Fire With Fire (24 page)

I’m at lunch with everyone on Wednesday when
two sophomore girls nervously approach our table. They look
so young, both of them, in jeans that are way too blue and way
too baggy, track-and-field fleeces, and Converse sneakers.

“Um, Rennie? Could we ask you a quick question?” the one
with the straw-colored ponytail asks.
“If you’re not too busy,” the mousy one adds.
Over the past few weeks I’ve become very adept at pretending Rennie does not exist. Almost as good as she is at pretending that I don’t exist. So I go back to the pages of my history
textbook and pretend to be utterly absorbed by a portrait of
Eli Whitney.
Plus, I already know what this is about.
The two girls produce a clipping and place it down on the
table for Rennie to see. From what I can tell without totally
obviously looking, it looks like maybe something cut out of a
teen magazine. Or a department-store catalog? “We were wondering if this dress would work for your party.”
Rennie’s New Year’s Eve party is all anyone can talk about. It’s
going to be at her mom’s gallery, the last hurrah before Ms. Holtz
sells the place. It will be Rennie’s pièce de résistance, her masterpiece. It’s a twenties theme, and she’s pulling out all the stops;
she’s been hoarding bottles of gin and champagne from Bow Tie
for the past month. It’s been easy enough with all the company
holiday parties they’ve been hosting; according to Rennie, there
are plenty of bottles at the end of the night. And everyone’s going
to be in costume, too. Girls have been coming up to Rennie showing her pictures of their dresses and getting approval on 1920s
hairstyles. I actually spotted her, forehead wrinkled with concentration, reading
The Great Gatsby
during a free period, which is
hilarious, because we were assigned that, like, freshman year.
I was the first one Rennie told about this idea, back on the
first day of school. Rennie has practically invited the whole
school to the party, but she hasn’t invited me. She hasn’t flat-out
banned me, but she hasn’t invited me either. I don’t want to go,
but it’s not like I have a choice. It’s the final stage of our plan.
Rennie tears into both of the girls. “Are you serious right
now? First off, this is a prom dress, not a New Year’s Eve
dress. And it is not flapper-esque. See the cinched waist? And
that awful-looking poufy skirt? It’s a lame fifties-housewife
costume.” She actually crumples up the paper and chucks it on
the cafeteria floor.

For as long as I’ve known her, Rennie has been on me to have a
party at my house. I’ve always said no, because the kind of party
my parents would let me have is not the kind of party any of our
friends would be interested in going to—i.e., no alcohol, no loud
music, no skinny-dipping, no hooking up in random bedrooms.
It would be more like karaoke and a cheese plate.

And the truth is, I’ve never been that into the idea of hosting a
bunch of people. It seems so stressful, making sure everybody’s
having a good time but also making sure they’re not wrecking
the house. It is a perfect party house, though. My mom designed
it that way, with an open floor plan and high vaulted ceilings
and plenty of room to move around in. And the movie night I
had a few weeks ago worked out fine.

That night, an opportunity arises. We’re cooking dinner
when my mom suggests the three of us surprise my dad this
weekend in New York, where he’s speaking at a medical conference. I remind her how I have to work on my college apps, and
she says, “Lillia, you hardly ever get to see your dad. This will
be such nice family time. We’ll see a show, go to brunch, check
out that new art installation at the Met. Maybe get a massage.
We can do some Christmas shopping too! Didn’t you say you
need new riding boots?”

I know she thinks she’s going to get me with the shopping,
but I stand my ground. “Daddy will be stuck working the whole
time. It’s not like he’s going to the spa with us.”

