Pyro (5 page)

I like it when Tracy says I'm her friend, even if only
kind of
. I try to think what I can say next. It's probably better not to mention the talent show. “There's been a break in the investigation. They think they caught the pyro.”

“Cool!” says Tracy. “I guess you found out from your dad, right? I heard he's the mayor. So who's the pyro? Can you say?”

“They think it's Bob.”

“Bob?” Tracy raises her eyebrows. “You're kidding. Bob's the most harmless guy in town. Why would Bob be a pyro?”

“I dunno. Maybe he sets fires to keep warm at night.” I laugh at my own joke—even if Tracy doesn't.

“What kind of evidence do they have against him?”

“He was spotted at a bunch of the fires. And some lady took a photo of him the night of the trash-can fire.”

“Well, maybe Bob did do it. I feel bad for the guy. I mean he's got nothing. No family, no home. Nothing.”

“Look at it this way,” I tell Tracy. “They're going to keep him for questioning. So Bob will finally have a roof over his head.”

Tracy shakes her head and reaches for her crossword. “Don't you have a heart, Franklin?” she mutters.

I figure that is not the sort of question that requires an answer. Instead, I try to change the subject, move on to something lighter. “I see you brought your ukulele to work.”

“You're very observant.” Tracy doesn't say this in a nice way. Maybe she's still ticked off about what I said about Bob.

Two truckers are on their way into the booth. They stop, and one of them lights a cigarette. “What time do you finish?” I ask Tracy. “D'you want me to stick around and make sure you get home safe?”

Tracy gives me a sideways look. Maybe now she doesn't think I'm heartless. “Nah, you don't have to. Besides, isn't your dad waiting for that gasoline?”

Shoot! I completely forgot that story I told her. “Uh, yeah, you're right. I gotta get back. But I—I could come around later to get you.”

Tracy checks the time on her cell phone. “I'm working till eleven. Are you sure that's not too late?”

“I can make it work. I'll, uh, come back after we get the truck started.”

It's nearly ten thirty. That gives me just enough time to stash the canister in the garage. I'll need to hurry if I want to meet up with Tracy. And I want to meet up with Tracy.

“Okay, I'll see you in a bit,” Tracy says.

The two truckers are at the door now.

“Hey, Franklin,” Tracy says. “What'd you do to your hair? It looks like you burned it.”

Chapter Eleven

I put the canister away in the garage. I get so busy thinking about Tracy, I lose track of my fire-starting plan. But I know I'll get the urge again. I always do. And next time, I'll be ready.

From outside, I can see the gray light from our
TV
. I let myself in and take a pee in the downstairs bathroom. I check out my reflection in the mirror. My hair does look like I burned it. One part of my bangs looks wispy, like it was cut with sewing shears. I use the nail scissors by the sink to even up my hair. It's lucky no one else noticed. Not even Mom or Dad—or James.

I wonder if Tracy would ever kiss a guy like me. I might not be tall, but I'm no monster. Then I remember how Tracy asked if I had a heart. That is probably not the best sign. Girls want to kiss guys who have hearts. Guys like James.

When I get back to the Petro-Can, Tracy is waiting at the door, her ukulele case tucked under her arm. She smells like gasoline, but I don't mention it. I figure it's not the kind of thing a guy should tell a girl he's interested in.

“Everything go okay with your dad's truck?” Tracy asks.

“It's all good.”

I carry my skateboard so I can walk next to Tracy. Tomorrow is recycling day. Some of the green boxes take up half the sidewalk, overflowing with newspapers and bottles. It's the kind of thing that would usually bug me. Tonight it doesn't, because it means I get to walk closer to Tracy, so close that sometimes our elbows touch. Tracy could pull back when that happens, but she doesn't.

“It's nice that you came all the way back to walk with me,” Tracy says.

“No problem. A girl shouldn't be walking alone on St. Jacques Street this time of night.”

“Maybe you do have a heart.”

I can feel myself smiling in the darkness. “Maybe I do.”

“What you said about Bob wasn't nice.”

