Punching the Entry: Flattening the hands prior to entering the water to create zero to little splash.
FIVE HOURS later I sneak into my grandfather’s house and fling my coat over a kitchen chair so I can hit the bathroom and check out the damage left by my smack. Grabbing my T-shirt at the back of my neck sends a dull pain shooting through the middle of my back, but I don’t wince. Not until I yank the shirt over my head and see the swollen red patch, running from the top of my shoulder blades to my waist. There are a few white patches where my skin didn’t make contact. But the edges around those places will be purple by morning. Nothing hits as hard as water. And for a few days, it’ll be a challenge to see the pool in the same inviting way.
I take two pain relievers from the medicine cabinet and swing the bathroom door open. GP is standing on the other side with his arms crossed over his chest. I think it says something really shitty about both of us that my first inclination is to sniff the air between us for traces of booze. But I’ve learned to read the level of pungency coming off him like a barometer for his mood. Tonight it’s hitting all the notes of looking-for-a-fight.
“Where’ve you been all night?” he asks without flinching.
“Out with the guys.” I walk past him to the fridge and look inside for something to eat. “It was Monarch Night.” I pull out the ham and cheese and start making the sandwich I missed out on earlier.
GP’s eyes narrow.
“You want one?” I ask.
“What I want is for you to explain what Phil Maddox was doing at your diving demo?”
Shit.
I reanimate some of the bravado I felt when I invited Uncle Phil in the first place and give GP the straightest answer I can, killing two birds with one stone. Sometimes it’s better to rip a Band-Aid off and beg thin-skinned forgiveness.
“I invited him,” I say, my mouth full of the first satisfying bite of my sandwich.
“You went to see him about this project of yours, even after I told you to stay away?”
This is starting to feel like an interrogation. The former Ellis Hollow fire chief in action.
I plead the fifth with tight lips and a tilt of my head.
“I see,” he says. “You’ve been going to see him all along, is that it?”
This is what Uncle Phil wanted, for me to be open, but having everyone riding my jock over Uncle Phil this week makes me snap.
“I don’t get what’s with you parents. Grandparents. Whatever. I’m almost eighteen. I think I can make my own decisions about the people I want in my life. It’s not like I can count on you for anything. Not with the way you’re always drinking.”
The minute the words leave my mouth I feel like an asshole. Living with GP is no picnic, but he is my only biological family left. He used to be fun when I was a kid, taking me to the fire station, letting me ride in the trucks.
“I don’t know which parents you’re talking about, but you might wanna watch where you’re stepping, kid. A lot of convoluted shit could get dug up.” He starts coughing like his throat can’t handle when he raises his voice.
I meant Iris’s dad of course. But I don’t feel like adding Mr. Fiorello’s obvious issues with Uncle Phil into the mix right now.
“I’m just saying. I need information and photos, and even when you’re sober you avoid the topic of family like it’s a land mine.”
“That’s because it is one.” I see the need for a drink rising in GP’s eyes. “If you have half the brains your father gave you, for better or worse, you’ll end your relationship with Phil Maddox before it blows up in your face. You’re a Mackey. If you need information, I’ll get it for you. Stop looking for something real where you won’t find it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not eighteen yet. Until then you’re my goddamn responsibility.”
“I get that. I know he’s not my real uncle, but I need his help right now with more than just this stupid project. You don’t have to get involved.”
GP swipes a hand across his mouth. “Actually, kid, if this is how it’s gonna be you ain’t leaving me much choice.”
He walks away. End of discussion. There’s a hitch in his step as he passes the Jack Daniel’s bottle on the coffee table. I get that too. Hell, I’m ready to go upstairs and light matches until I feel better. But tonight, GP does something unexpected. Tonight, he keeps walking without taking a drink.
I wolf down the rest of my sandwich in three bites and head to my room. Next time I see Uncle Phil, I’ll warn him GP’s pissed. Hopefully by then he’ll have some information for me, but that’s not the point. My gut is telling me to remember what Coach Porter said about people leaving traces behind. I felt more than traces of Mom when I stood at the site of our old house and it has me determined to prove that theory with or without help from GP or Uncle Phil. I still have the county clerk’s office field trip, and the internet.
What I really need help with is what Mom meant at the quarry about not blurting and what Uncle Phil meant by “Do it” the night of the fire. Not that I’ll be getting answers to those questions tonight.
