Fiery Little Thing: Chapter 11

This is nothing like the times I’ve woken up hungover, like I’ve been out partying with Dionysus for three working days. For one, there’s no nausea, and thank the gods there are no chills or muscle spasming.

I have a subtle, gnawing headache instead, and I feel like I ran fifty miles through the Arizona heat without pause. I think my heart might be missing a beat, but that may well be in my head. Apart from that, there’s something even more off-kilter with my equilibrium than usual that I can’t quite put my finger on.

Yesterday, I felt like death. Today, I feel like her counterpart: violence and loathing.

The soft drizzle of rain pebbles over my hair and the ugly orange umbrella I found in someone’s open locker. I’m not sure how long the good doctor thinks it will take for me to miraculously be cured of my demons and become the picture-perfect image of an exemplary young woman who says her prayers, and considers what the bearded men upstairs will say about her actions when everything—every devilish impulse—is still alive and breathing.

Dr. Van der Merwe never gave me a ballpark figure. Placebo effect and all, I still don’t think that shit is going to work. Well, at least today isn’t the day for rebirth. Besides, I have a feeling there’s a long road to recovery ahead of me, with no expressway to get there.

At least I’m guessing the treatment hasn’t kicked in yet since I’m walking around school with a blowtorch in my backpack.

Mrs. Crichton from chemistry class writes down all the lock combinations in her diary. She’s practically begging for someone to break into the room where the school keeps all its potions and elixirs.

It’s truly marvelous that this school doesn’t add more safety measures for cupboards containing items that would make a stunning insurance claim.

There’s a little skip in my step as I move from class to class. Sure, the teachers look at me like I’ve gone crazy, and I keep feeling like someone is glaring laser beams into the side of my head, but this girl is on a deadline, and I am nothing if not an innocent princess going about her day.

And by deadline, I mean that on this rainy Thursday afternoon, right after track practice, my ass is going straight to my bedroom, where I’ll hole up, leave for dinner, and nothing else. I won’t even be leaving for any leisurely activities over the weekend.

Dr. Van der Merwe called it a probation period.

McGill gave the green light to the probationary period because, other than my meltdown, I was shaping up to be a reformed woman. Mainly, I simply didn’t get caught until group therapy fucked me over once again.

For some reason—although, I’m sure it’s a trap—the shrink thinks part of my treatment involves testing my ability to interact with my peers without acting out of line. I have a hunch there’s been a memo that’s gone around to encourage teachers to pit Sarah and Kohen against me.

Jokes on them; electrocuting me turned me into a brand-new person.

I even surprised myself when I took it in stride. My lips stayed sealed, and I rose above it. If I’ve got nothing nice to say, I will keep it to myself.

See, I’m now a woman of action. None of this “moaning another person’s name” business. I’m playing the big game. If Kohen thinks the worst I’ve got is throwing things at his head, he has another thing coming.

The mud squelches beneath my new shoes as I head toward the groundskeeper’s shed—not sure how these bad boys made it into my room, but they’re mine now. They’re a pinch too big, though nothing double-socking can’t fix.

I also found some weird-ass stains on my bedsheets. I’m not sure what the hell that’s about either. But that’s a future me problem to clean.

I periodically survey my surroundings as subtly as possible to avoid seeming suspicious. Honestly, I’m going to need an Advil after this walk. My backpack has to be half my weight with all the stuff I’ve crammed in there, but the exhilaration makes me feel as light as a feather. I could get caught at any second, and it shouldn’t thrill me as much as it does. What I’m about to do could also go very, very bad. And shit, if it doesn’t turn me on a little .

What is life if I don’t fuck around and find out? Dr. Fuck Face didn’t agree to my promise and free me, so there’s no agreement for me to reach.

First, I frame Kohen for a crime he didn’t commit—preferably several of them.

Then, I borrow Charlie’s phone, fuck Aaron, and snap a pic of him hitting it in doggy. The photo will somehow end up in Kohen’s lap, and based on Aaron’s build and skin color, the rumor mill will say that Kiervan came over on visitation day.

The second plan makes me sick to my stomach, but Kohen’s face when he sees the picture will make every second worth it.

Once hidden behind a line of trees, I pull out a pair of men’s sneakers I found lying around in the gym, then shove my feet inside. Walking with them on is a little awkward at first, and it’s not exactly the most effective counterforensic measure, but it’s enough to create the illusion that someone who doesn’t have me-sized feet was here.

I do one more quick glance around at the rows of scattered trees and the gym in the distance, then book it to the old-people-green shed that’s seen better days. Rust hems the edges of the tin structure, adding a pop of color to the eyesore tucked away at the corner of campus.

Slipping into the two feet of space between the boundary fence and the shack, I take stock of my surroundings once more. I don’t usually care for wet weather, but boy, it is working for me today. All the groundskeepers are busy rewaterproofing the football stadium for tomorrow’s semifinals, so this little slice of paradise is all mine.

