“Shit! Shit shit shit shit!” Mom’s face is a wet, eyeliner-streaked crime scene as she paces back and forth in a panic. We’re downstairs in Richard’s kitchen and have now confirmed that not only does he lack living room furniture (and basic human decency) — he also doesn’t own a fire extinguisher. “What are we gonna do?”
“He can’t not have a fire extinguisher!” My eyes dart back and forth between Mom, the big open pantry that we just raided, and the ASSHOLE I scribbled on the kitchen island earlier. I hear a loud thud from somewhere upstairs. “What was that?”
“I don’t know!”
Meanwhile, the thick smog of smoke we hoped was confined to the master bathroom has made its way down the stairs and is now wafting into the kitchen. A nearby fire alarm starts blaring. I curse myself for not thinking to disable all fire alarms in the house before we decided to commit arson. But of course we didn’t decide to commit arson, which — oh, my God, wait, shit, fuck — we just committed arson. How is this happening? All we wanted to do was ceremoniously burn a bra and a wallet! Not an entire McMansion.
Mom looks at me with frightened, desperate eyes. I’m sure it’s because she, too, is coming to the realization that our only option at this point is to get the hell out of here before the fire spreads even more and Richard’s neighbors are awoken by the alarms or the flames or both.
“We gotta go,” I declare through a smoke-induced cough. It’s getting difficult to breathe through the haze. This is, like, the opposite of air. “Even if we do find an extinguisher, we can’t go back upstairs. This place is actively falling apart.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mom cries. “I’m so sorry, Joey.”
“What are you talking about? Now is not the time —”
I’m interrupted by another thud. Who knew fires could be so loud? It’s like the house is begging, screaming for help.
“Oh, my God.” Mom wipes her eyes and grabs her keys from her hoodie pocket. “Come on.”
Thud. This is the loudest one yet, and it jolts us into movement. We sprint through the garage and jump into the car — a hotbox of adrenaline and fear. I can’t steady my hand enough to click my seat belt in, so I give up. I look over at Mom and see that she didn’t even bother trying in the first place. She starts the engine. The dashboard dings with an alert telling us to buckle up.
Mom throws the car in reverse. I wanna yell at her to go faster but I’m distracted looking up at the house. The roof appears to be intact, but there’s a cloud of smoke escaping out from under it. It’s only a matter of time before this fire rages out of control like one of those disasters you see on the news.
The car crawls down the street with its lights off. Mom clicks her seat belt in and I follow suit, if only to make that seat belt alert shut up already. The instantaneous switch from relentless dinging to total silence is sobering. Neither of us can muster a single word, so we remain mute.
I have no idea where we’re going. Is Mom even capable of driving safely in her current state? I’m definitely not. My brain involuntarily starts to workshop a stand-up joke about our predicament — something about how all we wanted was to have a “Before He Cheats” moment, but somehow ended up with “Jesus Take the Wheel.” I could almost laugh if my face weren’t frozen with shock.
Mom’s hand shakes as she attempts to control the steering wheel and light a cancer stick at the same time. I would normally refuse to assist (and therefore enable) her, but this feels like a true extenuating circumstance. I grab the lighter and hold it up to her cigarette until it flames — this tiny little version of the very thing that is currently threatening to eviscerate both of our lives.
“Listen, Joey.” She clicks her headlights on once we’re a good mile away from the house. She suddenly sounds sure of herself. “I’m gonna call the cops and tell them there’s a fire. Then I’m gonna turn myself in for —”
“No fucking way!” I have absolutely no idea what our next move should be, but hearing her say that out loud makes me abundantly certain of what it should not be. “Are you insane? We’ll go to jail. This is a major crime.”
“You think I don’t know that? Christ.” She can barely grasp her cigarette firmly enough to flick an ash out the window. “Listen to me. We aren’t going to jail. Maybe I will, but — I swear to God — you’re going to be fine. You’ll live with Nonna if you have to. You’ll go to college. You’re gonna have a normal life. Okay? I’ll say it was an accident and that I did it alone. The car, the house, everything. This is all my fault anyway. You have your future to —”
“No!” is all I can manage to squeak out before the air escapes my lungs. The thought of a future without Mom feels like a black hole. Losing her would be like losing a limb. Or a sense. I’d be armless and blind. “You can’t do that. There’s no way they won’t know I was with you.”
“Why? Just say you were at Nonna’s all night. If you’re ever even questioned.” She finally manages to flick an ash, but her hand is still shaking. Hopefully that means she has some doubts about this incredibly stupid idea. “If I confess,” she continues, “it will be an open-and-shut case for them. If I don’t confess, there’s gonna be a whole investigation. And then we’ll both be screwed.”
