CHAPTER 25
melts. At first there are standing puddles in the driveway and the yard, the road wet with the sounds of splashing tires, but after a day all the water drains
and evaporates and the cars pass as they do on any other day. A lull in the action, a brief reprieve before old man winter takes up the reins again.
I sit on the porch waiting for Sarah, staring up at the night sky full of twinkling stars and a full moon. A thin, knifelike cloud cuts the moon in two and
then quickly disappears. I hear the crunch of gravel under tires; then headlights come into view and the car pulls into the driveway. Sarah gets out of the
driver's side. She's dressed in dark gray pants flared at the ankles, a navy blue cardigan sweater beneath a beige jacket. Her eyes are accentuated by
the blue shirt peeking out where the jacket's zipper ends. Her blond hair falling past her shoulders. She smiles coyly and looks at me, fluttering her
eyelashes as she approaches. There are butterflies in my stomach. Almost three months together and yet I still grow nervous when I see her. A
nervousness that's hard to imagine time will ever assuage.
"You look gorgeous," I say.
"Well, thank you," she says, and bobs a curtsy. "You don't look so bad yourself."
I kiss Sarah on the cheek. Then Henri walks out of the house and waves to Sarah's mom, who is sitting in the passenger seat of the car.
"So you'll call when you're ready to be picked up, right?" Henri asks me.
"Yes," I say.
We walk to the car and Sarah gets behind the wheel. I sit in the back. She's had her learner's permit for a few months now, which means she can
drive so long as a licensed driver sits in the passenger seat beside her. Her actual driver's test is on Monday, two days away. She's been anxious about it
ever since making the appointment over winter break. She backs out of the driveway and pulls away, eventually flipping the visor down and smiling at me
through the mirror. I smile back.
"So how was your day, John?" her mother turns and asks me. We make small talk. She tells me of the trip to the mall that the two of them made
earlier in the day, and how Sarah drove. I tell her about playing with Bernie Kosar in the yard, and about the run we went on after. I don't tell her about the
training session that lasted for three hours in the backyard after the run. I don't tell her how I split the dead tree's trunk straight down the middle through
telekinesis, or how Henri threw knives at me that I deflected into a sandbag fifty feet away. I don't tell her about being lit on fire or the objects that I lifted
and crushed and splintered. Another kept secret. Another half-truth that feels like a lie. I would like to tell Sarah. I somehow feel that I'm betraying her by
keeping myself hidden, and over the last few weeks the burden has really begun to weigh on me. But I also know I have no other choice. Not at this point,
anyhow.
"So it's this one?" Sarah asks.
"Yes," I say.
She pulls into Sam's driveway. He paces at the end of it, dressed in jeans and a wool sweater. He looks up at us with a deer-caught-in-theheadlights
blank stare. There is gel in his hair. I've never seen gel in his hair before. He walks to the side of the car, opens the door, and slides in beside
me.
"Hi, Sam," Sarah says, then introduces him to her mom.
Sarah reverses the car out of the driveway and pulls onto the road. Both of Sam's hands are planted firmly on the seat in nervousness. Sarah turns
down a road I've never seen before and makes a right turn into a winding driveway. Thirty or so cars are parked along the side of it. At the end of the
driveway, surrounded by trees, is a large, two-story house. We can hear the music well before we reach the house.
"Jeez, nice house," Sam says.
"You guys be good in there," Sarah's mom says. "And be safe. Call if you need anything, or if you can't get ahold of your father," she says, looking
at me.
"Will do, Mrs. Hart," I say.
We get out of the car and begin walking to the front door. Two dogs run up to us from the side of the house, a golden retriever and a bulldog. Their
tails are wagging and they're sniffing spastically at my pants, smelling the scent of Bernie Kosar. The bulldog is carrying a stick in his mouth. I wrestle it
away from him and throw it across the yard and both dogs sprint after it.
"Dozer and Abby," Sarah says.
"I take it Dozer is the bulldog?" I ask.
She nods and smiles at me as though in apology. I'm reminded how well she must know this house. I wonder if it's odd for her to be back now, with
me.
"This is a horrible idea," Sam says. He looks at me. "I'm only now realizing that."
"Why do you think so?"
"Because only three months ago the guy who lives here filled both our lockers with cow manure and hit me in the back of the head with a meatball
during lunch. And now we're here."
"I bet Emily is already here," I say, and nudge him with my elbow.
The door opens into the foyer. The dogs come rushing in past us and disappear into the kitchen, which lies straight ahead. I can see that Abby is
now holding the stick. We're met with loud music that we have to yell over to be heard. People are dancing in the living room. There are cans of beer in
most of their hands, a few people drinking bottled water or soda. Apparently Mark's parents are out of town. The whole football team is in the kitchen, half
of them wearing their letterman jackets. Mark comes up and hugs Sarah. Then he shakes my hand. He holds my gaze for a second and then looks away.
