Fire with Fire

KAT AND I ARE STANDING NEAR THE START OF LILLIA’S block. She’s on the phone with Pat. She’s been trying to get him on the phone for the last few minutes.

“Yo! What the hell! You’re supposed to come pick up me and Mary from Lillia’s, remember?” I can hear Pat’s voice on the other end. He doesn’t sound as chilled out as he was on Halloween night. His voice is sharper, more stressed. “Are you serious?” Kat makes an unhappy snort, and silently mouths to me that the car isn’t working again. Then she screams, “Call a damn mechanic, then!” into the phone. Pat shouts something back, and Kat hangs up on him.

“Fool needs to get his ass back to trade school.” She tucks the phone into her jeans pocket. “I could try Ricky, but I think he’s working, and anyway, only one of us can fit on his bike. We can walk back to Lil’s house and get her to drive us.”

“Or we could walk,” I suggest halfheartedly. I figure Kat will ixnay that plan right away because it’s far for both of us, and it’s kind of cold out. I don’t mind it, but she doesn’t seem to own a proper winter coat. To fight the falling temperatures, Kat keeps layering on sweatshirts and thermals and her army coat. She’s practically bulletproof at this point.

“All right,” she says, “we can head up the State Road and split off near the high school.” She unrolls her sleeping bag and wraps it over her shoulders like a big cape. “We’ve got plenty to talk about anyway.”

So we start walking. At first we walk quickly, but then we’re slow and leisurely about it, as if this were a summer afternoon. It’s pretty out. The sky is heavy with the threat of snow, and every so often we pass a house lit up with holiday lights.

The whole way, we go through Lillia’s decimation of Reeve. Second by second. Kat has a great memory; she remembers more details than I do. I was so nervous, hoping things would work out the way we’d planned. So I am her captive audience, clinging to every moment.

“I only wish I could have seen Reeve’s stupid mug when Lil shut him down!” Kat whoops. “Damn. You think Lillia’s parents have surveillance cameras?” She turns and faces the wind, and it blows all the hair straight off her face. “I feel like rich people always have security cameras. Plus, her dad’s a little psycho protective over her.”

“They might,” I say with a laugh. “We should ask her!”

Kat takes out her phone and texts Lil. “Tell you what, Mary. If they do, I’m going to get you a copy of that shit on infinite loop, so you can watch the moment of Reeve’s heartbreak over and over and over again, whenever you want. Merry Christmas, baby. You’ve been such a good girl this year.”

“Uhh,” I say, and giggle. “Have I?”

Kat laughs. “Maybe not by typical Santa standards, but you definitely deserve this.” She gets suddenly serious. “I hope this helps you. Makes things better.”

“It has, Kat. More than you even know.” As soon as I say the words out loud, they feel true.

Kat pumps her fists. Then she starts to sing, “Heartbreaker, love taker, don’t you mess around with me,” and her voice carries on the breeze. We pass a house where a man is up on a ladder, hanging lights, and he almost falls from the shock of it.

Hopefully, Lillia will text back, because I would have loved to have seen Reeve’s face too. Even so, I know it worked—my plan worked. Reeve’s heart is broken. There’s no doubt about it.

The whole thing reminded me of that day down at the docks, when Reeve told all those guys that he wasn’t my friend. My heart broke that day for sure.

Now we’re the same.

“Oh, hey. How old is your aunt Bette? Does she have any dresses from the twenties?”

“Kat, she’s not that old! She’s only forty-six.”

Kat guffaws. “My bad. I just thought she might have some vintage stuff you could borrow for New Year’s Eve.”

I swallow. “You don’t mean Rennie’s party?”

“Um.” Kat looks blankly at me for a second, then starts shaking her head. “Here’s the thing. I overheard someone talking about the bouncer password. Everyone at school will be there. I was thinking it’d be fun to crash. She won’t even notice us.”

“What about Lillia? She won’t want to go there.”

“We’ll convince her. What else is she going to do?”

When we get to the high school, Kat waves good-bye and heads toward T-Town. I pick up the bike path and head home.

I can feel it, inside. The peace and the quiet where the rage used to be. It’s like the lowest of low tide; all that bad stuff has gone out to sea. And then, I realize. I can go home now.

Not to Middlebury. Home home. Back with my parents.

Now that Reeve’s gotten his, now that I’ve got closure, what’s keeping me on Jar Island? I love Lillia and Kat to death, obviously, but they’re both out of here next year. It’s not like I’ve made a ton of other friends. It’s the perfect time to say good-bye to Jar Island. I came, I saw, I conquered. I’ll leave after New Year’s. My past is really the past. I’ll finally get to leave it behind.

I feel a twinge, thinking about leaving Aunt Bette behind, especially the way the house is. And the way our relationship is. But maybe she can come with me. Why not? She could use getting off this island as much as I could. Mom and Dad could hire someone to work on the house while it’s empty, get it back to tip-top shape by summer.

Yes, this is the plan. I stop at the water, watching a ferry chug off. I imagine being on it, sandwiched between my mom and dad. All of us so happy, back where I belong. With my family. With my life on track.

I fight the urge to immediately tell the girls. I don’t want to upset them, or let them try to convince me to stay, or at least to finish out the year. I feel the sort of peace that comes from any good decision. It’s the right thing to do.

Aunt Bette gets a call after dinner, and I can tell right away that it upsets her.

“What is it?” I say.

She sinks into a kitchen chair. “One of the galleries where I sell my paintings is closing down. They want me to come pick up my work tonight.” She glances at the clock and rubs her temples. “Now, actually.”

