Arson Read Free Page B

 Arson reached out his hand to touch one of them on the shoulder, but his fingers pierced right through the faded flesh, out the other side, as if the boy were not there at all. They continued walking and talking. Arson could see it, though, impossible to miss. The thing Danny was promising would change the way they did tricks; what he said would initiate their evolution from kids to bigger kids nobody messed with. It would be just like the show  Jackass , he promised. The item was tucked away in Danny’s back pocket, sticking out as he danced across their concrete stage, closer and closer to the night’s violent performance.
    Was Arson supposed to feel his heart beating? He tried waving his hands, begged his body to scream louder. As he turned to his left, Arson noticed a cab moving past, braking farther ahead. His eyes moved beneath the glaze and awe toward the scene about to explode.
    Can I save them?
    No.
    Why?
    You’re not awake .
    Sweat trickled off his brow; the charm of curiosity and nervousness called him to the scene. Images wilted away and folded back. Timeless, careless.
    And then he saw it, a spark in the distance. He didn’t dare follow closely. No. He’d run again. That was all he could do.  Don’t think, don’t breathe, just run , as fast as he could.
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    * * *
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    Arson’s eyes peeled back. He was awake. Sweat cradled his body in puddles as his chest rose and fell. His spine curled up into itself, and he started to shake.
    â€œIt’s time for breakfast,” he heard from below.
    Grandma’s voice must have brought him to life again. It was Wednesday, which meant scrambled eggs and cheese served with crispy bacon, two slices of rye, and birch beer. Blinking, he took pleasure in what might come if only he could gather the strength to make it out of bed and downstairs.
    In moments, he was clean but lethargically moving down the steps that led into the old-fashioned kitchen. It was Grandma’s way of keeping the past alive. She was dressed, as always, in her traditional apron and stood beside the morning feast.
    â€œG’mornin’,” she said in a soothing voice. “How’d ya sleep?”
    Arson found a seat quickly, reached for his fork, and drew the first scoop of eggs to his mouth, not saying a word.
    â€œWell, love, do you feel like talking about what’s on your mind?” She set the cup of tea down on the table.
    â€œGood morning,” he finally said, lifting his eyes, but only for a second. He couldn’t tell her it was happening again. She’d despise him for it. She wouldn’t understand sweating so much it ached or hands burning without touching a stove, a fire, nothing. She had never seemed to get it before, and now it would only call out her hatred once more. No. Not today.
    Grandma spent several moments absorbed in her newspaper. It used to bother him that the newspaper didn’t change. Arson had never believed that reading the same sad news morning after morning could be healthy, but he refused to fight with her about it. No use. She looked at him now and then during breakfast as she turned its faded, crinkled pages.
    â€œWhere’s Grandpa?” Arson said, hoping that talking about his grandfather might take the attention off him for a bit.
    â€œHe’s out buying cigarettes,” she said. “Marlboro Lights; they’re his favorite. It is a filthy habit, though, if I do say so.”
    Arson took in the moment. He stared into her gray eyes and saw some warmth. The wrinkles on her cheek shaped a pleasant smile.
    â€œYou know  him ,” she continued, “always up before the sun. Most nights I wonder if the man even sleeps. He’s such a hard worker. You know, you might take some lessons from your granddaddy, love.” The glow he saw evaporated. “Are you ready to talk about how you slept? I know you didn’t sleep well. Heavens! You kept me up nearly half the