Torched Read online

  “That’s not what I meant, Rose.”

  I slammed the car door shut. “And this borrowed car is even better than that car I loved and you sold to pay for that thing I didn’t do.” I bit my tongue, sure I was about to be yelled at, but my dad stared at me, then went inside without saying anything. He was obviously taking lessons from my mom. Ignore anything unpleasant, and it would go away.

  So I went away. Next door, at least. The cooler was heavy, and I was glad I hadn’t tried to lug it the quarter mile over the lawn. I parked in the drive, then rang the doorbell.

  And waited.

  After thirty seconds produced no response, I rang the bell again, following up with loud knocks. Finally I heard Paxton’s voice, irritable as hornets.

  “I’m coming, hold on!” He opened the door, saw it was me, and frowned. “Oh, hey.” He leaned on a crutch, his be-casted leg held stiffly.

  “Hey.” For a second I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I was dumb for coming over here. My shoulders, left bare by my bikini and the halter sundress I’d thrown overtop, tingled, and I noticed Paxton’s gaze brush them before he met my eyes again. My lungs felt tight. I forced myself to pretend Hayley’s theory hadn’t thrown me into a pit of confusion, uncertainty ... and curiosity.

  Did Paxton like me? If yes, how did I feel about that?

  If no ... how did I feel about that?

  Sure everything inside my head was visible, I wanted to run back to my house. But then I noticed that Paxton’s jaw showcased two or three days of stubble, and he looked like he’d been living in the stained red T-shirt and gym shorts he wore. No matter what my confused side thought, Paxton definitely needed an intervention. I shoved all my uncertainty away. Today was simple: one friend cheering another friend up. Period.

  “Keep the door open,” I told him. I jogged to Paxton’s car and lugged the cooler and duffel bag inside. Paxton, looking mildly suspicious, shut the door after me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re having a picnic. Slash pool party.”

  The suspicion on Paxton’s face turned to annoyance.

  “Great idea, Rose. Except I can’t get my cast wet.”

  I held up a plastic trash bag and medical sealing tape. “You won’t.”

  “I’m not really in the mood.” Leaning on his crutch, Paxton limped toward the living room.

  “I didn’t ask,” I said, but he collapsed on the couch. I put my hands on my hips. “Well, I’ll be having a picnic by your pool. Go change and join me once you’re done sulking.” I grabbed my stuff and went out back like I didn’t care what he did.

  The Callaways have this great wooden deck by their pool, with a gazebo in the corner. It held a built-in table and benches, and Mrs. Callaway hung potted flowers from the ceiling beams so it always dripped ivy and bright petunia-like flowers called superbells. That’s where I set up, laying out snacks, then grabbing a radio from the kitchen and turning it up loud. Paxton would be curious enough about what I was up to that he’d mosey out here eventually.

  I was reading a novel and nibbling at chips and salsa when Paxton finally crutched through the patio doors. He still wore a T-shirt, but this was blue and clean, and his shorts were red swim trunks.

  Paxton made his way to the gazebo and stopped.

  “So what’s all this?”

  I made a show of looking up from my book in surprise, as if garden gnomes had set the food out without me noticing.

  “I do believe it’s a picnic. How did that happen?”

  “Is this your attempt to cheer me up?”

  “Hell no. I just don’t have a pool.” I waved a hand magnanimously. “But you’re welcome to hang out if you want.”

  “So kind of you.” Paxton propped his crutches on the side of the gazebo and sat down across from me. I put away my book.

  “It is your house, I suppose. Is Juliette here?” I asked, thinking I wouldn’t feel so awkward with a third person around. What did a secret crush look like? I couldn’t tell, and it was driving me nuts. Paxton seemed ... well, kind of down, but otherwise normal.

  “Nope. She’s out with friends. And my parents went to a conference.” Paxton reached for a pretzel. He turned it over in his hands, then set it on the table and stared at it.

  “Are you telepathically communicating with pretzels now?” I asked.

  Paxton glanced up, his brown eyes picking up gold and black from the sunlight outside of the gazebo.

