Pyro (3 page)

I shrug my shoulders.

“Well, then, I guess I'll be go…ing.” I don't care that her voice cracks.

Dad is standing by the kitchen counter, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but otherwise not moving.

He should do something. He should tell her she can't go, that she has a responsibility to us. But all he does is stare at his toast like some zombie.

Mom must be halfway down the block when he finally speaks. And what he says has nothing to do with her. “I don't want you to miss Sunday school again today, Franklin.”

“Sunday school?” I shouldn't be shouting, but I can't believe this. Mom is moving out, and that's all Dad has to say? And why is he talking to me like I'm ten years old? I haven't gone to Sunday school in three years!

“Things have got to change around here, Franklin.” Dad sounds old and tired. I really don't want to go to Sunday school. But there's something I want to do even less—and that's stay home with Mr. Mayor.

“All right. I'll go.”

I expect Dad to tell me to change out of my baggy T-shirt, but he doesn't. He also says nothing when I leave the house with my skateboard. Maybe he's just relieved I haven't put up more of a fight about Sunday school. Or maybe he's too miserable to notice.

Mrs. Ledoux, who's married to Father Ledoux, runs Sunday school. Even in summer, she has these rosy cheeks that make her look like she just got in from tobogganing. “Franklin,” she says, when she spots me. “What a pleasure to see you this morning, dear. Perhaps I can fill you in on what you've missed the last few Sundays.”

I don't point out the obvious—that three years' worth of Sundays add up to more than a few.

“We're preparing for a talent show. It's a fundraiser for our sister church in Kenya. Have you got a talent, Franklin, that you'd like to share with others?”

Mrs. Ledoux's question actually makes me laugh out loud. What I'm thinking is my only talents are skateboarding—and lighting fires.

I nearly jump when Mrs. Ledoux asks, “How would you like to work on the
lighting
, Franklin?”

Chapter Six

Working on the lighting isn't exactly work. There are only two sets of lights to operate-the ceiling lights and one wobbly old spotlight.

I've got the spotlight on this girl, Tracy. I haven't seen her around, so she must have just moved here, or she goes to one of those snooty girls' schools downtown.

Tracy plays the ukulele. It's a dorky-looking instrument (it looks like a Fisher-Price guitar). It doesn't help that the ukulele is hot pink. Though I have to admit it makes okay music. Tracy doesn't have a bad voice either. She's singing that old Beatles song “Let It Be
.
”

At least she
was
singing it. Because she suddenly stops—smack in the middle of a line.

Mrs. Ledoux rushes over. “Is something wrong, dear?”

“Uh…uh,” she says.

Mrs. Ledoux pets Tracy's head as if she's a small dog. Then Mrs. Ledoux claps her hands. “We're going to take a short break. Why don't the rest of you get some fresh air?”

I'm not in the mood for fresh air. Besides, I was just getting comfortable on my stool behind stage.

“Was it stage fright?” I hear Mrs. Ledoux ask Tracy.

Tracy doesn't answer; she just sniffles. Now I'm regretting not getting that fresh air.

“I like the sound of your ukulele,” Mrs. Ledoux is saying. “And you have a wonderful voice, dear. But if it's too much for you to be on stage, we can find another way for you to contribute to the talent show.”

“I…I'd rather not give up,” Tracy says, but then she starts sniffling again. “I just get really nervous when everyone's looking at me.”

“It sounds like stage fright,” Mrs. Ledoux tells her. “You know, the only way to deal with it is to get right back on stage and try again. But you might prefer to wait till next Sunday. Give yourself some time.”

Tracy sucks in her breath. “No, I'd like to try again today.”

Later, when Tracy starts strumming that pink ukulele and singing “Let It Be” again, I direct the spotlight so it's not right on her face. Even so, Tracy freezes all over again. This time, some kids snicker. And then Tracy goes running out of the church basement.

“I need a volunteer to go after her,” Mrs. Ledoux says. “I'd go myself, but I can't leave the rest of you.”

No one volunteers.

“Franklin!” I can't believe Mrs. Ledoux is calling my name. This must be her way of punishing me for missing three years of Sunday school.

