Firebug

F
IREBU
G

Henry Holt and Company, LLC

Publishers since 1866

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, New York 10010

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Henry Holt
®
is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

Copyright © 2014 by Lish McBride

All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

(TK)

ISBN 978-0-8050-9862-4

Henry Holt books may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 x5442 or by e-mail at [email protected].

First Edition—2014 / Designed by April Ward

Printed in the United States of America

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

To my brothers—

I couldn't have picked better ones if I tried.

(And believe me, I've tried.)

1

S
TOP,
D
ROP,
AND
L
ET'S
R
OLL

RYAN SLAMMED
the book shut and tipped his head back, sprawling on the bench and claiming it as his own. I looked down at my lap, his current pillow, and shook my head.

“It's cheating.”

“I'm not asking you to write the paper for me, Ava. Just engage in a lively discussion about the book.” His put on his best pleading face—eyebrows up, a tight smile that showed his teeth, his hands clasped in supplication and—the kicker—his hazel eyes begging. Say what you will about Ryan James, the boy had killer eyes. And he knew it too. It was almost impossible to say no to him. Almost.

“You want to discuss a book you haven't read so you can write a paper on it. So, yeah, totally cheating.”

“You seemed way less concerned with moral fiber yesterday.” His grin was so impish, there were probably imps nearby taking notes. Not that imps are native to Maine.

I could feel the flush creeping up my cheeks as memories of yesterday, when I'd closed up bookshop a little early so that Ryan and I could have a little, er, “quality time,” started a conga line through my mind. I looked out at the harbor until my blush dulled.

“Illicit make-out sessions aren't even in the same league as skipping your required reading, hoss.”

Ryan sighed. “Can't I just watch the movie?” Then he started laughing, no doubt at the scandalized look on my face.

“You did
not
just say that to me, Ryan James!” I sputtered, and shoved him off my lap. He hit the bricks with a thud but kept right on laughing. “
The Count of Monte Cristo
is a classic for a reason. I don't know what I see in you. Ugh. Such blasphemy.”

He rejoined me on the bench, and I helped him brush some of the grass off his jacket. We were deep into mud season, or “early spring,” as I'd heard it was called in other states, and Ryan was lucky that grass and twigs were all he was brushing off. The weather had warmed lately, the snow melting, for the most part, and what was left was more mud than a body knew what to do with.

Ryan leaned over, brushing a kiss along my temple while putting his arm around me at the same time. “You're so mean. Why do I date you, again?”

“Because you like pain?” I made it sound like a joke, but really, I had no idea why Ryan dated me. Besides his killer eyes, Ryan had curly brown hair that always looked a little tousled, like he'd been doing something forbidden, a lean build, and these lips … man. He made me act like a mush-headed girl, which I hated, but it was hard to avoid his allure. He always had this sort of hand-in-the-cookie-jar look about him, just bad enough to be fun.

He pulled a cigarette out and placed it in those devil lips, using his free hand to pat his pockets for a lighter. I cupped my hand around my old-fashioned Zippo, flicking the cap open with my thumb, and lit his cigarette.

“You're always ready with a light—that's one thing in your favor.” Ryan took a drag on his cigarette, the cherry flaring a bright red. I tucked the Zippo into my pocket with a tight-lipped grin.

The lighter was a prop, empty of fluid and flint. Since I was playing regular human girl, props were necessary. I could set fire to the bench we were sitting on and every boat in the harbor if I put my mind to it, and that's all it would take: just my mind. But Ryan? He didn't know that. He was normal. He thought
I
was normal.

Ryan sighed, the smoke from his cigarette coming out in a
whoosh
. “I wish I was homeschooled. You didn't have to finish reading
Lord of the Flies
when you hated it.”

“They were stuck on an island and no one even
tried
fishing or digging for clams? I understand the symbolism of the pig, but really.”

“They were ignorant boarding-school kids. It's not like Woodland Foraging and Basic Survival Skills was a class.”

“Whatever. Anyway, don't be jealous. I had to read two books to replace it and write a five-page essay clearly stating my reasons for protest.” Then Sylvie and I did a dramatic reenactment of the essay using sock puppets we made to look like the main characters from
Lord of the Flies
, but I didn't tell him that. I think I can honestly say that was the day that my little hyperactive coworker and I really became friends. She made a killer puppet that looked like an angry clam. Then she sang a song called “Clams, the Better White Meat,” which she accompanied on the mandolin. She's thinking of turning the whole thing into a full-length musical.

Ryan threw up his hands. “You win. I'll read the book.”

I curled into him, kissing his cheek. “Good, because you would have failed if you went off the movie, anyway. They're different.”

He turned into me, his face only a breath from mine, those damn hazel eyes going bedroom sleepy. “You couldn't have just said that?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Tell you what, though. I'll discuss it with you while you read it and go over your paper with you.”

“You're a harsh mistress.” Ryan was about to kiss me when I heard a disgusted scoffing noise behind us.

“Hey, Ryan. Hey, homeschool.”

Aaaand enter Brittany, sullen bitch queen of Currant, Maine.

“Hey, Brittany.”