  “So what, Rose--do you just feel sorry for me? Is that why you’re here?”

  Something in Paxton’s expression told me that if I admitted I felt bad for him and his busted leg, he’d go back inside and lock himself in his room. Instead, I put my elbows on the rough wood and leaned forward.

  “I’ll bet you five dollars you can’t not mope for the rest of the afternoon,”

  For a few seconds, Paxton just looked at me. Then one corner of his mouth tugged up. A glint replaced the angry sulk in his eyes.

  “Deal.”

  “Speaking of dealing.” I whipped a deck of cards out of my duffel bag. “You get to choose the game: rummy or ...” I smiled. “Rummy.” I started shuffling. “What’ll it be?”

  “How about war?”

  “Please. War has no strategy. It’s all luck.” I started dealing out a rummy match.

  “I just wanted to save you the humiliation of losing,” Paxton said, and took his cards.

  We played for a while, trash talking and bantering. The sun beat down on the deck and pool outside the sheltered gazebo, and after I won the first match I crowed in victory, then made for the cooler I’d stashed in the shade of the house.

  “Time for sandwiches,” I called back. “What’s the loser want?”

  “Go ahead and ask yourself,” Paxton shot back. I brought the cooler over and took out salami and cheddar cheese, his favorites, plus a head of lettuce, a bag of sliced rolls, and condiments. Paxton shuffled the cards and watched me.

  “You do feel sorry for me,” he said. “Otherwise we’d be eating ham and swiss.”

  I swiped the rolls with mayo, then glanced at Paxton from under my lashes. “Was that moping I heard?”

  “Just an observation.” He arched his hands to bridge the cards. “Any more progress on figuring out who framed you? Sorry I haven’t been any help this week.”

  “Yeah, I was really put out that you broke your leg and couldn’t help,” I teased, then told him how I’d tried to find out more about Georgette’s whereabouts the night of the arson. “It doesn’t look like she has an alibi, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I still have to see if Beverly could have done it.” All of this felt pointless sometimes. Even if I figured out who’d targeted me, what could I do about it? My mood plummeted. I finished making the sandwiches in silence, the only sounds coming from the radio and from Paxton shuffling the cards.

  “So have you talked to Ryan?” Paxton asked when I put his salami-heavy roll in front of him. He took a bite, then started dealing another rummy game.

  “No. Well, in class once.” It had been awkward. Ryan still wore his “I’m the wounded party,” look, and I’d almost confronted him right there. “Francesca and Georgette’s birthday is this Wednesday, so maybe he’ll ... I don’t know.” Paxton glanced up at me, and I shrugged. “I kind of don’t want to hear it, you know? I mean, I’m pretty sure I know what happened, but if we talk about it I’ll have to decide whether it was okay. And I don’t really think it is.”

  “No?”

  It crossed my mind that a month ago I would have considered Armageddon more likely than me spilling my guts to Paxton, and that maybe I should keep my mental wrestling to myself. But I had no one else to talk to, and the words tumbled out, eager to escape.

  “I mean, extenuating circumstances, right? But still. H
e chose lying for his brother over standing up for me.” Paxton cleared his throat, and I frowned. “What?”

  “Not that I’m defending him or anything, but at the time, Ryan thought you were summarily dumping him over the photos. And he wanted to protect his brother. I get that.”

  “Sure sounds like you’re defending him,” I said irritably. “Ryan and his brother aren’t even that close, as far as I know.”

  Paxton shrugged. “If Juliette were in trouble, I’d do whatever I could to help her out.”

  “Fine.” Maybe I just didn’t get the whole sibling thing. “Regardless, Ryan doesn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth before Francesca turns eighteen.” My shoulders hunched forward. “Plus, he still thinks I set the fire, even though I told him I didn’t.”

  Paxton nodded. His gaze was focused on the cards, but my skin itched nonetheless, and I knew why: Hayley. It was another reason I felt weird talking about this with Paxton. Maybe Hayley was on to something in thinking he liked me. Or maybe not. It was driving me crazy wondering, but Paxton didn’t seem annoyed at hearing me babble about Ryan. He picked up his hand as if rummy was the only thing on his mind.

