Breathing Fire, page 3
The kiddie pool is at the end of the park. It’s so shallow that not even a poorly supervised toddler could drown in it. Tate leans down and rolls up his jeans. I walk right into the pool. The water is beautifully cool. It’s only up to my ankles, but it feels like my body temperature has dropped about five degrees.
Suddenly there’s a cold dump of water over my head, and I yelp and turn around to find Tate standing just behind me, ready with another handful of water. I sprint for the other side of the pool, trying my best to skirt the google-eyed babies sitting all over the place. Tate catches the back of my T-shirt and pours the water down my neck. My feet get tangled up with his, and we splash down into the water, laughing. Tate leans down and kisses me softly. A flush of heat runs all through my body.
A park employee leans down and taps Tate on the shoulder. “Hey, lovebirds, this is a pool for babies, not for making ’em. Get out.”
Tate scrambles to his feet and offers his arm to help me up too. We’re both dripping and grinning like idiots.
I step out of the pool and Tate follows, saying “Sorry” with a backward glance at the closest mother and then, “Nice baby.”
“I’m soaked.” Tate squeezes out his T-shirt. “I live around here. Why don’t we go dry out at my apartment? It’s not far.”
I know I shouldn’t. But I’m walking beside him, heart thumping, and he slips his hand in mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I belong to him.
His apartment is a few floors up, a small bachelor with a boy-sized mess. Clothes are strewn on the floor, and there are piles of dishes in the sink. I close the door. Tate presses me up against it, leaning his hard body into mine. His hands are on my waist, and it feels like he could lift me right up if he wanted to. He kisses me again, running his hands up my sides, lifting my shirt as he goes.
I feel light-headed, hot and cold at the same time. My wet T-shirt slides over my head, and some part of me that is still able to speak says, “No.”
Tate stops short, his hand arrested on its path to my bra clasp. “No?”
I take a breath and try to slow my rushing blood. This is going too quick.
“Just…I just need a second. I mean, this is going a little fast for me.”
Tate takes a step back and a long breath, with his eyes closed. Then he opens them up again and smiles at me. “Absolutely. I’m going to get a dry shirt. Do you want one?”
Chapter Seven
I have to remember to tuck my tank top into my shorts so that the stray material doesn’t catch fire. It’s these small things that have me nervous. Normally, if I screw up a routine, I end up with a few points docked, not third-degree burns.
My bedroom door opens. Rachel squeezes in and shuts the door behind her.
“I can’t believe you’re actually going to do this. Five bucks says you light yourself on fire.”
“Make it ten. Let’s get going.”
When we get to the beach, Tate isn’t there yet. I unpack the supplies he gave me and lay them out in a neat line. I can see people watching me, and I want to make it seem like I know what I’m doing. Rachel hasn’t shut up since we left the house.
“So, what’s your stage name, Ally? You should totally go for something Asian—people love that. Like maybe the Chinese Dragon. Or Mei-Mei the Fire Queen.”
I laugh. “Oh screw off. What are you? The White Wraith?”
Rachel pouts and looks at her skin. “I’m getting tan.” Then she brightens. “There’s your man. I’m looking forward to the ten bucks.”
Tate is coming, hat pulled down low over his eyes. Even from here I can see the grin playing at the edge of his lips. That’s part of what I love about him, the way he always looks delighted and amused when he sees me. A flush of heat runs down my body. I wish the show were over so we could get to the secluded logs on the far side of the beach that we’ve claimed for the last two weeks.
The routine is simple—I could have done it when I was ten—but it depends on me not getting distracted when Tate throws me a club or winks at me or juggles with his shirt off. Tate puts an arm around me and leans down to kiss me deeply. He takes his time. When he finally lifts his head, he smiles at me.
“Ready?”
“You bet.”
Tate lights up three torches and hands them to me, then lights another three. By now the weight of the torches is familiar, but I’m still getting used to the whoosh of heat that comes in waves over my face and hands.
