Fire & Flood

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  THE PROPOSAL

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE RAIN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE SUN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  If my hair gets any frizzier, I’ll shave it to the scalp.

  Or light it on fire.

  Whichever is easier.

  I stare at my reflection in the pond and run my hands through the bane of my existence. For a moment, I seem victorious, my chestnut curls wrangled into submission. But when I drop my arms, the curls spring out, worse for the wear. I point an unmanicured finger at the water. “I hate your face.”

  “Tella,” my mother yells from behind me, “what are you looking at?”

  I spin around and grab a handful of my hair. Exhibit A.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says.

  “You did this to me,” I tell her.

  “No, your father gave you curly hair.”

  “But you dragged me to Middle of Nowhere, Montana, as a sick experiment to see just how hideous I could become.”

  Mom leans against the door frame of our craptastic house and nearly grins. “We’ve been here almost a year. When are you going to accept that this is our home?”

  I walk toward her and punch a closed fist into the air. “I’ll fight to the death.”

  A shadow crosses the deep lines of her face, and I instantly regret bringing up The Subject. “Sorry,” I tell her. “You know I didn’t mean —”

  “I know,” she says.

  I rise up on tiptoes and kiss her cheek, then brush past her to go inside. My dad sits in the front room, rocking in a wooden chair like he’s two hundred and fifty-six years old. In actuality, I think he’s a couple of years shy.

  “Hey, Pa,” I say.

  “Hey, Daugh,” he says.

  Ever since my mom insisted we move out of Boston and into no-man’s-land, I’ve insisted on calling my dad Pa. It reminds me of those old black-and-white movies in which the daughters wear horrendous dresses and braid one another’s hair. He wasn’t a fan of my new name for him, but he accepted his fate over time. Guess he thought I could’ve rebelled a lot more following our relocation to purgatory, all things considered.

  “What are we doing tonight?” I ask, dropping down onto the floor. “Dinner at a glam restaurant? Theater in the city?”

  Dad’s mouth pulls down at the corner. He’s disappointed.

  That makes two of us.

  “Humor me and pretend you’re happy,” he answers. “That’d be entertaining as hell.”

  “Language,” I tsk.

  He waves me off, pretending he’s the man of this house and can say whatever he damn well pleases. I laugh when seconds later he glances over to see if Mom heard.

  “I’m going to my room,” I announce.

  Dad continues to stare outside like he’s comatose. I know that’s exactly what I’ll do when I get to my room, but at least I can do it in private.

  The floorboards creak as I head down the narrow hallway toward my personal dungeon. A few feet from my room, I pause outside an open bedroom door that isn’t mine. I can’t help moving closer to the bed inside. Leaning over his sleeping frame, I check to see if he’s still breathing. It’s my twisted ritual.

  “I’m not dead.”

  I jump back, startled by my big brother’s voice.

  “Shame,” I say. “I was hoping you’d kick off so I could have the bigger bedroom. You take up way more than your fair share of space, you know.”

  He rolls to face me and grins. “I weigh, like, a hundred pounds.”

  “Exactly.”

  It kills me to see Cody sick. And it doesn’t feel great ripping on him when what I want to do is ugly cry and beg him not to die. But he likes our back-and-forth. Says it makes him feel normal. So that’s what we do.

  “You look old,” Cody tells me.

  “I’m sixteen.”

  “Going on eighty.” He points to my face. “You have wrinkles.”

  I dash toward the mirror over his dresser and look. From the bed, I hear Cody laughing, then coughing. “You’re so vain,” he says into his fist, his chest convulsing.

  “Jerk face.” I move to his side and pull the heavy blanket to his chin. “Mom wants to know how you feel today,” I lie.

  “Better,” he says, returning the favor.

  I nod and turn to leave.

  “Tell her to stop worrying,” he finishes.

  “I doubt she seriously cares.”

  I can still hear him laughing when I get to my bedroom, shut the door, and sink to my knees. My breath whooshes out. He’s getting worse. I can hear it in the way his words quiver. Like speaking takes everything he has. In the beginning, it was just the weight loss. Then it was night sweats and shaking hands. Then the fun really started. Seizures. Thinning hair. Slurred speech that started one Wednesday and ended with a coma on Friday. He came around three days later. Mom said it was because he didn’t want to miss a football game. Not that he played anymore. That died a long time ago.

  Now he’s down to this: pretending. Pretending to be the brother who swung a right hook in my honor. Pretending to be the son who danced a jig in the end zone that his dad taught him. He’s still the guy who isn’t afraid to write more than his name in a greeting card. Still the guy who loves redbrick buildings and cars that growl and Cheez Whiz sprayed straight from the can into his open mouth.

  He is still my brother.

  He is not my brother at all.

  I don’t know why Mom thought this place would help. A dozen doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, yet she thinks Montana’s “fresh air” will do the trick. The look in her eyes while we packed the moving truck still haunts me. Like she was waiting for something.

  Or running from something.

