Freedom of Sketch

Playing With Fire

I am maybe twenty words into what I promise myself will be a very kick-ass essay when I fall dead asleep, head on my desk. I dream in sparks, tiny flashes of bright images playing behind my eyelids. They come together and ignite my world, and I fall into an endless tunnel of cold laughter and flame. Shiloh! calls a distant voice.

The alternating colors lick at my arms, but it doesn't hurt.

Shiloh!

"Mom?" I try.

The tunnel gets brighter. Brighter than white. Have I reached an ending?

"Shiloh!"

My eyes fly open and I'm slammed back into my room, safe within my nest of junk, cat hair, and unfinished artwork. "Mom?"

My mother calls to me from the living room: "Shiloh! They're talking about your school on the news!"

I fly out of my room, pound my way downstairs, slide across the hardwood in my mismatched socks, and flop down on the couch. "Turn it up!" I say.

  My mother increases the volume.

My cat, Pandora, squeezes out from behind a curtain and immediately hops into my lap. I rub her velvety ears between my fingers and turn my attention to the bubbly, platinum blonde news anchor.

"Officials are trying to determine the cause of a fire that destroyed Caberwood High School's art studio on Friday night," she states.

I lurch forward in panic, startling Pandora. She springs out of my lap and stalks out of the room, annoyed. "Oh my God!" I gasp.

"The fire was discovered by a janitor who noticed smoke coming from under the art room door."

Dramatically angled shots of my high school flash across the screen. My stomach rapidly plummets to the soles of my feet when images of the charred remains of the art studio are shown. It is surreal to see the remnants of such a beloved place being presented to me in my own living room. The studio is nothing more than a gutted black hole. Everything has disintegrated into charcoal and ash, layers and layers just scorched away as hungry flames devoured some of my most cherished memories, reaching all the way down to the building's cement skeleton. My hangout - my sanctuary - lost forever in clouds of smoke.

I myself am lost, in a haze of numbness, as I attempt to listen to the anchorwoman's expressive voice. The warm hues of her polished face and professional hairdo bleed together like watercolor paint as my eyes fill with tears. She rambles on. "Fortunately, no one was injured. However, it will cost many thousands of dollars to repair the damage and replace the art supplies lost in the blaze...."

The camera cuts to a shot of a heavyset, ruddy-faced man decked out in firefighter gear. He's planted at the mouth of the art hallway, which stretches on into a gloomy, dimly lit infinity. "Right now, we have reason to believe that the fire was caused by arson, because there's evidence that an accelerant was used," the firefighter says. "We won't know more until the police interview possible suspects."

Flashback to the anchorwoman: "Caberwood High School's art studio was a special place where students were free to work independently on class projects outside of school hours." The camera zooms out to reveal a second news anchor, a balding man, sitting nearby. The anchorwoman turns to him. "Such a shame this had to happen," she says. "And what a great loss to the artistic community." She puckers her lips in an exaggerated pout.

"It really is, Courtney," the male news anchor replies, shaking his head. "I know Caberwood's art budget is a bit shaky right now, so hopefully they'll come up with enough money for the repairs."

I sniff and hold my legs to my chest. I hide my face between my knees and pull my hood over my head.

Mom turns off the television and shifts in closer to me. "Did you have any artwork in the studio? Do you think anything of yours was destroyed?"

"No," I mumble into the folds of my pajama pants.

An awkward silence follows, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant jingling of the bells on my cats' collars. My mom inches closer, until her hip is touching mine. Her presence is warm and comforting, a solid softness that makes me feel safe. "I'm really sorry, Shiloh," she says eventually. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I pull my head out from between my knees. "Not really," I say. "But thanks."

"Okay," she says. "I'm going to start dinner. Let me know if you need anything."

I wipe my nose on the hem of my shirt. My mom hates it when I do that, but she pretends not to notice this time. She stands up and makes her way to the kitchen. I curl up in the warm indentation she leaves behind, and doze off.

***

It isn't until the next morning that I come to the terrifying realization that I was the last student to sign out of the art studio... before it burned down.