You say that you wanna go
To a land that's far away
How are we supposed to get there
With the way that we're living today?
Chapter 5: Phoenix
Two days later, it was Monday, and Sherry returned home after another torturous day at school. She'd ended up finishing the lab report on Sunday. Stiles didn't even thank her in chemistry. When she'd asked him and Scott where they'd gone during the quarantine, they answered with blatant lies. In the gym? Please. Sherry knew they hadn't been.
She sat at her makeshift desk in her upstairs bedroom. Consisting of a large whitewashed plank of particle board mounted on outward-facing wooden chairs, it was highly unstable. Nonetheless, it was better than doing work on the kitchen table downstairs. That table was split cleanly into two sides: one was plastered with layers of legal documents, scattered police reports, and newspapers, the other caked with food residue and unwashed coffee mugs. Despite Parrish's spiffy tendencies, events as of late had him working late at the station, leaving him with no time to clean the house. Sherry knew she wasn't allowed near the official papers, so she mostly avoided the kitchen table when she could.
In front of her, Sherry had spread out her interview notes, her laptop, and lined paper on which she'd scribbled her research paper abstract. Her pink PC was one of her few she'd managed to salvage from her old home so far. Last week, when she had revisited her home to pack up her closet for the move, the officers handling her case had only allowed her to take what was necessary. Until they'd extracted every bit of evidence they could usurp, her house remained a legal crime scene for the time being.
Opening her word processor, Sherry reread the interview notes while simultaneously copying them onto her screen. I first wanted to become an officer so that I could help people stay safe or regain their lives. There isn't enough justice in this world. I plan on making that change.
Outside, the sun set. A beautiful California sunset seeped across the starless sky. Downstairs, the front door creaked open. Parrish.
Thankful for a break from her homework, Sherry burst up from her chair and raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Jordan!" She skidded to a halt right in front of her uncle, astonished. Parrish was covered from head to foot in ash and soot. It looked like he'd been set on fire. "Wha-what happened to you?"
"I went to clean the chimney," he said, heading into the kitchen. "Are you up for pizza?"
She kept up with him like a wiener dog tries to keep up with its jogging owner. "The sheriff's station has a chimney?"
"Every building has a chimney." Parrish wasn't wearing his deputy uniform. He had on oddly-fitting jeans and an oversized green jacket. The only thing covering his bare chest was a cloudy layer of soot. Sherry was surprised that her uncle had such a muscular body. The propensity for fitness hadn't been passed to her mother's genes.
"Where's your uniform?"
He glanced down at himself, as if noticing his state for the first time. "They got dirty from the chimney. I borrowed these and sent mine to get cleaned. May I borrow your phone?"
"Where's yours?" She handed it to him anyway. "And why didn't you just wear your clothes home and clean them later at a laundromat?"
Her uncle held up a hand. "Hello, I'd like to order two pizzas."
Sherry stared at the mess on the kitchen table impatiently as she waited. She stalked over and gathered up the mugs in her arms, depositing them into the sink. Parrish handed her back her phone. "What were you asking?"
"Where's your phone?"
He looked up at the corner of the kitchen thoughtfully. "I must have dropped it down the chimney."
"And why didn't you come home in your dirty clothes and clean them later?"
"They were really dirty." He held out his arms as if to demonstrate just how much. "I couldn't just drive home in them. I'd have gotten my car dirty."
Sherry had the distinct notion that Parrish was treating her like a small child. "Why didn't you change into spare clothes before you got in the chimney?"
"I hadn't thought that far." He looked over at the kitchen table. "Hey, I should clean that."
She ripped off a paper towel sheet and handed it to him. She took another for herself and wet it in the sink. "Why were you even cleaning the chimney anyway? Don't they hire people for that stuff?"
"They hired me," Parrish pointed out, wiping down the food half of the table.
"That's not what I meant." She sprayed a combination of Windex and dish soap onto the table, hoping it would make an impact on the thick goop of food leavings. "You're a deputy."
"What did you mean, then?" Parrish gazed at her earnestly, his green eyes wide. He didn't look as an uncle should. He was maybe ten years older than Sherry.