I flop onto the bed, exhausted, but check my phone before setting my alarm in case one of the guys on the team had a problem after we left.
There’s a text from Les sent during the carnival that I ignore. And one from Iris, time stamped at 11:30 P.M.
Thanks for inviting me into your color-coded box. I had a great time.
Me too. Looking forward to our “date” on Monday.
She responds immediately. Doesn’t that make us a throuple?
I’d rather go as a couple.
She sends an emoji of a Cupid and it makes me feel a little better about almost drowning in front of her, even if Rocco did spend half the night talking to her once we rejoined the group. Probably because he knew it would bug me. Not that it mattered in the end. I worked up the balls to kiss Iris by the end of the night and I’m pretty sure that changed everything.
I look at the text from Les. Can we talk before Monday?
Jeezus. He won’t quit. The guy might want an A more than I do.
I have a shitload of homework. We can talk on the field trip.
I reach between my mattress and box spring to touch the book of matches I keep hidden there before closing my eyes on this seriously strange day. I steady my breathing, willing sleep, but I can’t relax. The musty smell of the reservoir is stuck to my skin, blending with the stink of bonfire and the tinge of chlorine that always hangs on me in varying degrees. I don’t want to sleep at all if it only brings me back to that deserted hallways full of doors. Not to mention the murderous intention to clobber my uncle. But if the itch I’m getting under my skin is any indication, that’s exactly where my restlessness night is headed.
I get up to take a hot shower like washing away the smells from Monarch Night will undo the fact that I freaked out in front of the team, then smacked and saw Mom in that secret place beneath the reservoir where people who refused to leave their homes got trapped and died.
I press the top of my head against the white tiles and let the hottest water I can stand run into my open mouth and over my sore muscles. I picture Rocco coming out of the water right after Iris saved me from drowning. The set smile he gave me when he said, “I’m good at keeping secrets. But you’re gonna owe me one,” like he knew exactly what that meant.
The smell of bonfire and musty water intensifies for the first few seconds, then starts to fade away. I fucked everything up for my family. And Rocco, for better or worse, was there right before it all happened. Sneaking around with me in the woods behind our house when we should have just stayed home.
I’ll keep your secret.
That’s what I whisper-yelled to Rocco as he took off through the woods that night.
Maybe I owe him more than one.
I recognize the sensation of a memory tugging at me this time and relax, letting it rise with the steam pulling away from skin.
* * *
I flinched when I recognized the sound of Dad’s fist slamming onto the dining room table. I’m surprised to learn my parents fight the same way whether I’m home or not. Their voices are muffled. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I stay in my room. Thinking about what just happened between Rocco and me in the woods.
I struck another match and watched it burn.
My parents thought Rocco and I were sleeping over at Chip’s. They don’t know Chip had to cancel, or that I stole a few pinches of Dad’s weed from the garage, or that Rocco and me snuck into GP’s and took a bottle of Wild Turkey from the liquor cabinet while he was sleeping. They definitely wouldn’t like to hear I pushed one of my best friends on the ground before I came home and crawled into my room through the window by way of the trellis. I reached for one of the small boxes of matches I kept under my mattress, then laid there, lighting them one by one until I felt calm again. Watching the flames devour the wooden matchsticks until there was nothing left but charred worms always made me feel better. I wouldn’t flick them out until the flames were so close to my fingers I felt the threat of being burned.
I stopped lighting the matches when I heard a few faint ticks on my bedroom window. When I pulled back the blue plaid curtains I saw Rocco in the middle of the trellis. I wasn’t sure if he was climbing up or down. When he saw me, his face folded in an apology, but I didn’t open the window to hear what he had to say, or let him in. I just shut the curtains, hoping he’d go away and forget the whole thing.
I went back to lighting matches until my eyelids grew too heavy to keep open.
Mom and Dad were quiet. I hoped that meant they’d made up and their argument wouldn’t spill over into the morning. I imagined a big pancake breakfast waiting for me. Mom would smile as she poured syrup over melting butter on a triple stack with a side of bacon.
I love the smell of bacon, fried to a well-done crisp.
I was jolted awake by my bedroom door bursting open. A heavy blanket was thrown over me like a net before someone wrapped me tight and lifted me from my bed.
