That’s it. I’m tired of this little girl pissing me off.
I storm up to her, blood surging.
“Or what?” I challenge her. “What if I don’t leave? What are you going to do about it, huh?”
The red glow behind her suddenly brightens, like a flare. But it’s not coming from her lamp. It’s an orange light coming from outside.
“MOM!” Sammy screams from downstairs. “The house across the street is on fire!”
Alec shoots out of his bedroom. “Raquel, call 911!”
“Daddy,” Piper calls.
“Stay there, sweetheart,” he shouts from the bottom step. “Stay with Marigold!”
I shove Piper out of the way, rushing to her bedroom window. 215 Maple Street is ablaze, flames bursting out of the windows, flicking into nearby trees. Alec runs out to the end of the driveway, stretching the water hose as much as possible.
Mom rushes downstairs. “Girls! Put your shoes on and grab what you need in case we have to evacuate.”
That’s when I look down. Piper already has on her shoes under her princess pajamas. There’s fresh mud on her sneakers. We meet eyes, hers giving away nothing, and I walk back into my room, holding in a scream.
Eight
EVEN THOUGH 215 Maple is a blackened, charred carcass, with smoke still swirling into the sky, it doesn’t look much different from any of the other houses. In fact, it looks more at home on our block than we do.
I stare from our front porch at the smoking pile of wet wood, biting my nails to keep my teeth from chattering.
I’m not cold. I’m shook . . . with the fire department investigating the ruins, mere yards away from my secret garden.
What if they go searching the other houses? What if they find it? Will they look for fingerprints? Am I in their system—
“How do you think it started?”
My head snaps to Sammy, standing beside me. “Huh? Oh, I don’t know. Why would I know?”
“You think it was one of those . . . squatters?”
I suck in a breath, trying to hold off the image of a body beneath the rubble, fried to a crisp. “I . . . I . . .”
The front door clicks open and Piper peers out before stepping onto the porch, standing on the opposite side. She doesn’t acknowledge us, just stares at the house, face devoid of emotions.
I’ve been trying to rationalize the night to myself. That’s what people do when faced with conflict. They take a beat, rationalize, then reconstruct what actually occurred. Piper had mud on her sneakers, but that could be from anywhere. She’s a curious puppy, shoving her nose in everything with a sniff. She went out to the front yard maybe . . . but there’s no way she started that fire. No way are we living with a mini arsonist. She’s not that crazy.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Sammy calls after me.
“Stay there,” I shout, speeding down the walkway. I need a better look.
Across Sweetwater, folks gathered at the intersection, craning their necks to see the wreckage but not daring to come any closer. Alec is talking to who I could only guess is the fire chief judging by a squad car, giving his account of the blaze.
The charred chimney stands like a tall redwood, ignorant of the carnage below. Pressing my belly against the yellow police tape, I stand among a few unfamiliar onlookers. My eyes water at the aggressive stench of burnt things. A porcelain tub that looks like it once belonged on the second floor, which is no longer there, sits in the center of the rubble, a white spot in a sea of blackness.
The cleanup crew is small. A couple of men in gear and two Cedarville pickup trucks. They don’t even seem official or that interested as they lazily fish through the soot.
Which makes sense considering how they cleaned up the rest of the houses in Maplewood. Why would anyone want their city to look like this?
“Was anyone inside this time?” one of the men beside me whispers.
“Not that they can tell,” the other says with a sigh.
He looks down at the crowd gathering at Sweetwater and chuckles. “Gotta light a house on fire once for me to get the message. That’s for sure.”
It clicks why their faces and presence feels so off-kilter to me. These men, the fire department, and the onlookers, they were the most white people I’ve seen in weeks. And I don’t know why, but I don’t want them here. I can only imagine how my neighbors on Sweetwater feel.
I glance back at the porch. Piper smirks, then skips back inside.
“Hello! Welcome,” Mom says cheerfully at the door. “Come on in, please!”
I recognize Mr. Sterling from his picture on the Foundation’s website. He’s short, with a small, somewhat wrinkled face, olive skin, bushy eyebrows, and shiny black hair with silver roots, his cologne flooding the room.
“Well, hello, Raquel,” he says. His smile is so bright it seems unnatural. “At long last, we finally meet.”
“Welcome,” Alec says with a sturdy handshake. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thanks again for having us,” Irma says, unwrapping the silk scarf choking her neck. “I just swore you were going to cancel, considering all the excitement you had last night.”
“We heard about the house,” Mr. Sterling says, peering across the street. “Close call for sure.”
“Thank God you’re all okay,” Irma adds.
“Yes, speaking of ‘all,’” Mom says, motioning toward the stairs. “May I present Marigold, Sammy—”
“And my Piper,” Alec adds emphatically, and I have to resist rolling my eyes.
Mr. Sterling smiles at us. “Hello there!”
Sammy waves through the banister. “Hey.”
“You’re really dressed up,” Piper says, regarding his suit, which shines like a new quarter.
Mr. Sterling bends to her eye level. “Why, you don’t miss a thing, do you?”
This is going to sound kinda extreme, but I already don’t like this guy. His flirty familiarity is somewhat off-putting. Or could be my inability to trust strangers.
Alec clears his throat. “Well, come on in! Make yourself at home. You own the place, after all.”
Mr. Sterling chuckles but doesn’t correct him with something like, “Oh no, Alec. This is your house now, friend.” Instead he and Irma follow Alec into the dining room.
“Kids, come on. Time for dinner,” Mom says.
For the first time, we all sit at the long wooden table under the new chandelier, the room bright and sparkling. Alec and Mr. Sterling sit at the heads. Mom, me, and Sammy on one side, Irma and Piper on the other. After warm garlic bread and a hearty salad, the table is almost silent as we dig into our spaghetti.
“Boy, I tell you, Raquel, this pasta . . . rivals my grandmother’s,” Mr. Sterling says. “And she’s from Sicily, the real deal.”
Mom grins proudly, always a sucker for anyone complimenting her cooking.
“I was a bit worried at first,” he admits, sipping some wine. “Heard you all were vegans, and I’m a meat and potatoes sort of man.”
“Heh, so am I,” Alec laughs. “Rough living, I’ve definitely lost a few pounds.”
“And yet somehow, you’re still alive,” I mumble under my breath. Mom pats my thigh under the table but keeps her face unreadable.