I think about saying I won't go. But Mrs. Ledoux is not the sort of person who takes no for an answer. So I get up from my stool.

I've never been good with feelings. Maybe it's in my genes. I mean, look at my dad.

Anyway, when I spot Tracy by the bike rack behind the church, I don't know what to do or say. She's unlocking her bike, and for a minute I think about waiting till she's gone. I can tell Mrs. Ledoux I looked everywhere, but there was no sign of Tracy.

But Tracy spots me. “If you're here to tell me to come back in, I'm not going!” She's got her hands on her hips, and you'd think from her tone that it's my fault she got stage fright.

“I didn't come here to tell you anything,” I say.

“So why are you here, then?”

Because I don't know what else to say, I tell her, “That ukulele is the dorkiest instrument I ever saw.”

Tracy has wavy hair the color of fire. When she laughs, she looks, well, pretty.

“But you have an okay voice,” I say. “And that dorky thing makes decent music.”

Tracy straps her ukulele case (it's pink too) onto the back of her bike, but she doesn't get on. She looks at me, which makes
me
feel like running away. “I never saw you here before. What are you?” she finally says. “A Sunday school dropout?”

“I guess. My dad made me go today. My mom moved out this morning.” I don't know why I'm telling her this. I wish I could take back the part about my mom, but it's too late.

“That sucks,” Tracy says. “It makes stage fright seem not so bad. Look, I gotta go. I'll see you next Sunday, okay?” She pats her ukulele case. “Good luck with the mom thing.”

The last thing I feel like doing is going back to the church basement and reporting to Mrs. Ledoux, so I take off on my skateboard. I half expect to see Tracy, but I don't. Moving helps take my mind off my mom and what I told Tracy.

There's hardly any traffic on Sunday morning, so it doesn't take me long to reach the northwest edge of town. It borders on an old golf course. People have been fighting over this strip of land since before I was born. Some old-timers want to bring back the golf course. A group of businesspeople wants to build condos, and some environmentalists want to turn the area into a park. The three groups are so busy bickering that the land has been sitting stagnant for ages.

No one pays attention to the giant sign that says
No Trespassing
. In winter, cross-country skiers and snowshoers come here for exercise. This time of year, the land is covered with tall yellow and green grasses that scratch your legs. Sometimes there are other kids out here, but today the whole place is mine.

I stretch my arms and take a deep breath of the air, which feels softer than the air in town. It's nice and dry out, perfect weather for what I'm about to do.

I've read online about how farmers set grass fires on purpose. They burn fields that are depleted. It's a way to enrich the soil. The farmers destroy a field to help bring it back to life. Maybe someday I should get my own farm.

I've got a nice fat wad of lint in my back pocket. I'm the one in our family who takes the clothes from the dryer and folds them. Mom always reminds me to empty the lint catcher. “Some of the worst house fires start because people let the lint collect,” she'll say. I guess now she won't be around to remind me.

Once Mom mentioned lint fires, I started collecting the stuff. And she was right. Lint is an amazing fire starter. It's better than twigs because it's more compact and easier to stash.

I take the lint from my pocket and fluff it with my fingers, since it's gotten squished. It smells like home, like our laundry room in the basement. Suddenly, I get a wave of…of…I don't know what. Some bad uncomfortable feeling. I need to make that feeling go away.

I know what I'm about to do will help, because the feeling I get when I start a fire makes everything else go away.

There's not a cloud in the sky. My breath quickens as I fish the matches out of my other pocket. I strike the match. Even that first small spark—the sight of it, the familiar sulphur smell—gives me a rush.

When I light the wad of lint, it catches instantly. I toss it as far as I can into the tall grass. I watch as it sails through the air like a flaming bird and then disappears into the grass.

At first, I don't see anything. But I smell the sweet scent of burning grass. Then, a minute or two later, I see the first small plume of pale gray smoke. I watch as it thickens and gets blacker.

I'm like a farmer enriching the soil. No one ever gets hurt from the fires I've set, unless you count me burning my fingertips. But that was back when I didn't know anything.

