When giants burn, p.1
When Giants Burn, page 1
To twelve-year-old Beth.
Can you believe it?
GERTY
A high, keening sound rocks through me. Hayes. He’s screaming, his mouth an open cave. And the side of the mountain is where the sky ought to be.
Yet my voice is steady when I shout, “Hold on!”
His arms wrap around my waist. I cover his hands with mine as everything I built shatters around us.
The ground is so hard, and I am too soft.
1 GERTY
Ten days earlier
Hearing about other people’s dreams is boring, but Jennifer says I need friends and that, since she’s my mom, I have to listen to her. Which, being honest, is confusing because Jennifer and Alex also say their goal is to raise entirely independent children. Yet here I am, being forced to listen to Hayes Teller’s boring dream.
I try to tune him out. Alex, my dad, says it’s important to take stock of every room, figure out two modes of exit. Obviously, the door behind me counts as one way to leave the guidance counselor’s office. But I could scale the bookcase easy, kick out the window, and drop to the ground in a loose roll. If I had to, I mean.
“It’s a fire,” Hayes says. This gets my attention. I know a lot about fires. “But big, wide, so it’s like the ocean.” His voice trips over the word ocean. “And, like, I’m running toward it, okay? I’m running toward it, but it keeps getting farther away. No matter how fast I run, it’s the same distance away.”
Mrs. Freid, the guidance counselor, is supposed to be leading this discussion, but she’s staring into space like it’s the romance novel she has next to the lunch box at the edge of her desk.
“Fire doesn’t go back,” I say. “It swoops forward.” Hayes raises an eyebrow at me. He has thick slashes for eyebrows. I like that about him. “Wildfire does sound like an ocean, though. My dad showed me a video of when they set thousands of Fishlake Forest acres on fire—a controlled burn. It sounded like the ocean. I mean, what I think the ocean is like. I’ve never seen one.”
Hayes flinches. He doesn’t like to talk about fire, even though he brought it up. He keeps a lot of his words inside.
Me? Words spurt out of my mouth. Especially when it’s stuff I know a lot about and think other people ought to know. I dip my voice lower, leaning in to Hayes a little so Mrs. Freid won’t hear and start in on her “wait for social cues” lecture. (Apparently, not everyone wants to share in my knowledge all the time. Sometimes, according to Mrs. Freid, they simply want to “be heard.”) “Safest place in a wildfire, generally speaking, is to get behind the flames—where the ground’s already been burned to a crisp, so nothing’s left to reignite. But it’s probably a good idea to get a fire dome. Compact foil. They reflect the heat, but they cost, like, four hundred dollars.”
Mrs. Freid snaps back to focus. She blinks a couple of times. Her head tilts to the side. If a thought bubble bloomed over Mrs. Freid’s head during our “group sessions,” most of the time it would read, What is wrong with these kids? Or maybe, How did I get here?
“Here” is Rabbit, Utah, where I’ve lived for the past six years and where my mom grew up. It’s a town of fewer than two thousand people, and a school district with fewer than a hundred students and one glamorous-looking professional counselor from New York. She’s in over her head. My dad taught me how to look for the signs of panic in people and animals.
While I’ve lived in Rabbit for more than half my life, last year was my first time out of homeschooling. My parents say it’s necessary for me to understand why they chose to self-isolate and move from Salt Lake City after… well, when they did. They think middle school will be the thing that really solidifies within me a desire to leave the social fabric behind.
Mrs. Freid keeps asking me to think about my feelings during these sessions. How do I feel about being in school? Honestly, for the most part, I don’t. Alex says people spend too much time thinking about their own feelings when they should be focused on two things only: today and tomorrow. Alex and Jennifer want me here, to learn as much about society and its meaninglessness as possible, so that’s what I’m going to do.
But I guess if I had to admit it under torture, I’d say the cafeteria food is better than most of my family’s cooking, gym class dodgeball beats fitness drills with Alex, and these sessions with Mrs. Freid allow me to put to good use lessons from How to Analyze People: What CIA Spies Know but Hope You Never Will. It’s a book I’ve indefinitely borrowed from the town library. I’m good at most things, but my ability to read facial expressions is superior.
