Match

50: Troublemaker

Jonah parts his eyes open. He expects the sunlight to hit his face with heated force, but instead is met with less intensity. He throws the sheets to one side and peeks outside. The sky is a cloudy overcast.

Then he realizes something. His knee didn't hurt the entire walk over. That's a good sign, he thinks. He yawns and exits his room to go to the bathroom. But before he opens the door, his eyes catch his father on the patio, fixing something on a ladder. He steps closer to investigate. Greg is setting up a Canada flag, dawned in red and white with the usual maple leaf in the centre. He turns to see Jonah curiously watching.

"Happy Canada Day, Jones," Greg says with a wide smile.

The words strike him like sudden turbulence. Shit! I totally forgot!

"Uh," he says with a cracked morning voice. "Yeah, Happy Canada Day."

"Got any plans for today?" Greg says, adjusting the flag.

"Uhh, no. No plans."

"How's your knee doing?"

"Good." He gives it a firm pat.

"Glad to hear. You must be raring to get back to kickin'."

"Yeah..." he says with slight concern.

He turns and heads back into the hallway.

"Ah shit, Jones?" Greg hollers. "Can you get my screwdriver from my car? It should be in the backseat."

"Oh, okay! Got it!"

He zooms past Stella, making her jump in the air frightened. He utters a 'sorry' before grabbing the keys and opening the front door. Now that he's gotten a good look of the sky, he sees a dreary dark grey rolling closer to the neighbourhood.

"Rainy on Canada Day," he says to himself. "Wouldn't be the first."

He presses a button to unlock the car, noticing a couple bird droppings on the windshield. He laughs to himself, grabbing the screwdriver and closing the door. As he takes a step, he feels something snap under his foot. Panic sets in, making him drop the screwdriver. What was that?

His sight travels down to a pile of broken matches, some partially buried in dirt a few feet away. He blinks, looking around. A neighbour in the cul-de-sac is tending to her hydrangeas. Another one is holding a kite for his young son. He scratches his head, thinking back on the other matches that laid like brittle grass shoots on the concrete. Who the fuck is doing this? he thinks with pinched brows. He picks up every piece in a tight grip, dropping them in the garbage bin. He chucks another pile hard, with a couple pieces missing completely and landing on the driveway.

The anger boiling inside amps him up. He expels it with a long sigh, dropping the last two in the bin properly, then retrieving his father's screwdriver.

———————————

Sounds of scribbling on paper fill the room. Jonah counts one, two, three times that matchsticks have appeared near him. Tapping the top of the pen to his chin, he continues to ponder. Another two incidents add to his mental counting.

"Don't you think someone's trying to frame you?"

"The evidence looks pretty damning."

He ticks another line to complete the tally. What if he's right? His gaze drops to the smudgy writing on the paper.

"Four times I've come across matches on the ground. Once in my bag. Two of the four times near my car. Total of five."