Burning Page 9

  The second floor is empty. I’ve only been here once before, when I first got to Brunesfield. I was curious, so I figured out ways to sneak around when the guards weren’t watching. There are a bunch of dorms on the second floor, a few counselors’ offices, and a lounge area with two round windows overlooking the woods. They remind me of wide, unblinking eyes.

  I head for the lounge, holding my breath as I sneak past a counselor’s office. But it’s empty. All the rooms are empty. I stop in front of the window.

  “This is what I wanted to show you,” I say. Jessica steps up beside me and peers out the window.

  The woods stretch for three or four miles, ending near a construction site. I don’t know what they’re building, but the site’s been there as long as I’ve been here. Most days it’s kind of creepy and abandoned, like a ghost town, but today there are dump trucks rolling over the freshly turned dirt. Bright orange cranes reach across the sky, looking like crazy prehistoric animals.

  “I know they’re not monster trucks. But they’re big.” This seemed like a brilliant idea in my head, but now that we’re here I see how stupid it is. The whole point of monster trucks is that they’re big and loud and they destroy things. You can barely even see the construction equipment from here, and the dump truck is moving dirt around, not crushing another car beneath its tires. “We don’t have to stay if you don’t . . .”

  Jessica pushes past me and presses her face against the window. Her breath leaves misty clouds on the glass. “Cool,” she says.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “They look like dinosaurs.”

  I crouch down next to her, watching the cranes move beyond the trees.

  “Kind of,” I say. “Weird ones.”

  The corner of Jessica’s mouth quirks into an almost-smile. “Yeah,” she says.

  A car with a shovel thing attached to it pushes some dirt to the edge of the site. A crane lowers a stack of steel beams to the ground.

  “My dad liked cars,” Jessica says. “Trucks and race cars and stuff. He used to tell me the names of all the cars we saw on the street.”

  “Is he the one who took you to see the monster trucks?”

  “Yeah. One time.”

  I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t. I don’t ask her why she used past tense—liked, not likes—or why her dad only took her to see the monster trucks once or what he’s doing now. I know that dads sometimes don’t want to be dads anymore.

  We watch the construction site for a long time. Jessica doesn’t speak again, and neither do I. We don’t have to.

  I’m in a surprisingly good mood when Officer Crane arrives to take me to the Seg Block. At first I think it’s just because of my success with Jessica, but it’s more than that. I’m excited about my punishment, excited to head to the scariest place in Brunesfield and pull a smelly mop out of an even smellier bucket of water and get to work.

  I freeze midstep when the reality of what’s happening hits me. I have a crush on Officer Mateo.

  I have a crush on Officer Mateo.

  I have to put my hand on the wall to support myself. This is all kinds of not good. Not only is Mateo a guard, which makes him off-limits, but he’s Issie’s guard. Issie’s had a crush on him forever. We all know she’s never going to get him, but that’s not the point. In a place like Brunesfield, there aren’t many things that are yours alone. Issie’s crush is hers, and I refuse to take that away from her.

  Whatever this stupid thing is, I must squash it.

  Mateo waves at me when I round the corner. He jabs the security door with one finger, not bothering to look up from his crossword. I push the door open and take a second to get used to the Seg Block’s shadows and muted quiet. I’m just reaching for my mop when I hear metal chair legs drag across the concrete floor.

  “Are you going to pull that stool in here every time?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder. Mateo lets the security door swing shut and scoots onto his stool.

  “What’s a five-letter word that means ‘regretful’?” he asks instead of answering. A lock of hair drops over his forehead and holy God, he’s gorgeous.

  Stop it. He’s a guard. He’s Issie’s guard. “Sorry?”

  “No, the first letter has to be p.”

  I drop the soaking wet mop onto the floor, concentrating on the suds to keep from looking at Mateo’s face. “Um, that sounds wrong,” I say, pushing the mop across the concrete. Even when I’m staring at the floor I can still see him from the corner of my eye. He taps his pen against his chin.

  “Maybe,” he says, squinting down at the paper.