“Ladies and gentleman, dressed and naked, come and behold the best fire show on the beach.”
Tate starts to juggle his three flaming torches and I do the same, finding comfort in the regular rhythm of the simple juggle. The clubs slap into my hands easily, and I feel myself start to loosen up.
Tate winks at me. On cue, we each toss a club to the other and watch the arc of fire in the dark blue sky as the torches pass close enough that it seems like they’re part of the same flame. There’s a rustle as people draw nearer, and I see one woman leaning back, hand over her heart. The flames make their own sound, too, a cross between that of wind and suction.
I toss two clubs to Tate, and he juggles all five with ease. I have the last club, and this is where we’re supposed to awe the crowd. I give it two long spins in the air, watch the wind massage the flames slightly to the right and then give it a hard toss forward and straight ahead. The club spins crazily in the air. I picture my body as flame as I spring into a backflip, land into the splits and then wait for the torch to land neatly in my hand. The moment it hits, there’s wild applause. I spring up, lean all the way back and catch the other torch that Tate tosses to me from his juggling. Bent back, I spin the torches in opposite directions, right myself, and then spin around until it seems like I’m surrounded by a circle of fire.
There is a drawn-out oooh from the crowd. Tate is blowing fire above me, and even though he’s pretty far away, the heat ricochets off the top of my head. I’m so glad it’s a windless night. He tosses all the clubs back to me save one, which he swallows. One by one, I toss him another club out of my juggling formation until the last one disappears in his mouth.
There’s a pause after the beach is suddenly plunged into darkness, and then the applause begins. Tate barely has to do a speech before the hat starts getting filled with folding money. The crowd starts to get up and go, but there’s a small gathering around me, talking excitedly. I can just see Tate through the crowd. He is stuffing money from the hat into his pocket when he sees me and flashes the thumbs-up. I’m breathing hard. All of a sudden, I’m aware of my heart going at double speed. I had forgotten the rush of performing, how it takes you away from yourself. For those five minutes it was nothing but fire and my body—a controlled burn.
Tate is working his way through the crowd. He puts his hand on my back, leans down to kiss me. His lips are warm. He tastes like paraffin and s’mores.
“Oh my god, you were great! You would kill at the festivals. I hate that I have to leave in a week. I’ll miss you like crazy.” He brushes my hair away from my face, and I make the decision then and there.
“You might be surprised.”
Chapter Eight
“Ally, you’re crazy. He might not even want you along.” Rachel is sitting on my bed, pulling the loose thread on the blanket into one ginormous tangled mess.
I sigh. We’ve been through this a couple of times. “Pass me that T-shirt.” Rachel hands it over, and I stuff it into the duffel bag. “I think I know him pretty well. We’ve spent the last month together, like every single minute. Besides, he practically invited me.”
“Practically is pretty far from actually.”
“Look. You and me, we have no future here. Do you know what they give you when you’re eighteen? A kick out the door and a have a nice life. I’m just changing my temporary situation. At least I can make some money over the summer and maybe figure out how I’m going to live the rest of my life with no parents, no education, no friends and no support.” I finish packing the duffel bag. I try not to think about how all my things don’t even fill the stupid bag.
Lately, I’ve been trying not to think about a lot of stuff. Like the fact that Tate probably isn’t coming back after the festivals but going to some college out east. Or that I probably won’t be able to afford to go to university. Or that my mom is in a cardboard box at the bottom of my luggage.
I lift the bag to my shoulder and gesture to the door.
“You said you’d do me this favor. Try to make sure that Darla doesn’t know I’m gone for as long as possible. I don’t want to have to worry about cops looking for me before I can even get the bus ticket.”
Rachel gets up and gives me a hug. “Okay. I’ll do it. Don’t get raped and don’t get stabbed, and come back if you’re piss poor and on your ass.”
“Touching. I will.”
