Conflagration

{Chapter One}

Crap.

No, a bit more serious.

God damn it.

There- better.

I shouldn't have these thoughts while I take in the smoldering pharmacy. Two fire trucks have taken care of the blaze, but the store drips the white foam they used to fight the flames. I can only think of all the time it'll take to restock the shelves.

"I think I'm going to puke," rasps Beverly, my friend. She reeks of smoke. Her mom had gotten out of the fire easily, because she ran the cash register next to the glass doors. She ran out and phoned the police, not realising that Beverly took a smoke break in the fenced cobblestone courtyard behind the old building.

She was trapped for ten minutes of hell, lying on her stomach and screaming for help. The crackling of the blaze drowned her out. Finally, at Bev's mother's insistence, a firefighter peeled back the fence and found Beverly clutching a pack of Marlboros and her gigantic purse, lying on the cement to get any air possible. Surprisingly, the faux designer handbag escaped unscathed.

I pat Beverley on the back, turning it into a rub when it makes contact. How lucky that everyone got out okay. Even Beverly had only suffered a minor burn on her hand, from trying to open the door to run inside. As soon as I heard the sirens down the street, I rushed towards the store.

It was her father's pride and joy. He had always wanted to convert the little corner store into a pharmacy, but had put off getting his degree until two years ago.

Now, all their hard work was gone. I don't want to ask what their plan is- let them worry about money later.

My mind shouldn't jump to the selfish thought it does- I can't work here anymore. I did odd jobs, sweeping and cleaning. Anything that Beverly didn't want to do and Mrs. Epstein was too busy to do, really. Now, that piddly amount of money was gone. I couldn't legally take on any more hours at the video game store. Who knows where I'd get the necessary money for mum?

We had rent, food, new clothes, Christmas, electric, water, trash, and credit card bills. Mom always told me not to worry about it, but I'm in 11th grade- far too old to not help out in any way I can.

I know a few ways I can illicit money, all unsavory. Mom would die of shame if I sold drugs or my jewelry, which isn't worth much anyway.

When I suggested an alternative, two months ago, she had screamed as if I had stabbed her in the heart. She sobbed and yelled so loud that Joshua woke up and came out, asking what was wrong.

"You okay?" asks Bev, scanning me with her eyes. We've been friends for years, running around in our bathing suits through her sprinkler, talking about boys, and, recently, discussing future colleges and money worries. Bev knew when something bothered me by now. I spaced out only when I couldn't think of anything to say, or when I was too upset to think anything at all.

"Don't worry, I'm fine. Really. It's just the shock of it, and how- you could be dead-" I break off, looking away. I suppose I'd been too caught up in my inner diatribe to realise just how close my friend had come to a closed casket funeral. I've known her since I was a lanky little 9 year old, the only new kid in the whole fourth grade. We were instant friends, at first because we lived on the same block and then because we suited each other.

Oh my God, she could have died.

"Nora, you're okay. You're fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine," says Beverly, shaking me slightly and pulling me into a hug. I figure out a second too late what is happening and wrap my arms around her. Even now, my angelic friend helps me even after she was in a life threatening situation.

God, I hate myself.

"I'm sorry Bev. I didn't mean- I just- I'm so glad you're safe," I say as the heat rises to my face. My eyes start to prickle, the tears threatening to overcome me as I try to blink them away.

"Why don't you go home, Norad?" suggests Beverly. She used to call me Norad, when she learned about it in class. It became a nickname, only used by her. She never explained why- I didn't have a middle name, my mother thought it was a dumb tradition.

My eyes darted to her face. She was fine. I was fine. We were fine.

"Are you sure, Bev?"

Bev gave me a weak upturn of one side of her mouth and turned towards the building once again. Brown curls blowing in the cool October air, the sun gleamed off of her pale skin.

I'd like to watch her for a while, have her imprinted into my memory forever, but I know I can't. I should be getting home. Joshua will be home soon, and someone has to have the door open for him.

The clicking of my shoes and firetrucks engines rattling were the only sounds in the neighborhood.