Burned Away (2 page)

“So there's no reason to snoop around,” said Brass Knuckles. With each page he flipped, her shoulders rose. It felt like he was doing something too personal, like pawing through a drawer of her underclothes.

“Give it back,” she said.

“Mr. Schulz doesn't like rats,” Cut Lip told her. “Metaltown business stays in Metaltown. You understand what I mean by that?”

Every red alert in her head began blaring all at once. Mr. Schultz ran the Brotherhood; she didn't need to be from Metaltown to know that. She looked back to the mouth of the alley. She'd stumbled right into the very men she needed to avoid.

“I'm…” She searched her mind for an answer. The Brotherhood was at odds with McNulty's clan, and though she wasn't part of that crew, she knew that saying she was from Bakerstown was condemning enough.

Cut Lip lifted the pole, rolling it between his hands. Maybe the truth was stronger, but that didn't mean the fist wasn't going to hurt.

“There you are!”

From the fire escape to her right came a male voice, clearly pleased to see one of them. Lifting her chin, she saw a boy standing on the metal grate, two stories up. He was dressed in shabby clothes—trousers, held up by a rope belt, and a coat with one sleeve ripped and hanging from the elbow. With the light behind him, it was hard to make out his face, but since his voice was unfamiliar she doubted he'd come for her.

Using the distraction, she tried to bolt back toward the main street, but was clotheslined by Cut Lip's arm.

“Not so fast,” he muttered, sending a chill through her.

“I've been looking everywhere for you,” the boy continued, kicking the ladder to the fire escape off its brakes. With a clang, it slid free, falling down to the next level. Slowly, he descended the steps, keeping one hand in his pocket.

“You
are
with the charter,” Cut Lip said to her. He clicked his tongue in his cheek. “Shouldn't have lied.” He looked up at the boy, now on the landing just above. “Come on down here, kid. I got a few things I want to talk to you about.”

Knuckles took a step back, looking farther up on the roof, as if he expected more people to follow.

“Still sore about how things went the other morning?” The boy whistled. “That's a nice cut on your lip. Did I give you that, or someone else?”

Caris edged away from the man in question, thinking she might be able to make it around him and back to the street if she was fast enough. The boy wasn't here with the Brotherhood, but that didn't mean he was safe.

The men glared at him. “Where's your friend, Colin, huh? Heard they locked him up.”

“Heard it didn't stick.” The boy shrugged. “Hey, you ever mix nitro and white phosphorus? A little spark and
bam
. Stuff's got some kick.”

From his pocket he pulled a small piece of metal, hanging from one finger by a copper wire.

Both men took a step back. “Where'd you get that?”

She squinted up at it, wondering what had got them so rattled.

“What? This detonator?” The boy began swinging it in a circle around his finger. “Pulled it from the defectives pile. Wanna see if it still works?”

Cut Lip laughed, though the sound was strained. “You're full of it. No way you'd set that off so close.”

“I guess we could always find out.” The boy reached into his opposite pocket and withdrew a match with his bare hand. Then, with nothing more than the snap of his fingers, he had it lit. He held the small flame before his face, and for the first time Caris caught a glimpse of his narrow jaw, and his mouth, quirked on one side, and the dark lashes around his eyes. It looked like he was missing half an eyebrow, too, though that might have been a trick of the light.

It was the boy she'd seen in the press.

“She's with us,” the boy said. “And you know what happens when you mess with one of us.”

His meaning was clear:
you mess with all of us.

“Your charter's done, kid,” Cut Lip said, though he couldn't have been much older. “Your little press? It's over.”

Her chest clutched. The press was over? Already? Did that mean that the workers had gotten what they wanted from Mr. Hampton? She didn't even know what they'd asked for. No one she'd asked in the crowd had known the specifics—that's why she'd needed an interview with one of the members. She felt like she was running a race and had just been lapped by the leader.

“Then I guess we'll have to take our chances with the detonator,” said the boy. “What do they say? If you're going to go out, might as well go out with a bang.”

Cut Lip glanced back at Brass Knuckles, then scoffed, like this whole conversation was no more than an annoyance. He slapped the other man on the shoulder, then turned away.

“You forgot her book,” said the boy.

Turning, Cut Lip dropped it on the ground at Caris's feet.

“Write a word about any of this, and you'll never write again.”

With that, the two men left.

She watched them saunter past the employee entrance to the mouth of the alley, and only once they were gone from sight did she swallow a huge, cold breath and shudder.

Above her, the final ladder of the fire escape crashed to the ground, and she jumped, her nerves drawn tight.

“You all right?” the boy asked. He backed down the steps and moved closer, and she found herself tilting her chin to look up at him.

She rarely looked up to anyone.

“Yes,” she said. And then she blew out another breath and shook all over again. “I can't believe they just left like that. The
Brotherhood
. Can you believe it?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I can believe it, all right.”

She squinted at him, suddenly realizing that if they were scared of him, she should be
really
scared of him. This was a person she'd seen smiling in the middle of a fistfight. But he didn't seem scary. Apart from the eyebrow that actually
was
half-missing, he had a nice face. Smooth skin and dark eyes. Narrow shoulders and long legs. Her story pulled him in:
He looks like he's been stretched, like his hair would probably stand straight up if he took off the hat he's pulled down over his ears.

“Well,” she said slowly. “Thank you. I'll just be heading home now.”

“To Bakerstown?” he asked.

She wasn't sure how much she should tell him, or if where she lived might get her in trouble, as it could have with the Brotherhood.

“It's all right,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets and slouching a little. “I got a friend from Bakerstown. Came over when he needed to work. I can hear it a little in your voice.”

She'd never noticed her voice sounded a certain way and had the sudden urge to say something, just to see if it sounded different.