“He’ll be able to meet us for dinners,” my mom argues.
“Mommy, I need to work on my applications. Things have
been so crazy with schoolwork that I haven’t been able to concentrate on them the way I need to.” I mean it too.
My mom sighs. “All right. We’ll go another time.”
“You and Nadi should still go,” I tell her. “I’ll be fine by
myself, promise.”
I can read the indecision on my mom’s face. She really wants
to get off the island; she’ll take any excuse to escape. The winters drive her crazy here. It makes her feel claustrophobic, not
being able to leave, with the weather so cold and wet and gray.
Plus, she loves New York. She lived in New York when she was
in her early twenties, and she gets all nostalgic when she talks
about running around the city with her friends.
Nadia’s listening from the couch, and she chimes in, “Please,
pretty please, can we still go? I want to go shopping!” Hastily
she adds, “And also I want to see Daddy.”
“I don’t know. A whole weekend alone?”
In a strong, firm voice I say, “Mommy, I’ll be okay. I stayed
by myself last month and it was totally fine.”
“Well . . . I do love New York at Christmastime,” she says,
looking back at Nadia, who squeals. “The whole city is wrapped
up like a present.” She looks back at me and says, “You can have
Rennie stay over here to keep you company.”
“Maybe,” I say, and Nadia raises her eyebrows. I turn away
and start filling water glasses.
“What’s going on with you two?” my mom asks. “She hasn’t
been around much lately.”
“Nothing. We’re both just busy.”
I can tell my mom was gearing up to ask another question.
Time for a subject change. “Mommy, when you guys are in
New York, can you pick me up some of that face cream I like
from the spa you go to? The one that smells like sugarplums?”
“Maybe Santa will put it in your stocking,” my mom says
with a wink.
So this is how I come to be having my first ever party party. I
tell everybody at the lunch table on Thursday, and the sour look
on Rennie’s face makes the whole thing worth it in advance.
“Friday night, seniors only,” I say. “Super exclusive. I don’t
want any random sophomores or whatever. Only the people we
like.”
Which means not you, Rennie.
“Your mom’s letting you have a party?” Rennie looks
skeptical.
I’m about to snap at her, but then I realize that these are the
first words Rennie has spoken to me in over a month. I force
a swallow and say, “My mom won’t be here. Nadia, either.”
Rennie’s face gets pinched. “What about booze? Let me
guess, this is going to be a dry party. Diet Coke and lemonade,
am I right?”
I ignore her and touch Reeve’s arm. “Reeve? Can you ask one
of your brothers to get me a few kegs for tomorrow? I can pay
you after school.”
“No prob,” he says, gulping down a carton of milk. He wipes
his mouth. “Tommy owes me for helping him move last week.
Do you want some liquor, too? Something sweet for the girls,
like peach schnapps or whatever?”
Hmm. I don’t want things to get too too crazy. But Rennie’s
was watching so I say, “Maybe a bottle of tequila. For shots.”
To the table I say, “But I don’t want it to get, like, out of hand.
Can you guys please help me keep things under control? My
mom will kill me if the house gets wrecked.”
Reeve nudges my foot under the table, his sneaker to my
bootie. “I’ll be your bouncer,” he promises, giving me a look.
“Only VIPs at Princess Lillia’s party.”
I’m tempted to sneak a peek at Rennie, to see the look on
her face, but there’s no need. I know she’s seething inside.
Guaranteed. To add more fuel to the flames I say, “And there
won’t be a theme. Themes are so over.”
“Sounds good,” Alex says. “Let me know if I can help.
Whatever you need.”
“Maybe you can pick up the pizzas?” I ask.
Alex nods. “No problem.”

After school Reeve texted me and asked him to help find an outfit
for Rennie’s party, and I said yes, only because I hoped it would
get back to her. So here we are at Second Time Around, a thrift
store near Reeve’s house that his mom told him about. Reeve’s
in front of a full-length mirror, trying on a double-breasted pinstriped jacket. “Um, I think that’s a women’s suit jacket!” I say,
and I collapse into a fit of giggles.