She didn't buy his expression. "Whatever. It's just a chimney." And she doubted Parrish would give her a straightforward answer anyway. They spent the next minutes in silence, rubbing down the table until the glossy sheen of the wood finish was visible again. She pulled a glass from a cabinet and filled it with ice water. She sat down in her chair and rubbed the condensation. "Remember the interview I did with Deputy Haigh?"
Parrish tensed up, whirling around to stare at her. "Did you say Deputy Haigh?"
"Yeah. I'm typing it up," she continued, "And I'm wondering if you can maybe give it a look, see what information I can add to my report. 'Cuz, you know, you're a deputy."
His face was stony and stiff. "I don't think you should have interviewed Haigh."
"Why? And I can't change it now! My report is due tomorrow!"
The doorbell rang. Parrish forced a bright smile onto his face. "How about that pizza?"
The crisp air faded away. The bonfire's heat nudged the skin on her face, prodding her to unbutton the woolen jacket bundled around herself. Sherry refused, taking the almost overbearing heat of the flaming pit in stride. With her hands stuffed cozily into her pockets, she searched the throbbing crowd of the annual lacrosse bonfire for anyone she knew. A few freshmen she recognized from her honors English class were scattered here and there, some with their hands clutching classic red plastic cups.
On the other side of the mass of teenagers, a DJ's booth towered over the party goers. The mammoth speakers visibly vibrated, sending waves of heavy bass through Sherry's bones. Aimlessly, she weaved through the crowd, half-hoping to be offered alcohol by a stranger and half-hoping to avoid such an incident.
A cooler was open on the ground, filled with a mixture of ice, beer cans, and half-empty liquor bottles. A beer keg balanced on a soggy crate beside the plastic ice chest, the top of it piled with filled red cups. Tipsy kids skipped over, clumsily nabbing cups from the stack. A cold, guilty tremor swept up Sherry's body. This was illegal.
She took a cup and cradled it in her hands, staring at the yellow-brown liquid as she wandered through groups of dancing teenagers. She sniffed the beer and drew back immediately, cringing. How did people drink this stuff? She stepped around someone who stood in her path. Oddly, the person mirrored her, catching her off-guard. She slammed into a stiff chest, her drink sploshing over the side of the plastic cup and splattering onto her boots.
"Sorry!" she winced, craning her neck upwards to face the person. Scott. She vaguely remembered that she'd seen him playing at the scrimmage the other day. "Oh. Hi."
With an almost disapproving glance at her red cup, he said, "You know, as captain of the lacrosse team, I'm supposed to be making sure people don't get drunk at the bonfire."
"I've just decided. I'm not going to drink it. It reeks." She eyed him curiously. His dark hair was trimmed and quiffed. The colorful lights of the party bounced off his equally dark irises. "Are you going to report me or something?"
"No," he said, chuckling. "Who would I tell, anyway? The cops? Isn't your uncle a deputy?"
She took a whiff of the beer again. It still stank. "How do you know?"
"Stiles told me. Isn't Parrish a little young to be an uncle?"
"Okay, well," she admitted, "He's not directly my uncle. He's cousins with my mom. There's like a twenty year age difference. Their moms also had a wide age gap. Or something."
Scott scanned the crowd easily, given he was a head taller than Sherry. "Where are your friends?"
She kept her tone even. "I don't have any."
"Yet?"
"However you want to think about it. Really, though," she confided, "You're the only person who isn't acting distinctly annoyed when I try to start a conversation."
He seemed taken aback, his narrow eyes widening some. "Well, you're not obnoxious."
"Thanks," she said. The music had a placating sort of effect on her, despite its surging tempo. She looked down and saw her foot bouncing in rhythm, the leather of her cowboy boots dotted with dark liquid. "Where are your friends?"
"Dancing, I think." He gazed at some point behind Sherry. "Trying to get drunk."
"Aren't you supposed to stop them?"
He shrugged, a smile tugging across his cheeks. In that moment, even his own mother would have mistaken him for a sheepish puppy. "I'm not too worried about them."
"Hey," she started uncertainly. "Are you at the sheriff's station often?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Does the building have a chimney?"
He wrinkled his nose, giving her a puzzled look. "What? No, it doesn't."
She huffed. "My uncle's a terrible liar."
"What did he say?" Scott was intrigued. He leaned in, as if expecting a secret to be revealed.
