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I turned back to face her. “Where did the fire start? In a trash can? Where?”
She shook her head and hesitated.
“Where, Tuesday?”
“When I reached out to open your locker, I found it so unusually warm. I’m not even sure what I thought... how I justified it. The sun was beaming into the room, shining along the wall of lockers. I thought it was just warm from that.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really give it a second thought.”
My heart pounded. “Then what?”
“I’m not really sure what happened,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “It was all so... I...” She shuddered and cast her gaze down to her bandaged arm. “I pulled the locker open and suddenly...” She choked on the words as she leaned back and stared up at the ceiling.
“Calm down, Tuesday,” I said, setting my hand on her leg but very conscious of the possibility my light touch could be painful. “We don’t have to do this now. The important thing is that you get better.”
She nodded as she wept softly. “Could you bring me that cup of water over there.”
I went to the table on the other side of her bed. Her clothes, what remained of them, were folded and placed neatly on the table. I noticed the sweater I’d loaned her. That’s right, I thought as I suddenly remembered. She hadn’t yet received her official cheerleading sweater and I had offered her one of the extra ones that I had.
“Brook?” Tuesday said as I stared at the charred sweater.
“Sorry,” I said, grabbing the cup of water. But before I could turn back to her, I noticed the official report that lay beside her clothes.
“What’s this?” I said as I pointed to the report.
“I don’t know.”
I brought her the cup of water, guided the straw to her lips and let her suck up a few gulps before bringing the cup back to the table.
“What does that say?” she asked as I picked up the report.
I quickly read through the few lines and gagged. My legs went weak. Suddenly struggling for each breath, I grasped the edge of the table.
“Brook? Are you okay?”
Dizzy and breathless, I tried to straighten myself up, but I couldn’t. I hugged the table, unwilling to accept what I’d just read.
“Brook, please. What does that report say?”
I turned to her, the rush of emotions connected to the blast I’d survived so many years ago overwhelming me.
“The firefighters had a hard time getting to you,” I said.
She waited for me to say more.
“You were locked in that room.” I looked at her. “Do you remember locking the door behind you?”
“No,” she quickly said. “I wasn’t going in there to change. There was no reason for me to lock the door.”
“Did you try getting out after the fire started?”
She looked at me with that lost expression on her damaged bandaged face. “I don’t remember. After the blast, I don’t remember anything until I woke up here.”
“They had to break through the door to get to you,” I said, staring blindly at the report.
“The important thing is that they got to me,” she said. “And they got me out.”
My God. Was she always so optimistic? Here she was burnt, in pain, disfigured and yet...
“There’s more that you’re not telling me, isn’t there?” she said.
