Sixty-Two ? Phan

Eighteen

"I tried to burn my house down."

I could tell he was surprised. Even I was surprised to hear myself say it. Before, when I recalled the incident, it wasn't exactly as it happened. I visualized the fire, the flames, the smoke. The reds and oranges and yellows and reds and reds. But the reasoning, the logic behind why my room was on fire, was shoved somewhere in the back of my mind. Behind the death of my dad.

"Tried?"

"I didn't get very far." I continued to color.

After a moment, Phil started coloring again, too.

"And that was your first fire," he said.

I nodded.

But even as I stopped speaking of it, the memory continued to play. Over and over in my head. My mom tearing through the room, pulling me out by the arms. Leo staring in shock. Aden screaming.

Aden. After that? He didn't talk anymore. Not another word. Sweet, six year old Aden.

The firemen came last. It was ten o' clock at night. We were already outside. I remember my mom crying, and the neighbors looking to see what was happening. Poking their heads out windows, turning their porch lights on.

Mom never told the truth about what happened, though. She said my lamp had caught on fire.

And nobody questioned it. Not even the firemen. Even if my whole room smelled like gasoline. Even if I didn't have a lamp to begin with.

I laughed a little, surprising Phil.

"It's funny," I said quietly. "Through it all, I don't remember much before the fire. I don't remember spreading the gasoline, holding the lighter."

Phil was staring at me. Sad, sad blue eyes. Such a happy color for those unhappy eyes. It didn't belong. I wanted them to shine.

"How did he die?" he asked. "Your dad."

I laughed dryly. "Car crash. Typical, right?"

My hand stopped moving. I still held the chalk, had it ready to scratch marks over the red underbelly. But it wouldn't move.

At last I sighed shakily and just set it down. Phil kept his in hand.

"Your turn," I said, putting on a smile. "What's your story?"

He gave me a confused look. "You already know it."

"I know what everybody else knows. I want to hear it from you. I want to know your version."

Hesitation. After several seconds, a breeze seemed to blow directly between us, lashing its tail into my words just to hold them out there a little longer, keep them standing upright like a whip to a tired horse.

"Okay."

Phil colored some more. Happy, happy, be happy. I wanted to force his smile to be real, to force his heart back together.

"It's crazy how death can affect people," I heard him say. "You know?"

I remained quiet. Watching.

"Your dad. My sister." His hand fumbled, dropping the chalk. It broke in half at the ground.

Phil turned back to me. Our knees brushed.

"You know, she was fourteen," he said.

No, I didn't know.

He glanced down. "She killed herself."

That, I definitely didn't know. I found my hand reaching for his, grazing his fingertips. Phil grabbed hold, leaning forward.

"It was right in our backyard. In broad daylight. So many cars must have drove by."

He lifted his head and looked at me.

I swallowed. It was as if we were playing a drinking game, except we got sadder instead of drunker. Passed back and forth. Getting tipsy on one sob story and then sobering up while listening to the other. I could visualize the metaphorical cup in his hand, almost, if I thought about it enough. Imagine him taking a drink of it just before he spoke.

Phil turned his gaze again. He was staring at the ground beside us, looking conflicted.

"Even if anybody did see, did they care?" he asked, frowning. "Maybe when they saw her body hanging there, on our tree, they just looked the other way."

I whispered something, but it was so quiet and uncoordinated that I didn't really know what it came out as.

Phil's grip on my hand tightened.

"I hope whoever saw and didn't do anything goes to hell," he mumbled. "I could have never just drove by. When I saw her, it was like I was the one dying instead. It was my body up there."

I thought back to Louise. No wonder he cried when he saw her. When Jamed told me about Phil's sister, I didn't even consider Louise. She hadn't crossed my mind in the slightest. Phil's eyes, though, as I looked into them just then, reminded me of her, and so it was harder not to consider.

I wondered, did his sister share those eyes, too? Those sad eyes?

"I figured, if she could do it in the light of day and have nobody care, why not I?"

At this, I moved. I crawled forward on my knees by two steps, dropping his hand and wrapping my arms around him. I hugged him and he fell into me like a limp doll.

And then suddenly he was crying. Just like I did when I stole that Twix bar. When my dad died. When I found out Phil tried to kill himself.

But this time, we had eachother. We didn't need to pity ourselves. We could pity one another, put up with our bullshit together. Bask in the colors of red and blue and everything in between.

Outside, the sky cried, too. A low growl of thunder at first, and then rain. Hundreds and thousands of tears, just for us.