“She’s such a bitch. I can’t even take a walk because it’s after eight.” Rachel opens the door again and says loudly, “It’s like living in a jail. Except the food is worse. Oh my god, who even has VHS anymore?”

  “There’s not much here, but if I have to watch Big Brother 4 one more time I’m going to blow my brains out.” I flip the tapes one more time and then pile them back on the shelf.

  “Hey!” Rachel pulls out the tape I just put down. “Titanic. I know it’s total cheese, but my mom and I used to watch it all the time. She was crazy over it for, like, a year and a half. I probably still know all the lines by heart. We can use the TV in the basement.”

  Rachel wasn’t kidding when she said that she still knew every word of dialogue. We get to the end where the girl is hogging the raft.

  I groan. “I can’t believe you like this movie, Rachel. It’s so weak.”

  “Shut up.”

  I give her a little kick. “You’d better get on the floor—there’s not enough room on the couch for us both.”

  “There’s totally enough room. Shut up.”

  “Exactly. There’s totally enough room. On the floor and on the couch.” I give her another little kick in the rear.

  We watch Leonardo start to sink, leaving nothing but bubbles on the surface.

  Rachel looks down at her hands. “Yeah, well…it’s kind of fitting, you know? Someone had to die. Sometimes you gotta save yourself.”

  I think of Mom walking in front of that bus. I don’t know if she’d be Kate or Leo. Rachel sniffs, and I know she’s thinking the same thing about her mom.

  The weird thing about the way Mom died is I can’t remember the last thing we said to each other. I’ve been trying to remember for the longest time, but it was probably just “See ya” when I walked out the door to go to school. She was making a sandwich when I left, and I think she just kind of waved with a mustardy butter knife in the air. I don’t know if she ever said goodbye.

  Movie deaths are better. You always know when someone is dying because they’re gasping or shivering and looking pale and tragic. And you’re always ready with a great line like, “I’ll never let you go,” and somehow everyone believes it.

  Chapter Four

  It’s the first time I’ve ever snuck out of anywhere. Climbing out the window is actually pretty easy. Good on Darla for providing us with a rope ladder in case of fire. Or, you know, boredom.

  Rachel hands me the screen, and I put it behind the headboard. It slips and lands on the hardwood floor with a loud thump.

  “Ally,” Rachel whispers, “could you not be a retard? For fuck’s sake.”

  Rachel ties the rope ladder to the leg of the bed and swings the rest of it out the window. She scrambles on and disappears from sight.

  I grab the top of the ladder and swing my feet out the window. The night is cool. I get a little shiver as I climb down. Rachel is putting on lipstick as she waits for me. She starts walking away the minute I touch my foot to the last rung.

  “Hurry up. The bus will be there in five minutes.”

  On the bus, Rachel brings out Darla’s makeup bag. She paws through it, trying to find an eye shadow that doesn’t suck.

  It was a city bus like this one that killed my mother. Or that Mom stepped out in front of.

  I don’t want to cry in front of Rachel, so I stare as hard as I can out the window, trying not to blink. I wonder if the passengers knew what they hit, or if it was just a crash and then nothing. I try to picture what it would be like to have been on that bus, maybe riding with a mom who isn’t depressed. Who doesn’t wake you up in the middle of the night to cry in your bed. Who remembers to pack you lunches. Who laughs on the phone with your grandmother, maybe while you learn to ride a bike with your dad. You’re just sitting there, being all normal. Thinking about your day at school, and then whump, blood on the windshield and everyone screaming, grabbing their seats and trying to hold on. Except for you, because you can grab your mom, who has an arm pinning you, holding you for dear life.

  “Jesus, Ally, get a grip,” Rachel whispers in my ear, but she puts an arm around me and kind of half hugs, half nelsons me.

  I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, and the bus stops with a loud, slow squeal and the robotic voice calls out, “Ocean View Drive.”

  We leave the bus, and Rachel leads the way through the dim light to the beach. We go to this cliff with about a million tiny stairs going down it. Even from the top, we can hear people walking up and down the steps. Farther on, there’s the faint sound of laughter and drums.

  At the bottom of the steps, the beach widens and there’s a strong smell of smoke, from the bonfires and the pot. There are bunches of naked people lounging around the fires, and vendors selling trinkets and food right near the steps. Rachel holds out a hand.

  “Okay, give me a tenner so we can get some vodka watermelon.”

  I reach into my pocket and pull out a ten. I haven’t really had anything to drink before except a few sips of beer, but now seems like as good a time as any to learn how to drink. Even if it is in watermelon.

  Rachel balances a large plate of sliced watermelon. We go and sit on some driftwood and suck the fiery-tasting melon. I sink the toes of my runners into the sand.

  I divided $187 between my shoes, bra and underwear. I put the bills in plastic ziplock bags I took from Darla’s kitchen. It seems like a lot of money, but it’s not going to last long. I’ll give myself twenty bucks to spend tonight, and then that’s it. I gotta think of a plan.

  “Hey.” Rachel pokes me in the ribs. “Check it out.”