I guess Tracy isn't the type to let things slide. “I was just joking around.”

“It still wasn't nice.”

I don't know if I'm supposed to apologize, so I don't. We walk for a bit without saying anything. It's not the bad kind of quiet that makes the air heavy and tense, the kind I got used to in our house. This is the kind of quiet that lets you appreciate the sound of the crickets and the shuffle of your footsteps on the sidewalk.

“How're things going at your house?” Tracy asks.

My shoulders tense. “Okay, I guess.”

Tracy doesn't let this topic slide either. “It must be hard.”

“It is kinda hard.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Uh-huh.” I feel this awful lump in my throat. I swallow hard to make it go away. “I'd rather not talk about it. If you don't mind.”

“Sure thing. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry.”

“Don't worry about it.”

Tracy lives just past the “hump,” a steep section of Westminster Avenue near the northern edge of town. On our way, we pass a row of red brick low-rise apartments. Most of the balconies have flower boxes. One even has potted tomato plants.

At first, when I hear Mom's laugh, I'm not sure where it's coming from. Maybe I'm imagining it. I hear the laugh again and realize it's coming from the parking lot beside the apartments.

I think about crossing to the other side of the street. But it's too late. Mom, who is carrying a box in her arms, has spotted me.

What's surprising is the weird look on her face. She looks like she wishes she'd crossed the street too. “Fr—Franklin,” she says. “I didn't expect to see you here. Oh, I see you're with a friend.” Mom rests the cardboard box against her belly so she can shake Tracy's hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Westcott,” Tracy says.

Now someone else appears out of the shadows. It's James. He's carrying another box. Mom's car keys are hanging from his lips. I recognize the cupcake keychain.

“Hey, Franklin!” James says. “Nice to see you hanging out with a lady. Cute one too!”

I want to throttle James. Right now.

But Tracy's not embarrassed. “I'm Tracy,” she says, which reminds me that I should have introduced her. “I work at the Petro-Can. Franklin offered to walk me home.”

Now James does something worse. He winks! Then he says, “Our Franklin's quite the charmer.”

“I'm not
your
Franklin.” Everyone else gets really quiet after I say that. Not the good quiet.

“Of course you're not,” James says.

“What's in the boxes?” Tracy asks.

I wish she hadn't asked. I don't want to know the answer. “We should get going,” I say, tugging on the sleeve of Tracy's jacket.

“Moira's stuff. She's moving in with me,” James says.

I get that sick feeling in my stomach again. She's moving in with him? Couldn't she have waited awhile? This means Mom definitely won't be moving back home.

“So you live in this building?” Tracy asks James.

“That's my apartment.” James gestures to a corner balcony on the first floor. “The one with the tomato plants.”

“James has a green thumb,” Mom says.

I want to say that James is a smarmy wife-stealing, mom-stealing jerk. I've never been so angry at anyone in all my life. Mom is a complete idiot to fall for him and his tomatoes.

But I've never been the sort of person who says what I really think.

Mom wants to know if I'd come for dinner at the apartment next week.

“I'll see,” I say.

I want to leave, but James won't let me. “We'd really like to have you over, Franklin,” he says. I wish he wouldn't use the word
we
like that. When I try backing away, James just steps closer. “You're going to love my stuffed tomato recipe,” he says. “I use my own tomatoes. I only make them for my favorite people.”

I don't want to be one of James's favorite people. Not next week. Not ever.

“I'm really looking forward to bonding with you, Franklin,” James adds.

In the end, Tracy saves me. She points to the boxes Mom and James are carrying and then to the tomato plants. “I think all of this is a lot for Franklin right now.”

Chapter Twelve

Tracy is right. Finding out that Mom is moving in with her hairdresser is a lot for me to handle. Maybe that's why I can't concentrate. Tracy is telling me about how she got into playing ukulele. I'm nodding and saying “Uh-huh,” but nothing registers.

When we get to Tracy's house, she punches my shoulder and disappears inside before I can try to kiss her good night. Maybe it's just as well. This doesn't feel like the right kind of night for kissing.

