Fire with Fire (Burn for Burn #2)

Fire with Fire (Burn for Burn #2) Page 77

Ms. Chirazo follows him to her door and closes it so hard her papers flutter. Then she rushes to my side. She doesn’t go back behind her desk. She takes the seat next to me, the one Billy vacated. I wipe the snot from my nose on my sleeve, but more drips out.

“What happened?”

I want to look at her, but I can’t. “I didn’t get into Oberlin, that’s what happened!” Saying it out loud is like a freaking bitch slap.

“Did you get a letter from them?”

I shake my head. “No. It was an e-mail. From some automated robot. It wasn’t even personalized or anything. Cruel bastards.” I can barely choke out the words. “I told them in that damn essay that this was my dream. I told them that my mom is dead, and that I was going to live her dream for her. And they don’t even have the decency to send a personal response?”

“What did it say, exactly?”

I glare at her, fire in my eyes. “Are you f**king deaf? It said I didn’t get in!” Immediately I want to take it back. I don’t want to be a bitch to Ms. Chirazo. I shouldn’t have cursed at her. She’s been good to me.

Ms. Chirazo doesn’t yell or throw me out. Instead she motions me to stand up. Then she ushers me to sit behind her desk. She leans around me and opens up the Internet on her computer. “Show me. Show me exactly what they sent you.”

I do. I pull the damn e-mail up so she can see it for herself.

She reads it a lot more carefully than I did. It takes her a few seconds to talk. “Kat, this just says you didn’t get in early decision. Your application got pushed into the general pool. You still have a chance.”

Maybe I should feel better at this, but I don’t. “If they don’t want me early decision, they don’t want me period.”

“That’s not true. Not at all. In fact, it says here that you can still update your application. We can pump up your extracurriculars, try to find you some additional opportunities to round you out. I’ve looked at your application myself, and that’s your only weak spot.”

“What am I going to do? Put out a hit on the student council president?”

“Not funny, Kat.”

“I’m just saying. It’s too late.”

She walks over to her filing cabinet and shuffles some papers around. “We did get a request earlier this week from Jar Island Preservation Society. They’re looking for office volunteers after school and on the weekend.”

I don’t want to hope, but this is better than nothing. “All right.”

“Excellent. I’ll call them today and ask when you should start.

“I’m sorry I cursed at you.”

“You were upset. I understand. I’m glad you’re expressing your feelings.” She pats me on the leg. “In the meantime, you’ll go ahead and apply to your safety school just in case. You’re a tough girl, Kat. Don’t lose your head now.”

I never thought I’d say this, but thank freaking God for Ms. Chirazo.

And then it hits me.

“Hey, Ms. Chirazo. Do you have, like, set students you deal with? Or can you talk to anyone who might need help? Because I have this friend . . .”

Later that day, a note from Ms. Chirazo is delivered to my eighth period. Turns out the Preservation Society wants me to start today. So I head over there after school. Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose. And, if anything, I feel like I owe something to her, for working so hard to help me.

It’s a nice building, on the strip of fancy stores in White Haven. White wood with black trim and lots of old leadedglass windows that have bends and dimples in them. They’ve got bundles of balsam branches hung around the doorway and laced through the iron step railings, and it makes the air smell freaking fantastic. I spot a plaque on the way in. Bronze. It says this building was once the town meeting hall, back in the 1700s.

Inside, the space is big and open, with hardwood floors so shiny I can see my reflection in them. Every wall is covered with red exposed brick, and they’ve got town artifacts hung up, like a moth-eaten old flag and a weathered wooden boat paddle. Every few feet there’s a large oak desk. Vintage lightbulbs with the twisted orange filaments dangle down from the ceiling. The whole place reeks of money.

I don’t like it right away. Something about rich-people causes makes me itchy. It’s like they’re looking for ways to waste their money to ease their guilt.

I walk up to the first desk I see. There’s a woman there, talking on the telephone. She’s got on a fuzzy cream sweater, pearl earrings, and a huge honkin’ diamond on her finger.

She sizes me up—my messy hair, the rips in my jeans, the combat boots—and offers a tight smile. Into the phone receiver she says, “Of course we’re worried about the house. It’s absolutely charming. And with all your family history there. Now, we’ve made several attempts to reach out to your sister, and . . . there’s no other way to put this, except to say that she’s not well. And the house is clearly suffering because of it.” The lady’s voice is hella high-pitched and whiny. She mm-hmms a bunch of times to the voice on the other end of the call, but she’s clicking through e-mails or something on her laptop, so I doubt she’s even listening. “Yes, well, we are willing to help in whatever way possible. If the house proves too much for your sister to care for, then we’ll be happy to make you a very generous offer. Yes, well, of course. We look forward to hearing from you and are happy to assist in any way we can.”

The woman hangs up the phone and lets out a pained sigh. “Tough day on the job?” I ask.

She chuckles dryly. “You could say. Now, may I help you?

You’ve been waiting so very patiently, and I appreciate that.” I want to say, You don’t need to be so condescending, you

bitch, but instead I smile. This woman must think I’m some

kind of feral cat in from the streets. “Ms. Chirazo from the high

school called about me today.”

The woman eyes me. I guess however Ms. Chirazo pitched me,

I’m not exactly measuring up. “Of course. Yes. Well, we’re happy

to have you, Katherine.” She gets up from behind her desk. “Let

me show you to the basement, where you’ll be working.” Of course.

She ushers me down a creaky stairway. The basement has not

received the same designy care as the upstairs. It’s an artificially

bright room with no windows and ceilings so low we need to