hand. “Like that time your entire winter wardrobe burned in a bonfire in the snow? You can’t blame that on their son, Christina. We know better.” Vicki raised her voice to reach her audience. “You’re an island girl. They’re all half crazy. You set that fire yourself.”