Hayes’s biggest tells aren’t on his face, though. They’re in his hands. His hands clench a lot when he’s nervous, and right now he can’t seem to stop flexing them. But what did Mrs. Freid just say to trigger that response? I missed it. Focus, Gerty.
Since Hayes and I were both new last year, we got pulled into Mrs. Freid’s office for twice-weekly lunch meetings. Hayes is also low on friendships (in society’s dim view of socialization). He lives with his grandma and little brother, and I guess his mom now too. We just started sixth grade, and I thought Mrs. Freid visits would cut back this year, but I’m still here because of the whole scavenging thing that some people call stealing, even though they’re wrong. And Hayes is still here because he doesn’t have any friends.
Alex says survivors don’t waste energy focusing on other people’s woes. Even so, I know why Hayes and his brother, Charlie, moved in with old Doc Louise. Everyone in town does. It’s because Hayes’s mom was in prison back in California. She’s out now and lives with them too.
Whereas I tend not to notice that other people don’t want to hear about how to get out of dangerous situations, or about why their minds are closed to the reality of their insignificance in the vastness of nature, Hayes rarely talks about anything at all.
Aside from his eyebrows, I like one other thing about Hayes: in class, his head is always down on his desk. Being able to catch up on sleep regardless of conditions is an essential skill in crisis situations.
As I tune back in to the conversation, Mrs. Freid asks Hayes, “Could this nightmare have something to do with your mother?” I choke on a groan. Her dark eyes narrow at me. Mrs. Freid thinks everything wrong is because of our mothers. There’s a picture of her with her own mother on her desk. The older Mrs. Freid looks like her daughter, only instead of smooth hair and tailored suits, she has hair braided in thick cornrows and loose clothing. They have the same smile, same straight white teeth, and same dark brown skin.
“You know, why am I still here?” Hayes says, and I wonder what’s come over him today. “My mom’s been out for three months. I thought when she was here in Rabbit too, I wouldn’t have to come to these lunches anymore.” He shoots a look my way. “No offense.”
“None taken.” I turn to Mrs. Freid. “Why are we here?” I know the answer, of course, but I want to hear her say it.
“The thing is,” she begins, “you’re both strange, unlikable children without any friends.”
I’m joking. She doesn’t say that. Really, Mrs. Freid says, “I think the three of us could use a safe place.”
Her breathing is steady. She’s looking Hayes in the eyes, her hands folded loosely and no fake smile on her face. All signs that she’s being honest.
“Frankly speaking, Mrs. Freid,” I say into the thick quiet that unfurls among us after her words, “the safest place is anywhere with me. I’ve studied jujitsu since I was a toddler. If things go sideways, I could break anyone’s arm five different ways. Maybe more.”
Mrs. Freid closes her eyes. The bell rings, and she startles. “Okay, this week’s challenge: take a risk.”
“Risks are not—”
She holds up a hand to cut off my words. “Not a physical risk. A social one. Do something with a friend, or a would-be friend. Let them know something about you.”
* * *
It’s a dirty, sneaky move to trick me like that. Mrs. Freid knows I can’t back down from a dare.
So, on the bus ride home, I sit in front of Hayes’s bench. I’m going to let him in on my secret. I figure it’s safe to tell him, since he doesn’t have any friends and I get the impression he doesn’t talk to his mom or grandma all that much. At the last minute, though, I remember what my dad says: if you’re going to do something, make sure it’s worth your while. Efficiency is key to survival. “Want to come to my house? There’s something I want to show you.”
Hayes leans back on the sticky vinyl seat and closes his eyes as though running through a to-do list. “Yeah, I think I could make some time.”
“Great. Meet me at the bus stop in an hour with a grocery cart.”
Hayes’s eyes pop open. “A grocery cart?”
I nod. “Or at least, two of its wheels.”
“I don’t… I don’t have a grocery cart.” Hayes’s slashy eyebrows knit together.
I smirk. “Then get one.”
Hayes glances behind him to Charlie, his little brother. Charlie’s in fourth grade. He’s sitting in the last row of the bus, talking to his friends. He has, like, six of them. That’s a lot in Rabbit.
