Imaginary Enemy (17 page)

Finding Things

C
hord, Sharp, and a curly-haired girl slipped into the only empty booth. “Look what the cat dragged in,” I said as they reached for menus.

“Nice outfit,” said Chord, giving me a once-over.

“Smashingly stylish,” added Sharp.

I pirouetted for them, displaying my official Waffle House attire of polyester perfection. “So what brings you to this gourmet dining establishment?”

“The service. Definitely the service,” said Sharp.

“I thought it was the food,” said Chord. “I heard the service here sucked.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” I said.

“This is Clarissa,” Chord said. “Clarissa, my neighbor, Jane. She’s Zander’s sister.”

“You know Zander?” I asked.

“From school,” Clarissa said. “He’s nice. And funny.”

“He’s okay, as brothers go.”

“Hey, I’m a brother,” said Sharp.

“And me,” said Chord.

“Case closed,” I said, winking at Clarissa. “Anyone ordering food?”

“We actually came to kidnap you. When do you get off?” asked Sharp.

“About an hour.”

“We’re having a scavenger hunt. Two teams. You and Sharp versus Clarissa and me,” said Chord.

“A scavenger hunt?”

“You know what that is, right?” asked Sharp.

“Yes. You have a list and whoever finds everything first wins.”

“Right.”

“Elliot, as a neutral party, made lists,” Chord told me.

“So are you joining us?”

“She has to. She’s my partner,” said Sharp. “You will come, won’t you?”

“Sure. Sounds like fun.”

“Hey, Sharp, check your batteries,” said Chord.

“Batteries?” I asked.

Sharp reached into his pocket and withdrew a small recorder. “In this scavenger hunt, we have to find sounds and record them.”

“Huh?” He’d totally lost me.

“Here’s the list.” He handed me a sheet of paper.

I read the first five items aloud. “Howling dog, river flowing, siren, freight train whistle, squeaky wheel (extra point if it squeaks in B-flat)…I wouldn’t know B-flat if it was whistling in my ear,” I said.

“He would,” said Clarissa, nodding toward Sharp.

“Might as well eat while we wait,” said Chord, scanning the menu.

Spy vs. Spy

C
hord, Sharp, and I were walking around the deMichaels’ backyard discussing our scavenger hunt, which Sharp and I had won. “The crying baby almost defeated us,” Sharp said. “Then Jane pinched a kid in a stroller and he squawked like mad.”

“What? I did not pinch a baby,” I protested. “Don’t believe him, Chord.”

“I don’t. Even you wouldn’t go that far, Jane.”

“Actually, we got the crying baby at the grocery store. Along with the change jangling in a cash register and the automatic door.” We heard a dull thump as Sharp’s foot caught the edge of an upturned terra-cotta flowerpot nestled in a clump of monkey grass. It rolled across the path to expose a plastic pencil box, the kind kids use for their supplies in elementary school. Sharp picked it up. It held two items: a small spiral notebook like a homework pad, and a pen. He flipped open the notebook. Then he whistled one shrill note (it might have been B-flat) and grinned. “Interesting.”

“What is it?” I asked curiously.

Sharp turned a page and began to laugh. “According to this, you kissed Raphael multiple times at eleven-thirty p.m. on September ninth. On your front porch. You were wearing a red tank top and a black miniskirt.”

“What?” I stood there stunned, processing what he’d said. “Give that here.”

I tried to grab it, but he pulled it away and turned to Chord. “And on September twenty-seventh at nine-fifteen, you and Jazz had a fight. Apparently you sat on the papier-mâché model of the human heart he made for his science project.”

Chord and I both tried to snatch the notebook, but Sharp spun away. “There’s more…. On July seventeenth, Jane and Emma were discussing whose boyfriend was sexier. Jane said anyone named Raphael had to be sexier than someone called Tony.”

“Let me see,” I insisted, vaguely remembering the ludicrous conversation I’d had with Emma one boring summer afternoon. I grabbed at the notebook, but Sharp was quite a bit taller than me, and he held it over his head. “Get it, Chord,” I called.

Chord reached for it, and the brothers were soon laughing and scuffling.