“Let me go,” I groaned. Thirteen felt too old to be carried, and the blanket made it hard for me to breathe.
The temperature dropped suddenly and whoever had me started to run. I got bounced around like a rag doll and tried to fight my way free, but the arms clamped around me tighter.
“It’s okay. You’re safe.”
I didn’t know who or what I was safe from until my butt was plunked down on a slab of freezing metal and I punched away the blankets. A woman dressed in official blue was leaning away to avoid being struck. When I stopped swinging she helped me rewrap the blanket around my shoulders.
I looked past her and saw a burly fireman jogging away in the snow. He must have been the one who carried me outside. I stared at the neon-yellow stripes stretching across the back of his canvas coat as he rushed back toward our house.
* * *
I’M SHIVERING under the spray of water that’s run cold. This time, my flashback lines up with some stuff I already remembered, making it a little easier to start putting the whole night back in order.
I’m stepping into a pair of sweats when a sharp ping taps against the windowpane in my bedroom. I jump into the legs quickly and open the blinds, then the window. The cold blast of air that hits my face doesn’t convince me this isn’t still part of the same flashback; the similarities are too real.
I lean out farther and scan the empty yard. I’m about to shut the window when I think I catch a glimpse of movement along the edge of the woods. Rocco is the only person who’s ever knocked on my window in the middle of the night. So whether or not this is real, I owe it to the guy to hear him out this time. I grab my E.H.H.S. hoodie from the hook behind my door and head downstairs as quietly as possible, snatching my running shoes from the foyer before heading outside.
I want to call his name, but I’m afraid to wake GP so I slip into my shoes and jog toward the trees, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.
“Rocco!” I whisper-shout and wait.
But there’s nobody out here.
I trudge back to the house, worried I’m starting to hear things too.
New information from the night of the fire swims in my fully conscious mind: the paramedic, the fireman who carried me from my room.
I stop short when I spot something flapping on Bumblebee’s windshield.
Maybe all the bats haven’t left the belfry after all.
I’m expecting it to be another E.H.H.S. school paper. Maybe an article Iris wrote. We dropped her off over an hour ago. That’s enough time for her to hop in a car and drive over here to leave me a surprise. But the Monarch Monthly is just that, monthly. I doubt she would have written an article about our team before coming to one of our meets.
What I don’t expect to find is my own photo above a photocopied article from the Ellis Hollow Gazette. It’s a profile shot, but mostly the back of my head and a bit of my cheek and nose. I’m wrapped in the blanket that got thrown over me. Our house ablaze in the background.
SUSPICIOUS FIRE PROMPTS INVESTIGATION
Ellis Hollow Fire Chief Bruce Mackey found himself in for quite a surprise when he and his crew were called to the scene of a fire at his son’s home on Eight Moon Hill. The fire, originally listed as accidental in a report filed by the chief and county fire marshal, Curtis Jacobs, has come under investigation after an anonymous tip was received, claiming the veteran fire chief may have falsified reports to dissuade an investigation into this and a correlating fire that devastated his own home several years ago. Fire Marshal Jacobs and Chief Mackey were unreachable for comment. However, a source close to the family tells us that his daughter-in-law Sophia Mackey, a former championship springboard diver who has been the subject of headlines herself over the years, died in the unfortunate house fire in question. She is survived by her son Theo, a promising young springboard diver in his own right, and her husband Mitch Mackey, a revered sports psychologist known as The Mack Attack.
What the—
Is it possible GP knew I started the fire this whole time and covered for me? That’s almost worse than me not telling him, because it means he knows I’m a liar. I search the photo for any trace of my mom near the tree line for Blood Woods, but she isn’t there. Which means whatever I thought I saw when I went back to the empty lot was all in my head.
The only person who might leave this for me is Les if he really is trying to get inside my head so I’ll sabotage myself, like Uncle Phil said.
“Les,” I whisper-yell his name, once, twice. “Are you out here watching? You want to talk to me so bad. Here I am.”
My only answer comes as a car engine starting, at least a block away.
It’s a hard to believe anyone on the team would do something this shitty. Then again, it’s hard to believe Les had it in him to rip 4½ Twists in the first place, which makes me wonder if we can really know another person at their core. For all I know, this is the real Les Carter and everything else is just an act. It’s not like I don’t know a thing or two about façades.