Fire with Fire (Burn for Burn #2)

“He’d do the same thing for me,” Rennie says, and I can’t believe she can keep a straight face saying it. As if Reeve would lift a finger for anybody but himself! “Oh, and speaking of that, I’m not going to be at practice for the rest of this week. Reeve’s got a few appointments off island to see a sports-medicine specialist.” She smiles to herself, pleased. “He’s getting his hard cast off tomorrow, right on schedule.”

My head snaps up. “Why do you have to miss practice for that?”

Rennie ignores me and says, “Ash, can you be in charge?”

Ashlin casts an uneasy look my way. “Sure. Lil and I can do it together—right, Lil?”

Incredulously I ask, “Are you quitting the squad or something?”

“No, I’m not quitting the squad,” Rennie snaps. “That’s not what I said.”

“Well, you have missed, like, three practices already,” I say, and my voice shakes a little as I say it, because I’m scared. I’m actually calling her out on her BS for once.

Rennie’s cheeks heat up. “When I signed on to rep Reeve’s number, I signed on for the whole season. I’m not abandoning him now.”

Ridiculous. Abruptly, I stand up. “I’m going to get a soda.”

Rennie doesn’t look at me as she says, “I’ll have a Diet Coke, no ice.” Like I’m a waitress and she’s placing her order with me.

Ash gets up too. “I’ll help you, Lil. I hid some ice cream behind my mom’s soy pops. It might still be there if my dad didn’t find it.”

As soon as we’re in the kitchen and out of earshot, I go into the fridge and grab two cans of Diet Coke and say, “I wish you’d told me Rennie was going to be here.”

“But then you wouldn’t have come,” Ashlin whines.

“Exactly,” I say.

Ash hops up on the kitchen island. “I hate that you guys aren’t getting along. That’s why I invited you both over here today.”

I know she doesn’t mean it. There’s nothing Ash likes better than playing the middle. “It’s not that we aren’t getting along. It’s that Rennie’s being a total bitch to me for something that’s not even my fault.”

“She’ll get over it,” Ash says. “I know she misses you.”

“Did she say that?” I ask.

“Not in so many words. But I can tell.”

Hmph. I take a sip of soda. “Are she and Reeve, like, together now?”

“Basically,” Ashlin says. “She’s his ride-or-die chick, you know? I think the accident is what made him realize how much she’s been there for him all these years.”

“I’m happy for her,” I say, and I mean it, I really do. If Rennie and Reeve are officially a thing now, maybe she’ll finally get over what happened at homecoming and things can go back to how they were before. And at the very least, they deserve each other.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It’s Monday afternoon and I’m in chemistry, working on a lab with my group. The two boys do most of the work, while another girl and I record the results in our notebooks. This arrangement is fine by me; I’ve never been so great at science. We’re standing around the table, waiting for some concoction to come to a boil, when I overhear two junior girls talking behind me.

One girl whines, “I’m so ready to quit yearbook. All we’ve gotten to do is make photo collages of freshmen. That’s not what I signed up for.”

What I immediately think is: Yearbook is the sort of thing Kat was talking about! I have to put myself out there, find my own happiness. I’ve had a lot of good days, full days at school where I’ve seen Reeve and haven’t gotten upset. And I’ve had no issues with, um, my issues.

Also, I love making photo collages.

I can’t remember the last time I did one, but I used to all the time, back when I was a kid. I’d never throw out a magazine unless I cut out the pretty pictures first. I’d spend hours arranging them like puzzle pieces; then I’d glue them to a piece of poster board and hang them up in my room. We didn’t take them with us when we moved off Jar Island. I wasn’t in any state to pack, obviously, so it was up to Mom and Dad. I wonder if they threw them out, or if they might still be in the garage someplace.

I draw circles in my notebook and keep listening.

“I know,” the other girl says with a huff that makes the flame on her Bunsen burner flicker. “But we have to hang in there if we want a chance at editor-in-chief next year. You know how it is. So political.”

Yearbook committee. There. I’m joining yearbook committee.

After class, I pack up my textbooks and head to guidance to ask where and when the yearbook meetings are held. I end up spotting a flyer stapled to the bulletin board outside the offices. It has a picture of a camera on it and the words YEARBOOK IS A SNAP! MEETINGS EVERY MONDAY IN THE LIBRARY!

Today is Monday. I feel lucky, like this is some kind of sweet serendipity. It’ll be good, I think, to have a club to put down on my college applications next year. College apps are all Lillia and Kat talk about these days, and they’ve definitely got me thinking about the future. It’s not that far off, honestly. Junior year is almost half over.

I need to start thinking about what I want to be when I grow up. My mom said she always knew she wanted to be an archivist, ever since she was a little girl and found a bunch of old Zane family papers tucked away in the attic. She cataloged them and put them into a special binder between layers of acid-free tissue paper. And this was when she was seven.

By that logic, I might be destined to be a veterinarian. It’s what I’ve always wanted to be. One time, Montessori arranged a field trip to a zoo and I got to watch a vet give antibiotics to a sick baby penguin. It was amazing. After that I used to pretend with my stuffed animals, giving them shots and wrapping up their legs with bandages I found in our medicine cabinet.

I debate calling Aunt Bette to say that I’ll be home late, but decide against it. I don’t need her on my case about where I’ve been and what I’m doing. I swear, she starts up as soon as I come home from school.

I’m halfway across the courtyard when someone almost knocks me over.

Reeve.

I’ve been actively avoiding him these last few weeks. It’s like he’s some kind of magnet that’s always pulling me toward him.

I manage to step out of his way in the nick of time. Thank God he doesn’t see me. Actually, he doesn’t seem to notice any of the people darting out of his way as he catapults himself forward on his crutches. He’s too busy growling into his cell phone, his forehead wrinkled and tense. He has the phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder, since he can’t use his hands, not with his crutches.