Prokopenko chortled again. It was the sort of chortle that meant he would be vomiting soon. Gansey seemed to understand this, as he edged a foot back from him.
Ordinarily, Gansey would have done more than edge away. Having achieved all they’d needed to, he would have told Ronan it was time to go. He would have been frostily polite to Kavinsky. And then he would have been gone.
But this was not Gansey as usual.
This was Gansey with a lofty tilt to his chin, a condescending quirk to his mouth. A Gansey that was aware that no matter what went down here tonight, he would still go back to Monmouth Manufacturing and rule his particular corner of the world. This was a Gansey, Ronan realized, that Adam would hate.
Gansey said, “And what is it my dog needs?”
Ronan’s lips curled into a smile.
Fuck the past. This was the present.
Kavinsky said, “Pyrotechnics. Boom!” He pounded the roof of his crumpled car. Amiably, he told the girl in the passenger seat, “Get out, bitch. Unless you wanna die. It’s all the same to me.”
It dawned on Ronan that Kavinsky meant to blow up the Mitsubishi.
In the state of Virginia, fireworks that exploded or emitted flame higher than twelve feet were illegal, unless you had a special permit. It wasn’t a fact most residents of Henrietta had to remember, however, because it was impossible to find fireworks that did anything even slightly remarkable, much less illegal, within state borders. If you wanted something a bit more impressive for the holiday weekend, you headed for the city’s firework display. If you were like some of the rowdier Aglionby boys or better-off rednecks of Henrietta, you drove over the state line and filled your trunk with illegal Pennsylvanian fireworks. If you were Kavinsky, you built your own.
“That dent will come out,” Ronan said, equal parts exhilarated and horrified to think of the Mitsubishi perishing. So many times just the first glimpse of its taillights on the road ahead of him had been enough to pump an urgent spasm of adrenaline through him.
“I’ll always know it was there,” Kavinsky replied carelessly. “Cherry, popped. Prokopenko, make me a cocktail, man.”
Prokopenko was happy to oblige.
“Take the edge off,” Kavinsky said. He turned to Gansey, a bottle in hand. It sloshed with liquid; a T-shirt had been wound and stuffed through the mouth of it. It was on fire. It was, in fact, a Molotov cocktail.
To Ronan’s surprise and delight, Gansey accepted it.
He was a striking version of himself, a dangerous version of himself, standing there before Kavinsky’s despoiled Mitsubishi with a homemade bomb in hand. Ronan remembered the dream of Adam and the mask: the more toothful version of Adam.
Instead of throwing it at the Mitsubishi, however, Gansey sighted a line toward the distant Volvo. He hurled it, high and graceful and true. Heads curved up to watch its progress. A voice from the crowd shouted, “Woop Woop, Gansey Boy!” which meant that at least one member of the Aglionby crew team was present. A moment later, the bottle landed just short of the Volvo’s rear tires. The simultaneous breaking of the glass and explosion made it seem as if the Molotov cocktail had sunk into the ground. Gansey wiped his hand on his pants and turned away.
“Good throw,” Kavinsky said, “but wrong car. Proko!”
Prokopenko handed him another Molotov cocktail. This one Kavinsky pressed into Ronan’s hand. He leaned close — too close — and said, “It’s a bomb. Just like you.”
Something thrilled through Ronan. It was like a dream, the sharpness of all this. The weight of the bottle in his hand, the heat from the flaming wick, the smell of this polluted pleasure.
Kavinsky pointed at the Mitsubishi.
“Aim high,” he advised. His eyes glittered, black pits reflecting the small inferno in Ronan’s grip. “And do it fast, man, or you’ll blow your arm off. No one wants half a tattoo.”
A curious thing happened when the bottle left Ronan’s hand. As it arced through the air, trails of fire-orange in its wake, Ronan felt as if he had hurled his heart. There was a rip, just as he released it. And heat filling his body, pouring in through the hole he’d made. But now he could breathe, now that there was room in his suddenly light chest. The past was something that had happened to another version of himself, a version that could be lit and hurled away.
Then the bottle landed in the driver’s window of the Mitsubishi. It was as if there was no liquid, only fire. Flames poured across the headrest like a living thing. Cheers erupted across the fairground. Partygoers moved toward the car, moths to a new lamp.
Ronan heaved a breath.
Kavinsky, his laugh high and manic, dashed another bomb through the window. Prokopenko threw another. Now the interior was catching, and the smell was becoming toxic.
Part of Ronan couldn’t really believe the Mitsubishi was gone. But as the others began to add their cigarettes and drinks to the bonfire, the music abruptly vanished as the stereo melted. It seemed a vehicle was well and truly dead once the stereo had melted.
“Skov!” shouted Kavinsky. “Music!”
Another car’s stereo boomed to life, taking up where the Mitsubishi had left off.
Kavinsky turned to Ronan with a sly grin. “You coming to Fourth of July this year?”
Ronan exchanged a look with Gansey, but the other boy was looking out over the numerous silhouettes, his eyes narrowed. “Maybe,” he replied.
“It’s a lot like a substance party,” Kavinsky said. “You want to see something explode, bring something that explodes.”
There was a dare there. It was a dare that could be satisfied, maybe, by a drive over the border, or by the clever concoction of an explosive from plans found on the Internet.