Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single by Heather McElhatton Page A

Mrs. Biggles in her cat carrier. I am clutching my sassy working-girl figurine. I don’t remember when I grabbed her.
    â€œWhat were you doing up there?” he asks me, all the concern and protection gone and replaced by a single suspiciously arched eyebrow. “Were you burning something?”
    I stare at his stubbly jaw. What do I say? Do I tell him that even though I’m a grown woman I have an irrational attachment to emotionally bankrupt men? That I felt burning a jean jacket might alleviate the crushing sense of loneliness and pain in my heart? He’s not going to understand that, he’s a guy—and what’s worse, he’s a guy that saves lives for a living. How do you say you think your dharma is out of alignment to someone holding an axe?
    You don’t.
    You shrug and look at your feet, which is what I did.
    â€œJennifer!” my mother shouts as she rounds the corner in her pink snowflake pajamas and full-length maroon down feather coat. My father trundles along behind her and behind him is Hailey. Good Christ.
    â€œI’m all right,” I say, which will do absolutely nothing.
    â€œWhat happened?” she asks, holding a hand to her forehead. “Were you attacked? Was there a peeper? On the news they said there was a winter peeper, and they usually only peep in summer.”
    â€œNo, Mom, a fire. See?” I point to the red engine in the driveway. “Fire truck. The peeper truck is mirrored.”
    â€œDon’t start,” she says.
    The lieutenant tells my mother they don’t know what started the fire, but whatever it was, it was in the bathtub. “The bathtub?” my mother says. “What on earth were you doing in the bathtub?”
    â€œLeave her alone, Mom,” Hailey says. “All that matters is she’s all right.” She looks at me. “Are you all right?”
    I nod and feel like throwing my arms around her neck. Sometimes I hate hating my sister, which makes me realize I don’t really hate her at all. I just can’t stand her sometimes.
    Finally the last fireman empties out of the house and walks up to the lieutenant and hands him a plastic doohickey. “Okay”—the lieutenant nods—“we have a positive identification for arson. Suspicion of arson.”
    â€œArson?” my mother says, releasing her coat and taking an aggressive step toward the lieutenant.
    â€œWell, how can you tell that?” my father says, peering at the doohickey.
    â€œThis tested positive for lighter fluid,” the lieutenant says.
    My father grumbles something.
    â€œWho would set the house on fire?” my mother says protectively. “You don’t think my daughter would set a house on fire, do you?”
    â€œUnless Miss Johnson has something else to say,” he says, showing me the plastic doohickey, as though I knew what it was and could read it as conclusive evidence of my treachery, “we’re going to have to call the police.”
    My mother clutches her coat closed. “The police? Well, you go right ahead, mister. I know my rights. You can’t walk in here with your big hoses and point fingers.”
    â€œArlene…” my dad says, “please.”
    â€œAttempted arson,” the lieutenant says and lets the word hang there as though the thought of being convicted of arson would make me feel worse than I already do.
    Wrong.
    â€œWere you getting high?” my mother asks me. “Did you do some crack things?”
    My father tells her to settle down.
    â€œOh, she could be in a cult, for all we know!” she says. “One of those ones where they take you to the airport and make you scam the Internet and weave straw baskets!” She bursts into tears. My poor mom. That’s it. Game over. When Mom cries, it’s time to surrender anything and everything.
    â€œI was burning things,” I say. “Things I didn’t want