Obscura Burning by Suzanne van Rooyen Page A
Authors: Suzanne van Rooyen
Tags: Young Adult, YA SF
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boys get some sleep, eh? I’ve got to be up in a couple of hours.” He passes me a cushion from the other sofa and tousles my hair. Danny’s folks don’t blame me for what happened. They think it’s the result of God’s divine will, not some drunk kid with matches. That they don’t blame me actually makes me feel a hell of a lot worse.
We wait for his dad to close the bedroom door, before I stretch out next to Danny, resting my head on his chest, his arm around my shoulder. The pain in my side is worse like this, but I don’t care. I just need to be close to him, hold him for as long as I can stay awake. When I wake up, he’ll be dead.
* * *
The smell of coffee, fried beans, and toast pulls me from sleep. Danny’s in the kitchen with his mom making breakfast. I’m still on the couch, a puddle of drool on the cushion.
Friday, June 29. A glitch in the pattern. It should be Shira’s turn…but Danny’s still alive.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Danny calls from the kitchen. “Come get some breakfast.”
I feel hung over, bruised and disoriented, with a dry mouth and pounding head.
“Daniel tells me you’re planning a lovely memorial for Shira.” His mom sets a plate piled with toast and beans down in front of me. I nod and take a slurp of coffee, black and bitter.
“You just let me know if I can do anything to help. If you need catering, I make some great chili.”
“Thanks, Mom. I think we got it under control.”
“Clean up after yourselves, eh? I’m off to town.”
We don’t have to wait long before we have the house to ourselves.
I can’t stomach the beans, but I chew on some toast.
“So, you wanna hold the memorial before or after the Fourth of July?” Danny shovels beans into his mouth. Danny’s memorial is on July 3.
“Where’re we having the memorial?”
“Armadillo Park? It’s sorta neutral ground. Then her res friends will come too.”
Armadillo Park, the site of so many conflagrations. Problem fire-setter : they even had a term for me. And like everything else, it was my dad’s fault, easily blamed on his drinking and flailing fists. No one wanted to believe some skinny kid just liked watching things burn.
“You think anyone’s actually going to come?” I prefer to not think about lighting fires.
“Don’t be an asshole, Kyle.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Just not feeling myself today.”
“How’s the rib?”
I shrug and finish my coffee. “I think maybe we should do it after the Fourth.”
“Yeah, I reckon so. Everyone’s too hyped up about the street dance.”
I smile a little, thinking about the sombrero I’ll have to buy.
“You wanna go to the dance with me?” Danny flicks dark hair from his eyes. Sometimes I forget how good-looking he is. Then there are these moments when it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time again, and something melts inside me.
“As long as I don’t have to wear a cowboy hat and chaps.”
“That’s fine. You can wear a sombrero.”
I choke on my toast.
“Come on, it won’t be that bad.”
My choking coughs turn to chuckles, and then laughter. Danny doesn’t understand my hysteria, but he can’t help joining in. Pain erupts in my side, and again I’m left gasping.
“Ow, crap, my rib.” I’m holding my side, but the pressure of my hand doesn’t do much to alleviate the agony.
“So cielo, what you wanna do today?”
“Buy a sombrero?”
Danny rewards me with a smile.
It’s surprisingly difficult finding a sombrero in town. I have a dozen choices of Navajo headdress, but not a single damn sombrero. We’re pretty much out of options.
“Betcha we’ll find one at Garry’s,” Danny says. We don’t look at each other, but I turn down the road that leads to Route 64. Garry’s gas station is about half a mile out of town, just past the cemetery where Danny’s bones are buried in that other reality. I cast a glance toward the tombstones. The station used to be a decrepit set of pumps.
We wait for his dad to close the bedroom door, before I stretch out next to Danny, resting my head on his chest, his arm around my shoulder. The pain in my side is worse like this, but I don’t care. I just need to be close to him, hold him for as long as I can stay awake. When I wake up, he’ll be dead.
* * *
The smell of coffee, fried beans, and toast pulls me from sleep. Danny’s in the kitchen with his mom making breakfast. I’m still on the couch, a puddle of drool on the cushion.
Friday, June 29. A glitch in the pattern. It should be Shira’s turn…but Danny’s still alive.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Danny calls from the kitchen. “Come get some breakfast.”
I feel hung over, bruised and disoriented, with a dry mouth and pounding head.
“Daniel tells me you’re planning a lovely memorial for Shira.” His mom sets a plate piled with toast and beans down in front of me. I nod and take a slurp of coffee, black and bitter.
“You just let me know if I can do anything to help. If you need catering, I make some great chili.”
“Thanks, Mom. I think we got it under control.”
“Clean up after yourselves, eh? I’m off to town.”
We don’t have to wait long before we have the house to ourselves.
I can’t stomach the beans, but I chew on some toast.
“So, you wanna hold the memorial before or after the Fourth of July?” Danny shovels beans into his mouth. Danny’s memorial is on July 3.
“Where’re we having the memorial?”
“Armadillo Park? It’s sorta neutral ground. Then her res friends will come too.”
Armadillo Park, the site of so many conflagrations. Problem fire-setter : they even had a term for me. And like everything else, it was my dad’s fault, easily blamed on his drinking and flailing fists. No one wanted to believe some skinny kid just liked watching things burn.
“You think anyone’s actually going to come?” I prefer to not think about lighting fires.
“Don’t be an asshole, Kyle.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Just not feeling myself today.”
“How’s the rib?”
I shrug and finish my coffee. “I think maybe we should do it after the Fourth.”
“Yeah, I reckon so. Everyone’s too hyped up about the street dance.”
I smile a little, thinking about the sombrero I’ll have to buy.
“You wanna go to the dance with me?” Danny flicks dark hair from his eyes. Sometimes I forget how good-looking he is. Then there are these moments when it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time again, and something melts inside me.
“As long as I don’t have to wear a cowboy hat and chaps.”
“That’s fine. You can wear a sombrero.”
I choke on my toast.
“Come on, it won’t be that bad.”
My choking coughs turn to chuckles, and then laughter. Danny doesn’t understand my hysteria, but he can’t help joining in. Pain erupts in my side, and again I’m left gasping.
“Ow, crap, my rib.” I’m holding my side, but the pressure of my hand doesn’t do much to alleviate the agony.
“So cielo, what you wanna do today?”
“Buy a sombrero?”
Danny rewards me with a smile.
It’s surprisingly difficult finding a sombrero in town. I have a dozen choices of Navajo headdress, but not a single damn sombrero. We’re pretty much out of options.
“Betcha we’ll find one at Garry’s,” Danny says. We don’t look at each other, but I turn down the road that leads to Route 64. Garry’s gas station is about half a mile out of town, just past the cemetery where Danny’s bones are buried in that other reality. I cast a glance toward the tombstones. The station used to be a decrepit set of pumps.
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