  I pull myself up and walk to the window. Outside, I can hear yellow-headed blackbirds calling. I rarely noticed stuff like birds in Boston. In Boston, we lived in a brownstone that wasn’t brown, and I had friends two doors down. Our family owned three floors of sparkling space, and we could walk to restaurants.

  Here there are rocks. And a stream that runs near our home that’s free of fish. The sky is empty of rooflines and overstuffed with cotton-ball clouds. There are no neighbors. No girls my age to discuss the joys of colored tights with. A single, lonely road leads from our house into town. When I look at it, I want to strap a bag to a stick and limp down it hobo style.

  Tall pine trees surround our ho
use, like their job is to hide us from the world. I imagine running toward them wearing a hockey mask, swinging a chain saw over my head. They’d probably uproot themselves and squash me like a bug. Bury me beneath their twisted roots.

  That’s how I want to go when it’s my time.

  With a bang.

  I slide the window open and stick my head outside. What I wouldn’t do to see my friends again. To get a mani-pedi or a blowout. Or a Greek salad. Oh my friggin’ God, Feta cheese and kalamata olives. I wallow in self-pity for another moment before remembering my brother. Then I spend exactly three minutes feeling like the World’s Biggest Ass.

  We’re here for him. And I’d give anything to see my brother get out of bed and dance in the street like he did on Halloween two years ago. Or even just sit up for a few minutes without coughing.

  I motorboat my lips and spin in a circle like a ballerina. I spin and spin until everything becomes a blur. When I stop, my room continues to rush past me, and I lunatic laugh that this is what I do for fun now.

  My vision finally returns to normal, and my eyes land on the bed.

  Sitting on my white comforter is a small blue box.

  I snap my head from side to side, searching for someone in my room. But of course no one’s there. Then I realize what’s going on. Mom and Dad know how hard this relocation has been on me, and now they’re trying to buy my happiness. Or at least a break from my complaining.

  Am I really this easy?

  Please. They could have tied little blue boxes to the back of the moving truck and I would have chased after them until my feet bled.

  I fly across my room and leap onto the bed, a smile spread across my face. I’ve spent these last nine months with no Internet or cell phone, and right now I feel like a wild dog eyeing its prey.

  Holding the box to my lips, I tell it, “You’re mine, precious. All mine.”

  I’m about to tear in when I stop myself. This moment of wondering what’s inside will be over so quickly. And once it’s finished, I’ll have nothing to anticipate. Perhaps I should postpone gratification, hold off until I can’t stand it any longer. I could be happy for days just knowing I have something to look forward to.

  I pull the box away from my lips and give it a small shake.

  Put the box down, Tella, I tell myself.

  “Screw that,” I say out loud.

  I close my hand around the lid and pull it off. Inside is a tiny pillow. I imagine all sorts of miniature animals using it in their miniature beds. But that’s dumb, because how would they ever find a pillowcase to fit?

  My fingers pinch the pillow, and when I lift it up, I’m surprised by what I see sleeping beneath it. Flicking the pillow onto my bed, I reach into the box and grab the small, stark white device. It’s no longer than a nickel and curves in all sorts of funky ways. It looks … it looks like a hearing aid.

  My nose scrunches up as I turn the device over in my hand. Then I nearly squeal with excitement when I see a raised red blinking light on the other side. Blinking lights are cool, I decide. They indicate technology and advancement and maybe a connection to the outside world — to my friends. Or maybe it’s music. Who knows what wild stuff they’ve come out with in the last year? I bet this baby holds, like, a billion songs. And I’m going to listen to them. Every. Single. One.

  Vowing to give a solid, halfhearted apology to my parents and hoping I’m about to hear Lady Gaga’s latest, I stick the device into my ear. Hallelujah, it fits! I couldn’t be happier if my Boston boy toy just gave me diamonds.

  I fumble for a second before my fingers land on the red blinking button. Annnnnd … give it to me, baby.

  Once I’ve pushed the button, I hear a clicking noise. The sound goes on for several seconds. Long enough that I start to feel all kinds of devastated. But then the clicking turns to static, like someone on the other side of a radio is tuning in.

  Jumping from the bed, I walk around the room, tilting my head like I’m searching for a signal. I feel like a moron, and it’s the most fun I’ve had in forever. I shoot straight up when I hear a woman’s voice. It’s a clear, crisp sound. Like this lady has never mispronounced a word in her entire life. My eyes fall to the floor in concentration. And I listen.

  “If you’re hearing this message, you are invited to be a Contender in the Brimstone Bleed. All Contenders must report within forty-eight hours to select their Pandora companions. If you do not —”

  “Tella?” my dad asks. “What are you doing?”

  I spin around and do a little happy dance. “What is this thing?” I point to the device in my ear. “Where did you guys get it? Because it’s fan-friggin’-tastic.”

  “Get what?” My dad’s face goes from confused … to alarmed. For a moment, I feel like a little kid. Like, any second, I’m going to be placed in the time-out chair and fume while Cody flaunts his freedom like back when we were four and seven. “What’s in your ear?” My dad sounds strange. His words are calculated, slow to leave his mouth. “Give it to me.”