I’m glad my sister is too small to leave the house without Alex and Jennifer.
“Ooooohhh,” says Jaxson, the jerk in the seat in front of me. “Hayes and Gerty, going on a date. You guys gonna go make out? You gonna—”
I lean forward so my forehead is about five inches from Jaxson’s. I tilt my head to one side and then the other, eyes narrowed like a hawk’s. Predators back down only to fiercer predators.
Jaxson faces forward again.
“Hey,” Hayes says to me as we get off the bus. We both ignore Charlie calling out, “Where are you going, Hayes?”
“A grocery cart wheel?” Hayes asks me.
I hold up two fingers. “Two wheels. But to get them, you’d need a power drill, so maybe stick with the whole cart.” I point to the ground. “Right here. One hour. If you’re not back, I’ll never talk to you again.” Fine, I’ll admit it, the way Hayes’s mouth pops open and he jerks his head (signs of panic) is satisfying. He might not like me or want to be my friend, exactly, but we’ve been sitting at the same table in the cafeteria and hanging around near each other at recess. This confirms he’d rather be with me than totally alone. “I mean, I won’t talk to you for a week, at least.”
Hayes swallows. “Mrs. Freid did say to take a risk.” He nods. “Where am I supposed—”
“Figure it out!” I say. “I promise, it’ll be worth it.” I lean in to him. “I’ll show you my secret project.”
“Your—”
“Shh!” I look around for eavesdroppers and spies. Seeing none except for Charlie, I poke Hayes in the chest. “One hour.”
2 HAYES
Generally speaking, I’m not big on stealing stuff.
Yet when Gerty disappears into the woods at the edge of the bus stop, I stand there, thinking.
Grocery cart wheels? Is this some sort of test? Do I want to pass it?
Gerty’s okay, I guess. I like being able to count on her saying something outrageous to shift the attention away from me with Mrs. Freid. I don’t know for sure, but I think she does that on purpose. And knowing that she doesn’t exactly keep her thoughts to herself makes me want to know what this secret is that she’s keeping.
But is that worth this whole grocery cart wheel business?
I could simply go back to Grandma Louise’s house and call Gerty’s bluff. But Mom will be there, sitting at the kitchen table. She’ll ask, “How was your day?” I’ll have to listen to Charlie go on and on about how great his was, just awesome. Then she’ll turn to me, and I’ll have to either lie or tell her the truth. That it was awful. That I hated it. That I hate every day in Rabbit.
I turn toward town. I mean, I guess you could call it town. There’s a gas station, a diner, a bar, and Quik Mart (which is so fast, it can’t be bothered to use the c). All of them are about a half mile up the road.
“Hayes!” Charlie whines. “What am I supposed to tell Grandma Louise?”
“Tell her I’m with Gerty,” I say, “and I’ll be back by dark.”
Charlie sighs and stomps off, kicking rocks.
* * *
Is it illegal to steal a grocery cart? I bet it is.
It’s probably even worse to take the wheels off and leave a broken-down cart. That’s probably two crimes.
This is all some sort of joke, so when I prove to Gerty… whatever it is that stealing a grocery cart proves… I’ll wheel it back and no one will ever have to know.
My hands curl and open. Am I really going to do this?
The Quik Mart corrals are full of carts, but there are workers—bored-looking teenagers in yellow vests—coming in and out of the store to bring them back inside in long trains. I wish I had money. Then I’d fill up the cart with food and pretend my folks parked far away as I casually walked from the store.
Instead I’m here, stooped next to a big black cow, wondering if people get arrested for swiping grocery carts. I know, right? A cow. There are cows everywhere in Rabbit. The ranchers let them roam. They scared me at first, but I’ve been here long enough that they only really bother me when it snows. Then they crowd up the road, licking at the salt, and we have to start school late.
Once I’m arrested, I’ll probably have to go to a group home. Charlie and me, we spent a night in one when Mom was arrested, before the social worker could get ahold of Grandma Louise. And then two more nights before she could get out to California. I don’t want to talk about it.
