Page 101 of The Summer Show
The air wasn’t as thick with smoke as you would expect, because someone had cleverly set up giant fans to blow the acrid blanket away from the set, leaving it to drift and slowly dissipate outside the arena. But the situation was still grim.
Fire licked each book on the upward climb, creating a golden halo that would have been breathtaking under different circumstances. That gold met the darkness and created a layer of bruising. Above that, the sky was relentlessly black, and even the stars’ attempts at pushing their light through wasn’t enough to soften night’s edges.
And somewhere in the middle was Nick Merrick, blindfolded, hands tied behind his back. Somehow, he was supposed to escape and make it to the ground without succumbing to the fire and ending up as BBQ.
The production team weren’t entirely stupid. They had brought in the local firefighters and a couple of firetrucks filled with water to put the blaze out if need be. But the question was: how long would Nick suffer before “need be” arrived?
Too long.
Although really, too long occurred the moment they took him to the top of the tower and abandoned him there.
My heart hurt. This whole thing was cruel, and I refused to tolerate the so-called game a moment longer.
Mustering all my outrage—and I was overflowing with indignation—I charged down the amphitheater steps.
Did I have a plan?
Nope. No plan. Unless climbing to the top counted. The only thing on my mind was getting to Nick.
Nobody stopped me as I approached the scaffolding tower made of books. I was aware on some level that the cameras were moving in and everyone was watching. The only real life sign was from Memo, who raced over to intercept me.
“Not today, Memo.”
He stopped. “Where are you going?”
“To save my man.”
thirty-seven
There was no way up.
Correction: There was no way up with fire systematically chewing its way through what, on closer inspection, appeared to be old Greek math textbooks that had probably been shunted into some warehouse to decay decades ago, while students learned from their descendants.
Just so we’re clear, that did not mean I was happy about burning books.
To reach the top, I needed to climb the ladder. To climb the ladder I needed to extinguish the fire.
So I hijacked a firehose.
The firefighter tried to wrestle me for a moment, relenting when I kicked him in the shin. I hit boot and not flesh, but it was enough to convince him that this hose was mine now.
“Water,” I told him. He nodded once and within seconds I had a writhing, gushing hose in my hands.
Wrangling the hose was like trying to negotiate with a gang of five-year-olds buzzed on high-fructose corn syrup.
Some of it did hit the fire, though. The red flames died instantly with a furious hiss and a mass rising of their ghosts in the form of steam.
Because I was on a rampage, with water as my weapon of choice, a not-accidental amount of wet stuff struck the judges, Mairi, and the show’s host and his little dog.
Full confession: their squealing was deeply satisfying.
The only one who didn’t scurry out of the way was Effie Makri. She remained leaning forward, elbows pressed into the judge’s table, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. Watching. Judging. I gave her a little nod and threw the hose at the firefighter.
Under the charred pieces of old books, the tower’s frame was steel. Chances were high it was still holding onto some of the fire’s heat. I touched the ladder. It was warm.
Someone touched my shoulder. The firefighter.
He offered me a pair of gloves. “Here. Take.”