One evening, just as the sun dipped below the treetops, a police cruiser pulled up the driveway. I peeked out from the barn and watched an officer walk her to the car.
Later, I found out she’d been pulled over for drunk driving. Her license was suspended on the spot.
A few days after that, she had a screaming match with a man in the driveway. He looked younger than her, wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses. He kept his back turned while she shouted.
“You’ll regret this!” she yelled, mascara smudged and barefoot in the gravel.
He didn’t even flinch. Just got in his car and drove off. Then came her comeback party.
She actually said it out loud and called it “my comeback.” I heard her bragging to someone on the phone, saying it was going to be wild. She wasn’t wrong.
Cars filled the yard. Music pounded so loudly it shook the barn walls. Someone even set off fireworks at midnight. I curled up under my thin blanket, trying to block out the chaos.
Then a strange smell crept in, sharp and chemical. Something didn’t feel right. I sat up, and my nose burned. Smoke.
I ran out barefoot into the cold, heart racing. The side of the house was on fire. The flames had reached the curtains. They lit up the sky like a warning from above.
“TARA!” I screamed. “FIRE!”
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