“Careful.” His tone turns dark.
But I know something he doesn’t. Call it a kill switch that will make every single Osman fall. Kiervan isn’t the only one who knows how to play the long game.
“Right.” I scoff. “Blackmailis the more appropriate term.” Kiervan wasn’t always perceived as intelligent. Rather, they called him bright and intuitive but notsmart. He knew how to talk and play the act of a kid who understood what he was doing, which led people to believe he was wise beyond his years.
My brother’s gifted in his own way. A real charmer, just like our father. Two peas in a pod. While I’m no psychiatrist, I believe the medical term for the people I share my genes with ispsychopath.
The laugh that crackles through the static line sends my blood soaring. “You can tell them if you want. They’d never believe you.”
Kiervan wasn’t always this way. We were friends at one point—and I use that word loosely. I was the one they called smart. I wasthe rising star on the way to the very top. Except they didn’t use the termbrightorintuitive. They named metrouble, and my brother is the reason for it.
Why believe the son who was shit at communicating, when the boy who hadn’t been caught in a lie said it was my fault? It started off with broken toys, ripped-up pages, and dissected animals. Eventually, I was being blamed for the drugs they found inhisbedroom.
Kiervan knows about my fire-related tendencies, just like he knows about what I’ve kept from my parents for years. The day he realized I had a weakness, was the day he learned he could have it all.
It doesn’t matter how much I try to get rid of my weakness or lessen the blow; it doesn’t happen even though I hate its very existence.
“How’s my assignment coming along?” he asks.
“I was in jail two weeks ago. How do you think it’s going?” I roll my neck, trying to loosen some of the tension. I stayed there for all of sixteen hours after beating that kid up before our father’s lawyers got me a deal so I’d attend Seraphic Hills.
He clicks his tongue. “Better get to it then, champ.”
I can hear my pulse pound in my ears. I’m sick and tired of being his bitch. Once we graduate, there won’t be shit Kiervan could say to our parents that would matter. “What do you think is going to happen when you accidentally kill someone because you didn’t get your biology degrees yourself?”
I pull the phone away from my ear when he whistles. “Bold claims. Rein it in, little man. You make it sound like I didn’t think this through. What do you think the business major is for? Why mess with biomedicine when I could sit behind a table and order people around? You could never see the bigger picture.”
“Then do it yourself.” If I spent less time doing his assignments, I’d have more time for shit I want to do.
I’m about to hang up when he tsks. “There are so many things that could happen while you’re all boarded up in there, don’t you think? Imagine all the things Father could do…” The dreamy edge to his voice hides a sharpened blade within. “Don’t be stupid, Kohen. The assignment is due in two days. I’ll hear from you then.”
He ends the call before I can.
The old woman gasps when I slam the receiver. My breath comes out in short bursts as I thunder through the halls and into the frigid air. Tugging at the collar of my shirt, I spin the wheel on the lighter and imagine what its golden hues look like.
I survey my surroundings, checking no one is watching as I stick to the edge of the school grounds until I get to the loose part of the fence that leads into the graveyard. I don’t go deep into the forest, only so far until I reach a spot where the canopy is thickest to put a damper on the smoke.
My backpack hits the wet ground, and I yank out the three books that have been weighing the bag down all day.Theoretical Hydrodynamics and Aeromechanicsmakes contact with the earth first, then Kiervan’s course materials fall next to it. The last to come out is a notebook filled with useless scribbles.
The lighter is in my hand before I register it, and I have half a mind not to set fire to the textbooks. Yet in the next breath, the orange flame licks the corner of Kiervan’s book. It’s slow to start, but I watch it swallow the book with a roar. The plastic cover bubbles before it turns to charcoal and withers away into ash. I could watch the flames for hours, hypnotized by the vermillion and gray.
Fire is chaos at my fingertips, something I can harness and lose allcontrol over, neither of which can happen unless I strike the match.
Throwing the second book on top of it, the flames stretch upward until the smoke touches the back of my lungs. It’s better than nicotine or weed because seeing the dance of yellow and copper is enough to push the phone call further to the back of my mind.
Maybe one day, I’ll do to my parent’s house what I did to Blaze’s. Maybe next time, it’ll go out with a bang.
God, she’s such a little shit.
It’s no surprise to hear that Mommy doesn’t love her and Daddy’s gone walkabouts. She defines the wordirritating, and all she’s doing is sitting there, not making a sound or moving.
Yet for some screwed-up reason, Blaze is the only thing I’ve been able to see in over ten years. From her roaring attitude to her name and copper hair—Christ, her hair—her entire presence commands attention. All she does is scream “look at me,” and I can’t fucking look away no matter how hard I try.
The worst part of it all is that she’s the biggest bitch around. Since the night behind the church, she’s been avoiding me as if I were the damn police.
I twirl a blue pen between my fingers, ignoring whatever it is the teacher is talking about—it doesn’t matter; I've already learned all about it. My fingers graze over the dented surface of the pen; I wet my lips as I pull my attention away from the thief, to the perfect little teeth marks decorating the top of the plastic casing. The clip has been bitten off, and the spring is long gone. To continue to call it apenis a stretch of imagination.
I tuck it behind my ear and cast my eyes over to her as she chewson the lid of a different one. She’s antsy. That much is clear. Blaze has a bad habit of needing to keep her hands and mouth busy whenever she’s on edge—biting her nails, fiddling with the rosary beads she recently stole from somewhere, engraving the desk when she thinks no one’s looking. I could be the cause of it this time round. Or maybe it’s the fact she can’t call that fucker Tony to get her fix.