  “Who even does crosswords anymore?” I ask. Mateo was right, this hall doesn’t get too dirty. I can still see the soap swirls dried onto the concrete from the last time I mopped.

  “My grandfather.” Mateo frowns and scribbles something out, then writes a new word in neat, careful letters. “He says it keeps the mind sharp. He’s ninety-two years old and still the smartest man I know.”

  I drag the mop over the concrete, trying to ignore the soapy water soaking through my shoes. “Is he a teacher or something?”

  “He was a detective, but he’s retired. He started out here at Brunesfield, though. Got a job as a guard when he turned eighteen. Just like me.”

  I do the math in my head. Mateo started here about seven months ago. He’s only a year older than me.

  “Is that what you want to do? Be a detective?” I pause to wiggle my foot, trying to shake the lukewarm water from my shoe. Bea stares at me from behind the glass wall of her dorm. I flash her a nervous smile, and she starts to giggle.

  Mateo shrugs and scratches something onto his crossword. “That’s the plan. It’s not easy, though. Only two other guys made detective my grandfather’s year and he calls those the good old days. Now it’s supposed to be really hard. There are all sorts of tests and stuff.”

  He tries to keep his voice casual, but I hear the excitement anyway. I’ve seen people do this before. When the kids at my old school dreamed too big, they’d always kind of shrug it off, like they didn’t really want it in the first place. The girl with straight A’s would pretend she didn’t really want to go to Harvard, that she only applied to see what would happen. Or the six-foot-tall kid who could dunk might say he didn’t even notice the scouts who came to watch him play. It’s a defense mechanism. When you grow up where I did, you try to keep yourself from expecting too much out of life.

  Mateo’s shoulders tense up, and a wrinkle appears between his eyes as he bends back over his crossword. It’s clear he really wants this detective thing.

  “What?” Mateo asks, frowning at me. God, I must’ve been staring. I shift my eyes back down to the floor, pushing the mop in small, tight circles.

  “I can totally see you as a detective,” I say. Mateo drops the crossword on his lap and sits up straighter.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Totally. You’ve already got that dark, broody detective hair. Now you just need one of those wool coats and maybe a beard . . .”

  The end of my sentence dies in my mouth. I’m describing a real person, this detective I saw after I got arrested. Detective Cass, I think his name was. He came by the holding cell to question me about a string of robberies my ex-boyfriend Jake and I pulled around this really nice neighborhood in Brooklyn. Jake actually did most of them, but I was always in the getaway car. And I was the one who got caught.

  My cheeks burn. I was actually counting the differences in our ages, just to make sure it wouldn’t be weird if we ever dated. God, I’m a freak. I push the mop with a little more force than necessary, sending a tiny wave of soapy water crashing against the pink wall. Bea hisses from her cell, pressing her face up against the door. She taps her fingers on the glass.

  “Angela?” Mateo asks. “Are you all right?”

  “You got a girlfriend?” I ask. You know how little kids pick at the scabs on their knees, even when they start to bleed? That’s what I’m doing. The only way to get th
is stupid crush out of my system is to make it hurt.

  “Uh, yeah, I do,” Mateo says. “Stacy.”

  Stacy. I make myself picture her. Stacy has shampoo-commercial hair. Stacy irons her skirts and wears colorful cardigans that match her shoes.

  “What’s she do?” I ask.

  “She’s in school. She’s going to be a veterinary technician.”

  I revise my imaginary Stacy. Now she wears a long white lab coat and she’s holding a puppy. I’m not even sure vet techs wear lab coats, but I picture it anyway. I put imaginary Stacy next to Mateo in his long black detective’s coat. They’re standing in front of a little white house holding hands. Maybe the puppy licks Mateo’s face.

  Despite myself, I smile. Imaginary Stacy is exactly the kind of girl Mateo should be with. There’s no competing with her. Besides, it’s not like I’m alone or anything. I have Charlie waiting for me when I get out of here. That should be enough.