I’d be whupped for sure if anyone in a group home found out I was there for stealing a grocery cart, of all things. Especially an empty one.
“Ah, come on!” One of the teenagers curses. A cart won’t go into the train he’s trying to make. He says another word I’m not allowed to say but think hard and often. He peels off the cart, shoving it to the side. “Ralph!” he shouts. The other teenager, nearly back into the store, doesn’t turn around. “Ralph, take this one out back with all the other piece-of-[bad word here] carts!”
“Ha!” I gasp, startling the cow, which sidesteps away from me with a low moo. Whatever, judgmental cow.
This is my chance.
A few minutes later I’m stumbling through the parking lot of the diner across the street from Quik Mart, throwing my weight to the side every few feet to right the wonky cart I’m liberating from the junk pile behind the store.
A tall, thin man, who looks too young for the scraggly mustache he’s sporting, chuckles as he walks by. “If you’re going to steal a cart, kid, shouldn’t you at least get one that’s full of groceries?” Something about his grin seems vaguely familiar.
The man opens the door to his beat-up sedan and slides in. I can see a pile of fast-food wrappers and crumpled clothes in the passenger seat. I’m about to explain that I’m not stealing the cart, since it was going to be junked anyway, when the door to the diner is thrown open and an older woman bellows, “Sparky! Get back in here and pay your bill!” She sprints out of the restaurant, her apron pockets jammed with napkins and straws.
The man shoots me a wink through his lowered window. “Put it on my tab, Ma!”
I try to push away, but the cart wheel twists, making me lunge into the handlebar with my ribs. The guy peels away, kicking up dust that makes me cough, as the woman shouts, “I’m done covering for you! Don’t come back here!”
The woman sighs and then seems to notice me, righting the cart again. She wipes at her damp cheeks. “You’re not stealing that cart, are you?”
I shake my head. “I’m borrowing it for a friend.”
She blinks at me for a moment and then sighs heavily when someone inside the diner yells out, “Waitress!”
“Make good choices!” she calls after me as I jog away with the cart.
3 GERTY
Hayes is out of breath, sweat beading across his face, when he shows up exactly forty-three minutes later. I pop out from behind a tree, and he screams.
“Were you there the whole time?” He mops at his forehead.
I nod. “My folks don’t like people coming and going. I didn’t want you to try to find me.”
“Oh,” he says, and I know that means he’s heard about my family just like I’ve heard about his.
I check out the grocery cart. “This’ll do.” I turn into the woods. “Follow me.”
A few minutes later, the cart bumping over roots on the footpath, Hayes says, “Covid, was that when your folks got all…” He pauses, working through how to describe Alex and Jennifer. “Survivalistic?”
“You know that’s not a word, right?” I say, and Hayes shrugs. “But to answer your question, not really. They weren’t surprised by it.” I grab the front of the cart and readjust it when it starts to wobble to the left again. “Pandemics strike pretty reliably every hundred years or so. That’s why we already had a stockpile of air filtration masks. Besides, we’re pretty good at social distancing.”
Hayes doesn’t say anything when I pause by a hollow tree. From the gap I pull out my ax belt. I strap that on and switch my school shoes for my hiking boots, then tuck my backpack and my school shoes inside the tree for tomorrow. At the clearing in front of my house, I point out a spot for Hayes to park the cart. Then I pick up a big metal bucket of grain. A cluster of chickens strut around us, clucking at one another and us. “Watch Donald,” I warn Hayes, and jerk my chin toward the rooster. “He can be a bully.”
Hayes shadows me a little closer.
After feeding the chickens, I drop the bucket with a clack onto the stone patio by the back door of my house. “House” isn’t quite the word, I guess. I mean, not to most people, maybe. It looks more like an old hunting cabin that would only be used for a weekend. It’s log style, but not the cute kind in fairy-tale book pictures. The house tilts to one side, none of the doors shut all the way, and there’s a huge section of the roof that’s covered by a black tarp with rocks stacked along the edges to hold it in place. Maybe we’d have better repairs if a car could actually fit back here. But Alex and Jennifer park about a mile away in a clearing behind a few trees, and then they hike to the house. In the winter we use the snowmobile.
