So Ray did what he always did. Stuck his arm out across the bus door so he and his girlfriend could go on first and take the back seat. Ray, in his red-and-black flannel shirt, open over a white tank top, even in January, saying, “Wait,” as if it were a dare. One word. He already decided what it meant.

That was it. I had had enough. I wasn’t going to let some inbred cornfed bully push me around. Did my face turn red? I don’t know. I felt hot when I smacked his arm out of the way. I yelled something at him. It wasn’t profanity. Not in public. And especially not in front of the bus driver who really had it out for James. I really think she hated him. Then I waited for Ray to make a move. He didn’t. His older brother did, pulling me back and telling me Ray wasn’t worth it.

Now I had to sit for the next fifty minutes riding on a school bus, close to the back. Right where Ray was sitting. A cacophony of noise: the driver’s staticky country music, Randy Travis most likely singing “Forever and ever amen,” on an AM station, and the laughing, screaming, and giggling from ten or eleven elementary school boys and girls sitting closest to her. The older kids, mostly teenagers from the high school, like Ray and me, wanted nothing to do with her. Neither did James. Ray’s brother sat a few rows between him and me. I didn’t care anymore. I felt mad as hell, sad that I was away from Marcelle, my would-be girlfriend, scared that Ray would beat the snot out of me. No one taught me what to do with all that, those three power-packed emotions. So I did what all good GenXers were taught to do. Suck it down and feel nothing. Feelings? They were for suckers. And here I was, feeling all of it.

So I fumed all the way down Highway 57 to our stop, Luby Bay Road. James? He either didn’t know or didn’t care. For all I knew, it was both. Then again, he was standing behind me when the altercation happened. James was angry, too. Bitter. All of that is thanks to Beverly, our biological mother, and her physical and emotional abuse. It took a toll on all of us, leaking out in weird ways.

Heather wasn’t on our bus that afternoon. Choir rehearsal, probably. If she had been, we’d have held hands, cuddled, maybe snuck a kiss or two before her stop. I would have told her everything before Luby Bay Road. Instead, I sat there alone with it, letting it burn hotter and hotter.

I’m positive Ray was running his mouth the whole ride. Joe-Class. Joe-Class. Over and over. Calling me every name he could think of and some he probably couldn’t pronounce right, but who was going to correct him? Certainly not his girlfriend. Not his friends. Me? I’d have to get through his big brother first, even though he was shorter than me.

I wasn’t thinking about how grateful I should be to Ray’s brother. All I could think about was revenge. And revenge at seventeen is a dark place. Idaho. A state where guns are legal and very easy to get. That’s where my mind went. Get even. Settle the score once and for all. Make Ray pay.

By the time we reached our stop, only a handful of kids remained on the bus: Ray and his short, big brother. Me. James. And Jon. We got off, stepping out into snow blowing right in our faces, the North wind cutting through our California clothes. I think the driver shut the doors before James was fully off the bus, on purpose. There were no other adults out here. No security cameras. The closest business was the café a mile or so back.

The three Class brothers were doing their best to navigate the icy, gravel road home, which was more than a little precarious. Water had melted, frozen, melted, and refrozen, making the walk feel more like ice skating, especially with our well-worn California Reeboks. We slid ourselves down the road, Jon and James falling behind my faster pace. My face still felt hot, either from embarrassment or anger, I wasn’t sure which. That was the thing. I couldn’t name it because no one told me there was a difference.

Two hills to walk up and slide down. Our parents had their own version. Uphill. In the snow. Both ways. Barefoot. We weren’t barefoot. But we might as well have been. And the whole way, I was plotting. Figuring out how to get even. I didn’t care if I got my hands dirty. I wanted Ray to hurt.

Was it thirty minutes? Forty? Thirty-two? It didn’t matter to me. Probably not to James or Jon either. Getting my fingers to work on the deadbolt was another matter. Once we got the door open and made it inside, the house was cool. Not cold. Not yet. But if we didn’t get a fire going fast, it would be.

I opened the stove door. Woodsmoke and ash filled my nose. The faint tang of creosote. It was warm inside, so I held my hands close to the opening, trying to warm up from the walk. The outside draft pulled the smoke upward from the inside. And there, buried under graying ash, embers still glowing red from this morning’s fire. The kindling sat near the stove, so I grabbed a handful and laid it on top. Flames licked the door before I put the first log inside.

I knelt there watching the flames. Orange climbed the tamarack, the heat reaching my face, and I thought about Ray in his red and black flannel, saying my name like a dare. I thought about what I wanted to do to him, my fists and teeth clenched. I waited for the wanting to feel like it was mine.

It never did.

Because it felt older. Like something I’d been stuck with. Like the embers in the stove. Nobody kept it burning all afternoon. It had been smoldering since 6:30 this morning.

I closed the stove door.

Then I heard her. Not in the house. In my ears. That voice. The one that always found me, no matter how far I got.

You are a terrible person. You won’t amount to anything. You aren’t disciplined enough. Not smart enough. Not intelligent enough. It’s what you always do.

The words were the kindling.

The fire belonged to Beverly. She gave me the embers. And now? I was just the one kneeling in front of it, feeding it, keeping it alive.

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Who’s fire are you still fueling?