  My eyes narrowed. He really didn’t seem to care. It was starting to bug me. “But then again,” I continued, “I keep thinking of a poem Ryan wrote me, and wondering if we could work things out.” I took a bite of my sandwich, then peeked at Paxton for a reaction. Paxton held his cards up over his mouth, but I thought I saw him suppress a smirk.

  I frowned. “Why is that funny?”

  “What?”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes you are. Why?”

  Paxton shrugged, but after I glared for a minute he gave up and laughed aloud.

  “That stupid oak tree poem.”

  My jaw fell open.”Ryan showed you? He got mad at me for showing Alina, but he showed you?”

  “Not exactly. I helped him write it.”

  “You’re kidding.” Horror rose up to clutch at my throat. “Seriously, you have to be joking.” That silly-but-sweet gesture had all along been something Ryan asked Paxton to help with? I mean, we were friends again now, but we hadn’t been then.

  Paxton’s smirk turned into a full-fledged grin. “Nope.” He held his hands up in a don’t shoot pose, and I realized I was on my feet, hands clenched at my sides. “You can’t hurt me, I’ve got a broken leg,” Paxton said, still grinning.

  “So what, you were laughing at me the whole time?” Why was I surprised? Or hurt? Of course he’d been laughing at me. So much for a secret crush--all Paxton had ever felt for me was ridicule.

  “No, it wasn’t like that. Rose, calm down,” Paxton said, but I stormed away. “He just needed someone to help with a couple rhymes. And tell him the poem wasn’t stupid.”

  I paced across the deck, slapped the railing on the other side, and stalked back. I was furious, though not at Paxton anymore. “But it was stupid. It meant nothing, because he threw everything away.”

  “Well.” Paxton tapped his cards on the table. “Ryan can be an idiot sometimes.”

  I stopped, surprised that Paxton wasn’t defending his friend anymore. Then again, Ryan was still lying to him too, and I knew that had to hurt. The fury blew out of me, and I slid back onto the gazebo bench. Not sure what to say, I picked my cards back up.

  “You can’t be mad about the poem,” Paxton said with suspicious solemnity. “It was a serious poetical inquiry.”

  “A what?”

  “An inquiry.” Paxton was trying to look earnest, but he couldn’t keep a straight face. “Into the comparison of mortal affection to the preferred home of squirrels.”

  “Shut up,” I said, but my lips twitched.

  “The lyrical introspection drew from the mythological connection of oak trees to strength,” Paxton gave an exaggerated, pompous sweep of his hand, “and applied it to the organ that regulates the cardiac cycle.”

  Despite myself, I laughed and tossed a pretzel at him. Paxton grinned. My anger at Ryan still lurked, but the whole poem thing just proved my relationship with Ryan hadn’t been the perfect love I’d thought.

  “That poem was dumb anyway,” I muttered, and plunked down a card. “Who wants to be compared to bark and pith?” Which in the poem had rhymed with lark and myth, respectively. How could I have ever thought that was romantic? I had the urge to run and tell Alina about this revelation. It hurt that I couldn’t.

  We played another round of rummy. Paxton won, and I stood up before he could crow too much. The afternoon was starting to fade from bright yellow to soft gold, and it seemed a shame to let the sparkling water go unappreciated.

  “I’m going swimming,” I announced. Paxton shrugged.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “Come on, let’s wrap your leg up.”

  He complained, but eventually I got Paxton to put a bag over his cast and tape up the top just below his knee. I slipped off my sundress and sprayed us both with sunscreen, trying not to notice Paxton’s now-bare chest and back. It wasn’t like we hadn’t suffered through a dozen pool parties together over the last few years, pretending we didn’t loathe each other so our parents wouldn’t catch on and try to get us to make up. Before I could get too nervous, I darted over to the Callaways’ pool shed. Coming up with some foam floatation noodles and an inflatable lounger raft, I dragged them to the pool edge.