The bus depot is huge and smells like a cross between a urinal and a tailpipe. I wait in line at the ticket counter and try to think of how best to surprise Tate. I know we can make more money together than we could separately, and I have enough for my bus ticket, so cash shouldn’t be an issue. I’m hoping he’s the kind of guy to take surprises in stride. Maybe I’ll bring it up after a few kisses so he gets the idea that it might be nice to be out on the road together for a month.
I take a seat in one of the red plastic chairs and fiddle with my ticket. I know the name of the first town he’s going to for a festival, but none after that. People drift in and out of the waiting room, chewing on hot dogs, dragging suitcases, giving one another prolonged, teary hugs.
I watch an old man as he methodically takes items out of his fanny pack and places them on the bench beside him. First a little bottle of pills, then a change purse and, lastly, a tube of Preparation H.
I look away from the Preparation H and there’s Tate, standing over me.
“Ally! What are you doing here?”
“Surprise!” I make a little ta-da gesture with my hands and immediately regret it.
“Surprise what?” He makes it sound like the response to a bad knock-knock joke. I feel my palms start to sweat.
“Well, I thought I’d come with you. You said I’d kill in the festivals. We’ll make a lot of cash together.”
Tate sits down beside me and runs his hands through his hair. He rests his head on one hand and looks at me sideways.
“Ally, what the hell? I like you and everything, but I don’t think this is what you think it is.”
I can barely get out my words. “Oh? What is it?”
“It was…nice. It was a nice month with you, but we’re not exclusive or anything.”
There’s a burst of static, and then a female voice comes over the intercom. “Now boarding, bus eleven to Newport, Grenville, Beamsville.”
Tate gets up. “I’m sorry it had to end this way.”
“Yeah.” I grip my ticket. What is there to go back to? I start to head to the line, and Tate grabs my elbow.
“What are you doing? I just said I’m going alone.”
I feel a sudden rush of hot anger. “You’re not my only option, asshole. Go wherever you’re going. I have other plans.”
We stand next to each other in the lineup, trying to avoid eye contact. I take a seat midway down the bus and stare out the window. Tate moves to the back. The doors of the bus close with a mechanical sigh, and we’re pitched forward as the bus leaves the depot. I lean my head against the metal frame of the window and feel the hum of the road run through me. Forget crows. Buses are harbingers of doom.
How many buses have I been on in my lifetime? How many places did Mom and I move to? I feel a twist in my stomach. I’m running away from my life too. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. This time, though, I’m running alone.
The fields rush by in a green blur. Every town looks the same from a bus window. Same convenience stores, same run-down houses, same Walmarts with their one token windmill spinning hopelessly in the vast parking lot.
“Newport. This stop is Newport. Fifteen minutes.”
I get up and clutch my duffel bag. I walk away from Tate without looking back. The bus driver has opened up the compartment under the bus, and a few people are grabbing their suitcases.
Tate’s red bag is there. The one with all of his clubs and fire-breathing supplies. I walk over, nod to the bus driver and take the bag.
I put Tate’s bag over my shoulder and start walking down the road that looks like it leads into town. I can hear the bus behind me, and I step off the road to make way. In the last window, Tate glances out, sees me with his bag and bangs his fist on the pane of glass.
I lift my hand and watch him speed out of my life.
Chapter Nine
The town is up ahead, and right now I would trade everything I have for some air-conditioning and a hamburger. And a tall Coke in an icy glass, the kind that makes your hand all wet and cool when you pick it up.
Main Street boasts a takeout KFC place, a convenience store and more than a few shuttered businesses. At the end of the street is a sign for Debbie’s Diner. I head there, hoping it’ll be as cheap as it looks. I don’t need to look into my bag to know that I have only $120 left for the rest of the summer.