“No one will ever believe you did this alone!” Okay. So not only do I not want to lose her, but I’m also pissed at her for even thinking that I’d want her to take the fall for this. As if I’m such a baby that she has to make some kind of grand sacrifice to protect me from the repercussions of the house we just accidentally set on fire. I’m not a child! I knew what we were doing. I basically convinced her to do it in the first place. “Think about it. How did you unscrew that fire alarm? How did you smash that chandelier? There’s no way a five-foot-tall woman could have done all that damage herself!”
“I’m five-three, bitch.”
Mom’s deadpan delivery makes me laugh. “Maybe in your knockoff Jimmy Choos.”
“Ugh,” she moans. “I don’t know what to do, Joey. This is bad. This is real bad.”
“I know.”
The car goes quiet once again as we zip up the interstate, an alternating blur of lights and trees and smokestacks gliding outside my passenger-side window.
I remind myself that despite the brief laugh we just exchanged, we’re still felons without a plan. My mind races from possible alibis to defenses to straight-up fantasy scenarios that would somehow absolve us of any responsibility for our actions whatsoever. I Google “jail time for arson” and then immediately clear my browsing history because Oh, my God, what if my Google searches are pulled up as evidence in a hypothetical future investigation? I consider Googling “can the police find your browsing history even after you’ve deleted it,” but decide not to, because if the answer to that question is yes then I might as well just dial 911 on myself right fucking now.
“It was an honest accident,” Mom offers. “We had no idea the tub would melt like that. That has to count for something.”
“I really don’t think it does.” I vividly recall all the havoc we wreaked on that house before the fire got out of control — the dishes, the island, the chandelier, the premeditated removal of the fire alarm — and am convinced there’s no way anyone would believe we didn’t know exactly what we were doing. “We left our mark all over that stupid house.”
“Oh!” she says. “What about that security guard at Luke’s parking lot? If we do become suspects, maybe he can be our alibi and vouch that we were nowhere near Short Hills tonight. I had that whole conversation with him, remember?”
Shit. Luke.
My entire face numbs as I remember that I sent him my GPS coordinates. Who the fuck does that? A thoughtless moron who wants to be arrested in the very first episode of the Netflix docuseries about their crime. That’s who. In my attempt to prove my innocence of one crime, I implicated myself in another — far worse — one.
I wish I could go back to that moment in Richard’s dark hallway when Luke texted me. I would gladly admit to everything. Yes, it was us. We’ve been in Piscatway all night. Oh, my God. Being guilty of only trashing a car sounds like such a blissful dream. I’d kill for that set of circumstances right now. Wait — hold on — that was just a figure of speech. I wouldn’t actually kill someone. (Now that I’m a criminal I feel the need to clarify.)
“Joey?” Mom asks. “You all right?”
And now I’m the one who’s shaking. I press my fingers into my eyes and drag them down my cheeks in an attempt to inject some hope into my face.
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves talking about alibis and investigations,” I say. “Think about it. How is this gonna play out? Let’s say the entire house burns down — that would mean all the evidence is burned down with it. They’d never even know the place was trashed first! But even if the house doesn’t burn down, how would they connect the dots to you and me? It’s not like they have our fingerprints in the system.”
I realize my argument would be a lot stronger if it weren’t for the concrete proof that I delivered straight to Luke’s inbox earlier. But even then… how would he end up being looped into a random fire investigation in Short Hills? Unless he talks to the cops about his car, and then they connect the dots. But those are totally different cops, different towns, different districts. They don’t talk to each other. Right? Or — fuck — do they? I wish I could Google it, but I’m afraid to Google literally anything right now. Other than maybe something like “best pie recipe for a mother and son who have been sitting at home in Bayonne all night doing absolutely nothing illegal.”
“It won’t take much,” Mom replies. “Richard is gonna ask himself, ‘Gee. Who in New Jersey would want to burn my house down?’ and then — ding, ding, ding! ‘Gia Rossi. The high-maintenance side bitch I’ve been stringing along for the past two years, who I finally dumped today.’”
“It could have been another side bitch! What about the Double D bra? Maybe she snapped.”
“Right,” Mom cracks. “So it’s either me or Big Tits McGhee. A grand total of two suspects. Very reassuring.”
“Or! Maybe he’ll suspect it’s you or Big Tits McGhee, but he won’t actually say anything to the cops. Because then his wife would find out that he’s been cheating on her. Maybe he’ll just let it go.”
“People don’t just let stuff like this go.”
Our debate is at a standstill, but the car’s still moving. My shoulders instantly relax as I peek out the window and realize we’re approaching our exit. Being this close to home somehow makes me feel like I can trick my mind into believing tonight didn’t actually happen. We never left Bayonne. We sat on the couch Googling pie recipes all night long.