I moved in for the kill and snatched the notebook from Sharp’s hand. I ran across the yard and hurriedly paged through it until I spotted Sharp’s name. “August tenth. Ten-twenty p.m. Sharp was smoking something in the backyard. We aren’t sure what it was.” I fanned the pages until his name again caught my eye. “August twenty-first, nine-fifteen a.m. Sharp and Jazz used Elliot’s special equipment to record a song they were working on…. September second, eight-twenty-two p.m., Sharp wore Chord’s new green shirt when he went out. He didn’t ask permission.” By that time, both boys had converged on me and were making grabs for that revealing little pad of paper. I clasped it to my chest. “Wait!” I yelled. “We can all read it together. Or I’ll read it to you—how about that?”

They agreed and we sat at the picnic table. I was sandwiched between the two of them. “Start at the beginning,” said Chord. “Omit nothing.”

So I did. I wanted to skip the bits about me, but they were both looking on, so I knew I couldn’t get away with it. There were things recorded in the notebook that I’d already forgotten, like “August second, twelve-ten a.m., Jane broke her curfew but didn’t get caught. Zander unlocked the door for her because she forgot her key.” August eleventh must have been like winning the lottery for the two little snoops. They had recorded eight sightings that day—three about Jason, his dog, and Mrs. Thomson. The final entry in the juicy little tattler was from just the day before—it told about Sharp and Chord snitching a couple of beers from the deMichaels’ refrigerator.

“Those little sneaks,” Chord snarled when I closed the cover. His eyes were spitting fire. “I’ve had enough of Harmony and Carmella.”

Sharp took the notebook from me. “Quite the little spy network,” he said dryly, leafing through the pages and rereading the entries.

“I’ll kill them.” I clenched my fists. “Smash them like eggshells.”

“Wait. Don’t be hasty,” said Sharp, returning the little book to its secret hideaway beneath the flowerpot. Then, with a mischievous smile, he devised a plan.

Overcooked

I
looked around the marina’s kitchen. Everything was in order, just as always. I knew if I ever left a mess, Dad would hire someone else to provide food for the tournaments, and this cooking-for-profit thing was one sweet deal. Great supplemental income to Waffle House. I’d sent Zander home to put away the leftovers while I’d taken care of the final few touches—wiped the counters, swept, cleaned out the sink. All that remained was the fryer, which I would tackle the next day, as the oil was still too hot to be handled. With a last satisfied glance, I clicked off the light, set the alarm, and locked the door. I strolled down the pier to Mr. Marcello’s houseboat. The moon was full, blanketing the landscape in cool yellow luminescence. “Hi, Luke,” I called. He sat on the boat’s deck, fishing. I could hear music wafting through the cabin door. Everyone except the live-aboards had left just after dark, so we had the property mostly to ourselves.

He motioned me aboard. I sank into a deck chair. “Just call me moneybags,” I said, patting the wad of bills in my pocket. “Not bad for a day’s work. I made more in a few hours at that tournament than I make in two weeks at Waffle House.”

“Those people gobbled up your fried fish, that’s for sure,” he said, casting his fishing rod into the water.

“So far the most successful menu item has been spaghetti. Inexpensive, tasty, and easy.”

“Yeah. You really lost your shirt that time you did chicken dinners with baked potatoes and Caesar salads.”

“Way too much overhead. And everyone wanted hot dogs. Who would choose that over a real meal?”

Luke lazily reeled in his lure. “You had this illusion of gourmet food served on fine china. These are fishermen, Jane. Beer-drinking, big-talking, hungry fishermen who get up at three a.m. to try to land a winner. They want to fill their bellies. Savoring a meal isn’t their priority.”

“At least I had the guts to try,” I defended myself.

“Yep. Live and learn. Who’s grilling out?” he asked, sniffing as he glanced up and down the docks.

“I dunno,” I replied, not seeing anyone.

“I smell something. Not beef. Not seafood, either.” He cast his rod out again. “So you’re not going out tonight?”

“Rafi dumped me, remember?” I snapped.

“He’s not the only person on the planet. You do have other options.”