“Gee. Nice of them to give you a heads-up.” I say it sarcastically, with a mean laugh. But Aunt Bette doesn’t even crack a smile. “I’ll go with you,” I tell her. “You might need help carrying stuff.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, Mary, I don’t—”

“It’s no trouble. I’m finished with my homework.” That’s a lie, but whatever. How long would this take? As weird as things have been between us lately, I’m still worried about her. She might need me. She doesn’t have friends like I do, to have her back.

Anyway, there’s something about this that feels like good timing. Now that this gallery isn’t showing her work anymore, well . . . what reason does she have to stay?

I meet Aunt Bette in her Volvo. I was thinking she’d change into a pair of pants and a nice sweater, but she’s still in her housecoat. And her hair is wild. I don’t think she’s combed it today. And maybe not yesterday either.

Her hands are trembling. We’re driving kind of fast, taking the turns too sharp.

“You’re nervous.”

She glances at me out of the side of her eyes. “Mary. Please. Do not say a word, okay? Not to me, not to the owner. I want to get in and out of there as fast as I can.”

“Okay. Sure. You won’t even know I’m there. Promise.” Hopefully, I won’t have to say anything. But if I need to, I’m not going to hesitate. I learned that from Kat.

The gallery is down in T-Town, at the end of a small stretch of businesses. There are about half as many stores here as there are on Main Street in Middlebury, and none of them are as nice. Of all the parts of Jar Island, T-Town probably gets the least amount of tourists. It’s more a place for the locals. So I’m not surprised the gallery went under.

The gallery is a white building on a corner. It has a big window in front, and across the bottom of the glass, in gold-stencil, it reads art in the jar, lowercase letters because I guess that’s the thing? A temporary wall is directly behind the window. I figure that’s where they hung the best paintings. It’s bare now, pock-marked with nail holes.

The front door is propped open. I can see a ladder inside, a bunch of drop cloths, open cans of paint. There’s a woman sitting cross-legged on the floor in the center, her hair tied back in a black scarf. She’s thumbing through some papers inside a cardboard box.

Aunt Bette turns off the car and takes a few deep breaths. She walks in. I watch her from the car. The woman doesn’t smile; she doesn’t even seem to say hello to Aunt Bette. She just points toward the back.

I get a not-good feeling. I decide to walk in.

“I’m here to help my aunt,” I say as I come through the door, but the woman doesn’t acknowledge me. I step past her and head toward what looks like the main gallery space to my left.

Only this gallery isn’t one big room. It’s a lot of small rooms. I’m trying to figure out where Aunt Bette went to, and I end up getting turned around. I’m about to step through another doorway, when I realize I’m back at the main entrance.

“She looks like a witch!” a girl whispers. And then two people laugh.

I crane my neck around the door frame. Sitting with the woman is Rennie Holtz.

Oh my gosh. This is the gallery that Rennie’s mom owns.

“Like a homeless witch! I wonder if she got here by broom.”

Her mom lets out a laugh that sounds like a goose honking. “Quiet, Ren.”

Then Aunt Bette comes into the room. She’s got her arms full of her paintings. She’s about to scurry out when Rennie’s mom stands up. “Um, Bette? I wondered if I might give you some unsolicited advice.”

Aunt Bette doesn’t answer her right away. She walks toward the door and peeks outside at her car. I guess she’s looking for me. And when she doesn’t see me, her eyes dart around the gallery. I duck out of sight.

“Bette?” Rennie’s mom says again. I hear Rennie snicker.

“Yes. Yes. Sorry.”

I edge my head around the corner again.

“I had a lot of trouble with your new work. To be frank, it was making some people uncomfortable. I’m not saying it isn’t intriguing. It is. But I don’t think that kind of darkness is what most buyers are looking for.” My eyes narrow on the canvases in Aunt Bette’s hands. They are all muddy, dark, haunting. Slashes of blacks and grays. Nothing like her old paintings. It looks like the stuff of a madwoman. Painting hasn’t brought her back to the real world; it’s drowned her further in darkness. “You should go back to those darling lighthouses and seascapes.”

Aunt Bette’s face hangs. “I don’t paint to sell. I paint my world. And this is what it’s like now.” She turns to leave.

Rennie’s mom mutters, “She’s gone off the deep end.”

“Cuckoo!” Rennie says. And they both crack up laughing.

I am about to flame.

I look around the room. I want to do something to make them stop. I narrow my eyes on the open paint cans on the floor and will them to tip. Tip tip tip tip. They start to shake.

“Mary!”

Aunt Bette shouts from the front door. Rennie and her mother look wide-eyed.

I rush out past them and follow her to the Volvo.

“I told you not to come inside!” Aunt Bette is furious. “What’s the matter with you?” Her hands squeeze the steering wheel so hard the skin turns white.

“I finally understand, Aunt Bette. I can make things happen.”

“You shouldn’t be doing any of that. Whatever you’ve been doing. You need to stop.”

“They were calling you crazy! They were saying you’re a witch, that you’ve lost your mind. And anyway, I’ve been practicing. I can control it.” I take my seat and fold my hands calmly. “Aunt Bette, I’ve decided it’s time for me to leave. Right after New Year’s.”

I wait to see if Aunt Bette will say anything. If she’ll try to get me to stay. But if anything, she looks relieved.

“Yes, Mary. I think that would be the best thing for us all.” Then she rolls up her window tight, sealing us both inside like a tomb.