It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed.
If you don't feel weirded out by that you're either a bookworm like Wren, who memorizes opening lines of novels like song lyrics, or you really enjoy watching shit burn like those pyromaniacs you hear stories about on the news sometimes. I suppose I fall somewhere under the second category.
I curse under my breath when the steady flame from the lighter in my hand decides to go rogue and seems to fold over as if reaching for me, and it leaves a quick sting followed by a burning sensation on the calloused skin of my right thumb. I move the hand closer to my mouth and press my thumb to my lips, letting the tip of my tongue soothe the short lived burn.
A scornful chuckle carries through the boat shed and my eyes settle on Tommy Lee who is pointing a video camera my way.
"Play with fire and it plays back, or whatever it is they say," he chirps and I can't help but roll my eyes.
"Fuck off." Tommy Lee shuts the LCD screen and tosses the camera to land on the sofa placed diagonally to the old armchair where he's seated. His legs dangle over one of the armrests and he tucks his unkempt hair back behind his ear. "And that's not the saying."
"Don't start with that Wren know-it-all bullshit," he groans. "You know what? We need to get your mopy ass laid."
"How is this relevant?"
"Just think about it. You like how you feel when you burn things. Maybe it's just a case of sexual frustration."
"That's not how it works," I dumbfound. "I don't get off to it."
"How do you know? Aren't you a virgin?"
"What about it? I have a computer, a functioning hand, and a convenience store down the street from my house fully stocked with lotion."
"That's just...wrong to make me think about."
"Play with fire and you're gonna get burned," I rebut slyly.
"Touché."
Loud thumps and calls fitting for heathens echo through the boat shed, spreading from the walls to fill our ears. My eyes flit over to where the large wooden doors stand swung fully open, and Tommy Lee cranes his neck in the most unnatural way to peer out from behind the backrest of the chair. For a short moment all we hear is the rustling of leaves outside and all we see is a clear blue sky reflecting off the canal. Two faces pop into frame wearing blinding grins.
"Don't y'all look snug," Wren drawls as they step inside. He drops down onto the couch after carelessly discarding of his backpack on the floor, and Barbie who came with him slaps a packet of cigarettes to my chest as he walks past before he too takes a seat.
"Thanks," I mutter. "I'll get you back when my next paycheck comes through."
"Don't worry about it," he shrugs, kicking his feet up on the overturned cardboard box, which is the cheapest excuse for a coffee table we could get our hands on. I send him an appreciative nod.
I fish out a cigarette and put my lighter to work after placing one end between my lips that are noticeably feeling the effects of dehydration at the moment.
"Where's the vandal?" Tommy Lee asks, back to sitting all sprawled out in the armchair.
"Probably out running around on his Banksy–shit," Wren replies.
"He'll get caught again one day." Barbie's eyes are glued to the screen of his phone as he speaks, his thumbs scrolling without a break. "The police are very much aware of him."
"He's still seventeen," I cut into the conversation, my head instantly swimming in a cloud of smoke when I breathe out as I speak. "He's probably testing every limit he can before he turns eighteen and can really be punished."
"I don't think that's how it works," says Barbie. "I'm pretty sure he can still be tried as an adult."
"The kid is expressing his frustrations through creativity in the form of art. It's not his fault that the walls of buildings and such happen to be the perfect canvas. Besides, he's brilliant, and the city could use some color to liven up the ridiculous amount of glass and concrete. Therefore I can see nothing wrong with it."
"While that's a nice sentiment and all, and we all agree with you, I don't think the people who own the buildings, the police, nor those who have to clean it up do."
"Leave it to little Mr. Prep School to cower in front of authority," Wren taunts him, and Barbie narrows his eyes his way.
"Because you've really shown your dad who's in charge in your house."
"Hey," I interject as soon as the remark leaves his lips, and Wren doesn't miss a beat to kick his leg out to the side and hit Barbie's calf with the tip of his shoe, causing him to let out a small whine. "You don't go there, all right?"
"Sorry," he apologizes, his fingers finding hold of the camera on the couch. "I didn't mean to."
"It's fine," Wren mutters back, and as a deafening silence settles like a thick fog around us I lean forward to put out my cigarette against the floor. I stand from the step ladder I've been using as a seat and saunter over to fall down between the two youngest present. The couch is old and I sink further into the leather cushion than what I would like, but I'm not surprised. I sling an arm over Wren's shoulders and pull him into my side.
"How's it going over there anyway? How's your sister doing? She doing all right? I hope you're feeding her."
"Yeah, she's good," he assures us and he draws in a breath. "Wish I didn't have to be worried about leaving her at home though."
"Well, if anything she has more balls than you do."
"Yeah, and that worries me even more."
"If push comes to shove you know we got your back. Brothers forever and all that."
"There is enough pushing and shoving happening at home to last a lifetime."
"Y'all are getting out of there soon enough," Tommy Lee pipes up, now with a lollipop in his mouth which gives him a slight lisp when he speaks.
"We'll ride it out until Sadie turns eighteen and gets handed her diploma. Then we're out of there."