“Yeah right…. Hey, did I tell you I asked Sharp to the dance?”

“Sharp? You’re kidding? Did he accept?”

“Yes. Thank goodness. Imagine how embarrassing it would have been if he’d said no.”

“Sharp’s smart. A nice kid. I like him.”

“Yeah, he’s cool. We’ve hung out a couple of times lately. Besides, imagine how Raphael’s gonna react when he sees me with Sharp.”

Luke leaned his rod against the cabin. “Jane, that’s wrong. You can’t…What’s that I smell?”

I sniffed the air. The odor of smoke was strong.

“Oh my God!” Luke cried, jumping onto the dock. I turned to see him running toward the marina’s main building.

Flames were licking through the windows at the sky.

I stood there. Speechless. Frozen. Scared to death.

“Call nine-one-one,” Luke yelled. “And Dad. Call Dad.” I grabbed his cell phone and punched in the numbers.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” said a detached voice.

My jaw wouldn’t unhinge. It was like one of those dreams where you scream but no sound comes forth.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” the voice repeated.

“Fire,” I finally squeaked. “A fire.”

“What’s your location?” asked the voice.

I wanted to kick someone. The building was aflame and that voice (I wasn’t even sure if it was male or female) was so calm. I felt like screaming. Instead, I rapidly gave them our address. As I spoke, I could see Luke dragging things away from the deck near the building. Tables and umbrellas and chairs.

I called home.

“Hello?” said Carmella brightly.

“Get Dad,” I barked.

“What?”

“Carmella, let me talk to Dad. Now.”

She must have known I meant business, because I heard the phone clatter to the countertop.

It could only have been a matter of seconds but it felt like an eternity. Then I heard Dad say, “Jane, are you all right? What’s going on?” The tone of his voice let me know that Carmella had prepared him for trouble.

Trouble? That’s like calling diabetes a sugar rush. This needed a much more powerful word than
trouble,
but it eluded me then—it eludes me still.

“Fire. At the marina.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll be right there.” The line went dead.

I stuffed the phone into my pocket and leapt from the houseboat. Then an explosion rattled the night. Flashes of red and gold splashed like fireworks. I couldn’t see Luke. Couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in my ears. Raced toward the burning building.

A sudden zone of thick, hot air hit me like a wall. My eyes teared. “Luke!” I yelled. But I got no answer. I looked about frantically. Everything was distorted. The building seemed massive, and the patio beside it lay skewed at a funny angle. The driveway seemed ridiculously narrow, and the parking lot tilted skyward. I shook my head. “Luke!” I shouted, making a megaphone of my hands.

Time and space didn’t follow the rules. I remember fire trucks screaming onto the property with flashing lights. Coughing and choking on the smoke. My father talking to a man in a uniform. Uncle Grayson handing me a bottle of water. The ambulance. Thick black smoke. A light breeze crossing my face that momentarily displaced the breath of the fire on my cheeks. Someone from the fire department questioning me about the evening’s activities. Zander and Carmella, with my mother, pulling me over to Mr. Marcello’s houseboat. And fear, like a dagger, sinking deeper and deeper into my flesh.

“That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” Luke said. He sat on the edge of a hospital bed, fully dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. My eyes followed the path of scratches and scrapes and gooey scabs splattered up and down his arms. Noted the swelling of his left eye going black and purple.

“What do you mean? You didn’t cause the fire, did you?”

“Course not. I don’t know what made the building burn. I meant I was stupid to get hurt,” he said. “I got too close. I wanted to save what I could. The Gallaways—the people with the twenty-seven-foot Hunter sailboat moored in that first slip—they’d been detailing their boat all day. They spread their sails and seat cushions out on the patio to dry. I was trying to salvage them when those propane tanks blew. Threw me all the way across the patio. At least it blasted me away from the blaze, eh?” he said with a grin.

“The building’s a total loss.”

“Dad told me. That sucks. He’s playing it brave, but he’s pretty slammed.”

“I wonder what happened.”

“I dunno. Electrical, maybe. Or some freak thing like a cigarette butt in the trash.”

