Fire with Fire (Burn for Burn 2)

I watch Alex chase a group of girls with the chain saw. He almost trips but catches himself. Across the room I can hear Reeve’s guffaw. It echoes throughout the gym.

I bite a piece of candy off my candy bracelet. In an hour and a half it’ll all be over. I wasn’t going to go to the haunted maze because I didn’t want to see Rennie, but now I think I will go. I have as much right to be there as she does. They’re my friends too. Look how Reeve and Alex showed up for me tonight. They’re not in her pocket as much as she thinks.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I don’t think I ever understood the power of a Halloween costume before tonight. Probably because I never had a very good one.

When I was a kid, my mom made my costumes herself. Other kids would buy theirs at the drugstore, the kind that came with a mask and a plastic suit to put on over your clothes. Those kids would run around, breaking sticks as Superman or shooting pretend webs out of their wrists like SpiderMan.

Mom wouldn’t allow it. “There’s no creativity in that,” she’d say. Really, she wanted to make them herself because my grandmother had made costumes for Mom and Aunt Bette when they were little. My grandmother was a very accomplished seamstress. We still have a bunch of her quilts in the attic in a cedar chest. It’s crazy to know that something so perfect could be made by hand. Mom liked that tradition. “When you grow up and have a little boy or a little girl, you’ll do the same for them,” she’d tell me, usually with tears in her eyes.

It was hard to argue with that.

So at the beginning of every October I’d tell Mom what I wanted to be for Halloween that year—a princess, a gypsy, a bat. We’d draw up plans together with colored pencils, and then we’d go to the craft store to get supplies.

The only problem was that Mom wasn’t very good at sewing. In fact Halloween was the only time of year when she’d take her sewing machine out of the box. She’d taken a class in high school, but that was about it. And though the whole thing started out as a fun endeavor, by the week before Halloween she’d be upstairs in the attic, working through the night. Usually she had to go back to the craft store a few times because she’d cut the fabric wrong or run out of supplies because she kept starting over.

The end result was never what I’d imagined. The seams were always off. Some places the thing would fit me tight; some places it would be too loose. Lots of times it wasn’t clear what I was supposed to be. Like my dragon costume. People thought I was some kind of beanstalk. I never had that feeling of actually becoming someone else.

Not like tonight.

I was so happy when Kat invited me out with her. I was already having nightmares of having to spend the night in complete darkness, not answering the door, because Aunt Bette didn’t buy candy for the trick-or-treaters.

So I’m in the bathroom, putting the finishing touches on my costume, which means adding as many safety pins as I can before Kat pulls up and beeps the horn for me.

I’m wearing a pair of my cutoff jean shorts. Underneath that I’ve got on a pair of black tights that I’ve ripped to shreds, and my black high heels. Up top I’ve got on my one black bra and a ripped white T-shirt, the one that Aunt Bette sometimes paints in. It’s got splashes of color all over it.

I teased out my hair so it looks wild and dramatic. I braided a few strands and clipped in some fake pink streaks.

Last I put on heavy eye makeup. Black eyeliner, sparkly shadow, and layers and layers of mascara. I’ll probably need to borrow some turpentine from Aunt Bette to get it off.

I stand in front of the mirror. I don’t look like Mary tonight. I don’t even feel like Mary tonight, if that makes any sense. Everything’s completely, utterly different. I feel lit up from the inside. I feel . . . alive.

When I turn around, Aunt Bette is behind me.

I gasp. “How . . . how long were you standing there?”

“Not more than a minute,” Aunt Bette says. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The corners of her mouth sink.

I look down and realize that I didn’t ask her permission for the T-shirt. I point at it and say, “This is one of your painting smocks. I’m sorry. I should have asked first. I can take it off if you mind.”

Aunt Bette takes a step toward me. With a shaky hand she reaches out and takes a bit of the fabric between her fingers. “Please be careful tonight, Mary.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t take candy from strangers. Unless they’ve got Kit Kats.”

Aunt Bette doesn’t even crack a smile at my joke. Instead she says somberly, “The line between the living and the dead is blurred on Halloween.”

I nod, as if I’m taking her seriously, but what I really think is . . . Aunt Bette needs to quit reading those weird books. She sounds like a witch! And she’s been looking more and more like one too. Her hair is so crazy and wiry, her eyes sunken and dark. If I were a trick-or-treater and she came to the door, I’d probably run.

It’s a mean thought, and I immediately feel bad for thinking it. Aunt Bette’s so lonely; her life is so sad. She never visits with friends or gets a night away from the house.

She’s like how I used to be.

That’s when I wonder . . . did something happen to Aunt Bette? Something traumatic that I don’t know about, that made her into this person? Maybe it was a fight with my mom? Maybe she never wanted us to leave Jar Island?

I don’t know what it is, but I step forward and I hug her. I haven’t done that once since coming back here. Aunt Bette has never been big on physical displays of affection, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need one every so often.

She feels tense in my arms, like she’s going to fight me, but then Aunt Bette melts, her head drops, and I feel her squeeze me back, tenderly. I can see in the mirror that her eyes are closed.

Kat’s car horn sounds from outside. I peel away from Aunt Bette and tell her, “Love you. Don’t wait up!” before bounding down the stairs.

“Holy shit. Look at you!” Kat says, flicking her cigarette butt out of the driver’s-side window.

“I guess we’re opposites tonight,” I say with a laugh as I climb into her car, because Kat’s got a nun’s outfit on. It’s full habit that covers everything but her hands and her face, and a heavy wooden cross around her neck. Kat isn’t wearing any makeup. I’ve never noticed before, but she has amazing skin and a couple of teeny-tiny freckles.

“I’m an evil nun,” she clarifies. She twists in her seat and looks me up and down. “You look hot, girl.”