It was always awkward between them, after it happened. What began as three friends looking to smoke a little in a place they wouldn’t be bothered, turned into something else entirely, because once a fire is kindled in an environment so dry, there is no stopping it.

As they walked in a line through the field, at the far edge of where they’d seen any activity from the family inside the distant farmhouse, they couldn’t have imagined how many emergency vehicles would soon swarm on that hillside. That’s mostly because they were only out for a bit of fun. No ill intentions at all among them.

John Trian, lanky and brooding, so known for being prone to sudden bursts of anger that he had been removed from Bentwood High and placed in a special school with a short bus to take him there. It wasn’t exactly juvie, but they acted like it was. His denim jeans and jacket swished as he plodded forward in the waning light of the sunset. Behind him was Gil Valentine, a burnout from the next town over. Gil had a mop of unruly yellow hair and rarely spoke. Last in line was Rick Lovankdowski. Rick didn’t want to be heading towards the barn at the far end of the property and had been vocal in voting against the quarter mile walk over open countryside.

“Nobody’s gonna see us,” said John, glancing over his shoulder. “Don’t light that though.”

“Right,” Rick said, slipping his lighter back inside his blue jeans, then replacing the cigarette with his pack of ‘Boros. It was a balmy evening, with a thickness of the air that smelled musty while threatening a summer downpour. Quickly they walked through the fields which looked to them to be no more than weeds.

“So, these dudes were doing all kinds of stuff,” said John. “It was wicked.”

“Firesticks?” Rick asked, now they were crouching low because a car drove past on the road, its headlights flashed across the settling gloam. “Saw that on the Brady Bunch. Luau fire dancers.”

“Don’t be stupid,” John said. “They weren’t dancing like no hula girls. Don’t be a loser.”

“Shut up,” said Rick.

The passing car was gone, and the three friends pressed forward, hurriedly closing the gap between the field and the old barn standing at the edge of Schute’s Farm. The farm long ago ceased to be operational, and nobody was ever inside the barn anymore. It was more of a storage shed for the lawnmower and bags of soil.

John assessed the door. “It’s open,” he said. “Just like Barnyard said.” His brother, Barnyard, was renowned for uncovering safe spots to roll a doobie, and he wasn’t wrong again. John pulled outward and the door creaked, cobwebs peeling before his face. “Aw, this is perfect!”

Inside they found an empty gas can near the door, metal, and rusted red. There was a riding mower and four bags of red mulch just inside the door. Beyond the first fifteen feet it looked as if no one had been through in months. John turned to his friends; both were dripping sweat like he was. Beyond the barn door the temperature felt like it was twenty degrees hotter, and the air was much staler.

“There’s a ladder back here,” John said, leading on with only his brother’s word. “And a loft with a beat-up couch. He said he took Linda back here and nailed her.

“In the ass?” Gil said, causing his friends to look at him in surprise.

“How the fuck would I know?” John muttered. “He doesn’t talk about her that way.”

“Because he’s full of crap,” Rick smiled.

John smacked his shoulder. “Come on,” he said.

The young men felt their way through the darker rear of the interior, and John laughed and said he’d found the ladder. Up her climbed, easing his boots onto each step carefully because one was worse than the next. Yet, all three made the ascent and soon were surrounding the couch, a green, flowery monstrosity from ‘forties if it was a day.

“Look,” Rick pointed at a depression in the cushions. “Are those?”

“Gross,” John said. “Get away from my brother’s underwear.”

Rick had them in his hand already, and he sniffed.

“What the fuck’s your problem, man!” John snapped, pushing into Rick.

Rick pushed back, and they locked arms, grunting and struggling against one another. John jabbed a headbutt though missed, and Rick used his knee to drag his friend down, the way they taught him in Judo class. John wasn’t going easily, however, and he brought Rick down on top of him. For a moment they stayed stiff, and John growled, thrashing wildly to remove his friend from his backside.

“Asshole!” he yelled.

“Shh!” Rick hissed, finger over his lips. “Idiot. Want them to come out here and shoot us?” John struggled under Rick’s force, and Rick drove in harder. John glared back at Rick, and wiped a piece of dirt away from the corner of his mouth as Rick came away, allowing him to come to his feet again.

“I felt that fuckhead.”

“You felt shit,” Rick laughed, adjusting the crotch of his blue jeans.

John and Rick stared at one another, tensing for another round, until Gil sparked his lighter against curtains covering, a light bright as lightning in the gloom. A tiny flame licked outward, running over the curtain without catching fire.

“What are you doing?” Rick demanded. When Gil did not respond, and waved the burning flame along the fabric, he added, “Gil!”

John elbowed Rick on his way to the curtain at Gil’s side, and he said, “Feed it.”

Gil grinned, and he and John were both now holding lit lighters against the fabric. Rick muttered, “It’s catching.”

Then, in a massive wave, the flames shot up the curtains and to the rotting timbers of the ceiling, blowing the three young men backwards. As they scrambled down the rickety ladder the stifling heat chased them out, and they burst through the door and dashed down the hillside away from the barn. At the bottom of the hill, they sank into the tall weeds and watched as seconds later, the whole structure erupted in bright red and yellow tongues which extended towards the now darkened sky.

***

“How’d they get a firetruck down there?” Rick whispered.

“Doesn’t matter,” Gil said, with a little too much joy.

They watched as the flames won the battle, levelling the building to cinder in no time at all. There were five firetrucks, an ambulance, and four police cars, all swarming in too fast for them to slip away. If they got up, they would be seen, so the young men simply observed the events in silence. Until, two police officers turned towards them, and shined their flashlights over their backs.

“You boys!” shouted one. “Stay where you are!” Even if the young men wanted to run, the footfalls of more officers surrounded them. “Who are you?” one demanded as he shined a flashlight into the eyes of John.

“John Brian,” he told them, hoping to throw them off with a false name only to say almost the real thing by accident.

“Did you start this?” another growled, bending Rick’s wrists behind his back.

Rick cried out when the cuffs bit his skin. “We were just watching!” Rick squealed. “We didn’t do nothing!” And the police separated them, learned the truth, and the three young men sat in handcuffs inside three different cruisers, while the police, firefighters, and the family from the farm stood there talking about them.

All three faced so much trouble none ever returned to Bentwood High. After the magistrate’s hearing they were taken away, far from one another, ridiculed by the community and friends lost, yet despite their shared moment they had only awkwardness left among them.

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