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“If we’re going to Taco Bell first, the only thing you’ll be lighting on fire is the rim of your toilet in about two hours,” I said.
Rosalie rolled her eyes. “We all have our vices. Mine’s the cheesy burrito.”
“Girl, that isn’t real cheese.”
“I know, let’s just go. I don’t wanna miss them lighting it.”
Rosalie was the social butterfly; I was the bird. I say bird because it was general enough. Sometimes I was a seagull, awkward and loud. Sometimes I was a hawk, watching for danger and swooping in when needed. Sometimes I was a simple robin, hanging out and blending in. Sometimes I was a hummingbird, in my element, flitting between conversations, ruling the situation. And sometimes I was a vulture, scrambling for pieces of conversation and connection. Tonight, I was going to be a raven. Wise and methodical. Nearly invisible, yet right where I needed to be.
“You were right about my networking. Thanks for not saying much. I just have to pick up some cash and drop off the flash drives. Pretty confident my people will be there tonight,” I said.
“Figured you’d want me to be cryptic. Are they still tracking your conversations and stuff?”
I shrugged as she pulled into Taco Bell’s drive-through. “I know they have access to my texts and phone call records and my emails, but I don’t think Shayna is actively going through them. Can’t be too careful though. Two orders of the cinnamon twists,” I said, handing her two bucks and the change. “I only have eight more months though, which is wild to think about.”
“Ah yes,” Rosalie said as we pulled up to the window. “Two years of penance will finally be paid.” She stole a twist and popped it into her mouth before handing the rest to me. “What will you do with your freedom?”
I snorted. “I dunno, not much will actually change other than I don’t have to be so paranoid about my texts and won’t have to meet with Shayna.”
“No more drug tests,” Rosalie said, pulling back onto the main road and heading for the coast. It was a half-hour away, but the freedom of the beach was a beacon that called young adults and teenagers to its shores.
“Drugs were never the issue,” I said.
“I know,” Rosalie said. “But you won’t have to be so paranoid. You could actually take a drag and maybe unwind a little without your paranoia showing.”
“Fair enough,” I said, looking out the window, eating my fried cinnamon and sugar twists.
Rosalie blasted Taylor Swift (the old stuff) and sang like the world was ending and I couldn’t help but join, screaming “Love story” until my throat was raw.
We got lucky and found parking despite the number of cars already there.
“Did you bring anything to drink?” I asked.
“Forgot about that in our effort to make it to Taco Bell before closing.”
I smiled and reached into my bag, pulling out half a bottle of cheap whiskey before sliding my bag further under the seat. “Say thank you, Grandpa.”
Rosalie winced. “He’s gonna be pissed at you.”
“He was when I left. He’ll blame Grandma or forget about it. Serves him right for backhanding me over his missing cigarettes. He thought I stole ‘em, but it was Grandma. Just be thankful I found whiskey and didn’t have to settle for gin.”
We both shuddered at the memory. It was the first time either of us had gotten drunk, that first time we felt like we were floating and were on top of the world. We wanted more of that feeling and drank far more than we should have. We were sick for days, puking our guts up at Rosalie’s house or the group home her parents threw her in. We were what, fifteen? Never made that same mistake with gin. Sometimes even the smell of juniper was enough to make my stomach churn.
We each took a long swig. “Let’s go,” I said.
I checked my pockets for the flash drives and walked the small trail to the beach. The moon was full and bright and the sky cloudless. Light reflected off the waves, but darkness wouldn’t be an issue for long. The fire pyre was already tall, people threw on cardboard from their now-empty boxes of beer and wood they’d either brought or gathered.
I grabbed some seagrass and fiddled with it in my hands until I had a small braid. Rosalie did the same. I’m not sure who started the tradition, but everyone wanted to light the stupid bonfire, so everyone would stand in a circle. Then there was a countdown from ten and on that “zero” everyone would rush forward and light the heaping pile of kindling and wood.
It was ridiculous, but I never missed out on a chance to run a few steps with just a torch of flames in my hand. The circle was already forming and Rosalie pulled out her lighter and lit the ends of our grass when the countdown was at three. I rushed forward with the rest of the group, maybe twenty people, and threw my fire into the already-ignited bonfire. I’ll never understand why I liked that part so much. Maybe it was seeing something so big and beautiful come from nothing, maybe it was how it changed the landscape, a giant beacon of light that made the beach glow.
There were a fair number of people at the bonfire, and more trickled in. Some people set up blankets and were sitting and staring. Some were throwing more logs on the fire. Most people were drinking.
I looked over to find Rosalie enamored with her phone. I wrinkled my nose, the sappy romantic.
“Texting lover boy?” I asked.
She snorted. “I really like him.”