“Yeah, a cigarette in the trash. That must have been it,” I agreed. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“I’m fine. I’m not burned, just bashed around. I wanted to leave last night, but the nurse said I had to stay ‘as a precaution.’” He sat up and squared his shoulders. “I’m out of here as soon as the doc releases me, which should be within the hour. And it won’t be soon enough, believe me.”

“Luke, honey.”

I turned to see Sandy crossing the room. She looked pale.

“Mom. Hi.”

“Morning, Sandy.”

She gave me a quick squeeze and sat beside Luke, kissing his forehead. “You scared us last night,” she said. Her thumb rested on his cheek.

“I’m fine, Mom. You know I’m not fragile.”

“I know you’re my child.”

Luke looked at me and shook his head. “Geez, Mom, I’m twenty-one.”

“You’re still my child,” she said.

I waved goodbye and slipped from the room, feeling they needed a private moment. Mom and Dad were at the nurses’ station talking to a couple of people in scrubs. “Join Carmella and Zander in the lounge,” said my mother. “We’ll be done here in a minute.”

Fire investigators sifted through the ashes. Uncle Grayson was engaged in a conversation with one of the boat owners. My father looked a little gray around the eyes and his smile seemed forced. He walked toward us, shifting the ball cap on his head and brushing his hands together. I stood with Mom, Zander, and Carmella next to Dad’s truck. The charred skeleton of the building sprawled before us, black and ugly. That bonfire smell burned my nasal passages.

“The fire chief says it started in the kitchen,” Dad said. “The oil in the fryer caught fire. Said it was cooked down to a tarlike consistency. Once it gets that hot, flames erupt and then—”

“The fryer?” I asked, my heart closing up and blood pounding in my ears.

“From the fish we cooked?” asked Zander.

“Yes. Could’ve been a lot worse. If one of the boats had gone…well…gasoline and fire are a dangerous combination. It would have spread quickly. We could’ve had a huge disaster.” A curious look crossed his face. “It’s amazing. The firefighters can accurately follow the path of the fire by examining the remains. You know what they told me? The filaments in light bulbs point toward the fire’s source. Who’d have dreamed—”

“But I turned it off,” I said, my voice firm but my heart pounding. “I turned the fryer off.”

“Jane, accidents happen. No one’s blaming you.” He slipped his arm around me.

I twisted away from him. “But Dad, I turned it off,” I insisted. “Zander, you were there. Didn’t I turn it off? You saw me.”

Zander shrugged. “I didn’t notice. I was doing other stuff.”

“Zander, you were standing right there.”

He glanced away from me. “Sorry, Jane. I don’t remember.”

My mother intervened, eager to avoid an argument when everyone was already stressed out. “It doesn’t matter. Carmella, you and Zander pass these water bottles out to the fire investigators. Let’s go check on Luke, Jane.” Luke was so stubborn that he’d refused to go home with us or Sandy and insisted instead on staying on the houseboat, which rankled both Sandy’s and Mom’s maternal instincts. My mother took my forearm and led me away. We walked down the dock toward Mr. Marcello’s boat slip.

“Mom, I didn’t do it.”

“Jane, I saw the fryer.
Someone
left it on.”

“Not me.”

She sighed. “Jane, the evidence—”

“Then the evidence is wrong,” I insisted.

My mother sighed again. She looked and sounded tired. “Everyone’s safe. The building’s insured. We didn’t lose all our records since we set up that link to our home office. We can survive this. Just let it go.”

When we got home from the marina, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed on my bed. I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and sick of the sympathetic (or drop the first syllable and go with pathetic—either one works) looks of concern my parents kept flashing my way. I yanked my folder off my desk and wrote furiously.

Dear Bubba,

I turned that fryer off. I know I did. I’m careful about stuff like that. Firefighters can be wrong, can’t they? Yes. I’ve seen movies where experts look like fools on the witness stand. Experts like firefighters. So why, you ruthless enemy, are you letting me take the blame? Have you no conscience at all? Bet you’re pleased with this latest disastrous turn in my life. Smiling like the cat that swallowed the canary? So now, once again, I find myself wishing for invisibility. Vanishing cream, please.

Smoked out,
Gabriel