Page 46 of Wildfire
Cleaning is more of a habit than a hobby. My dad’s moods were often unpredictable when I lived at home; his gambling losses made him irritable and it often felt like he was trying to pick an argument. I hated getting into trouble, so I did what I could to prevent those arguments from happening.
I did my homework as soon as I got it, sometimes even during breaks at school. I constantly had odd jobs around our neighborhood so I never had to ask him for money. I kept everything spotless so he never had a reason to complain about things being untidy.
None of it ever mattered. After a loss and a drink, my dad could find an argument in an empty room, but the habits have stayed with me. Now they’re going to help win some pizza. Go figure.
The morning moves at its usual Sunday slow pace. We set up five-aside soccer for the kids with energy, and puzzles and crafts for the others. I spend more time watching Aurora excitedly run around cheering on her players than I do trying to make the origami dove I’m supposed to be working on.
“You have a big, fat crush on Rory,” Michael, a ten-year-old who apparently doesn’t know how to read the room, says. “You keep watching her.”
“That’s inappropriate,” I reply, suddenly very focused on my origami. “Rory is my friend. I’m watching the game.”
“You didn’t say you don’t have a crush on her.”
“I also didn’t say I did.”
He lets it go for now and I quietly breathe a sigh of relief that Michael’s parents are actors and not lawyers, like some of the kids here who are really good at debating.
When it’s time to usher everyone back into the dining hall, my dove is finally folded. Maya and Xander start leading the group for lunch, but I hang back to tidy up the various half-completed games and craft projects littering the table.
“Let me help you,” a soft voice says, coming up behind me.
“I’m good, don’t worry. Take a seat,” I say to Aurora. “You must be tired.”
She sits down in front of the half-finished jigsaw, staring down at it before starting to disconnect the pieces. “This is how I feel about you sometimes, y’know.”
I’m looking at her; the apples of her cheeks are pink from running around all morning, her hair pinned back out of her face, showcasing the extra freckles decorating her nose after three weeks in the sun every day. She keeps taking the puzzle apart bit by bit, putting it back into the box. “Like you want to put me in a box?” I joke, unsure what she’s talking about.
“No, like you’re a jigsaw puzzle and I have all the outside pieces but I haven’t worked out how all the inside ones fit together yet.”
“I made something for you,” I say, changing the subject quickly. “It’s not very good. I was distracted watching you miss the goal every time.”
Her shoulders shake as she laughs. “I’m so bad. I’m literally a goalie’s dream.”
“You are.” She finally looks up as I put the paper dove down in front of her. “Speaking as a goalie, that is.”
She picks up the dove, holding it in her hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world even though it’s terrible. “I love it. Thank you, Russ.”
THE RULES OF PAINT DODGEBALLare the same as regular dodgeball. The difference is your ball is actually a sponge, which you dip into one of the many paint mixtures dotted around the grass before launching at your opponents. Each round has a color to make it clear who’s in and who’s out.
Given the fact my opponents are mainly children, coupled with my long history of athletics, it didn’t occur to me to be worried about getting covered in paint. But as the sponge hits me square in the chest, green paint spraying out from the impact, I realize my certainty was misplaced.
Aurora’s expression is victorious as she shakes the excess green paint from her hand. The girl has an arm on her, which is fucking hot. I’m not ready to explore how her ability to beat me turns me on.
“I thought you were good at blocking stuff,” she yells from the other side of the centerline.
“I told you I have no talent!”
“I can think of a few things you’re very talented at.”
I’ll take her thinking I’m good in bed over being good at paint dodgeball any day of the week.
Leaving the court, since she knocked me out, I take a seat next to Maya, who’s also covered in various paints. “When did eight-year-olds get so competitive?”
We watch everyone continue the game. My eyes close for a second as I turn toward the sun, loving the heat on my face. That’s when something wet hits my leg. Snapping my eyes open, I immediately spot Rory smiling.
Maya laughs, handing me a towel. “She’s gonna give you two away.”
My stomach sinks. “We’re no… There’s nothing to give away.”