I look at my phone. It’s three in the morning. No new texts since I heard from Luke pre–chandelier smashing. The emptiness of my screen reinforces this comforting feeling that nobody knows and nobody ever will. Maybe we can just go on living our lives and everything will be fine. We’ll proceed with our daily routines tomorrow morning as if it’s just another Tuesday. Luke’s car and Richard’s house will be cold cases — unsolved mysteries. Those happen all the time. Right? Maybe? Please? God? Jesus? Take the wheel.
“Has Richard called or texted you?” I ask. “Has anyone?”
“Shit, I don’t know.” Mom uses her non-steering-wheel hand to pat down her hoodie and jean pockets. “My phone’s not on me.”
“No! Please don’t tell me you left it at the hou —”
“I don’t know, Joey!” she yelps. “I don’t think I used it at the house. Did I? Fuck. Is my purse in the car? I don’t remember. It would be in the backseat. On the floor.”
Panic floods my system all over again as I reach into the backseat and poke around until my hand feels the sensation of faux leather.
“It’s back here.” I dig in and feel through all kinds of random objects — makeup compacts, Advil bottles, approximately two zillion lip balms — everything but an iPhone. I turn on the flashlight app of my phone and twist my body backward so I can get a better view of the backseat floor. “No phone.”
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
We might as well just drive to the nearest cliff and gas it at this point.
“Joey!”
“Me? What the hell were you thinking bringing your —” I spot her sparkly pink phone case peeking out from behind the driver’s seat. “Oh. Thank God. I found it.”
“You almost gave me a heart attack! So what’s it say?”
“Hold on.” I swipe in her password and run through her notifications, instantly relieved by the absence of a missed call from 911. As if it would actually show up as 911 on Caller ID when the police call to tell you that you’re wanted for arson. “This is good. No missed calls. Some junk email. A Bath & Body Works coupon. Adriana liked your Instagram post from yesterday. You just have one text. From… Marco?”
Mom exhales in relief, which tells me her thinking is just as twisted and delusional as mine was a few minutes ago: Notification-free phone! We’re in the clear!
“Marco says, Hey G, I miss you, and — wait. Why is he texting you?” I think back to my conversation with Nonna earlier. Maybe she was right. Mom should have never left Marco. Nice Guys might be boring, but they also don’t inspire felonies. This suddenly strikes me as a reasonable trade-off. “What’s going on? Are you guys talking again?” I scroll up in the conversation, and there’s one message prior to his. From Mom, five hours ago. It just says hi. “Oh, my God. You initiated this! You hi-ed him!”
“Calm down.” Mom flips her blinker and gets off our exit. “I was buzzed from the wine and feeling like shit about myself because of Richard. And you remember Marco — he was always good for a self-esteem boost. That’s it. You know he lives all the way in upstate New York on Lake Whatever-the-Fuck. Just delete the conversation.”
“Fine.” I sneakily respond with miss you too. It’s a shady move, but whatever. Our lives are at stake and something tells me that keeping an open line of communication with him right now might actually be beneficial.
Mom turns onto our block. I stare out the window at the flickery street lights and McDonald’s fry sleeves lining the sidewalk. Short Hills’ worst nightmare. I swear to God. Why couldn’t we have just torched one of our neighbors’ houses instead? They probably would have thanked us.
“No cop cars,” Mom says. “That’s gotta be a good sign.”
I’m kind of annoyed that she’s jolting us back to reality by being on the lookout for cops, but also relieved, because, well, there are no cops. I even feel allowed to be exhausted — which I totally am. Being this close to my bed induces a vigorous yawn.
“Let’s just go upstairs and get some sleep,” I suggest. “Maybe one of us will have a brilliant idea in the morning. Or maybe we’ll wake up and all of this will just go away.”
Mom parks the car in our narrow shared driveway and gives me a sad chuckle. “Yeah.” Her side profile is stunning as always under the faint glow of a nearby streetlight, but there’s a tightness to her temples that suggests she’s still holding back tears (basically her resting state at this point). “I’m so sorry.”
“This is my fault. I’m a bad influence —”
“Mom. Stop.” I refuse to let her continue down this road. Especially because it still makes no sense to me why she keeps acting like this whole night was her idea. I would never even think to blame her for anything that comes out of this. Even if we both go to jail. “Can’t we just try to get some sleep?”
She quietly accepts my plea. We get out of the car and crawl up to our apartment — in the front door, through the kitchen, past the empty wine bottles on the living room coffee table — and retreat into our respective bedrooms. I can hear Mom crying on the other side of the wall, which would destroy me if I weren’t so depleted of the emotion, adrenaline, and general will to live that’s been keeping me going all night long.
I collapse onto my bed and close my eyes. It’s amazing how the most trivial anxieties can sometimes keep me up for hours at night, and yet right now, in the aftermath of incinerating a million-dollar house, my mind is just like fuck it. I slip out of consciousness immediately. Barely aware that it’s happening.