  I’m still thinking about perfect imaginary Stacy an hour later, as I walk back to my dorm after finishing up in the Seg Block. I bet she knows how to cook. No frozen dinners for Stacy. She probably really cooks, like with spices and books and boiling water. She probably does all that Little House on the Prairie stuff: darns socks and sews buttons and, I don’t know, churns her own butter. I round the corner to our dorm room, walking slowly so I can savor these few seconds alone.

  Voices echo down the hall. I frown and walk a little faster. I thought our dorm would be empty but Cara leans against the far wall, and Mary Anne sits on the bunk across from her.

  “Oh, um, hi,” I say.

  Mary Anne stands and clears her throat. “I was just dropping off some brochures.” She nods at a shiny stack of SciGirls brochures sitting on my locker.

  “Mary Anne thinks I’d be a natural.” Cara slides a brochure off the top of the stack and flips it open.

  “I should go,” Mary Anne says, edging toward the door. “You can hold on to those, Cara. Let me know if you have any questions about joining.”

  Mary Anne slips into the hall, her shoes click-clacking against the concrete floor. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until she turns the corner and the sound fades.

  “What was she doing in here?” I ask.

  Cara frowns and nods at the brochure she’s still holding. “I told you—”

  “No, what was she doing in here?” I wouldn’t care, but Cara has a pocketknife hidden somewhere in this room. Mary Anne seems nice enough, but Cara would be in deep shit if she found it. Now isn’t the time to be hanging out with authority figures.

  I lower my voice, always worried someone might overhear me. “Look, we need to talk about the knife.”

  Understanding flickers through Cara’s eyes. “It’s hidden. Mary Anne didn’t see shit.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Jesus, Angela. I’m not a moron.” I try to catch Cara’s eyes, but she shifts them to the floor. “Besides, Mary Anne isn’t like the guards. She wouldn’t say anything.”

  “You don’t know that,” I snap. “Just because she went to your high school doesn’t mean you can trust her.”

  “Will you just drop it?” Cara says. “I can handle my own shit.”

  Normally, I’d let this go. Cara can go from zero to furious faster than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s not worth pushing when she decides she doesn’t want to share. In fact, that’s the reason Issie and I are her only real friends in here; most of the others can’t stand her violent mood swings.

  Then again, most of the others haven’t seen the real Cara—the one who reads me Charlie’s letters and sneaks Issie old math assignments so she can keep making paper frogs. The Cara who still knows all her mom’s stupid beauty rules by heart.

  Vaseline on your teeth prevents lipstick stains. A dab of apple-cider vinegar gets rid of a pimple . . .

  It’s that Cara I’m thinking about when I cross the dorm and grab her shoulders, forcing her to look at me.

  “You have to be more careful,” I say. Cara tries to pull away, but I’m bigger than her. She meets my eyes, glaring. “If even one person sees that knife—”

  “I don’t need you to babysit me,” she says.

  “Cara, will you—”

  “Miss Davis. Do we have a problem here?” The voice startles me, and I turn to see Officer Sterling standing in the doorway. Her hand rests on the nightstick at her belt.

  I drop my hands from Cara’s shoulders and quickly step away.

  “No ma’am,” I say at the same time that Cara mutters, “No.”

  “I came to see why you two weren’t in the kitchen.”

  “I forgot my apron,” Cara mumbles. She grabs a grease-stained apron from the hook near the lockers, then shoulders past me and out of the room. Officer Sterling looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

  “Miss Davis?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and I follow Cara out of the dorm.

  Chapter Eleven

  Much later that night, I wake to a click.

  I ease my eyes open, stifling a yawn. Sleet lashes against the narrow window near our ceiling. I listen to the slushy sound of it hitting the glass for a few long moments before I’m fully awake. I roll onto my side.

  The bunk across from me is empty.

  My first thought is of Cara. She’s somehow managed to sneak out of the dorm, she’s wandering through the halls with that pocketknife. But no—Jessica and Cara switched bunks. I blink and lift myself to my elbow to check the rest of the dorm. Jessica’s not here.

  I kick the blanket from my legs and sit up, sure she’s crouching in the corner, hidden by the shadows. But a quick search of our tiny dorm room reveals that I was right the first time. She’s gone.

