Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

And there was plenty of wood, right outside in that junk pile next to the fence. I knew better than to tell Bobby to get it. He was still talking baby talk to the stupid hamster, standing there sweating in the afternoon sunshine from the window behind the sink. Fine. I’d get the wood. Better than listening to Bobby anyway.

Finding dead-hamster funeral-pyre size pieces of wood turned out to be harder than it looked. I ended up with scraps of two-by-fours, building-block size, plus a couple of bigger pieces just because they looked cool. I used the front of my shirt like a sling to haul the scraps back to the kitchen, and I dumped the scraps in the sink. The scraps didn’t make a very big pile of wood. I wanted more of a fire than that.

Bobby smoothed down the top of the scrap pile and put the hamster on it.

“Gimme the lighter,” Bobby said.

No way. This fire was mine.

“I’ll do it. It’s my lighter.”

Bobby actually tried to dig the lighter out of my pocket. I pushed him off me. “Get away from me, pervert!” I yelled at him.

“You won’t do it right. You don’t care.”

“You didn’t even want to do it. Roberto.”

“Yeah, well, I do now. You’ll mess it up.”

He kept grabbing at me, clawing at my jeans, at my arms when I tried to push him away. His nails dug scratches in my skin. I was shocked when he yelled at me before, but now I was just mad. He was ruining the game.

“What the hell is your problem, Roberto?!”

I still had one of the two-by-four pieces in my hand. I hit him in the shoulder with it to shove him back. He bounced against the counter, his arms flailing out to keep his balance. His hand knocked one of the cans of paint cleaner over, and the muddy liquid splashed over the countertop and ran in dirty rivers onto the floor.

“Gimme the lighter!” he screamed at me. “This one’s gonna be right, I’m gonna do it right, nobody’s gonna screw it up this time, not even you!”

Bobby charged me. He must have pushed himself off the counter because he hit me like a football tackle, shoulder hard into my stomach. I fell backwards on the kitchen floor. My head bounced against the hardwood and Bobby fell on top of me. My breath whooshed out in one great lungful. I never knew Bobby was that heavy.

I tried to yell at him to get off me, tried to hit him, but my arms didn’t want to work. I felt him dig in the pocket of my jeans, heard him shout when he grabbed the lighter.

My lighter.

Bobby stood up and flicked the lighter on, right in front of me, making sure I could see him do it. I didn’t say anything, just glared at him, worked on getting my breath back. My head hurt, my stomach hurt, and I was so mad, all I could think about was getting the lighter back.

“You don’t know how to do this,” Bobby said. “You don’t know anything at all, just how to make trouble.” His voice was flat and terrible, and I knew this really was the Bobby everyone else saw.

Bobby turned back toward the sink, turned his back on me. I heard the click as he flicked the lighter on again.

Not with my lighter, you don’t.

I had my breath back by then. I reached my hands out to push myself up off the floor and I felt the two-by-four I’d dropped when Bobby hit me. I grabbed it, held it like a baseball bat with both hands. I took two steps toward Bobby and swung hard.

“The fire is mine!” I screamed at him.

The two-by-four hit Bobby in the back of his head. He never even saw me coming. He pitched forward face first into the sink, probably kissed that stupid piece of dead hamster, but he held on to the lighter. Still lit, the lighter and his arm came down on the countertop. Right in the middle of the muddy paint cleaner and the dirty rags.

Suddenly the whole countertop was on fire. Bobby screamed and reared back. Fire climbed up his arm toward his face, like I told him the worms would. His shirt caught on fire, and then his jeans, and I saw his hair start to smoke. Little lines of fire ran down the counter to the wooden floor, reaching out toward me. I backed away, terrified and awed at the same time. I couldn’t let the fire catch me. I couldn’t let it turn on me, not like Bobby had.

Bobby’d quit screaming. He took a stottery step toward me. I backed away farther, into the dining room. The curtains over the kitchen sink were burning, the wooden cabinets, thick smoke choking my lungs. Bobby fell to his knees. Through the flames I could still see the lighter clutched in his hand. The smell... the smell was worse than anything I’d ever smelled, but underneath it all was the smell of barbecue, and my stomach heaved.

I turned and ran.

Bobby’s memorial service is tomorrow. Mom told me I have to go, and that I have to wear a dress. I hate wearing dresses. Bobby’d make fun of me, just like I would if he had to wear a suit.

I think Mom wonders why I haven’t cried about Bobby. I should, and I’ll probably force myself to at the service tomorrow. Tears work almost as well as my sweet, innocent face. So I’ll sit there with all of Bobby’s relatives while they talk in a language I can’t understand, and I’ll look all sad like I should.

Maybe Bobby’s piece-of-shit old man will be there. Someday I’m going to play the game with him. He’s the reason Bobby went crazy about the dead hamster, whatever he did to Bobby’s dog. Bobby would still be here if it wasn’t for his old man. I should do something about that.

Bobby was my friend.

Copyright © 2005 by Annie Reed.

translated by Will Ryan