  Paxton frowned at the water, then down at his bagged cast. “You sure this will work?”

  “I’m not suggesting we play Marco Polo.” I tossed him the deflated raft. “Blow this up, and you can float on it and prop your leg up on the edge of the pool.”

  Paxton sat in a plastic chair and started filling the raft with deep breaths. I threw the noodles into the water, then dove in. I swam a few laps before propping myself up with a float noodle in the deep end. The raft was nearly full, and I watched Paxton’s deep breaths for a minute. Despite the cool water, I felt warm, and cast about for something to distract myself.

  “Remember when you used a bleach pen on my swimsuit?” The Callaways had hosted a neighborhood pool party and cookout, and I’d stowed my swim gear in the living room until I wanted to go swimming. I hadn’t noticed the white splotches on my aqua suit until some adults asked if a bird had pooped on me.

  Paxton grinned and pinched the raft’s inflation hose shut. “You have no proof that was me.” He tossed the raft into the water, then scowled as it floated away. He glanced at his leg. “How exactly is this supposed to work?”

  “Come over here.” I swiped the blue plastic raft and swam it over to the wall. Paxton stood with a wince and hobbled over. “Turn around and sit,” I told him. Doubtfully, he lowered himself to the granite pavers, then scooted to the edge. “Now just fall backwards.”

  Paxton glanced over his shoulder nervously.

  “You know our war is over, right?”

  I grinned. “Don’t you trust me?”

  He muttered something, but turned around, took a breath, and pushed himself off the ledge. Landing with a little splash on the inflated lounger, he sputtered a bit, then smiled.

  “Hey, it worked.” His lower legs lay on the dry ledge, anchoring him to the side of the pool, but he could float there comfortably. The lounge raft had a pillow at the end, keeping Paxton’s head above water. He stretched his arms out, then flicked a drop at me. “I was sure you were going to dunk me in retaliation for that bleach pen.”

  I smirked. “Oh, I retaliated for that already.”

  Paxton thought for a minute, then groaned.

  “The empty beer cans in my living room. My dad found them and flipped out. I was grounded for a week.”

  “You deserved it.” Perched on my float noodle, I flicked water back at him.

  Paxton cocked
his head sideways. The ends of his hair dragged in the water like blonde silk fringe. “Whatever happened to the empty wine bottle I planted in your kitchen trash can the next week? Did you catch it before your parents saw it?”

  “Nope. My mom found it.” I smiled, remembering. Paxton’s retaliation hadn’t gone the way he must have hoped it would.

  “And?”

  My smile widened. “And she lectured me about not drinking shitty wine. Then she, my dad and I had a Bordeaux with dinner that night.”

  Paxton made a frustrated noise and did his best to splash me, but I ducked.

  “So not fair.” He gave up his splash attempts and relaxed on the lounger. “Your parents are awesome.”

  My grin faded. “Yeah. Awesome like a hole in my tooth.”

  “What are you talking about? They let you drink wine with them instead of getting bent all out of shape over a few beer cans.” Paxton glanced at me. “That, Ungrateful One, is awesome.” He closed his eyes and soaked up the sun, looking peaceful. I felt anything but. My mood was suddenly as cold as the water at the bottom of the pool. I didn’t want to mope after I’d told Paxton he couldn’t, but nothing light-hearted sprang to my lips.

  I was quiet for so long that Paxton finally craned his head to look at me.

  “What?”

  “Your dad told me to hold the truth like a shield,” I told him. “My dad told me to take the easy way out and confess to something I didn’t do so it would all go away.” And my mom pretended nothing had happened at all. I stared at the fading sunlight as it cast patterns on the far side of the pool. “Tell me again whose parents are awesome?” I kicked around until my back was to the wall a foot or two from Paxton’s propped legs, and leaned my head back on the ledge.

  A warm hand grabbed my ankle. Startled, I nearly fell off my float noodle. I shot a glance at Paxton, and he let go.

  “We’ll figure out who framed you, Rose.”