Brigid Kemmerer: Spark

Nothing.

Why hadn’t Nick said anything about Quinn? It’s not like Nick had never dated anyone before. Hell, they usually double-dated together . He could go out with Chris. Gabriel didn’t give a crap.

Much.

Another leaf. Nothing.

Gabriel crushed it and picked up another. “Damn it!” he snapped. “Burn!”

It didn’t.

But the hundreds of leaves surrounding him did .

Layne spooned mashed potatoes onto her father’s plate, careful to avoid the edge of the Wall Street Journal he was reading. While she had the spoon in her hand, she dumped some on Simon’s plate, too.

I don’t want any more, he signed.

Eat, she signed back.

He glared at her, scooped up as much as he could on his fork, and flung it back into the bowl.

You’re. Not. Mom, he signed emphatically.

“How was school?” said her father, oblivious, his eyes on his paper.

“Fine,” she said. “We have a new math teacher. She’s better than the old guy.”

“And how’s Simon doing?”

Layne glanced at her brother. He wants to know how you’re doing.

I know. I can read his lips. Simon jabbed his fork into his chicken, making a loud clink when it connected with the plate. He can ask me himself .

Do you want me to tell him about what happened in the hallway?

NO.

Their father glanced up from the paper. “What’s going on?”

“Simon just made the JV basketball team,” she said smoothly, used to covering for her brother’s hostile signing. Their father knew enough ASL to get by, but he’d never put the time in that Layne and her mother had. Most of what Simon said went right over his head.

Something that irritated Simon to no end.

Her brother could talk, though. He just refused to do it, since the first day of high school when half the freshman class had decided his affected speech meant Simon was a retard. She’d just about fallen over when he’d spoken in front of Gabriel Merrick.

Especially since their father had tried no shortage of threats to get Simon to speak at home.

“Basketball?” said their father. “Is that possible?”

Simon flung his fork against the plate and shoved away from the table.

“Get back here,” their father snapped. The paper dropped to the table. They had his full attention now—but Simon’s back was turned, and he was already going through the doorway.

“He played all through middle school,” she whispered—unnecessarily, since Simon couldn’t hear her.

“That was different,” said her father.

She thought of those bullies in the hallway and agreed with him.

Though she’d never say that to Simon, of course.

“How’s the chicken?” she asked.

“It’s fine,” said her father, spearing another piece before picking up the newspaper again.

She’d burned two pieces before figuring out the timing, but she’d made sure to give her father one of the good ones.

She’d already failed one parent.

She couldn’t afford to let it happen again.

Fire surrounded him.

Gabriel dropped to his knees and ran a hand through the flames. It reached for him, licking along his palm.

A blanket of flame—no, bigger than that. A carpet of flame, the size of his bedroom. The fire singed the edge of his jeans, and he told it to find something else to burn. It wouldn’t hurt him, but it could definitely burn his clothes off.

The flames flicked higher than his head, now that he was sitting. One of the trees at the edge of the circle caught and started to burn.

Then another.

“Easy,” he breathed, feeding it his own energy, trying to pull it back, to keep it contained. Usually when he played with fire, Nick was with him, choking oxygen from the air if the flames got to be too much.

The fire listened, waiting for guidance.

Curious, Gabriel gave a little push .

For an instant, it felt incredible, the strength—no, the potential —in the flames surrounding him. He could level this whole forest with a thought. So much power, right at his fingertips, awaiting his direction. True control.

And then he lost it.

Seven trees caught and blazed. Eight. Nine. Fire suddenly stretched as far as he could see. Gabriel tried to rein it in, to pull the fire back to his area, but now it had fuel to burn and it didn’t care what he wanted.

The flames mocked him, each crack and snap a taunt. Burn. Destroy. Consume .

The smoke turned thick, blinding, black against the red of the flames. Fire completely surrounded him, and he lost track of which direction was home.

A tree fell, crashing through the leaves right beside him.

Gabriel skittered sideways. Another danger: The fire wouldn’t hurt him, but a tree to the head sure would. Flames curled along the trunk, obscuring it from view almost immediately.

“Stop!” he said. Jesus, he needed Nick.

And he hadn’t even grabbed his cell phone on the way out of the house.

He couldn’t see how far the flames reached, and he hadn’t been out walking too long. Their house backed up to the woods along with a dozen others. Would the fire leap onto porches and roofs? Would he end up taking out half the neighborhood because he’d wanted one leaf to burn?

He knew what it was like to cause destruction. He’d started the fire that killed his parents.

Don’t think about that.

But he couldn’t think of anything else. He had to make it to the house. He had to get his brothers out.

Another tree fell. Gabriel bolted, praying he was going the right way.

He ran through fire forever. It felt incredible, and he hated it.

Then he heard men shouting, and before he could process that, someone tackled him and sent him to the ground.

Wet leaves were in his mouth; red lights flashed through the trees above him. Hands were hitting him everywhere. He smelled wet wool. His arms were trapped somehow; he couldn’t even find his hands to fight them off.

What. The. Fuck.

He spat leaves, but didn’t get them all. “Stop!” he yelled. He didn’t even know who he was talking to. “Stop it!”

“Medic!” A woman’s voice, right close to him. “He’s conscious!”

People crouched over him. Firemen, with hats and gear and everything. Gabriel couldn’t even tell which was the woman. Sirens and radios and diesel engines created a racket behind them.

“I’m okay,” he croaked around the crap in his mouth. “I’m okay. I don’t need a medic.”

He needed to get off this ground. He needed to make sure the fire hadn’t made it back to the house.

They were pulling a blanket away from him. His clothes had to be ruined; he could smell the singed fabric, feel the rough edges against his skin.

He coughed, and then someone was pressing an oxygen mask to his face.

God, he didn’t need a damn mask. He needed to get to the house. His brothers would be trapped. He needed to stop the fire. He needed—

Cold steel touched his wrists. What were they doing?

Cutting his clothes off.

Gabriel fought. Hard.

Then hands were pinning him down, men yelling that “whoa, whoa, whoa ” they did when someone was absolutely out of control.

“Take it easy.” A fireman was kneeling over him, adjusting the oxygen mask now that he was pinned to the ground. The woman’s voice again, but he couldn’t see anything but her eyes. “We’re trying to help you. Is anyone else out there?”

He shook his head fiercely. “Let me up. Let me up. I need to get my brothers.”

She glanced up at the woods, where fire still raged. “In there?”