“No way,” Reeve says confidently. “It’s definitely menswear.
It just has a sleeker cut.”
I come up behind and get on my toes to check the label. Ann
Taylor. “You’re right,” I say, trying not to smile. “Menswear.”
Reeve gives me a suspicious look and takes off the jacket.
When he reads the label, he exclaims, “Ann Taylor! My mom
shops there.” He tosses the jacket to me and I put it back on
the hanger. “If I can’t find anything else, I guess it’ll work. The
man makes the clothes; the clothes don’t make the man.”
I shake my head at him in mock wonder. “I can’t even believe
how cocky you are.” I’m giving him a hard time, but the truth
is, it’s nice to see him acting like his old self. I hand him a gray
checked vest with buttons down the front. “You could wear this
with a dress shirt and a tie.”
He unbuttons it and tries it on over his shirt. “Not bad,”
Reeve says, checking himself out.
He does look handsome. Very
GQ
. I take a gray fedora off
the hat rack and place it on his head. “Now you look perfect,”
I tell him, tilting it just so. “Very jaunty. Very Gatsby-esque.”
His cheeks are smooth; he shaved this morning. And he smells
good—not like he doused himself in cologne, but clean, like
Irish Spring soap.
“Cool, I’ll get it,” Reeve says. I can tell he’s pleased. He looks
at himself in the mirror one last time, and then he takes the hat
off and puts it on my head. He’s looking down at me, and then
he gives my side braid a tug, and I have this strong feeling that
he’s about to kiss me.
But behind Reeve, across the store, I spot two girls and a guy
from our high school picking through the racks. They’re drama
kids, probably looking for costumes or something. I don’t know
their names, but I bet they know who Reeve and I are. And if
they spotted us kissing, that kind of juicy gossip would be all
over the school in a heartbeat.
Suddenly I feel dizzy. I take a quick step back and then dart
away from him and head up to the register. Reeve follows,
and I tell the girl at the counter, “We’ll take the fedora and
the vest.”
Then Reeve pays, and we walk back toward his truck. The
sun is bright out, but it’s cold. I tighten the scarf around my
neck. I’m about to hop into the passenger side of the truck when
Reeve clears his throat and says, “Would you want to come to
my family’s open house?”
“What’s an open house?” Is he
moving
?
“It’s a thing my parents do every December,” Reeve explains.
“My mom cooks a bunch of food, and people stop by all day.
Mostly family and neighbors. It’ll be, like, my brothers and
their girlfriends and my cousins. We watch football and decorate the tree, hang lights on the garage, nothing special.”
I wet my lips nervously. “When is it?”
“This Sunday. Drop by whenever. We’ll be around all day.”
“Okay,” I say. I’ve known Reeve for years, and I don’t
remember him ever mentioning an open house. I can’t believe
he’s actually inviting me. It’s really sweet. But it’s also really
real. Like, hanging out with his mom and dad and brothers and their girlfriends? That’s something only a girlfriend
would do.
Which I guess is a good thing.
Reeve’s face breaks into a relieved smile. “Yeah? Okay, cool.
You can stop by whenever. I mean, people start coming in the
morning, and my mom makes these kick-ass sweet rolls, so
maybe come around ten before my brothers eat them all.”
“Cool,” I echo.
He looks so happy that I wonder if maybe he’ll try to kiss
me again.
Reeve opens the passenger-side door for me, and I climb in,
my scarf trailing behind me. Before he shuts the door, he picks
up the end of my scarf so it won’t get caught in the door, and
he winds it around my neck. Then he runs around the other
side and starts the car and turns the heater on. “It’ll get warm
pretty fast,” he tells me, and I nod. I have to keep telling myself
that none of this is real; it’s all going to be over soon. I can’t let
myself get swept away because I have feelings for him. I
can’t
have feelings for him. I have to control it.
Reeve pulls up in front of my house, and before I get out,
he says, “Everything’s set with the kegs. I’m going to pick
them up tomorrow after school. I can grab the pizzas, too.”
Surprised, I say, “Oh, thanks, but Alex said he’d pick them up.”
“I’ll do it. It’s on my way.”
“Okay. Thank you. I’ll give the pizza place my credit card
number when I place the order tomorrow.”
Reeve gives me a weird look and says, “I can afford a couple
of pizzas, Cho.”
Great, now I’ve offended him. I’m trying to think of what to
say to make it less awkward, and then he goes, “I can come early
with everything and help you get set up, if you want.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “People are going
to notice, you know.”
Reeve shrugs. “What?”
“Come on, Reeve. I’m just saying that if we want things to
stay, you know, between us, we should probably be more discreet.”
Reeve reaches out and tucks some of my hair behind my ear.
“We’re not going to be able to hide this forever.”
“I know that. But we can’t, like, throw it in everyone’s faces
either. People will get upset.”
He rubs his eyes. “I’m just going to do what feels right. If
people have a problem with that . . . well, then they can go to
hell.”
I nod. What else can we do? Then I go with what feels right to
me
at that very second. I lean across the center console and give
Reeve a peck on the cheek. I do it so quick I don’t get to see the
look on his face, and then I hop out and run to my front door.
I’m breathless and flushed by the time I run up the stairs and
to my room. I’m brushing my hair in front of my vanity when
Nadia steps inside in one of our dad’s big Harvard sweatshirts
and her fuzzy slippers. “Hey,” I say. “I thought you were going
to the barn.”
“I am, later.” She comes and sits on my bed and watches me,
her arms hugging her knees. “You look happy.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. Was that Reeve dropping you off?”
I notice something in her voice. A sharpness. “Yeah. A bunch
of us were hanging out downtown and he gave me a ride home
because he was on his way over to Alex’s.”
Nadia doesn’t say anything. She knows I’m lying. I know
I’m lying. And so the lie just sits there between us. Then she
says, “I saw you kiss him.”
“On the cheek!”
She shakes her head, looking at me like I am a stranger. “But
you know it’s not right. Whatever you’re doing with him, it’s
not right.”
“Why can’t it be right?” My voice sounds weak, desperate.
I hate that Nadia’s looking at me like that—like she’s
disappointed in me. Like I’ve disappointed her. “Because you
know how Rennie feels about him. He’s hers.”
“No, he’s not. She thinks he is, but he’s not.” I feel tears
spring to my eyes as I say, “I don’t even know how you can
defend her after the way she’s been treating me. Have you really
not noticed? It’s been almost two whole months of her ignoring
me in public, talking about me behind my back. And I know
you and all your friends have been making decorations and stuff
for her New Year’s Eve party. How is that supposed to make me
feel? You’re supposed to be on my side, Nadi. You’re
my
sister,
not hers.”
“It’s not about what she’s doing. It’s about what you’re
doing.” Nadia looks like she is about to cry too.
“Nadi,” I begin. I’m not sure what I can say to make this better. Before I can figure it out, my sister gets up and leaves. I call
out her name again, but she doesn’t come back.
CHAP
TER F
OR
T
Y -SEVEN