The fire spreads quickly. There's smoke and flames that are at least a foot taller than the grass. Orange-yellow flames stand out against the blue sky. The smoke makes soft gray clouds. If I were a painter, I'd paint this scene.

Sometimes I wonder about that other guy. The other fire starter.

Does he ever feel like a painter too?

Chapter Seven

I get another rush when I hear the fire engine's siren and a bigger rush when the gleaming red-and-silver truck screeches up to the old golf course. Look at what I've done! Me, Franklin Westcott! So what if I'm not big or built like a fire truck? Little guys can make big things happen too. We've just got to use our brains—and our imaginations.

To anyone who sees me now, I could be any kid out on my skateboard on a Sunday afternoon. In fact, a dozen or so other kids have come over on their skateboards or bikes, drawn by the fire engine's siren or the sharp smell of smoke. There's an old couple too. They were probably out taking a walk when they heard the fire engine. And there's Bob, this toothless guy who spends his days walking up and down the streets of Montreal West. He looks through people's trash for empty bottles to cash in at the grocery store. No one can resist a fire.

Most of the guys on the volunteer brigade are my dad's age or older, but there are some younger ones too. One is standing at the back of the truck, rubbing his eyes. Maybe he was sleeping in when his beeper went off. I know from Dad that that's how it works—every volunteer has to carry a beeper with him at all times.

There's Jeff's friend, Terry. He is a big guy with a shaved head and tattoos up his neck. He's first off the truck. When he lands on the ground, I see him look around. I know he wants people to notice him. He must think he's Russell Crowe in that old movie
Gladiator.
He doesn't bother looking at me. To a guy like Terry, I'm invisible. Terry uses his hand for a visor and looks out at the grass. “This one's spreading quick!” he calls to the others. “But we've seen worse! 'Member that grass fire last year?”

Mr. Duffy, an older man who owns the hardware store on Westminster Avenue, is the chief of the volunteer fire brigade. I'm used to seeing him in a white apron—usually with a screw dangling between his lips. It's always strange to see him in his fire-resistant suit, big black helmet and rubber boots.

“All right, boys,” he tells the others, his voice tense. “Let's go get her. Folks,” he calls out to those of us who have gathered near the fire truck, “out of our way, please. You need to let us do our work here.”

People step back, but they don't lift their eyes from the fire.

The others have jumped off the truck too. When the driver engages the pump, it makes a whirring sound. The volunteers pull out the giant gray hose line that's stored on the side of the truck. Terry is at the front, his face red and dripping with sweat.

“Do you suppose it was that maniac again?” I hear the old lady ask her husband.

“Could be,” he says. “On the other hand, it could've been an accident. Someone might've simply dropped a cigarette butt out there.”

“I don't think a cigarette butt could make a fire like this,” I can't resist saying.

The man looks me up and down. Is he wondering whether I could be the maniac? But then he gives me a friendly smile. “You're probably right, young man.”

“We should get home,” his wife says. “The smoke is hurting my eyes.”

“Just a little longer,” the man tells her.

She nudges him. “You might be seventy, Stanley, but inside, you're still a kid.”

Terry is barking orders at the other volunteers. You'd think he was in charge, not Mr. Duffy. “Over here, now! I said now!”

My dad's truck pulls up behind the fire engine. He rushes out of his truck and toward the fire. One of the volunteers holds out his hand to block Dad's way. “You need to stay away and let us do our job.”

“I'm the mayor.”

“It doesn't matter who you are. Back off—for your own safety!”

Dad stomps over to where the rest of us are standing.

“Hey, Franklin,” Dad says when he notices me in the small crowd. “Weren't you supposed to be at Sunday school?”

“I was there. I'm working on the talent show. It's a fundraiser for a sister church in…”

Dad is hardly listening. Like everyone else's, his eyes are glued to the fire. Most of the flames are already swallowed up by the water, but there's still smoke hanging in the air.

“Looks like the squad's got this under control,” Dad says. “It's a good thing this didn't happen near the old clubhouse. The only damage seems to be to the grass. Mind you, it's a big patch.”