The door of the diner opens with a welcome blast of air-conditioning. With a little shiver, I feel the sweat on my arms drying up. It’s heaven. There’s only one customer in the place, an old man in a plaid shirt, drinking coffee at the counter. I sit down at a booth with a long plastic bench and order a hamburger, fries and Coke. Halfway through it, my situation hits home. I thought I’d be spending the summer with Tate and making cash at the festivals. Tate said you can make a couple thousand dollars if you have a really good run. At the very least, I thought I’d have someone to be with. Now I’m alone with no idea of what to do next. Thank God I have Tate’s stuff, or else I wouldn’t even be able to busk. I’ll need to find a place this afternoon to set up. Maybe I can make some money and figure out where to go next.
When the bill comes, I count out the money and leave a meager tip. Another $10 down the drain. I grab my stuff and head out the door before the waitress can give me a dirty look.
I find a park close to the downtown. It’s not huge, but it has a statue of some old guy and a little play structure. There are a couple of moms gossiping on the park bench. I figure this is as good a place as any. I unzip Tate’s bag and take out the clubs. I know I should do a fancy introduction like Tate does, but I can’t bring myself to talk to the bored-looking moms. Hopefully, the spectacle will draw them.
I don’t want to accidentally set any toddlers on fire, so I take the practice clubs. Tate attached ribbons to the ends to give me an idea of how the fire extended the reach of the club. I start with a simple three-club juggle, and the kids begin to wander over. I add another two clubs and start practicing my fancier moves, the under-the-leg-trick, the clubs-way-up-high. The kids clap, and the moms start to wander over as well. I have a good little audience by the time I add in some basic gymnastics, like backflips and one-handed cartwheels.
I finish with a flourish, and everyone applauds. I clear my throat and try to use Tate’s pitch for money. “So, um, if you’ve enjoyed the show, remember that a movie is ten dollars…”
I trail off as I realize that I don’t have anything to collect the money in. A few of the moms are already wandering off after their kids. One little girl approaches me shyly and hands me a dollar. Then she runs back and buries her face in her mom’s skirt.
I pocket it and wave to the moms, trying hard not to be bitter about their cheapness. A dollar for a full performance of backbreaking work. I’m sure they’re all headed back to their air-conditioned houses and full pantries.
My back is coated with sweat, and I’m pretty sure I stink. I need to perform tonight with fire. That’s where the real money is.
The fleabag motel on the edge of town is $65 a night, but it feels worth it as soon as I step into the tiny bath. Warm water rushes over me, and I lie there watching the shampoo bubbles die. When I was a kid, I used to love taking baths, but we mostly had shower stalls. I think I liked the tubs best because Mom would stay with me and hang her arms over the edge. She would take a washcloth and scrub my back and hum under her breath. I liked the echo of her voice, and the small dripping sounds.
I grab the corner of the towel and scrub the tears off my face. I have to make back the motel money by the end of the night.
The park is empty, and while Newport doesn’t exactly have a swinging nightlife, there are a few more people around now, eating on patios and taking dinnertime strolls.
I set up in front of one of the abandoned stores. It doesn’t have an awning, so I don’t have to worry about setting the store on fire. I will have to be extra careful with the wind, though, or I’ll get a face full of flames when it blows my way. My supplies are lined up in front of me, and I have Tate’s bag open and ready to receive cash. I sprinkle in a few dollars to prime the pump.
“Ladies and gentleman”—I already sound like a loser—“prepare yourself for the greatest fire show in all of Newport.”
I light the clubs and start juggling. A small crowd starts to gather, and I can hear their whispered ooohs and aahs as I toss the clubs higher and higher. A few people press closer.
“Back up, please.” I can feel sweat beading around my forehead. “I really don’t want to light any of you on fire.”
A couple of people shuffle back a half-step. I try to take a step backward, but I hit the wall behind me. One older lady gets jostled from behind, and she steps too close to me. A few people call Watch it! and I step forward quickly to intercept the flaming club that is bearing down on her, but it’s halfway through its spin and my wrist hits the flames instead.