My hot breaths plume in front of my face as I close the umbrella, balance my backpack against the wooden fence, and shove my hands into a pair of latex gloves. I peer into the backpack and internally wince. Mrs. Crichton’s navy, knockoff designer purse is really shoved in there. It takes more energy than necessary to pull it out, and I accidentally rip the handle in the process.

Oops.

Shrugging to myself, I drop her bag onto the short grass, dig out the small blowtorch at the bottom, and then throw the shoulder strap back on.

I hear a sound in the distance and my muscles freeze. Please don’t be anyone. Please don’t be anyone. Please don’t be anyone.

Holding my breath, I close my eyes to focus on the noise around my surroundings. No one can see me behind here, but I’ll have a shit time trying to make a break back to school if a groundskeeper returns.

Slowly, I inch out from behind the shed to double-check that the coast is clear. When nothing but a couple birds flitter about, I launch back to my bag.

With my heart hammering in my chest, I reach into my pocket and throw Kohen’s ring two feet away from the bag, so it’s hidden beneath the grass in mud. But if someone were to look hard enough, they would be able to make out the reflection of the ominous sky against the silver.

I bite back a grin to stop myself from smiling like a lunatic. This is the perfect setup. Everyone knows Kohen has beef with Mrs. Crichton after he argued with her in chemistry about something she was apparently wrong about. She sent him to detention for it. Then he got a bad grade, and the argument they had was off the charts.

I tip Mrs. Crichton’s bag upside down, watching her lipstick—and several other random items she has accumulated—fall and scatter onto the ground. Ripping up pages out of her diary, I tuck some in the zipper lining and stuff the main compartment full of scrunched-up pieces of paper.

The batteries I found in the science storage room are placed somewhere amongst the paper, as well as a spare phone I found in one of the drawers.

I let the smile spread across my face as I admire my handiwork. Polyester and PVC leather will already be a pretty mess. Add lithium batteries to the mix? A masterpiece.

I guess those science books were good for something after all.

My hatred for Kohen runs deeper than my fear of my grandfather and McGill’s wrath. The seizures caused by the ECT might end up killing me, but I realize I don’t fear death, only the idea that I might die without making a profoundly negative impact on someone’s life.

Yes, Grandpa Jonathan, your little problematic princess is coming for you, guns blazing—emphasis on the blaze.

My racing heart roars in my ears as I light one of the ripped pages. Fire quickly climbs up the paper, consuming it in gold charcoal, undeterred by the misting rain that has made it into this alcove. I carefully drop the burning paper into the handbag and watch it catch on the next piece, then the next, then the next, spreading faster than I expected.

It’s sad that I understand Kohen’s fixation on the flames; they truly are beautiful in all their wildness and color. I’d stay longer if I didn’t have an alibi I need to cement with Charlie. She agreed to say we were hanging out for the entirety of lunchtime in exchange for my silence about the other night when she knocked Liam out by throwing a loose brick at his head.

Loner Kohen will probably be finding his own corner of darkness to murder babies in or be mulling creepily around the school. Or, more accurately, he will not have a decent alibi for where he was when this particular fire happened.

The flames pick up their ferocity, crackling majestically. With one breath and an excited shiver, I throw the blowtorch into the bag and sprint back toward the school. I stumble as I take the sneakers off and chuck them into the trash can by the gym, then duck behind one of the pillars as the rain starts picking up.

I’ll admit, I have no idea what’s inside a blowtorch because the writing on the sticker has rubbed off, but the bang that echoes through the school is absolutely glorious. I don’t think the shed will survive, and the fence will be an unfortunate tragedy.

I walk at a leisurely pace back to the dorm room where Charlie is eagerly waiting. No one bats an eye at my entrance, or seems phased by the sound of the explosion that happened a moment ago. I slide into the seat opposite Charlie and make a conscious effort to breathe slowly through my nose to calm my racing heart.

She glances up from her magazine, chewing on her bottom lip. “Is it done?”

I give her a tight nod in response. It’s a mission not to laugh to myself and keep the displeased look I usually sport firmly on my face. “This school isn’t big enough for two firebugs,” I say.

“Phase one: complete.”

I tap my leg. “It’s time to commence phase two: fuck the other Osman.”

A smile splits across her face, and she lifts her bottle up to me in cheers. “To the fall of Kohen.”

Grabbing mine out the side of my backpack, I tap it against hers. “May he spend the rest of his life behind bars or in a grave.”

“And that his dick game is as good as his smolder… and his cock is as big as the rest of him.”

“Charlie,” I scold.

She shrugs. “If you don’t want to tap that, I will.”

“Unbelievable,” I mutter.

My lips curl into a smile. Play with fire, get burned.