  There’s a flaming circle moving toward us. A guy is in the middle of the flames, walking slow and steady, tossing fire with an easy grace. All casual, like he could have been whistling. He walks toward us, tossing the flaming sticks higher and higher, so that they look like long streaks of light.

  He looks about eighteen, with a ballcap pulled low and a couple of tattoos on his bare shoulders. His arms flex every time he tosses up a burning torch, and there’s a line of sweat trickling down his face. I can hear the whoosh, whoosh of the fire as it careens into the sky and back again. People gather around us. He juggles both sticks into one hand, pulls off his ballcap and throws it to the ground, close to our feet.

  He starts juggling again, turning to face the crowd as he winks at Rachel and me. Rachel tries the through-the-eyelashes sexy stare. I concentrate on not reaching into my bra to dump a bagful of money into the empty hat.

  “Welcome to the best traveling fire-breathing beach show in the world! My name is Tate, and I’ll be your fire breather for tonight. If you’re coming to watch me, you have my personal guarantee that I will not accidentally light any more than two of you on fire.”

  There’s a small ripple of laughter in the crowd. A couple of cigarette ends glow brightly as people take a drag or light up and walk away.

  “With this in mind,” he continues, “I’d like to ask for a volunteer to help me with tonight’s routine.”

  A few hands wave in the air, but he points at me. My heart skips a beat as I look up stupidly to see if my hand was in the air. It was not.

  “How about you? Come on up here, cutie.”

  Rachel grabs my hand. “She’s shy. But I’ll help.”

  “I’ll help.” I shake Rachel off and walk over to the fire guy, who is now spinning the torches in an arc above his head, dangerously close to his dark brush cut. It looks like one solid arc of light, the fire chasing its own tail.

  He flips the torches up and catches them in one clean movement.

  “Are you afraid of fire, sweetie?”

  I shake my head no, and he hands me two torches. “Good stuff. Hang on to these, will you?”

  I hold the torches away from my body. Already I can feel the heat coming in waves near my face. He juggles the other two torches lightly, a quick back and forth between his hands.

  “Now listen, I’m going to have you toss me a torch as I juggle these two. Toss too low, and you’ll light my balls on fire. Toss too high, and my hair’s going up. Actually, just to be safe, if you have to throw badly, throw badly up high.”

  The audience is loosening up now, giving him a few laughs. I know it’s just for show, but part of me likes the way he half grins at me, like we’re the only ones in on the real joke. I’m not nervous either. I’m a really good juggler, and I’ve won a couple of provincial rhythmic gymnastics events. Mom got it in her head that I was missing out by our moving so much, so she always put me in the same thing—gymnastics. Really, though, I think the first time she just needed to send me to camp for two months so she could get her head on straight. But I did like rhythmic gymnastics. I liked the certainty of gravity. I liked how whatever went spinning up into the sky would land solidly back in the palm of your hand.

  “Okay, darling, when I say now, you throw that flame over here.”

  He’s juggling the two torches over and under one leg. Even from close up, it looks like the orange flames are licking the hem of his shorts.

  “Now!” He throws both torches up high, and I toss him another. He catches it lightly, and the audience claps as he incorporates it into a smooth juggle. Tate rewards me with another wink.

  I can’t help but show off a bit. I toss the remaining torch up, like the clubs in gymnastics. It’s really the same thing. Only on fire.

  It twirls and arcs in the night sky like a crazy star. The balance is good. I give a little spin and catch it behind my back.

  The crowd ooohs, and I see him falter, almost miss a beat on the last torch, as he watches me. My skin burns with his gaze.

  Chapter Five

  “Looks like the lovely lady is trying to steal my show!” Tate recovers quickly and flashes me a grin as he juggles his torches. “Let’s see what she’s done to my heart.” He brings up the three batons and angles them toward the sky, then leans in and blows on the flames until they leap up, a supernova of fire. Everyone ooohs, and I hear myself doing it too.

  “I’d like to remind everyone that it costs ten bucks to go to a movie and you won’t find anything real at the movies. Every show I do is dangerous, but I do it all for you, so if you like what you see, my hat is right there.” He juggles the fire in a crazy arc, spinning it high into the air. “And now, folks, for a little piece I like to call You Are What You Eat.”

  With one hand still flipping the other batons, Tate easily catches the third and brings it to his mouth. The flaming torch flares orange and disappears into his mouth as he closes his lips around it. He pulls the extinguished end out and smiles at me and then quickly puts out the other two torches. The beach is suddenly dark, but the hazy white outline of the last flame burns into my eyes.

  He picks up his hat and starts casually walking around the crowd. People throw in quarters and a few toonies. I yank a ten-dollar bill out of my pocket and walk up to him. I try to put it into the hat, but he grabs my hand lightly.

  “Hey, beautiful, assistants don’t have to pay.”

  I’m glad it’s dark, because I can feel the red creeping up all over my face. I want to be smart and witty. I want to have the perfect thing to say. I want to tell him how it made me feel to see that rush of fire dance from his mouth.

  “I want to pay. It was great, it was really…great.”

