Would the story come out? A good investigative reporter could surely write a dazzler.
But I’m a big-time screenwriter now.
So it’s not going to be me.
SAVANNAH
They blamed it all on me.
Jealous Boyfriend Burns Down Girlfriend’s House, the headlines read. Apparently Teen Romance Erupts in Flames explained everything. Anybody who’s read Romeo and Juliet knows that young people in love do crazy-ass shit. Nobody suspected there was a whole ’nother layer to this tragic tale, and （hopefully） never would. Logan was already staring down indictments for arson and attempted murder, no way he would want to add hit-and-run to his rap sheet. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone.
My room didn’t burn, but all my stuff stank so bad like smoke I had to throw it away. Which was fine because I didn’t want it, not anymore. I’ll go to college, get a job, and buy my own Louis Vuitton. That’s the way Dad would have wanted it. Because that’s the only way it would ever be truly mine.
I deleted the video. Now that police were digging around our house, a.k.a. the “crime scene,” I didn’t want any loose ends around for them to find. Mom got the insurance money—it wasn’t the same as having a bottomless bank account, but we wouldn’t starve. Honestly, after nearly being set on fire, I was happy just to still be alive.
After it came out that my track coach tried to burn my house down with me in it, school got a little awkward. I never really liked that school anyway. I wasn’t a Calabasas girl, with bouncy hair and rounded edges. But I wasn’t a dark-eyed chica from Van Nuys either. I didn’t know if I would find my tribe in New Hampshire, but at least I wouldn’t be “the girl whose dad died,” or “the girl whose boyfriend tried to kill her.” I could, for the first time in my life, just be me. And I liked that idea.
Moving to New Hampshire was a chance to start over. Again.
Hopefully for the last time.
LIBBY
Obviously, we had to move.
I couldn’t have my daughters staring out at that charred tangle of two-by-fours across the street from us every day. Margaux was already nervous at night.
I started looking the second the check cleared. We would get new construction this time, something closer to the studios so my husband could get to his meetings without any stress.
I had reservations about Andy staying in business with Jack after what his son did to that poor family, but the script was under contract, and we had bills to pay, whether or not the family was crazy.
And the fact is, we don’t know what happened, not really. I liked Holly and tried to be her friend, but whatever bizarro arrangement she had made with Jack Kimball was none of my business. It was wrong of me to poke around in her private life. It’s not like I had been living in integrity myself!
I would have gone to see them, but Holly and Savannah never came back to the house, not even to retrieve their things. As I peered out Margaux’s window at the house, with its sunken roof and blackened walls, I wondered if my house burned, what I would take? Surely I’d come back for my jewelry—not just because it’s valuable, but because it’s meaningful to me. Much of it was inherited, it connects me to my ancestors, my past, who I am today. I’d want my wedding dress—not to wear it again, but for the memories woven into the fabric. I’d want my favorite books, for the notes written in the margins that show the evolution of my thoughts. And of course I’d take anything framed—photos, diplomas, awards, babies’ footprints—to remind me of the milestones that had shaped our lives.
I hate when people dismiss the loss of an object because “it’s just a thing.” Things are important. They give comfort, shelter, style, identity. The sum total of your things is a road map of your life. They show where you’ve been, what you accomplished, who you loved, who loved you back. They are an expression of who you are. You can learn a lot about a person by their things. Material things are not what’s most important in life, of course! There is nothing that makes me happier than my child’s laughter or her hand holding mine. But anyone who says they would not cry if they lost their childhood blankie or their wedding ring or the house they grew up in is either lying or a saint.
I remembered Holly’s suicide attempt, and the cocoon of sadness that followed her around that house. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe she never wanted a Bosch oven or a Baccarat chandelier. They certainly didn’t make her happy. I thought about how I contorted myself to live in this crumbling house, how unhappy I had been without things that were familiar to me, how far away from myself I had felt.