Jesse Ball - How to Set a Fire and Why

Two minutes later, I heard the sirens.

A minute after that, the noise came: people in the garden.

Someone was saying something, maybe the landlord’s nephew.

Another voice said, we’ll take care of it. Just hang back.

Then another voice: hang back.

There was a knock at the door. I went over and opened it. There must have been ten people out there.

Turns out the old man was claiming I shoved him and threatened his safety inside his own house. I don’t remember it that way, but I guess it could have happened.

Next thing you know, I was sitting with Lana in her car outside the police station. My duffel bag was in the back with what I guess was everything I own. I was filling Lana in on what happened:

What happened was this:

The old man claimed I was trespassing. I thought he meant trespassing in his house when I went to get the wedding dress. Not so. He meant trespassing by being on the property. Turns out he had already filed a complaint against my aunt and me, just in case, for squatting in his garage. They pulled that out and it looked pretty bad. So, presto—that was that. The police officer told me the old man would drop the charges if I’d stay away. I said I would and that was that. When I started to talk about the wedding dress, which I did, I mean, I really started giving a shitty little speech, everyone shut up for a second in that part of the precinct, and that’s when I realized that I sounded totally fucking crazy. A wedding dress from 1940? Who cares? So, I stopped talking and walked out and no one stopped me. I guess I had already been processed.

Ten minutes later, Lana picked me up. I told her my side of the story and we drove away. She was madder than I was. In general I think sadness kind of takes the strength away from anger, or maybe they just waver back and forth. I don’t know. All I know is most of the time I am one or the other—that is, angry or sad. We get offered so few real victories. It’s a question I can’t even really answer: what is the victory I want?

That was a Friday. The fallout didn’t come until Monday. Over the weekend, I tried to sneak back into my aunt’s to get a few more things, but there were new locks on the door. I stayed at Lana’s the first night, then at Jan’s Saturday and Sunday. Monday I went to school.

I got pulled straight out of homeroom and sent to the principal’s. Of course, I know that terrible room pretty well by now. What I didn’t know was, the principal evidently knew someone who knew my aunt’s landlord. I guess everybody I hate knows each other, like some kind of club.

So, in a thirty-minute harangue I was told by the principal, who was red-faced (he even swore three or four times), that he was going to make damned well sure nothing went well for me at the school going forward and that I should consider dropping out. Matter of fact, I should more than consider it. He said he didn’t have the power to kick me out, but he could make it tough for me if I stayed, and he would.

I headed for the door.

I’m not done, he said.

I told him he could fuck himself.

He said something like: he could see my whole life stretched out—failures and failures and failures. We tried to help you, he said. But you can’t be helped.

That was enough for me.

And there I was, standing in the hall. Let’s not be romantic about it. I hated the place from the get-go. And so, that was the end of my sojourn at Whistler High.

Nothing left for me to do but take the licorice I’d socked away in my locker, toss my textbooks on the ground, and waltz out the grand front entrance like I owned it. So, I did that. The hallway felt enormous, I don’t know why. It’s almost like—we don’t see things most of the time, but every now and then, BAM—your sight gets defamiliarized, and then everything looks new, like you’ve never seen it before.

A few kids were trailing in late to first period, and I could see they were confused by my behavior. A teacher tried to stop me—asked where I was going.

I just laughed.

That didn’t go over well.

Listen, either you’re a student or you’re not. And if you’re not a student anymore you can’t be on school grounds.

I get that. I get it. That’s why I’m walking this way. Do you see what direction this is?

The people at Whistler High are a real mixed bag.

I crossed the street, and went up into the woods a bit. I’d thought about going up into those woods for a while, but I had never done it. There were some fallen trees and I sat down on one. From where I sat I could see the whole high school building opposite. Different scenes were framed in all the windows, and along the arterial of the front drive, cars came and went. The whole thing was a vulgar facsimile of something useful, but a false version, one that does no good. Imagine if someone would show you a beehive that doesn’t make honey. What’s the point of it, you say? Oh, it’s just to keep the bees busy. We love it when they learn to like what’s given to them. That’s what the voice would say if it decided to reveal itself to you. But usually it keeps quiet.

The next day, Lana came to Jan’s place and told me Beekman wanted me to call him. She gave me his phone number on a piece of paper.

I don’t really like him, she said, but he seemed pretty mad at the principal, so I guess he’s all right.

Weird. I don’t really know why it matters so much to him.

Don’t ask me.

Can I use your phone to call?

Lana said we needed to get me my own phone. I said didn’t I know it.

The phone rang for a while, then Beekman answered:

1. He was sorry about my aunt dying. I said it was probably the best thing for her, which is essentially meaningless, but I discovered it is a good way to end conversations like that.

2. He was mad at me for quitting school. He said the principal was bluffing about ruining things for me there. There isn’t much a principal can do even if the principal hates you, he said. The teachers wouldn’t stand for him just victimizing students. I said, what’s done is done. I wasn’t learning anything anyway. He didn’t say anything to that.

3. He asked if I had been arrested for assaulting an old man in his home. I said it was complicated and gave him my account of things, which basically took forever. Lana kept shaking her head at me.

4. I asked him if the principal had called Hausmann. He said it had happened and that now it looked like I couldn’t go. They were very hesitant to take on a high-risk individual . He was really disappointed in them.

5. He said his wife and he had talked and if I needed a place to stay, they would help me out. He said he knew my situation was rough and I shouldn’t give up on myself. I said I had a place, but thank you.

6. He said he and his wife would like to help me. He said again, I could stay with them and potentially do a GED. Then, he was sure I could get into a great college. I said I couldn’t talk anymore, but I’d think about it.

I was standing there holding Lana’s phone. The call was over. I said, I’m through with having people try to help me out.

What’s wrong?

I guess I’m not going to that fancy school.

It’s not so bad. That means we can keep hanging out.

Yeah.

I mean—if they get into you for something like this, maybe it was a bad idea anyway.

I just wish …

I felt pretty awful. Maybe I even started to screw up my face a little like I was going to cry.