  “Tell you what.” He throws his torches into a canvas bag and zips it up. “Let’s leave this place and go out for drinks, and I’ll call it even.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rachel shaking sand out of her shoes. I can’t leave her and go with some guy I just met. I have this crazy urge to put my hand on his bare chest, to feel the ripple of muscle that runs there. He thinks I’m old enough to go for a drink. I could be anyone at all to him.

  “I can’t tonight.” I could be the kind of girl to make him wait. “I have plans. But give me your number and I’ll call you.”

  We don’t have any paper, so he scribbles his number on my hand with a Sharpie. His handwriting is large and loopy, and his number tingles on my palm. He hangs on to my hand for a second longer and grins. “Anytime you need a light, give me a call.”

  I laugh. “Does that line ever work?”

  “We’ll see. Call me anyway.”

  He shoulders his bag and walks away, pants hung loose around his hips, his bare back starting to blend into the night.

  “Holy shit, you got his number?” Rachel grabs my wrist and twists it around so that she can see the writing on my hand. “What is he, like, twenty? You have all the luck.”

  The next day, I head out to find a pay phone. I have to walk to the park to get to the only phone booth I’ve seen in ages. It’s decrepit, and the booth smells like piss.

  I take a breath as I slide the quarters into the slot and dial his number. The line clicks open on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Tate, it’s Ally calling.” There’s silence, and I add lamely, “From the show last night.”

  “Ally who isn’t afraid of fire. I’m glad you called.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I was thinking of you. I’m at the park on Twenty-Second Street, with some friends. Want to come and hang out?”

  When I get to the park, I want to hide behind a tree and just watch him. He’s surrounded by a few girls, and I can see the juggling pins flashing in all directions as he keeps up his chatter. The girls titter around him.

  Screw it. What do I have to lose? I saunter up to the group, trying my best to look like a twenty-year-old who doesn’t care about walking up to a group of strangers.

  “Hey, fire girl! Catch.” One of the girls moves to see who he’s talking to. Tate tosses two pins my way, one after another. I catch them as I walk and toss them back, timing my rhythm to his.

  He juggles the two pins back into his formation and grins at me.

  “Ally here has a bit of circus freak in her, don’t you?”

  I shrug. “A bit. I’m good with juggling.”

  “And fire?”

  The girls glare at me. The tall brunette rolls her eyes at her friend.

  “Sure.”

  Tate catches the pins out of the air and smiles. He looks directly at me, and I feel wobbly. I felt better when I had something to do with my hands. Some reason to be talking to this guy, like the girls around him don’t even exist.

  The brunette gives a sniff and picks up her bag. “Tate, I gotta go. My shift’s starting.”

  “Sure. See you later.” She leaves, her friends trailing along.

  Tate reaches into his open bag and brings out four more pins.

  “Wanna play?”

  Chapter Six

  Tate tosses the pins at me so quickly that I can’t do anything but concentrate on the rhythm of his juggling. We’ve got eight pins going now, and I can feel a small trickle of sweat running down the small of my back. I’d like to look as calm as he does. I seriously doubt I can flirt and juggle at the same time.

  “You’re pretty smooth with the pins. Have you ever done poi?”

  “I don’t think so.” I can’t tell if he’s talking about juggling or drugs.

  “It’s awesome. I wish it were dark—I could show you fire poi. But you’ll get the idea with this.”

  Tate reaches into his bag and pulls out a string with fluorescent round weights on either end. He tosses it into the air and then catches it deftly in the middle, spinning it until it looks like a single circle around him.

  “I think I’m going to try some fire poi by the end of the festival season. I love the patterns that you can make when you’re working with fire.” He spins it and starts throwing it from hand to hand. “Want to try? You in those shorty shorts—I’ll bet you’d dazzle everyone. You could call it balls on fire.”

  I lean forward and hit him in the chest. His skin is warm and soft. “You’re awful. But yeah, I’ll try.”

  He hands the poi to me and I toss it up, watching the way it heaves in the air and falls before I catch it in the center. The rope is smooth and comfortable in my palm. Rope was never my forte in rhythmic gymnastics, but the weights on either end make this seem more like clubs.

  I toss it a few times, getting the feel of it, and then think, Why not show him a little more of what I can do? It hits me suddenly that gymnastics isn’t as dorky when you’re not in a sparkly outfit.

  I toss the poi high up, do a front flip and land in the splits, one arm stuck out to catch the poi. It lands a foot away with an embarrassing thump. Of course.

  “Holy shit!”

  I don’t want to look up at Tate. I’d like to gather what’s left of my dignity and walk away and never see him again. But it’s very hard to get up gracefully from the splits. I look up. Tate is holding the poi, and his forehead is creased.

  “We should do an act together. If you can do that with it on fire, we would clean up!”

  “I’m sure I could. Heck, I might even be able to catch it next time.” Even as I say it, I can picture my hair on fire, acrid smoke rising from my bald and burnt scalp. Then he smiles, and I figure what the hell—I’m already on fire.

  After an hour and a half of demonstrating my most back-bending moves, I feel gross and sticky.

  Tate tosses the poi in his bag. “I’m hot. Let’s go to the kiddie pool.”

  “Are we allowed?”

  He throws his head back and laughs. His teeth are even and white. “It’s a public park. And besides, who cares?”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6