He doesn't shake Sam's hand. He doesn't even look at him. Perhaps Sam is right. This may have been a mistake.
"Happy you guys could make it. Come on in. Beer's in the kitchen."
Emily stands in the far corner talking to other people. Sam looks her way, then asks Mark where the bathroom is. He points the way.
"Be right back," Sam says to me.
Most of the guys are standing around the island in the middle of the kitchen. They look at me when Sarah and I enter. I look at each of them in turn,
and then grab a bottle of water from the ice bucket. Mark hands Sarah a beer and opens it for her. The way he looks at her makes me realize yet again
just how little I trust him. And I realize now just how bizarre this whole situation is. Me, being in his house now, with Sarah, his ex-girlfriend. I'm happy that
Sam is with me.
I reach down and play with the dogs until Sam comes out of the bathroom. By then Sarah has made her way to the corner of the living room and is
talking to Emily. Sam tenses beside me when he realizes that there is nothing else for us to do but walk up to them and say hello. He takes a deep breath.
In the kitchen two of the guys have lit a corner of the newspaper on fire for no other reason than to watch it burn.
"Make sure you compliment Emily," I say to Sam as we approach. He nods.
"There you guys are," Sarah says. "I thought you had left me all by my lonesome."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I say. "Hi, Emily. How are you?"
"I'm good," she says, then to Sam, "I like your hair."
Sam just looks at her. I nudge him. He smiles.
"Thank you," he says. "You look very nice."
Sarah gives me a knowing look. I shrug and kiss her on the cheek. The music has grown even louder. Sam talks to Emily, somewhat nervously, but
she laughs and after a while he eases a little.
"So are you okay?" Sarah asks me.
"Of course. I'm with the prettiest girl at the party. How could things be better?"
"Oh shush," she says, and pokes me in the stomach.
The four of us dance for an hour or so. The football players keep drinking. Somebody shows up with a bottle of vodka and not long after that one of
them--I don't know which--throws up in the bathroom so that the smell of vomit wafts throughout the whole downstairs. Another one passes out on the
living-room sofa and some of the others draw with marker on his face. People keep filtering in and out of the doorway leading to the basement. I have no
idea what is going on down there. I haven't seen Sarah for the past ten minutes. I leave Sam and walk through the living room and the kitchen, then walk
up the stairs. White, thick carpet, walls lined with art and family portraits. Some of the bedroom doors are open. Some are closed. I don't see Sarah. I
walk back downstairs. Sam is standing sullenly by himself in the corner. I walk over to him.
"Why the long face?" I ask.
He shakes his head.
"Don't make me lift you in the air and turn you upside down like the guy in Athens."
I smile, Sam doesn't.
"I just got cornered by Alex Davis," he says.
Alex Davis is another of Mark James's brood, a wide receiver for the team. He's a junior, tall and thin. I've never talked to him before, and likewise
know little else about him.
"What do you mean by 'cornered'?"
"We just talked. He saw that I've been talking to Emily. I guess they dated over the summer."
"So what. Why does that bother you?"
He shrugs. "It just sucks, and it bothers me, okay?"
"Sam, do you know how long Sarah and Mark dated?"
"For a long time."
"Two years," I say.
"Does it bother you?" he asks.
"Not in the least. Who cares about her past? Besides, look at Alex," I say, and nod to him standing in the kitchen. He is slumped against the
kitchen counter, his eyes aflutter, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his forehead. "Do you really think she misses being with that?"
Sam looks at him, shrugs.
"You're a good dude, Sam Goode. Don't get down on yourself."
"I'm not down on myself."
"Well then, don't worry about Emily's past. We don't have to be defined by the things we did or didn't do in our past. Some people allow
themselves to be controlled by regret. Maybe it's a regret, maybe it's not. It's merely something that happened. Get over it."
Sam sighs. He's still wrestling with it.
"Go on. She likes you. There's nothing to be scared of," I say.
"I am, though."
"Best way to deal with fear is to confront it. Just walk up to her and kiss her. I bet you she kisses you back."
Sam looks at me and nods, then goes to the basement, where Emily is hanging out. The two dogs come wrestling into the living room. Tongues
dangling. Tails wagging. Dozer drops his chest to the ground and waits for Abby to come near enough and then he jumps at her and she jumps away. I
watch them until they disappear up the stairs, playing tug-of-war with a rubber toy. It's a quarter till midnight. A couple is making out on the couch across
the room. The football players are still drinking in the kitchen. I'm starting to get sleepy. I still can't find Sarah.
