Playing With Matches by Carolyn Wall

scrambling down long enough to nab them.
    “What’s the matter with you?” he finally said. “You stopped talking altogether? Ain’t like you.”
    I went down on my knees under the tree and wrapped my arms around myself.
    “What?” he said. “What is it?”
    “Finn,” I said, “it’s almost my birthday. And if you’ll come outa that goddamn tree, I got something to show you.”
    “You watch your swampy mouth,” Finn said. “I know Miss Jerusha, an’ she’ll wash it out with soap.”
    “You’ll be saying worse,” I said, “when you see.”
    He eyed me sideways from where he swung like a monkey. Finn sure had this tree thing down. “This some trick?” he said. “You thinking to lure me down and—”
    “No trick,” I said. “You coming with me or not?”
    “Not,” he said.
    “You’re the sorriest thing ever, Finn. I got something I have to do, and I sure could use your help with this mission.”
    “You’re shinin’ me on,” he said.
    “I’m not,” I said, and walked away.
    Finn came down that tree like it was slicked with butter and landed on his feet, scooped up the cold potatoes, and crammed them in his mouth. “Mmrrrmph?” he said.
    “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
    “I asked—” He took his time chewing and swallowing. “Where we goin’ and what’s so almighty important?”
    “You got to see this to believe it.”
    And I took off, this time in a straight line down to the Oatys’ house, thankful that nobody along the way questioned where I was going in such an all-fired hurry, and when we reached his short fence, I stood and looked over the pickets.
    “There,” I said. “Around there.”
    “I don’t see nothing.”
    “Under the house, can you believe. Lord, Lord, Finn, there’s a kid, smaller than me and starved half to death. If he’s not dead by now.”
    “This one of your stories, Clea?”
    “This is no made-up thing, you sorry piece of garbage. You got to get closer.”
    “What if the Oatys come out?”
    “They’ve gone to slaughter some hogs.”
    “Well, what if their daddy comes out with a strap? That ol’ man don’t talk plain, but he’s meaner’n twelve snakes in a barbecue pit.”
    “He won’t touch me or Auntie’ll be all over him when she sees. Come on, Finn. Don’t be a sissy.”
    The day had darkened, storm clouds clotting the sky like an angry face.
    “Okay, then,” I said. “I’ll rescue him alone.”
    “Wait,” Finn said. It was the first time I’d noticed his high-top tennis shoes, no socks, his tanned and dirty legs. Finn on the ground now, a real boy, a person. “Okay, I’m comin’.”
    “Then keep down and be quiet.”
    And there he was, that white, white kid, with his face close up and scared—scared of us, I saw. Had it been me under there, I’d have had a stranglehold on the bars, screaming and shaking them like tomorrow depended on it. Or maybe this kid had already given up on ever being rescued. Maybe he didn’t care anymore.
    “Holy—”
    “Hush,” I said. “You’re scaring the bejesus out of him. He’s real shy.”
    “He’s in a dang cage under there!” Finn said.
    “Well, not a real cage. You reckon he just plays under here?”
    “Behind bars?” Finn said. “He’s got a damn dog dish.”
    I held my tongue, squatted down, and reached a hand toward the bars, but the pale white boy shrank back, his tongue sticking out between his lips like a thing too big for his mouth. His eyes were huge and round, his spiky hair without color, and he had no eyebrows nor lashes.
    “Something’s bad wrong, Finn,” I said. “Listen to his breathing.”
    “He ain’t right, that’s for sure.”
    “What’s the matter with him?”
    “Born wrong, I guess,” Finn said. “Come out upside down, or strangle-held.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “Never mind. You’re too young to know stuff like that.”
    “I’m not, either, and I wish you’d quit saying that. I’m old enough, and if you’d just tell me