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“Soon,” Hunter replies.
And then he pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. Tucking it into the pocket of his jacket, he leans in. “We’re not ten anymore,” he tells me. “The next time I fight him, it’ll be for something more important.”
I hold his gaze, clenching my teeth to stay hard.
He slips the key into my jeans pocket as I work free of the cloth.
“Red and white bike parked in the lot,” he instructs, “near the fence, on the side of the football field. Don’t—”
But just then, the rope slips from my arms, and I shove him away, running. I burst out of the library and into the hallway, flying past the cafeteria. Leaping high, I rip the Pirate Flag off the wall and dive down the stairwell, back to the auto shop. Rushing inside, I ignore the students working, and the teacher barking, “Hey!”
I search for anything, grabbing the first thing I see. Plucking a can of lacquer thinner off the shelf, I toss the flag over my shoulder and scurry back upstairs, some of the students following me as I race.
Charging outside and back down the front steps of the school, I hurry up to the flagpole, set down the lacquer, and clip the flag in through both metal rings as students come spilling out the doors.
“What are you doing, Dylan?” someone calls.
But I don’t stop. Windows fly open as students poke their heads out, and I grab the rope, wrap my arms and legs around the pole and climb. People watch from below as I scale only as high as is out of their reach—seven or eight feet—and loop the rope around the pole, tying it off.
“Ohhh!” comes howls as the Pirate banner whips in the wind, high above for all to see.
More people rush out of the school and onto the lawn, toward me. Sliding back down, I swipe the can of lacquer thinner off the ground, uncap it, and squeeze hard. The fluid shoots out of the can, onto the pole, as Farrow and Calvin move toward me.
I smile, side-stepping swiftly around the flagpole, raising my arms and spraying the thinner as high as I can. I cover every inch.
Farrow reaches for me, and just then, I drop the can, hands up in the air.
He stands over me, and I stare at the ground, trying not to laugh.
“Get that flag off the fucking pole!” someone shouts from a window.
“What’s going on?” a teacher shouts from somewhere.
And I watch as Calvin jumps onto the pole to try to lower the enemy flag, but immediately…he slides back down on the lacquer thinner.
Howls and shouts go off in constant succession, angry curses filling the air as one by one, people try to get up the pole to rip the flag off.
I fold my arms over my chest, laughing, and I almost take out my phone to video, but that’ll just lose me my phone. Avoiding Farrow’s eyes, I gaze up with love at the skull and crossbones waving in the Weston sky.
But just then, a flicker ignites to my left. I look over as Hunter steps up, holding a lighter to the pole. My heart thumps in my chest as the flame catches, spreading like the wind up the steel beam, following the trail of lacquer thinner higher and higher. The corner of the flag ignites, and I watchthe Pirate banner go up in flames as everyone erupts into cheers.
In a moment, it’s gone, Farrow and his friends laughing as Hunter lifts his eyes, looking at me.
Damn.
Motor oil isn’t flammable. Just combustible. I should’ve used motor oil.
Near the fence…
I pull the key out of my pocket, trailing down the edge of the parking lot. A whistle goes off, filling the air, and I hear shouts from the football field, catching glimpses through the slits in the bleachers. Players run back and forth, sweating under the warm fall sun, and I step up to the fence, watching the light breeze blow through Hunter’s hair.
Coach Dewitt stands over him, yelling as Hunter does push-ups with the sun beating down on his shoulders and back. I can’t see the sweat curling up the ends of his hair above his neck or around his temples, but I know what he looks like when he’s getting a workout.
At least they’re not makingmedo push-ups for the flag incident. I’m surprised he’s getting punished, though, but I guess starting a fire was going too far for the teachers.
It was so unlike Hunter. And yet, exactly like him to be so resourceful in a crunch. Still a straight-A student, I’ll bet.
The palms of his hands press into the burnt grass of the field, and I can hear the rickety bleachers whining against the wind. Car engines kick up behind me as people leave school, and I take out my phone, holding it up and snapping a picture of the team at work on the field.