Just then one of the football players comes rushing up the basement stairs, a crazed, frantic look in his eyes. He rushes to the kitchen sink, turns
on the water as high as it will go, and begins throwing open the kitchen-cupboard doors.
"There's a fire downstairs!" he says to the guys nearby.
They begin filling pots and pans with water, and one by one they rush down the stairs.
Emily and Sam come up the stairs. Sam looks shaken.
"What's wrong?" I say.
"The house is on fire!"
"How bad?"
"Is any fire good? And I think we started it. We, uh, knocked a candle into a curtain."
Sam and Emily both look disheveled and have clearly been making out. I make a mental note to congratulate Sam later.
"Have you seen Sarah?" I ask Emily.
She shakes her head.
More guys rush up the stairs, Mark James with them. There is fear in his eyes. For the first time I smell smoke. I look at Sam.
"Go outside," I say.
He nods and takes Emily's hand and they leave together. Some of the others follow, but some stay where they are, watching with drunken curiosity.
A few people stand around stupidly patting the football players on the back as they rush up and down the basement stairs, cheering them on as though it's
all a joke.
I go to the kitchen and grab the largest thing left, a medium-sized metal pot. I fill it with water and then go downstairs. Everybody has evacuated
aside from us battling the blaze, which is far bigger than I expected. Half the basement is consumed in flames. Dousing it with the little water I have left is
completely futile. I don't try, and instead drop the pot and dash back up. Mark comes flying down. I stop him in the middle of the stairway. His eyes are
swimming in booze but through it I can see that he is terrified, that he is desperate.
"Forget about it," I say. "It's too big. We have to get everyone out."
He looks down the stairs at the fire. He knows that what I've said is true. The tough-guy front is gone. There is no more pretending.
"Mark!" I yell.
He nods and drops the pot and we go back up together.
"Everybody out! Now!" I yell when I get to the top of the stairs.
Some of the drunker ones don't move. Some of them laugh. One person says, "Where's the marshmallows?" Mark slaps him across the face.
"Get out!" he screams.
I rip the cordless phone from the wall and shove it into Mark's hand.
"Dial 911," I yell over the loud voices and the music that still blares from somewhere like a sound track to the erupting pandemonium. The floor is
getting warm. Smoke begins to billow up from beneath us. Only then do people take it seriously. I start pushing them towards the door.
I dart past Mark as he begins dialing and rush through the house. I take the stairs three at a time and kick through the open doors. One couple is
making out on a bed. I yell at them both to get out. Sarah's nowhere to be found. I sprint back down the stairs and through the door into the dark, cold
night. People are standing around, watching. Some of them I can tell are excited by the prospect of the house burning down. Some laugh. I can feel myself
begin to panic. Where is Sarah? Sam stands at the back of the crowd, which must total a hundred people. I run to him.
"Have you seen Sarah?" I ask.
"No," he says.
I look back at the house. People are still coming out. The basement windows glow red, flames licking against the panes of glass. One of them is
open. Black smoke pours out of it and floats high in the air. I weave through the crowd. Just then an explosion rattles the house. All the basement windows
shatter. Some of the people cheer. The flames have reached the first floor, and they're moving fast. Mark James stands at the front of the crowd, unable to
divert his gaze away from it. His face is illuminated by the orange glow. There are tears in his eyes, a look of despair, the same look that I saw in the eyes
of the Loric on the day of the invasion. What an odd thing it must be to watch everything you've ever known be destroyed. The fire spreads with hostility,
with disregard. All Mark can do is watch. Flames are beginning to rise up past the first-floor windows. We can feel the heat on our faces from where we
stand.
"Where's Sarah?" I ask him.
He doesn't hear me. I shake him by the shoulder. He turns and looks at me with a blankness that suggests he still doesn't believe what his own
eyes are telling him.
"Where's Sarah?" I ask again.
"I don't know," he says.
I start to weave through the crowd looking for her, getting more and more frantic. Everyone is watching the blaze. The vinyl siding has begun to
bubble and melt. The curtains in the windows have all burned away. The front door stands open, smoke pouring out of the top of it like an upside-down
waterfall. We can see all the way into the kitchen, which is an inferno. On the left side of the house the fire has reached the second floor. And that's when
we all hear it.
A long terrible scream. And dogs barking. My heart drops. Every person there strains to listen while hoping like hell we didn't hear what we all
know we did. And then it comes again. Unmistakable. It comes in a torrent and this time it doesn't let up. Gasps filter throughout the crowd.
"Oh no," Emily says. "Oh God no, please no."
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