The Burning Side(2)

A new panic stabs him now: his son could have lost consciousness from smoke, not sleep. So Leo jostles Otto, who wakes easily and fusses. It has only been a matter of minutes—seven, maybe eight—since they escaped.

Leo takes Otto over to the paramedics who are with Sadie. Her breathing has steadied. A paramedic turns and says, “Let’s get that bleeding cleaned and bandaged.”

Alarmed, Leo and April both scan their baby’s body. They hadn’t realized Otto was bleeding. But the paramedic says, “Not him.”

Leo looks down to find a gash on his own arm. He has no idea how he got it. It was hard to see anything as he tumbled out of the house with his daughter. Some details are hazy while others are hauntingly vivid: Sadie’s whimper as he pulled her from the island of her bed, the smallness of her arms as she latched them around his neck. Leo had considered hurling her out of the house just to get her out faster.

The paramedic dabs Leo’s arm with ointment and says, “It will take a while to put this one out. We recommend you go ahead and evacuate. Officer Nelson can escort you to a hotel, and the department will be in touch with reentry details.”

It startles Leo that they might just leave their home in its distress.

April says, “We can go to my parents’ house.” She hesitates and looks at Leo. “Right?”

Leo frowns, registering this entire devastating situation. He would have died for April tonight, no question. But he’s trying to end this marriage—not go stay indefinitely in her childhood home. He and April have barely been speaking, have been sleeping in different rooms. He can’t manage all these wearisome logistics with her. And he definitely can’t stay at Deb and Billy’s house.

But when he looks from April to Sadie to Otto, he knows that he will. Of course he will.

Behind the young man with his medical equipment, their house burns. The crew is moving through ventilation tactics, the smoke and flames changing color but not giving up. One of the men shouts something about orders to take the roof.

Otto stares down his nose in fascination at the paramedic checking his vital signs.

“Baby sounds beautiful.” The man smiles. “Y’all are clear.”

The air undulates with heat as the family of four piles into Officer Nelson’s Tahoe.

When Nelson shifts into reverse, Leo and April lock eyes. This seems so wrong. They can’t just leave everything behind.

Except that’s exactly what they’ve been trying to do.

So, shoulder to shoulder in the back of a police car, they both turn their gazes away.

It’s easier to look at their burning house than at each other.





Part One SPARKS





APRIL


2011

I TAKE ARGYLE HIGH SCHOOL’S front steps two at a time. The marching band is practicing in the parking lot. The speaker-amplified metronome echoes through the morning air like a giant ticking clock. I’m a college graduate who still hasn’t mastered the art of getting places before eight in the morning. Jonathan will be waiting for me at that scuffed desk, his pencil beside him with the eraser chewed off.

“There a fire or something?”

I startle at the deep voice.

I turn to see a tall guy in corduroy pants. “What?”

“I’ve just never seen a student run so fast toward summer school.”

My cheeks warm. “I’m a tutor, actually.” I hike up my backpack, wishing I hadn’t worn braids. “A late tutor,” I say.

“Ah.” He transfers a binder from one arm to the other. “I’m Leo.” He extends his hand. “A late teacher.” In-service has just started for the new school year.

I chuckle and shake his hand. “April.”

He releases my hand and opens the school door, nodding for me to go ahead.

I walk into the familiar blast of cool air. Behind us, the door closes and mutes the marching band. The hallway is dark after the bright eastern sun, and I glance back. With polite nods, the teacher and I turn, and we go our separate ways.



* * *



“Sorry I’m late!” I drop my backpack onto a blue plastic chair.

Without looking up, Jonathan Gutierrez grins and shakes his head. “Hey, miss.”

I take him in: his hoodie and ear gauges. His book and eraserless pencil. It’s been a great summer, and I’m dreading the approaching autumn, when I’ll have to make some sort of decision about what to do with my life. I’m already doing what I want. But as far as I know, tutoring is a job for adolescents. For summers and part-time hours and minimum wage. Not for a college grad whose parents have been asking for a year what I’m going to do as though what I am doing counts for nothing.

Jonathan won’t admit it, but I can tell he’s enjoying The Count of Monte Cristo. Some days, he asks for just a few more pages, and on those days I stay as long as I can. It merits celebration when someone with dyslexia wants to keep reading.

When I got my own diagnosis in elementary school, I wondered why they gave it such a hard name. For years, I called it dills-hex-ya until my sister, Josie, said I sounded like a spell-casting pickle. After that, I didn’t say the name at all.

I’m barely seated before Jonathan begins reading. I relax into the starts and stops of his voice, so much smoother than a few months ago. Now I hear inflection and emotion, which doesn’t just tell me he understands the story—it tells me he’s enjoying it. Last semester, he flunked everything related to reading comprehension.