My eye twitches. I sure wish my worst problem was a stray cluster of flowering plants. That’d be nice.
After several rounds of circling the shed, I realize that I don’t have many choices here. Either I break a window and take the can, or I don’t do what Justin wants today. He never specified that I had to get this done in a New York minute, but I also know that today is a rare day when nobody is in the theater. Usually, Danyella is there with a handful of drama club members.
I look around for a stray rock, brick, gardening tool, anything at all … but this is Whitehall Preparatory Academy, where the best shine bright. There’s nothing around for me to use; the campus is as sterile and perfect as the Vanguard’s ice cavern.
I’m basically out of fucks to give at this point, so I end up slipping my blazer from my shoulders, wrapping my fist in the fabric, and then punching the rearmost window as hard as I possibly can. The old glass gives way easily enough as I rush to knock off the sharp shards around the edges.
Climbing in is substantially more difficult, but I pad the workbench below the window with the blazer, saving myself from the worst of the glass. My feet hit the dusty floor and I waste no time in snatching the gas can, making sure the cap is screwed tight before I shove it out the window and onto the grass.
I manage to escape without getting blood on anything, so I consider that a victory.
Or, as much a victory as someone in my position can have.
Chasm is waiting at the theater when I get back, giving my ruined blazer a look before I shove it into my bag.
“Let’s do this,” I say, carrying the gas can down the aisle between the seats. I use my keys to let myself backstage, knowing with every step that I’m going to relive this moment for the rest of my life and hate it with a passion that burns far hotter than any fire I could possibly set.
This is Danyella’s hard work, my hard work, the work of dozens of students and staff. Dreams, that’s what this production is, a collection of dreams.
“Maybe I should do it?” Chasm asks from behind me as we enter the room and I stand there, staring at the sea of furniture, the stack of backdrops against the wall, and the boxes full of props. Some of these things, I helped make. Some of them I painted while listening to Danyella talk. Some of them were donated.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I just can’t. How can I go through with this and look Danyella in the face ever again? How?
“No,” I say, my voice firm, maybe even a little scary. If someone has to have blood on their hands, it may as well be me. If Parrish’s captor really is my father, then this isn’t Chasm’s responsibility. And it isn’t Parrish’s. It’s mine. “Stand back.”
I unscrew the can’s cap before handing it over to him. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, and I try to remember the look on Parrish’s face, the blazing fire in his eyes, the almost eerie calmness of his voice. He doesn’t want me to do this. Maybe doesn’t think that I can. But I will.
Justin keeps his promises, does he? Well, good for him. So do I.
The acrid smell of the gasoline burns my nose as I splash it over a pair of beds intended for Elphaba and Glinda to lounge on while they sing Popular. Guess that isn’t happening. I’m crying as I do it, pouring gas all over my friend’s dreams, destroying hours upon hours upon hours of work.
With a whimper, I pull the lighter from my pocket, bend down, and flick the wheel. The trail of gas goes up in an instant, and then Chasm is pulling me up and grabbing me by the hand. He leads me out of the theater and, on my way out, I pause and look around before lifting up the glass cover of the fire alarm.
With a deep breath, I reach out and pull it.
News of the fire reaches us quickly. It’s everywhere, splashed across social media, highlighted in mainstream news, and most importantly, texted to me via Danyella.
It’s over. It’s all over. That’s what she says. I’m standing in the shower, leaning against the wall with one shoulder and staring at my phone screen. Little droplets of water splash across the surface, but I ignore them. It’s waterproof anyway and also, I just don’t care. What I do care about is Danyella. Parrish. Chasm.
I step out of the shower and throw the phone on the counter while I dry off. I’m not ready to message Danyella back, not yet. First, I need to clean up and make sure there’s zero evidence of what I’ve done. The horrible, horrible thing that I’ve done.
“Some people are starting to suspect Parrish of setting the fire,” Chasm tells me when I step out of the bathroom in one of the fancy robes that Tess bought for me. He’s wearing a robe, too, which is interesting. It must be Parrish’s though I’ve never seen him in it.
“Good. Maybe they’ll look a little harder for him?” I sit down beside Chas with a long sigh, my phone hanging heavy in the robe’s pocket. It weighs as much as the burden that’s sitting pretty on my shoulders, like a stone gargoyle perched atop my head, watching everything that I do.
I lie back on the bed, my eyes catching on the vase of sunflowers that are still resting on my nightstand. They’re still fresh, still very much alive, but given time, they’ll slowly wilt. They’ll die.
It’s a macabre metaphor that I refuse to think too much about.
“Hey Chas,” I start, but he’s already several steps ahead of me, rising to his feet and moving over to the framed family portrait I hung on the wall.
“Don’t,” he warns me, glancing over his shoulder with a deep-set frown. “I don’t want to talk about the flowers; they aren’t a big deal anyway.” He looks back at the picture as I sit up, digging my fingers into the edge of the bed as I study him. Teenage guys just don’t randomly give flowers to their best friend’s ‘little sister’ for no reason at all.
“We don’t have to talk about it right now if you don’t want to, but … I’m not going to forget that you gave them to me.”
“Who says they’re from me at all?” he queries back, but he’s already shown his cards. It’s too late. “Anyway, don’t look too much into it. I just happened to see them on my way over here and figured what the hell.”
“That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard in my life. If you don’t want to tell me why you brought me flowers, don’t. Just say that. You don’t have to lie.” I watch as Chasm’s back tenses beneath the robe and he turns slowly to look at me; the expression on his face says everything.
“You want to hear the truth, huh? You want to hear that I bought the flowers for you because I’m an idiot? Because I thought that maybe, just maybe, you were interested in me the way I was interested in you?” Chasm stalks toward me, and I swear, I can still smell the burn of gasoline, the stink of ash. But no, he’s clean and I’m clean; it’s all in my head.
I swallow hard, but I don’t know what to say to that. Part of me feels ashamed for not chasing after Chasm that day. The rest of me loves what happened between me and Parrish. I don’t know. It isn’t exactly the time for romance, is it?
“I should never have brought it up,” I whisper, and Chasm scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Besides, I told you: I have a crush.” He keeps watching me, this unspoken communication in his gaze that I finally, finally get. Oh. His crush, the crush he told me about at the lake is … She’s me. If Chas is an idiot, then so am I for not seeing it sooner. “Anyway, she’s smarter, prettier, and way less dorky than you.”