“Orphan.”

I rolled my eyes. “Get new material.” Technically, I was not an orphan. My mother was dead, yeah, but my dad was probably still around. I just didn't know where, or who, he might be. I kissed Ryan on the cheek. “The sound of her mind cogs screeching as she tries to think up new insults is my cue to leave.” I stood up and brushed my hands on my jeans.

Ryan grabbed my arm, glaring at Brittany. “You don't have to go.”

My phone chirped and I shrugged. “Yeah, I do.” It was maple sugaring day, and if I missed that, Cade would have my head.

 

 

CADE
was my guardian. He was one of those family friends so entrenched that he transcended trivial things like genetics and blood. We weren't related, but we were family, even if the state labeled him differently. He was my mom's childhood sweetheart, and to be honest, her forever one as well. You could tell from the way she'd looked at him that Cade was my mom's true heart. Which sounds like a vomit-worthy line from a crap poem, but for them it had worked. They'd been epic poetry in motion.

Whatever the label, my guardian took his job as a parental figure seriously. Everything became a lesson, and being regular old human didn't stop him from training the firebug side of me one bit. Especially during maple syrup season.

I pulled the truck up to the cabin and wasn't surprised to see that we had company. I recognized Lock's car—which probably meant Ezra, too, since he would never turn down a free meal—and Duncan's beat-up Jeep. Apparently it was a party. Cade was fairly serious about his maple syrup, or really anything we could make or grow at home. He owned the used bookshop, Broken Spines, where Sylvie and I worked, and he didn't make oodles of money. So he planted gardens. He canned, pickled, jammed, traded, and did whatever he could to supplement his income. Some of the syrup from today's session would go to Duncan, and in return, we'd get some smelt and whatever else he pulled out of the water.

The guys were already settled in the shack, which was mostly just a roof and a concrete floor with a brick-lined hole in the center for the fire pit. The “walls” were a few structural timbers to hold the roof up, and that was it. Sugaring produces a lot of steam. A game of cribbage was about to begin, snacks were on the card table, and Duncan had brought some Allen's Coffee Brandy, according to tradition. And also according to tradition, Cade kept looking at it and shuddering.

“No true son of Maine can resist Allen's,” Duncan said, pouring himself a small measure. Duncan also brought a case of Moxie for those of us not old enough for Allen's but only Lock would drink it. Imagine Santa dressed in L.L. Bean, and you might have a good grasp on what Duncan looks like. He was, of course, whittling. Duncan was a golem maker, and I knew that the things he whittled were more than mere wood.

“Then I guess I'm no true son. I'm fine with a mugup, thanks.” Cade poured coffee for the rest of us. If you put my guardian and me together, we're like opposing bookends. He's tall, blond, cheerful, and bespectacled. The thin gold wires framed blue eyes that were almost always in good humor. I'm surly, brown eyed, and have more curly dark brown hair that I know what to do with. My vision is perfect, my height is average, and if you look deeply into my eyes, you'd probably just see flames. If you looked into Ezra's, you'd probably just see bullshit. Not so sure about Lock's.

I grabbed my mug and one-arm-hugged Cade. We may be opposites, but I love my guardian more than anything. I tousled Ezra's hair and took a seat by Lock.

“I know what you're doing,” Ezra said, not glancing up from his cards. “You're trying to irritate me, thinking my vanity would howl at you messing up these glorious tresses.” He moved a card on the end into the middle of his hand. “You should know by now, Ava my darling, that my hair will be fantastic
no matter what.
” Lock winked up at me.

The thing is, Ezra was right. He seems like he's two steps away from sashaying down a runway or entering a photoshoot all the time. He's not handsome or pretty or good looking. Ezra Sagishi is nothing but time-stoppingly, heart-rendingly, sent-straight-from-temptation gorgeous. Good cheekbones, dark hair with deep russet tones, amber-golden eyes that look lined in kohl, and a smile that actually does stop traffic. I've seen it happen. Twice.

And he knows it too. Ezra is a fox, literally, and they don't believe in false modesty. Stealing everything that isn't nailed down, yes. But modesty? Not in their lexicon.

I nudged Lock. “I know Ezra's here for the free food—did his stomach drag you along?”

“You don't think I'm here for the sparkling conversation? The scenery? To watch Ezra lose spectacularly?”

“I do everything spectacularly.” Ez moved another card. “What makes you think I'm going to lose?”

“Because we won't let you cheat. There goes everything in your favor.”

Ezra gave a minute shrug. “Can't argue there. Anything you need to wait for isn't worth it.”

“Whereas I am a creature of patience.”

“Well, I'm not,” I said. “And you didn't answer my question.”

“What else would I be here for? You, cupcake. I'm here for you.”

Cade smiled over his coffee mug. “Have you come to make me an offer? I'm almost positive my girl here is worth her weight in chickens, so let's start talking dowry.”

“Chickens? Cade, you insult the girl.”

“Thank you, Duncan.” I leaned in and kissed him on the temple.

“Now goats, that's getting closer. But not cattle. She's not worth large livestock anymore. Maybe when she was a little younger…”