Page 170 of Pride High 2: Orange
“Your dad was so cool,” Omar said.
Ricky looked at Diego, hoping to see him smile, but all he did was nod at the television. “Let’s get to it.”
On the screen, a young Omar was doling out assignments. “What willyoube doing today?”
“Breaking the heads off all these matches,” Anthony answered dutifully.
“Excellent. And you?”
“Chopping up Styrofoam,” Diego mumbled in muted tones.
“Very good. I’ll be sawing this plastic pipe in half, but let me know when you need some gasoline.”
The camera kept rolling. Most of the time it was hard to tell what anyone was doing. All three guys would have their backs to the screen while they worked on different things, although it was mostly just Anthony and Omar who spoke. Diego stayed quiet. Back then at least.
“Have you watched this tape before?” he asked.
“No,” Omar said.
“Why not?” Diego pressed. “When we were all getting in trouble, why didn’t you show your parents this, if it proves that I did it? Why didn’t you even check to see?”
“That’s not what best friends do,” Omar replied.
Diego merely grunted in response.
The camera angle finally switched to the backyard, where the guys detonated a smoke bomb. Then the footage changed to the interior again. The concrete floor of the garage in particular. They poured some sort of goopy liquid over one of Yasmin’s dolls before setting it on fire.
“Is this it?” Ricky asked in excitement.
“I don’t think so,” Omar replied.
The doll became a sputtering puddle of flaming plastic, but as far as they could see, the fire didn’t spread.
The camera angle changed again and seemed to be set farther down a workbench. A white plastic pipe could be seen. Omar was standing next to Diego as they stuffed something into it. They were talking in low voices before they heard Anthony say, from off-camera, “Hey, this might work!”
“A candle?” Omar said after spinning around.
“You wanted a fuse,” Anthony replied. “We can take out the wick.”
“Nice! I’ll fill a jar with goop!”
Omar ran off, leaving Diego alone at the workbench. The movement of his hands slowed and stopped. He seemed to stare unseeing at nothing for a long time. Back in the bedroom, Omar raised the remote, as if to fast forward, but Diego had finally moved on screen again. He picked up a boxcutter, extended the blade, and began slicing it across the workbench surface, his lip curling in an angry snarl. Then he tossed it aside. He grabbed a spray nozzle instead, the kind people screwed to the end of a garden hose. Diego gripped it like a gun, his jaw clenching before he pressed the tip against the bottom of his jaw, like he wanted to blow his own brains out.
Ricky felt like his heart was going to break. He got to his feet and saw that Omar’s expression was pained. Anthony’s brow was furrowed as he studied the carpet. Diego was like a statue, his face impassive as he stared at the television. Ricky walked over and stood next to him, making sure they were close enough that their bodies touched. Maybe it was his imagination, but Diego seemed to lean closer, while on the screen his younger self tossed the spray nozzle aside. He picked up a lighter instead and began flicking it to make sparks appear.
“Shit shit shit!” they heard Omar yell from somewhere off screen. “Hide everything!”
“Your parents had just come home,” Anthony said. “I remember now.”
The garage interior grew brighter, like the door had opened. They saw Omar push Diego aside so he could toss damning evidence into a box before both guys walked off camera. The picture remained stationary as they heard an engine turn off, car doors slam, and fragments of a conversation.
“—working on dragsters for shop class,” Omar said.
“Help us get these bags inside,” a woman responded.
The picture spun suddenly, revealing a blur of people, before the image went dark. When it returned, the footage was shaky and shot through a kitchen window. Flames billowed from the side of a detached garage as a plume of black smoke twisted through the air. Firetruck sirens were howling in the distance.
“Put that down!” a man shouted from off camera. Mr. Jafari, presumably. “I need your help! Come on!”
