kitchen door, and tried to go in, but it was so full of gas that I started coughing right away and almost threw up. I pulled my shirt up over my nose and ran over to the stove, which is where my grandmother usually keeps her matches, but there were none there, so I had to go into the pantry closet to get a new box. By that time, I was five seconds over. I expected to hear the key in the door any second. Mom had made a copy so I wouldn’t be able to lock them out of the house.
I made it out to the living room, but just barely. My head was pounding. The whole world smelled like gas. I said a word or two to Dad, to the effect that if I blew myself up for real, I hoped I’d see him soon. In some bizarre part of my mind, I found myself hoping my face wouldn’t look too bad if it got burned. I pulled out a match and lit it. The living room didn’t blow up, so I walked the tiny flame over to the kitchen, opened the door, and threw it in.
Chapter Ten
I learned something that night: it’s almost impossible to keep a thrown match lit. It was out before it even left my fingers. The match fell to the floor, still glowing a little at the tip. The stove hissed away. I thought I heard faint laughter, but then I realized it was the crickets outside.
I was hoping that a glowing match tip might still be enough to ignite the gas, but then the tip died out and gave up a wisp of black smoke. I checked my watch. Half a minute late. Bobby’s cowboy boots rang out on the front walk. His walk was very distinctive and irritating. He had a way of coming down hard on his heels and scraping them a little.
I needed some kindling, and fast. The best I could come up with was the apology note I had just written, which I had planned to leave on the table in the front hallway, next to the Intruder money.
My apology was the last thing I wanted to burn. I was afraid of what my grandparents would do with my body if they didn’t have instructions, but I crumpled the note anyway and lit a corner. I held on until the whole sheet was burning. Then I tossed the burning note into the kitchen. It’s odd, but thinking back, I can’t imagine why I didn’t feel the flames scorching my fingers.
That didn’t work either! The blackened note curled and fluttered to the ground, devouring itself in glowing red rings. Bobby was at the front door. I could hear him fumbling with his keys, then dropping them. I even heard a faint “Oof” as he bent over to pick them up.
I had one last chance. I took a deep breath, held it, and dove into the kitchen for the big bag of charcoal my grandfather kept in the pantry closet. It was heavy, but I managed to drag it out. I pushed it nice and close to the oven, for good measure. I hadn’t taken a breath. My muscles were shaking. I could barely keep my fingers still enough to light the match. The match didn’t stay lit. I tried another one. It went out, too. In my imagination, the stove, fearing for its life, kept blowing them out. I finally got a corner of the bag lit. I had to blow on it to really get it going. I remember watching it take and admiring the purple and green flame. It reminded me how Dad and I used to throw the Sunday funnies in the fireplace when we had a fire going, just to see the ink flare up in strange colors. Don’t ask me why I was so mesmerized. Blame it on the gas.
An explosion in real life isn’t anything like what you see in the movies. Explosions in movies are almost always seen from the outside, or at least from a distance. They’re beautiful. You usually get a big “whompf!” sound effect, and a slow-motion flameball. Slow motion is the opposite of what’s it like in real life.
I did hear a sound, but it was a sort of negative sound, like a sound chasing itself backwards. Then there was unbelievable heat—like opening an oven, only times a thousand. That heat, I found out later, totally crisped my eyebrows and eyelashes. After the heat, I was still on the floor, but in the dining
I made it out to the living room, but just barely. My head was pounding. The whole world smelled like gas. I said a word or two to Dad, to the effect that if I blew myself up for real, I hoped I’d see him soon. In some bizarre part of my mind, I found myself hoping my face wouldn’t look too bad if it got burned. I pulled out a match and lit it. The living room didn’t blow up, so I walked the tiny flame over to the kitchen, opened the door, and threw it in.
Chapter Ten
I learned something that night: it’s almost impossible to keep a thrown match lit. It was out before it even left my fingers. The match fell to the floor, still glowing a little at the tip. The stove hissed away. I thought I heard faint laughter, but then I realized it was the crickets outside.
I was hoping that a glowing match tip might still be enough to ignite the gas, but then the tip died out and gave up a wisp of black smoke. I checked my watch. Half a minute late. Bobby’s cowboy boots rang out on the front walk. His walk was very distinctive and irritating. He had a way of coming down hard on his heels and scraping them a little.
I needed some kindling, and fast. The best I could come up with was the apology note I had just written, which I had planned to leave on the table in the front hallway, next to the Intruder money.
My apology was the last thing I wanted to burn. I was afraid of what my grandparents would do with my body if they didn’t have instructions, but I crumpled the note anyway and lit a corner. I held on until the whole sheet was burning. Then I tossed the burning note into the kitchen. It’s odd, but thinking back, I can’t imagine why I didn’t feel the flames scorching my fingers.
That didn’t work either! The blackened note curled and fluttered to the ground, devouring itself in glowing red rings. Bobby was at the front door. I could hear him fumbling with his keys, then dropping them. I even heard a faint “Oof” as he bent over to pick them up.
I had one last chance. I took a deep breath, held it, and dove into the kitchen for the big bag of charcoal my grandfather kept in the pantry closet. It was heavy, but I managed to drag it out. I pushed it nice and close to the oven, for good measure. I hadn’t taken a breath. My muscles were shaking. I could barely keep my fingers still enough to light the match. The match didn’t stay lit. I tried another one. It went out, too. In my imagination, the stove, fearing for its life, kept blowing them out. I finally got a corner of the bag lit. I had to blow on it to really get it going. I remember watching it take and admiring the purple and green flame. It reminded me how Dad and I used to throw the Sunday funnies in the fireplace when we had a fire going, just to see the ink flare up in strange colors. Don’t ask me why I was so mesmerized. Blame it on the gas.
An explosion in real life isn’t anything like what you see in the movies. Explosions in movies are almost always seen from the outside, or at least from a distance. They’re beautiful. You usually get a big “whompf!” sound effect, and a slow-motion flameball. Slow motion is the opposite of what’s it like in real life.
I did hear a sound, but it was a sort of negative sound, like a sound chasing itself backwards. Then there was unbelievable heat—like opening an oven, only times a thousand. That heat, I found out later, totally crisped my eyebrows and eyelashes. After the heat, I was still on the floor, but in the dining
Similar Books
