Kermit McDermit and the Day of Fire [Story #24]

Kermit McDermit had the double bad luck of being born to parents with a shitty sense of humor and attending a middle school where the children were not known for their acceptance of anything outside the norm. And Kermit was definitely not normal.

Not only did he have hair the color of fresh tomato sauce and a head that was far too large for his delicate frame, he had an attitude that perplexed and scared the other children. A kind of hot and cold temperament that swung back and forth with the slightest provocation. It had been that way since birth, as far as his mother could tell. Kermit was a moody baby—always crying about something or other, hard to please. By child number seven, Kermit’s mother thought that she had child rearing figured out, but this little fire ant made her feel like she was twenty-one again, completely flustered by little Molly’s outbursts and wondering if things wouldn’t be easier if she just smothered the tiny thing with a cross-stitched pillow.

She hadn’t smothered Molly, and now the eldest McDermit child was nineteen and willowy. A dancer. Her mother couldn’t be prouder.

Kermit often looked at his sister and wondered why she was allowed to use up all the pretty genes in the family. The rest of his siblings were almost as awkward-looking as him—with a smattering of freckles and too-large foreheads—but they fared better because they had sweet dispositions and cared about other people. Kermit had a hard time getting close to anyone, with one exception.

Ellie was a year above Kermit in school, even though she was really only nine months older. They had both worked their way up through Anderson-Fischer College Preparatory school and now Ellie was in sixth grade, Kermit in fifth. Despite passing each other in the halls and eating in the same cafeteria, Kermit and Ellie didn’t discover one another until the day Ellie the fourth-grader caused legendary havoc on the playground.

Kermit remembered that he’d been swinging at the time. He found it relaxing—the rhythmic back and forth of the squeaky chains, the air passing beneath his canvas sneakers. He was in one of his placid moods in which he liked to be alone, a turtle tucked inside its shell.

The moment with the tranquil swinging, the crisp autumn breeze, the cloud-dotted blue sky, the sand, the green-painted poles of the swing set, the legs kicking out—it all froze with the perfection of a paused movie. And then it started again, in slow motion, but this time a fire spread across the backdrop. Kermit’s jaw dropped.

The field was aflame, blazing from one end to the other, just beyond the edge of the playground sand. Children shrieked and ran toward the doors of the school, clambering past each other with the nimbleness and grace of a herd of hippopotamuses. Kermit didn’t run. He stood up on the seat of his swing and gazed at the fire. It tickled something primordial in him, something so raw that he forgot about being a human boy and started being a presence. A shadowy thing that swam with the dusty smoke and dive-bombed the wriggling flames.

“Aren’t you going to head inside?”

Kermit’s presence snapped back into his young boy body. He looked down. A girl with startling golden eyes and dark, stringy hair stared up at him, unblinking.

“Eventually,” Kermit said, lowering himself back to the swing’s seat, “but I like watching it.”

The girl climbed onto the swing next to Kermit. “Me too. That’s why I did it in the first place. At least, I think that’s why I did it. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

Kermit gurgled, choking on a thousand words that wanted to come out. His third grade self was in utter shock, in complete awe, in abject admiration for this girl. “You?” he croaked. “You did this?”

“What? Gonna rat me out?”

“No! I would never. It’s just…wow.”

“Wow?”

“Yeah. Wow. It’s brave of you, is what I’m trying to say. I’ve thought about lighting this place on fire more times than I can count, but I would never do it. Aren’t you afraid of being caught?”

The girl shrugged. “Nah. I wrecked the security cameras before recess.” She pointed at the building, then over at a tall fence. Security cameras sprouted from both places, perched at different angles to capture the entirety of the playground.”

“Wow,” Kermit said again. “How’d you do that?”

The girl shrugged. “I’m a good climber.”

They stayed there for a few minutes, swinging in silence, watching the blaze consume the field. Fire fighters had just arrived and they were pouring out the guts of their water tanks, shouting instructions to one another as they tried to circle and contain the growing flames.

“I’m Ellie, by the way,” Ellie extended a hand.

“Kermit.”

Ellie nodded and they both went back to swinging until a school para marched over and shouted, “What are you two doing outside? Can’t you see there’s a fire?”

“Of course we see it,” said Ellie. “We’re watching it.”

The para looked down her pointed nose at the girl. “Ellie Silvestre, you wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would you?”

Ellie frowned and looked up at the para with puppy-big eyes. “No, Ms. Elworth. I’ve been here with Kermit the whole time. Haven’t I, Kerm?”

Kermit nodded. He had never been given a nickname before and was trying to decide if he liked it. “That’s right,” he said. “We’ve just been swinging and watching.”

Ms. Elworth raised a sharp eyebrow. “You don’t exactly have the best track record either, Kermit McDermit.”

Kermit flushed and waited for Ellie to laugh at his name. To his amazement, she didn’t even crack a smile.

“I’m taking you both to the principal’s office,” the para said, grabbing each child by the ear and yanking them off their swings.

“Oww!” Ellie screamed. “You’re damn lucky the security cameras are broken, Ms. Elworth, otherwise you’d have a lawsuit on your hands!”

Ms. Elworth released their ears. “What did you say?” She looked up at the electronic eyes dotting the school building and the westward wall that separated the school from a busy road. “The cameras are broken? And how do you know that, Ellie Silvestre?”

Ellie shrugged. “Know what? I didn’t say anything.”

Ms. Elworth narrowed her eyes. “There have been far too many incidents in this school since you started here. If I had my way, you would have been kicked out before you completed Kindergarten. School performance statistics be damned. Mark my word, Ellie, if you had anything to do with that fire, this will be the nail in your coffin.”

“You can bury me, Ms. Elworth,” Ellie’s golden eyes danced, “but you can’t stop me from coming back to haunt you.”

Ms. Elworth marched forward, ignoring the fear that flooded her heart and burbled through her veins. She’s just a child, she told herself. Just a little girl.

Ellie was not expelled that day, or even given detention. No one could concretely link her to the fire or the broken security cameras. The principal couldn’t even punish her by placing her on the school’s watch list…because she was already on it. She had made the watch list in first grade after an incident involving marbles and another child’s broken wrist. After that, her backpack was searched every day before she entered the school by a stern security guard who opened every pocket and pouch, plumbing for contraband with gloved hands.

And Kermit? He finally found a friend in Anderson-Fischer.

Ellie and Kermit became inseparable after the day of fire. They calmed each other’s tirades or egged on each other’s mischief. They offered one another comfort and understanding. Kermit discovered that his mood swings paled in comparison to Ellie’s, that she was wracked with a daily internal battle. She was winning now, at age twelve, but she had to arm and armor herself every day to fend off the dark things that lived inside her.

Ellie was a shadow child. And Kermit was…something else. His shadow was softer, less ferocious, but it was still present. It still rose to the surface in angry waves; it still caused harm. But it was manageable with Ellie. Her presence turned the waves into ripples and the anger into fierce loyalty for his friend.

But the calm was once more disrupted in the spring of Kermit’s fifth grade year. It came in the form of a woman in a long, green dress. He knew—somehow he knew before she even uttered a word—that this woman was there to take Ellie away.

Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.