“Come on,” he said. “I'll walk you to the bridge. Better to stay off the streets tonight.”

He turned, without waiting for an answer, and climbed the first few rungs of the fire escape. When she didn't follow, he paused.

“You comin' or not?”

She thought of all the times her mom had taught her to be wary of strangers, and how she'd only just escaped two Brotherhood goons. She didn't know this boy, but he had stood up for her. Besides, it wasn't as if he was dragging her somewhere. He'd offered to take her back to the bridge between his home and hers.

Quickly, she retrieved her notebook and pencil off the ground and, shoving them into her bag, raced after him.

They climbed up four stories before they reached the roof. It was colder there, the sky black and starless, the low-hanging smog hiding the buildings beyond. Only a little light led their way, emanating from the street below.
The quiet stretches on endlessly, not eerie, as it is on the ground, but peaceful and calm.
It made her feel like they were the only two people in Metaltown.

“We can get most of the way there on the rooftops,” he said. “Not too many people know about it. I found it a while ago.” He looked down, cheek pulling inward, like he was biting it. It struck her that he'd grinned his way through the press but wasn't smiling now.

“Okay,” she said. “I like it up here.”

“You do?”

Her face heated. He seemed so surprised she'd said it, she wondered if it had been stupid to admit. She could almost feel Aunt Charlotte's judging stare.

She nodded, and when his lips tilted up, hers did too.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Matchstick.”

She looked sideways at him. “That's your
name
?”

One shoulder jerked up, dropped. “That's what people call me. What do they call you?”

“Caris.”

They'd walked to the edge of the building, where the next ledge was just a couple feet away. Between the buildings was an abyss, four stories deep. Her eyes widened.

He stepped onto the ledge, then straddled the divide, reaching for her hand to help her up. After a moment, she took it.
His hand is warm, even through our gloves, as if he's made of fire.
It was no wonder they called him Matchstick.

“Was that really a detonator?” she asked, remembering the way he'd lit the match with one hand and just the snap of his fingers.

“Sure,” he said. “Would've made a mean pop if I'd lit it.”

She glanced again at his half-missing eyebrow, trying to gauge if he was serious. She was almost certain his entire brow had been there when she'd seen him two days ago.

“An explosion, you mean?” She stopped. “You were really going to blow something up.”

He grimaced. “No?”

“Who
are
you?”

“Matchstick,” he said.

She pulled off her hat, scratching her head in frustration. Maybe he was worse than the Brotherhood—he
was
carrying around explosive devices in his pockets. Feeling his stare, she turned to face him.

“Your hair's orange,” he said in awe.

She shoved the hat back on her head. All the names the kids had called her in school came roaring back.
Brush Fire. Copper Kettle. Big Red.
It was bad enough she was taller than everyone, but she had a million freckles and hair that never let her blend in.

“Yeah, what of it?” she said.

“It's
orange
,” he said again. “Like fire.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You some kind of pyro?”

“Kind of,” he said, so enthusiastically she couldn't help but laugh. His mouth fell open, and he pulled his hat lower down on his ears. He started walking again, faster now, and when they crossed between buildings he didn't reach out his hand to help her.

“Is the press really over?” she asked, catching her breath.

He sighed. “I dunno. Maybe. The meet with Hampton didn't go so good.”

“What happened?”

Her fingers itched to take out her notebook.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You really a reporter? I saw you before. In the crowd.”

Something fluttered in her stomach.

“Yes,” she said. But then added, “Kind of. I'm working on it. I just need the right story.”

“Why?”

The question threw her off guard.
Because then the editor at the
Journal
will take me seriously. Then I can get an assignment that gets me away from Aunt Charlotte and the Tri-City.

“I want to go to the front lines,” she said.

“Report on the war?”

She nodded. Not just any reporters were sent to the fighting on the Northern Fed's border. You had to be good,
proven
, with lots of experience.

“Whoa,” he said, and she beamed because he was clearly impressed. “I'm going there too. Once I save enough for the train, that is.”

“It seems like a good place for someone who likes to blow things up.”

“That's what I was thinking,” he said. “So what are you writing about? The press?”

She almost said yes and whipped out her journal to ask him the dozen questions bouncing through her brain, but then she remembered what the Brotherhood had said. She wanted out of here. She wanted to go to the front lines more than anything. But their threat had been clear, and if there was one thing she knew from growing up on McNulty's turf, it was never to underestimate the reach of a gangster.

“I was,” she said. “But I sort of like the whole being-alive thing. Not sure I want the Brotherhood to change that.”

He made a humming sound. They'd come to another rooftop, this one filled with the soft cooing of pigeons. In the distance she could see city lights now, rising in lines from the apartment buildings, and knew they were coming close to the beltway.

“They told us not to press, too,” he said. “We don't listen so good.”

She squeezed the strap of her bag, torn between the journal within and the too-clear memory of metal rings lying over knuckles.

“Why did you, then?”

“Because…” He hesitated. Glanced her way. If she hadn't seen him take on two guys from the Brotherhood just minutes ago, she would have thought he was nervous. “The charter … We're like family. We got to stick together when things go wrong.”

The notebook in her bag called to her. What had gone wrong? What had brought them together to press against the biggest man in the Northern Federation?

But instead she asked, “Why do they call you Matchstick?”

They took a few steps in silence.

“The nuns used to say I had a temper when I was little.”

“The nuns?”

“At St. Mary's,” he said. “The orphanage by Charity House.”

She nodded, something in her chest twisting at the thought of him being raised without parents. She'd had her mom at least, and even after she'd gone to live with Aunt Charlotte, she'd had somebody. She couldn't imagine having no one left.