  With Issie’s snores echoing above me, I ease my feet onto the cold concrete floor. I creep over to the door and lower my hand to the knob. It’s warm. Every night at nine o’clock on the dot a dead bolt automatically slides into place, locking us in our dorms till morning. I twist, waiting for the lock to catch, but the knob turns beneath my fingers and creaks open.

  What the hell? I poke my head into the hall in time to see Mateo’s swinging flashlight beam round the corner into another hallway. I hesitate. I don’t know if this is what Dr. Gruen had in mind, but curiosity gnaws at me. Room checks are twenty minutes apart, so I have fifteen minutes before Mateo comes past the dorm again and sees that Jessica and I aren’t there. Sucking in a breath, I tiptoe into the hallway.

  Brunesfield looks different at night. Deep blue shadows stretch across the hallways, hiding the nicks and scratches that decorate the walls. A rubber SciGirls bracelet lies in the corner, abandoned. The halls themselves feel strange when they aren’t crowded with a hundred screaming, swearing girls. They’re almost peaceful.

  I creep down the hallway, the concrete like ice beneath my toes. Brunesfield is a labyrinth, with halls twisting off in every direction. They call to me as I make my way past, tempting me to explore their darkened corners. But I’m here for Jessica, not myself. I pause at the foot of a staircase. Would Jessica have climbed to the higher floors to watch the cranes again? Or would she have taken the staircase coiling down to the kitchen and the Segregation Block?

  A heavy charred smell drifts down the hall before I can decide. I recoil when it reaches my nose. Something’s burning.

  I follow the smell to my left. It stings my nostrils and makes my eyes water. I’m close. I walk faster.

  The girls’ bathroom sits at the end of the hall. It’s not a nice place during the day, but now it looks horrifying. An open door yawns before me, revealing a perfectly dark, black room. The overhead lights are all on timers so none of them will work for Jessica, even if she did manage to break the lock on our door. I step forward, ignoring the voice in my head that screams for me to run back to my dorm. Icy rain crashes against the windows and echoes off the tiled walls. I squint into the shadows.

  Something flickers in the darkness: a tiny orange light.

  Fear prickles along the back of my
neck, but I step into the bathroom anyway. Strange light dances over the tiled walls, and the floor feels suddenly warm beneath my feet. It’s too dark for me to see smoke, but the smell is so strong that I pull my T-shirt over my nose to keep from coughing. Water drips from the broken faucets and the air buzzes like static.

  I hesitate at the long tiled wall that separates the showers from the sinks and toilets. I don’t want to know what’s on the other side of that wall, but I have to know, otherwise all I’ll ever have is this theory that seems impossible. I’ll always wonder if I guessed right. If magic is real.

  I peek around the corner.

  Jessica sits cross-legged on the floor, her back to me. Her wild, curly black hair sticks out of her head in crazy corkscrews. Her teddy bear lies on the tile in front of her knees. One black eye hangs by a thread from his face, and his fur is so charred that black ash crumbles onto the tile around him. I slink forward, curiosity curling in my stomach like a cat. Jessica rocks back and forth, back and forth. She hums a tuneless song under her breath.

  A blue flame leaps across the bear’s fur and climbs his arms and legs. I’m holding my breath, partly because of the smoke and partly because fire just appeared out of thin air. The flame crackles up the bear’s torso to his face. The bear’s remaining eye blackens.

  Jessica rocks faster. Her tiny body whips back and forth so quickly that it looks like she might break in half. I watch in horror as the flames climb toward the sunken ceiling, sending flickering shadows over the tile-covered walls. The fire leaps from the bear to a puddle of water on the floor just inches from Jessica’s knee. Instead of dying, it flares higher, like the puddle was made of gasoline instead of water.

  Jessica stops rocking and pitches forward, holding herself up with shaky arms. Fire licks the ceiling, leaving black scorches on the cracked plaster. Jessica wrenches her head around, staring at the row of showers along the wall. Gurgling echoes through the pipes, and waters spurts out, bubbling and boiling onto the floor. The tiles below my feet burn. I shriek, dancing backward.