Should she trust him? For some reason, it seemed absurd not to divulge her thoughts to this kid. She sighed. "Last night, Jordan came home just-" she motioned at her body, "covered in soot. It looked like he'd been rolling around in a volcano. He was wearing lost-and-found clothes and told me he'd been cleaning the chimney at the station." She stared at Scott. "My uncle never lies."
Something flickered in his eyes. It almost seemed like recognition. "Sorry, I don't know," Scott said. "Maybe he had an arsonist case and didn't want to scare you?" He backed away, slowly. "I should actually check to see if my friends are doing okay." He fled the scene, leaving Sherry standing there with unanswered questions and a half-spilled cup of cheap beer.
She downed a sip and spluttered. Somewhere amid the ensuing hacking coughs, Sherry dropped the cup onto the dry dirt under her feet. The liquid splashed, licking at her jeans. It seeped into the cracks in the ground, softening the dirt. Hoping the grass wouldn't die from her blunder, Sherry slipped back into the forest of people. She found a mostly empty bench just off the main mob of party goers. Brushing off the crumbs that littered the bench, she sat down on the splintering wood. To her left, a passionate couple groped at each other. Sherry leaned her elbows on her thighs and rested her chin in her hands.
She watched as a girl with bouncy black hair twisted and danced to the pumping beat. A boy in a patriotic tank did the robot sufficiently poorly and earned a kiss from a larger boy whose white belly overflowed past his spiky belt. Several yards over, two freshmen hoarded at a bag filled with bottles. The one with darker skin urged his friend to drink on, passing him another bottle of dark liquid. He eagerly gulped the beer down.
Over to the side, Scott appeared again. The brunette girl from Saturday danced with a flask in her hand, trying to ignore him. The girl stumbled. Clearly, the effects of the alcohol were kicking in. Scott brought her arm over his shoulder, supporting her. From the urgent way he responded, he seemed overly worried. Scott led the girl to the table the two freshmen were at.
A light bulb went off in Sherry's head. That freshman boy, the one who was chugging bottles of light beer, had been hanging out with Scott and Stiles' clique last week. She remembered thinking it strange that a freshman was talking to a bunch of juniors.
The alcohol seemed to be working on him, too. He stumbled as he stood up, struggling to stand upright. Not a moment later, even Scott doubled over, his movements resembling those of intoxication. Sherry swore Scott hadn't drunk a sip. The junior staggered, attempting to walk. He made it halfway to the DJ's stand before he collapsed.
She bolted to her feet, shoving her way toward the table. Unfortunately, several big, burly men in security guard uniforms had beaten her to it. Sherry tried to move faster.
"Hey!" The sober freshman demanded. "They're my friends!" The security guards were dragging the brunette and the drunk freshman away by the arms. One of them, a furious look on his bald head, swung at him, knocking the boy to the ground.
Sherry finally made it over to the table. When she looked at where Scott had fallen, he was nowhere to be found. The security guards, too, had disappeared.
She stepped over the the fallen boy and offered her hand. Surprised, he grabbed it and let Sherry pull him up. "Hi," she shouted over the noise of the music. "Where did Scott go?"
"I don't know! Those men took them! I think something's wrong!"
"They're drunk," she replied.
"It's not just that!" He looked around, fixating on the DJ. "I have to turn off the music!"
"What?"
He pushed past the throng of dancers, bee-lining toward the DJ. Sherry hurried after him. "What are you doing?"
He veered around the corner, searching for something. Then he stalked toward a large black box-like thing on the table under the DJ's stand. He pulled at a bundle of cords and wires. It wasn't going anywhere.
Sherry's heartbeat picked up and she shivered, staring at the kid in anticipation. There had to be a rule against tampering with someone else's equipment. She approached him and wrapped her hands around the cords. She tugged.
The two of them exploded backward, the wires finally torn. The music was gone.
"Yes!" the boy grinned. The crowd, after a moment of shock, began to boo, demanding the music be turned right back on.
Sherry stared at him. "What did we just do?"
"I don't know," he shrugged, still smiling. "But I think we saved Liam, Scott, and Malia."
"Malia's the girl and Liam's your friend?"
"Yeah." He stared at Sherry for a moment. "I don't think I've seen you around before. Are you new?"
She laughed. "Yep. I'm Sherry."
He stuck out his hand. "I'm Mason."
