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.
“They’d say I’d blow up when I couldn’t figure something out. Then, when I started working at Small Parts, I figured out how to really blow things up.”
Because the factory made parts for bombs. She’d learned that the last time she’d come to Metaltown. Division II built the intricate pieces for explosives—the “small parts” that gave the place the nickname.
“And figured out you liked it.”
He chuckled. She’d made him laugh.
“Some things just don’t work the way you want them to. You’ve just got to blow them up and start over,” he said.
The way he said it was so matter-of-fact, she believed it was true. Something about him and the cold air and the rooftops made her feel brave. Made her want to start over.
She stopped and took out her notebook. “Could I ask you a few more questions?”
He tilted his head, and then motioned over to the ledge. There, they sat, and he pulled another match from his pocket and lit it with the snap of his fingers.
“Show-off,” she said.
He held it closer so that she could see the page, and in the soft yellow glow she found herself looking up at his face, and the smudges of soot on the back of his jaw, and the pink skin where his eyebrow abruptly ended.
And his cockeyed smile.
Clearing her throat, she asked him about the press and the charter. They talked about the Brotherhood, and McNulty’s crew in Bakerstown, and laughed about the first times he’d experimented with explosives. They talked about Hampton and the way
he was treating the workers.
If the Tri-city City knew what he’d done to the workers in his factories, there would be an uproar. Half the stuff couldn’t even have been legal.
It was much later when he walked her to the beltway.
“So,” he said. “You going to write the story or what?”
She held the notebook against her chest, feeling like the secrets it held could crack a hole in the world. “I don’t know.”
He nodded. “Well, if you do, tell me. And if you want more, you can talk to some friends of mine. We come here a lot. To the beltway. If you want to find me. Us, I mean.”
The prospect of more interviews made her eyes widen. The idea of seeing him again made her feel light and warm.
She wasn’t sure how to thank him for what he’d done tonight—not just for helping her with the Brotherhood, but for the interview. She watched him standing there, weight shifting from foot to foot, and realized how much she didn’t want to go.
He stands before me, a boy who finds answers in ashes, with no idea how important he is.
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. His skin was cold, and smooth, and her lips were cold, too. She lingered as his cheek lifted with a smile, their warm puffs of breath making a cloud to hide within. Then she backed away and headed home.
* * *
Aunt Charlotte was still snoring when Caris snuck in. Quietly, carefully, she set down her satchel and changed into her nightclothes. She eased into her cot in the corner of the room, but couldn’t sleep. Her mind was filled with the daily grind of the machines, and the sour scent of nitro that came on the breeze, and the smoke from the factories that clung to the roofs of the buildings, never lifting. She thought of the Brotherhood telling her not to write the story, and the power of the words Matchstick had given her. Of the snap of his fingers that brought the light, and his half-missing eyebrow
And she thought of her mom, as she always did, right before she drifted off.
It’s just until the fighting ends, she’d said when she got the assignment. The Journal needs someone on the front lines. I’m the best they’ve got.
Her mom was the best. And when she’d written home, she’d told vivid stories about the fighting and the starving people in the Southern Fed. How much they needed help from the North. She’d signed each letter: We’ll be together soon.
The last letter had come six months ago. Caris was tired of waiting.
She turned on the corner lamp and began to write.
Night, and the crumbling streets of Metaltown are still with anticipation.
About the Author
Kristen Simmons has a master’s degree in social work and is an advocate for mental health. She lives with her husband, Jason, and their precious greyhound Rudy in Cincinnati, Ohio. Her most popular books include the Article 5 trilogy, The Glass Arrow, and Metaltown. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by Kristen Simmons
Art copyright © 2016 by Goñi Montes
Kristen Simmons, Burned Away
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