It feels like the right kind of night for starting a fire.

Since we ran into Mom and James, I haven't been able to think of anything else. I fly home on my skateboard picturing that canister in the garage. I can feel its weight and smell the gasoline. It's not that I want to start a fire. I need to.

I'm skating so fast I nearly crash into the garage door.

When I hoist open the door, my eyes land on the canister. I'm breathing quickly now, and my heart is pounding.
Ba-dum
.
Ba-dum
.

It isn't easy to skateboard with a canister of gasoline. It requires good balance. Luckily, I can do it. I can't go as quickly as I want to, but nothing can stop me. The impulse is bigger than me.

My breathing starts to settle down, but my heart is still pounding. I'm already halfway to the old golf course. When I hit a crack in the road, a little gasoline spills on the pavement.

It's dark at the golf course. It's a good thing I grabbed a flashlight from the garage. I wade through the tall grass. There's no grass where I started my last fire. The old shed isn't far. Long ago, when the golf club had lots of members, they came to the shed for drinks and snacks.

The beam of my flashlight lands on the shed, or what's left of it. There's a stone foundation and remnants of the structure. It's basically a lean-to of old gray boards. They will be perfect kindling.

For a second, I think I hear someone humming. But when I strain my ears to hear better, I decide it's a bird. Maybe birds make their nests in the tall grass.

I drop my skateboard and make my way to the shed. It's hard to imagine that fancy people used to hang out here. I wonder where they all are now. Dead, probably.

I hold the canister like I'm watering plants. This reminds me of James and his stupid tomatoes. A drop of gasoline lands on one of my sneakers, and I rub the toe in the dirt to get rid of the oily spot.

It doesn't take long to empty the canister. I'm on autopilot when I reach for my matches. I kick at the old wooden boards to create space between them. Like Dad used to tell me, a good fire needs oxygen.

I can already imagine the
whoosh
this fire will make when it ignites. I'm about to strike the match when I notice something on the ground I didn't see before. It's a dented steel thermos and a blue tin plate. The plate has bits of dried food on it. Someone must have used it not long ago.

A terrible thought crosses my mind. Could this abandoned lean-to be somebody's house?

Bob. This could be where Bob comes to sleep! That thermos and plate might belong to him. And if it isn't Bob's place, it must belong to somebody like him.

I remember my conversation with Tracy.
So Bob'll finally have a roof over
his head.
But this abandoned clubhouse
is
the roof over Bob's head.
Don't you
have a heart, Franklin?
Do I?

When I hear the fire engine's siren, I think I'm dreaming. Why is the fire brigade coming here? I haven't even started the fire. It's as if they knew what I was planning.

I look toward where the sound is coming from. I expect to see the fire engine's red, white and yellow lights burning in the night, but I don't see them.

The fire engine is headed somewhere else.

Someone has set another fire in Montreal West.

Chapter Thirteen

I grab my skateboard and jump on as soon as I reach the road. At first, I follow the siren's wail. The air is warm, but my arms get cold when I see the fire engine's lights and realize how close this fire is to the town center. It's only a block or two from the town hall, where Dad works.

The fire is on Percival Avenue, near the train tracks. As I round the corner, I remember the old clapboard house on Percival. It's had a For Sale sign outside for as long as I can remember, and some of the downstairs windows are smashed.

It's after midnight, but there are a dozen or so people outside. Most are wearing pajamas or bathrobes. They're not paying much attention to the clapboard house, not even when its roof collapses. They're focused on the small red-brick house next door. Flames are licking at one side of it.

“I sure hope the Campbells get out okay,” I hear a woman say.

There's only one oxygen tank left hanging on the side of the fire engine. The firefighters must have taken the others.

Two firefighters emerge from the house, their faces covered with soot. One firefighter, Jeff's friend Terry, is leading Mr. Campbell by the arm. The other firefighter is carrying Mrs. Campbell. The crowd cheers. They take the Campbells over to the ambulance waiting near the front of the house. The paramedics rush out and load the Campbells onto stretchers.