Better Fires

Dear J,

I lit the mailbox on fire when I saw you kissing M. Others told me that when feeling too much, one might hurt one’s self. There might be cuts along the arm or starvation. I had no inclination towards self-harm. From a very young age, I understood that the world does enough to you; why do anymore to yourself? I saw you kissing M behind the cafetorium, and I ran all seven blocks home. On the way, I saw the Gozer’s blue mailbox, and I knew it had to burn. One match around the base, and it went up quickly along with whatever mail was inside of it. The red flag was up, and I did it anyway. Later that night, I attended a slumber party and started the rumor that you had done it. That I often saw you lighting ants on fire with a magnifying glass as though that was a natural origin for someone who would eventually begin setting better fires. Some of the girls believed me. Some didn’t care. One told me that you kissed her after her shift at Pizza Grace and your mouth tasted like a fountain drink. I watched her after she fell asleep. I visualized her waking up to find her hair on fire, but I didn’t do it. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Not even you.

When I asked you to the dance, you told me that you’d already agreed to go with G, even though that was a lie. I knew it was a lie, because I knew enough about you by then. When you lied, your left eyebrow would twitch. Maybe it still does. Do you still lie? Would you tell me if you did? I told you that I understood and wished you well. I knew that you were going to ask G as soon as I was out of sight. Then, if you changed your mind, you’d simply pick someone else to bring. What you were never going to do is show up with me. Not me, the girl who had to wear baggy tops to hide how much she developed between sophomore and junior year. Not me, the know-it-all who the teachers had stopped calling on, because she always knew the path Napoleon took on his first campaign and the first fifteen numbers of pi. I don’t think intelligence was a turn-off for you. On the contrary, I think you wanted me to be smarter. You wanted me to be so smart that kissing me would be like allowing dark matter down your throat to rip you apart from the inside. You held me to a different standard. I’m sorry, J, I didn’t know that’s what was going on. I thought you just wanted to kiss the prettiest girls in the school. I never investigated what your deeper motives might have been. The day you told me you couldn’t take me to the Cotton Candy dance, I went to the greeting card store in town and set fire to all the “Get Well” cards. They were at the back of the store, and there was only one cashier working. I made quite a pile, struck the match, and walked right out. By the time the smoke alarm went off, I was already watching from down the street. Lucky for me, greeting card establishments don’t have security cameras. I went to a pool party the following weekend and told everyone there that you’d confessed to me a year ago that you hated greeting cards. Seeds were planted. A freshman who was at the party told me that you’d been putting removable tattoos in her locker. Hearts with knives in them and mermaids who refused to smile. She pulled down her bathing suit bottom and showed me where she’d placed one of the tattoos. It looked like Joan of Arc tied up and suffering her great punishment.

“I think you’re right,” she whispered to me in between bites of a burnt hamburger, “I think he might be obsessed with fires. Why else would he give me this?”

The world will give you all the answers you want if you know exactly how to phrase the questions. On the way home from the pool party that day, I saw you in your front yard mowing the lawn without a shirt on. I waved to you, and you waved back. You flexed for me, and then laughed. I saw a clean line of sweat going down your back to the grey t-shirt that was tucked into your red shorts. I wanted to cover myself in grass and let you run over me. It took me a moment to realize that my hand was still raised in a frozen greeting. You had stopped my time. You’d put me in a deep freeze. Only one thing could dissolve it.

The day before graduation, I burned down the school.

Part of me knew that eventually it would come to that. I’d used my allowance every week to buy kerosene, matches, bottles, rags, and any other accelerant I could find. The man at the hardware store questioned me about it early on, but I told him that teenage girls were using these types of things to help with our hormones. He seemed perplexed, but no man over forty wants to know why teenage girls are doing any of the things they do. The next time I came in, he’d set aside some paint thinner for me. It was on sale. Two for one. That’s what I used in the second floor bathrooms.

There was no commencement that year. No caps. No gowns. The only thing thrown up in the air was the spray of a fireman’s hose. Students gathered around the periphery of the school. Some cried. I held my homeroom teacher as she asked why anyone would do something like this. I knew that the two of you were writing inappropriate notes to each other between periods. She must have justified it by telling herself that you were mature for your age, and maybe she was right. I try not to condemn anyone if I can help it. The worst condemnation of all has already occurred. The day of the school fire was also the day of the harvest. Everything I’d put into the ground was ready to be reaped. Rumors about your love of starting fires were too widespread to ignore even though, in many ways, you were the town’s favorite son. Your father had been the star linebacker for the football team back when he was in school. Your mother was valedictorian. You were going to do great things and you were going to go far and you were going to kiss every girl you wanted to kiss and never give me more than a wave or a flex of your muscles only to laugh at me for staring.

All of that got burned up and turned to rubbish. You went to jail for the very first time. When you got out, you couldn’t find a job. Your parents disowned you. You couldn’t even find a woman gullible enough to take you in, because by then, you reeked of smoke. Soon, you were dealing drugs and holding up food marts and gas stations. I lost track of how often you were in and out of prison, but I know you’re there now, and I’m sorry, J. I’m sorry for the part I played. I’m sorry for every match I struck. I’m sorry you didn’t see that I could have learned more. I could have caught on faster. I could have bloomed had you only allowed me some light.

When you get out, I plan to be waiting for you. I’ll pick you up and you can come stay with me. You can mow my lawn. You don’t have to give me anything. Just the respect I was owed back when we were children. Back when you thought a little cold water would put me out. You never knew that I was electric, did you, J? You never tasted my grease. You never thought to smother me. 

A little cold water.

What was that going to do?

I’ll be standing at the gates when they release you. I’ll bring the cigarettes you like. I’ll light the first one. Then, I want a kiss. A nice, long kiss. I want to taste the emission. I want you to fill me up with smoke until I feel as though I’m never going to breathe again.