The Fire Read Online Free Page A

sixteen-year-olds always ignored seventh-grade boys.
    “Anyway, I think we could get all the restaurants in town to donate a vat of their own special recipe of clam chowder. We could set it up at the wharf. Decorate each dock like a particular restaurant. And people could buy a ticket and taste twenty kinds of chowder.”
    “Yuck,” said Jonah. “I hate clam chowder.”
    “Nobody cares about you,” said Christina. “It’s tourists we’re interested in. We need money so Benj can go to Disney World.”
    Jonah rolled his eyes. “Christina,” he said, just as Michael had, “that’s the high school. Who cares? It’s their problem whether they can raise the money. Do you know how much time and effort it would take to do that chowder thing? Let them raise their own money. Besides, you couldn’t do that till July or August when tourists are really here, and you’ll be out on that island of yours.” He made Burning Fog Isle sound like a garbage dump.
    Her island of wild grass and roses, of salt spray and seabirds floating? Christina lowered her head as if to batter Jonah to his senses. Nobody got away with saying bad things about Burning Fog when Christina Romney was alive to stop them. Jonah dashed off with a bunch of boys who were climbing up on the school roof to retrieve the mittens, tennis balls, and book reports thrown there during the year. “I’ll get you later!” yelled Christina. Jonah, safe on the roof, lay down on the shingles and shrugged.
    Benjamin took a breath as if to ask Christina something. The wind suddenly ripped in from the sea, and a whiff of low tide filled their noses. Christina’s cotton dress whirled up. She caught the hem, and from her windblown pocket fell a book of matches.
    “What’s this?” said Benjamin, frowning. “Christina, you’re not experimenting with smoking cigarettes, are you?”
    “Of course not. Don’t be dumb. Those aren’t my matches. They must have been on the pavement.”
    Benjamin gave her a strange look. “Chowder’s a good idea,” he mumbled, and walked away.
    What was that all about? thought Christina.
    “Christina,” came a whisper.
    She looked around, seeing nobody. There were dozens of kids outside because the bell hadn’t rung yet. Why would anybody whisper?
    “ Christina! ” it hissed.
    She shivered. It sounded like the tide calling her name. That was what Anya thought, Christina remembered, when she was going mad. The sea is a mathematician, Anya had cried; the sea keeps count, the sea wants one of us.
    Anya had been entranced by the tides. Listen, she would whisper, her long fingers holding Christina like a net holding fish under water. The tide is saying, “ Come! Come here and drown with me! ”
    A cloud covered the sun.
    The trumpet-gold day turned to shadows.
    Christina shivered uncontrollably.
    A damp cold finger touched her neck, and she screamed, leaping backward.
    It was only Robbie. Ordinary old Robbie Armstrong from English class. “Robbie, you scared me,” she accused him, panting for breath. “I dropped my purse.” Why am I so jumpy? she thought. A minute ago I was happy.
    Her scream had drawn attention. A strange, silent, serious attention. Eyes stared at Christina — and at the ground around her.
    On the pavement, where children of another generation had painted hopscotch lines, lay a dozen books of matches. Her cloth purse was not as fat as it had been: all those matchbooks had spurted out when the purse hit the ground.
    The principal had been standing on the school steps, waiting for the warning bell to summon the children to class. Now Mr. Shevvington walked down the wide granite slabs, his polished black shoes clapping like hands against the rock. He was very tall. Christina had to look way up into his face. The sun was behind him, flooding her eyes, so she had to duck her head. Mr. Shevvington pointed to the match pile. “Christina,” he said into the listening silence. “What have you been setting fire