All Fall Down

Gas surges through the streetlights overhead, growing brighter, then dimmer, then brighter again. The flames flicker and I have to stop.

My breath is coming harder than it should. My dress is too tight and so, so heavy. My head is spinning, too. When I slam myself against a wall, the gasp that comes is too shallow, too quick. I need a paper bag to breathe into but all I have are acres and acres of fluffy pink fabric.

I close my eyes and tell myself that I will not have a panic attack. I will not let them find me. I will not say a word.

Overhead, the streetlight flickers and goes out and all breath fails me. I slide to the ground. It must have rained because the stones are damp. My dress will be not just ripped, but ruined. But breath is more important to me. All I can care about is trying not to die.

When I close my eyes I hear the gunshot. I see the small circle of blood that starts in the center of my mother’s chest. Just a drop of something dark — like she should have used a napkin. But it has already started to spread. She stumbles back, unsteady.

And then the balcony falls. The sound is so loud. There are so many sparks — so much dust and flame and damage.

“No!” I think I might yell.

And then the man is on the street. He looks at me with cold indifference. He smells like smoke. Soot and ash cling to his brown leather jacket.

I retreat backward, away from the growing heat of the blaze. I stare up at him.

“My mother,” I say. “She’s dying!” I scream.

But the man just looks at me. “She’s dead.”

And then he turns and walks away so slowly.

In the distance, there are sirens. Someone will have seen the smoke. The shop has a security alarm. People are coming to help, but the man is not here to save anyone, least of all me.

He stops when he reaches a dark sedan, turns and looks back at the burning building. The whole street is orange and red. I need no other light to make out the massive scar that covers the left side of his face. I swear that I will never forget that face as long as I live.

I swear that, someday, I will see that face again.

“Grace?” I hear the voice in the darkness. When the glow of the lamp returns, I can see the dark figure on the other side of the street.

Instinctively, I move backward, clawing against the sidewalk, desperate to put every possible inch between me and the man who is moving steadily closer.

“Grace, are you okay?” Alexei says, and I curse him. I hate him for disappearing during the ball and now for showing up here — when I’m crying and broken and low.

I can’t let him see me like this. He’ll tell Ms. Chancellor or my grandfather. Or, worse, he’ll tell Jamie. And then it will start again. It will be just like After. With the pills and the shrinks and the looks.

I can never go back to After.

I push myself off the sidewalk and begin limping down the street. My toes are raw, but at least I’m free of the uncomfortable shoes.

“Grace, stop.” Alexei sprints across the street and tries to block my path.

“Go away,” I tell him.

“No.” The way he says it, he must think the idea absurd. He must think I’m absurd. “What is wrong with you?”

“My feet hurt,” I say. “High heels — they’re even worse than advertised.”

The streetlights flicker, and I jump. I’m not afraid of the dark, but of the way the fire flits and moves, like it is a living, breathing thing. And then I remember that it is. It really is. It lives. It breathes. It kills. But it did not kill my mother. She was dead long before the fire took her.

“Here.” Alexei is taking off his tuxedo jacket and placing it around my shoulders. I want to push it off, turn triumphantly, and walk away. But the jacket is still warm from his body and the heat seeps into my skin. It feels like sinking into a hot bath. I want to soak in it for as long as I can.

He takes my arm, keeps me there as he asks me, “Where did you go tonight? Why did you leave?”

“Me?” I snap before I even realize what I’m saying. “You’re the one who disappeared! You went upstairs. Were you there?” I shout. “Answer me, Alexei! Were you with him?”

“With who?” he says, but then shakes the words away. “Let’s get you home. We have to —”

“I’m not crazy!” I’m shouting so loudly that dogs bark. Lights go on in windows, shopkeepers stirring from their beds. But I cannot keep the words inside.

“You want to hear that, right? I mean that’s what they told you. That’s why Jamie is so worried about his crazy kid sister. Because — news flash — she really is crazy.”

The last part I say softly. They’re the words I have been carrying for so long that they have a weight of their own. Physical. I should feel lighter now that I’ve released them, but there is no relief from the truth.

“Guess what, Valencia!” I shout. “The fire wasn’t an accident! My mother didn’t die from smoke! Did you hear that, Alexei?” I’m taunting him. “She was murdered. She was shot.”

“Grace, come on. Let’s get you home.” He’s looking at me like I’ve been drinking, and I can’t blame him. My dress is ripped and my words slur. I’m not myself, I think, but then I realize something even scarier: I am exactly myself.

The look in Alexei’s eye tells me he is right to be afraid of me. And I was very right to hide it.

“She was murdered, Alexei,” I say, softer. His jacket falls from my shoulders and lies like a puddle in the street. “She was. She really was. And I saw the man who killed her.”

Then the panic comes again. I try to breathe deeply, to think of calm and soothing things. But the wind is cold on my skin and the light that fills the street is the color of fire, and I can’t stop it.

“I saw him,” I say as his arms go around me.

“What happened tonight, Grace?” Alexei whispers.

“I saw him!” I yell again.

“Jamie told me what you think you saw —”

“He was there. He’s here. I saw him,” I say one final time, but I doubt Alexei even hears me. His arms grow tighter as my legs grow weaker, and then he is sweeping me up into his arms.

As I curl into the warmth of his chest I know that I should fight and protest, talk about my rights as a strong, independent woman. But the fact that I don’t have the strength to walk anymore undermines any argument I might make.