  “What? Why?” I say.

  Dad holds out his hand. “Now.”

  There’s no room for argument. My dad’s a fairly small guy, but right now he seems enormous. I pull the device from my ear and drop it into his palm. As he closes his fist, I’m certain my new toy has been permanently confiscated.

  “Why’d you give it to me if you were just going to take it away?” I ask.

  Dad looks at me like he’s going to say something profound, but then he mutters, “Your mom needs help in the kitchen.” He walks out of the room, my only source of excitement for the next eon tucked in his pocket.

  I grab the sides of my door frame and hang my head. My dad’s freak-out tells me he’s not the one who left the talking hearing aid in my room, which makes me wonder who did. Then it dawns on me. Passing Cody’s room, I yell, “Nice joke, ass hat.” Even as I say it, I imagine what it would be like if it wasn’t him. Nothing exciting happens to me. Ever. But that doesn’t stop me from daydreaming.

  I’ve got a world of possibilities ticking away in this noggin. And right now I’ve all but decided the leader of an underground cult has recruited me to be a part of the Brimstone Blood. Or Bleed. Or whatever Cody named it. Either way, it sounds kind of gruesome. He’s apparently gotten more twisted in his sibling brutality. And I do count getting my hopes up as brutality.

  The real question is how he recorded that woman’s voice. Apparently, the kid’s been holding out on me. Mom insisted Cody relax once we moved here, hence the Technology Prohibition, but he must have stashed something away. A laptop. A smartphone. Something.

  Just thinking about it makes me foam at the mouth.

  I briefly wonder if I might be coming down with rabies.

  Mom isn’t in the kitchen, but I do spot her standing in her bedroom, talking in a hushed voice with Dad.

  “You promised!” my dad hisses. “You promised that they wouldn’t find her here.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s too late now.”

  “Not yet, it’s not —”

  When my mom sees me, she holds a hand up to shush him.

  “Tella,” she says, “I want you to finish making dinner and meet us in Cody’s room.” Then she closes the door.

  “Jeez, rude much?” I say, mostly to myself. For a moment, I wonder what my parents were talking about. I can’t say what I heard didn’t unnerve me, but when you live with a chronically sick sibling you get used to overhearing your parents say weird crap behind closed doors. So I dismiss their crankiness and turn my attention to my marching orders.

  Tonight is Sunday Funday, which my dad made up, and which equates to eating spaghetti in Cody’s room. We all sit around his bed and dine off paper plates, and no one’s allowed to say anything negative. All it really means is that everyone saves everything terrible they have to say for Monday, which kicks off the week real positivelike.

  I drain the spaghetti and pour in a can of marinara. Then I do that finger-kiss thing that Italian chefs do o
n TV. Tipping the oversized chrome pot, I cover four plates with pasta and top them with packaged Parmesan cheese and a slice of freezer-stored garlic bread.

  Everything we eat is made with love and kindness, and packed with as many preservatives as humanly possible. Living thirty miles from the nearest grocery store pretty much guarantees we’ll never eat fresh again, unless we grow something ourselves, and that so isn’t happening. My parents have always chosen their wallets over manual labor; another reason why we shouldn’t have left the city.

  Walking toward Cody’s room, I carry a tray covered with plates and glasses like a well-tipped waitress. I even keep one hand cocked on my hip so I can sashay past our too-expensive-for-this-house furniture. When I get to the hallway, I overhear Mom and Dad whispering hurriedly to Cody. I make a point to stop and eavesdrop, but the floorboards choose this exact moment to creak beneath my shoes.

  Everyone stops talking.

  “You got the spaghetti?” my dad asks. The way he says it sounds like he’s digging for information beyond dinner.

  I turn the corner and do my best sashay yet. It’s so good, I almost lose the tray altogether. Still, if it’s between sashaying and keeping spaghetti off the floor — I choose the former. “Dinner is served, my fine patrons.” I steady the tray and pass the grub out to my family. When I hand my dad his pasta, I pause and search his face. I know it was Cody who planted the box in my room, but it bothers me that my dad got so weird about it. He hates when Cody and I play-fight, and I guess he just wasn’t in the mood. Still, I want to know he’s not mad anymore. Even more, I want to steal back that talking device in his pocket. Prank or no prank, it’s a lifeline to fighting boredom and isolation.

  While we eat, Mom talks ad nauseam about what’s on the agenda for tomorrow’s classes. I want to remind her that Sunday Funday outlaws talking about anything negative, but I hold my tongue. It’s August, which means exactly two things: A) It’s a new semester in the Holloway household, and B) Mom’s on a steady diet of overeagerness. And maybe crack.

  Mom started homeschooling Cody and me once we moved here. It was a huge blow to my social calendar, second only to Guess what? We’re moving to Montana. I never thought my mom was the relocate-to-the-wilderness-and-homeschool-my-kids kind of person, but turns out she’s full of pleasant surprises. I’ll admit that, as far as teachers go, she’s the best I’ve had. Maybe because she glows every time I get an answer right, or that she dances when we ace our tests.