Wilde Fire

Chapter 4: July 2001

There were five firework stands along the freezing cold beach of Kala Island. In the winter, they were boarded up, left to be nothing but small white shacks with covers over the windows and their signs turned around. Stray animals lived beneath the structures, making themselves at home and hidden away from the perils of the season. When they weren't in use, the stands were almost invisible. Yet in early June, as the holiday approached, and the residents of our secluded island began to prepare, they came alive.

The shop owners—most of whom were fishermen who had lived on Kala in their houseboats for centuries—would wake up at dawn just to throw out their nets. And then, as devoted as they were to making the daily catch, they would head for the mainland and spend hours upon hours setting up camp on the strip of land just beyond the beach.

It was one of the most anticipated days of the year. The Fourth of July, Independence Day as our history teachers tried to convince us to call it. But either way, no matter what title you stamped onto the calendar, the Fourth was a special day for everyone on the Island—especially Ben.

"You kids both stay close to the car, all right?" my mother said sternly, grabbing Ben and I by our slender shoulders. She had worn her dark auburn hair in a loose ponytail. Her makeup was at a minimum, and her t-shirt and cotton shorts hung loosely from her limbs. She dug into her shoulder bag for her wallet. Our father stood in front of her, his hands in his pockets as he already began to start up a conversation with Artie Harrelson, one of Kala's most well-known fishermen.

Everyone on Kala Island loved the Fourth. By that day, all of the firework stands were nearly completely empty, nothing much left besides a few packages of the black-papered firecrackers that no one wanted because they almost always had faulty fuses or blew up before you could back away.

In the two weeks before the Fourth of July, the time when Kala City Hall had decided to legalize the lighting of fireworks, the distant sound of pop or boom was always filling your ears. The kids of the Island would spend hours in their backyards, carefully reaching out to light the fuse of Whistling Chasers and Chicken Squealers and bottle rockets with their glowing punks, instinctively plugging their ears and running to their parents supervising on the porch just as the explosive would ignite. Then, on the actual day, everyone would wake up bright and early. Front doors would open, children would grab their punks and go on the hunt for a lighter and a parent who knew how to use one, the adults would drag out the tables and chairs, the mothers would hover over the stoves inside as the fathers made a mess of the barbecue grill; these were all things that I was used to, things that I expected each and every year on this very day. So I expected nothing less. Our family piling into the car and heading across the island to an empty field for the town firework show was only routine, and sitting there on that picnic blanket on the grass and watching the sky light up with color would, ultimately, be the highlight of my summer, just as it always was.

I pulled on the ends of my red pigtails, jumping up and down in my denim overall shorts and pink tank top. "Okaaaaay, Mommy," I rolled my little green eyes. Ben stepped up behind me, reaching out and unbuckling one of my overall straps. "Hey!" I turned around and narrowed my eyes at him before slapping him with the back of my small hand.

I turned back to our mother and crossed my arms, my pouting face set and ready to be put to use. I was only five years old and already a professional at the blame-game. "Bubby broke my strap!" I whined, stomping my feet to add extra emphasis.

She let out an exasperated sigh. Having two children under the age of ten had to be hard on a woman, but it wasn't as if we understood why. She fingered through a pile of dollar bills and shoved her wallet back into her purse. "I'll fix it for you, Sidney." She handed me three dollar bills. "And Ben, don't touch your sister's straps." She handed Ben the same amount and sat her purse on the grass. Her delicate hands found the denim straps of my overalls. She fumbled with the small golden buckle for a moment before snapping it back into place. I smiled up at her, grinning wider when her lips found my cheek.