Pyro Read online

  Pyro

  Monique Polak

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2012 Monique Polak

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Polak, Monique

  Pyro [electronic resource] / Monique Polak.

  (Orca currents)

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0230-8 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0231-5 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents

  PS8631.043p97 2012 jC813'.6 C2012-902233-0

  First published in the United States, 2012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938160

  Summary: Franklin has to learn to cope with life’s challenges

  without setting illegal fires.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by Dreamstime.com

  Author photo by Monique Dykstra

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

  For Claudia Lighter,

  who’s smart and sweet, and sometimes

  lets me pretend she’s mine

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  The broadcaster’s voice crackles through the radio. “Thanks for agreeing to speak with us today, Mayor Westcott. I know you’ve been extremely busy dealing with the recent spate of fires in your community. For those listeners who have not been following the story, there have been eight fires this summer in Montreal West. Each one bigger and more dangerous than the last. Tell us, Mayor, what exactly are you doing to apprehend the person or persons responsible for these fires?”

  My dad clears his throat. He does that when he’s nervous. “First, I want to assure everyone that my team and I are doing everything we can to deal with this situation. We’re working closely with the Montreal Fire Department. Our community has one of the best volunteer fire brigades in the country. But I also want to tell you”—Dad stops here to take a breath—“that this situation is serious. Whoever’s been lighting these fires is a heartless monster. I repeat—a heartless monster. A person without any feeling whatsoever for the well-being of others. And we will stop him—or her—or them.

  “I’d like to take this opportunity to urge your listeners to contact us immediately if they notice anything suspicious—anything at all. I also want to urge your listeners to inspect the periphery around their homes to ensure they have not left out any flammable substances, things like paint thinner or gasoline. It’s especially important to check sheds and garages. Any area that’s accessible to an intruder. So far, thank god, no lives have been lost. We want to keep it that way.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. Our thoughts are with you and the people of Montreal West. We wish you luck as you continue your investigation. Why don’t we give listeners the phone number to call if they have anything suspicious to report?”

  I turn off the radio as my dad rattles off the number at city hall.

  I adjust the pillow under my head and think how, if I didn’t know my dad, I’d think Mayor Westcott was pretty together. Only I know better.

  How can my dad catch a criminal when he doesn’t even know what’s going on under his own roof?

  I hear the front door open. The fumes wafting upstairs tell me it’s Mom. She never used to wear perfume or get her hair done so often. “Franklin?” she calls out. “You home, honey?”

  I hate how she calls me “honey.” That’s what she calls him too. The guy she’s been getting it on with. I’ve read the emails. It didn’t take a genius to figure out her password: cupcake. Mom collects stuff with cupcakes on it—cupcake plates, cupcake potholders. If it’s got a cupcake on it, Mom owns it.

  I’ve followed her a couple of times at night too. She says she wants exercise, but I know better. She’s been going for walks so she can phone him.

  “Hey, honey,” I’d heard her say, her voice all sweet and drippy. It was like honey, now that I think about it. “I just wanted to tell you how fun that was yesterday.”

  If Dad were any kind of investigator, he’d be looking at her emails or checking the cell-phone bill.

  The thing with Dad is, he can’t see the signs. The emails. Mom’s sudden interest in after-dinner walks. Two weeks ago was their wedding anniversary. Dad gave her a mushy card from the drugstore. She didn’t give him anything. And Dad didn’t say a word about it.

  She’s coming upstairs now. When she knocks at my door, I don’t bother answering. I want her to think I’m asleep.

  “Franklin? You in there?” she says.

  If I don’t say something now, she’s gonna barge right in.

  “Yeah. I’m resting,” I say.

  “Mind if I come in, honey?”

  She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She just lets herself in and plunks herself down on the end of my bed. I roll over. I don’t want to have to look at her. “How many gardens did you weed today, Franklin?”

  “Eleven. I think.”

  “Good for you. That’s quite a business you’ve got going. I’m proud of you, honey.”

  “Don’t call me honey.”

  “Why ever not, hon—?” She stops herself. “I’m thinking of making meat sauce with sausage.” She knows it’s my favorite. She’s waiting for me to say something, but I don’t.

  “Your cousin Jeff is in town.”

  “He is?” I haven’t seen Jeff since Christmas.

  “I invited him for supper. He’ll be here in half an hour. Want to rest till then?” She leans across the bed. Even though I’m facing away from her, I can feel her stretching out her arms. “How ’bout a little massage, honey?”

  Honey? “Don’t touch me!” I growl.

  “Fine,” Mom says. “You go ahead and rest up. I’m going to get that sauce started.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, Franklin?” Her voice sounds suddenly hopeful.

  “I wish you wouldn’t wear so much of that perfume. It really stinks up the place.”

  Chapter Two

  Mom and Dad sit at opposite ends of the dining-room table. Jeff and I are in between, facing each other. When I was a kid, there was nothing I liked more than hanging out with my big cousin. Jeff is like the big brother I never had. Thinking back on it, he probably thought I was a pain in the butt, following him and his pals around. But if he minded, Jeff never said so.

  I took it hard when Jeff moved to Toronto for university. He was back in Montreal last summer, but this summer he’s working in T
oronto. He’s only home for the weekend.

  “No one makes a better spaghetti sauce than you, Aunt Moira,” Jeff tells Mom when he asks for a second helping.

  Mom beams.

  “Anyone hear me on the radio today?” Dad wants to know. “How’d I sound?”

  “I didn’t know you were going to be on the radio, Ted,” Mom tells him.

  “I mentioned it this morning.” Dad doesn’t seem to get that it’s a bad sign that his own wife didn’t bother listening to the interview.

  “I heard you,” I say to my spaghetti. “You sounded kinda nervous.”

  “I am nervous. We need to catch whoever is starting these fires.” Dad pounds his fist on the table. “Otherwise, I might not get re-elected.”

  “Of course you’ll be re-elected, Ted. Everyone thinks you’re a wonderful mayor.” Mom smiles at Dad across the table. Her smile seems forced.

  Dad wipes his face with his hands as he gets up from the table. “Speaking of getting re-elected, I’d better get a move on. I don’t want to be late for the town council meeting. Sorry not to have more time to catch up, Jeff.”

  “Well, then I guess I’ll go for my walk,” Mom says.

  Honey must be burning up waiting for her phone call.

  About five seconds after Dad leaves, Mom is out the door too. I see her from the dining-room window. She’s already on her cell.

  I’m glad I’ve got Jeff to distract me. And apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Jeff serves himself a double scoop. Maybe he doesn’t get enough to eat in Toronto.

  Jeff rests his elbows on the table. “So what’s up, little cuz?” Jeff has always called me that. At just under five feet, I am little for a fourteen-year-old. I’m sensitive about my height, but I’ve never minded Jeff calling me “little cuz.”

  “Same old same old. How’s it going in TO?”

  “It’s good. Lots of opportunities in my field.” Jeff works in film production. He wants to be a producer. From what he’s told me, his job is mostly picking up takeout food and coffee for people on the set. “Listen, Franklin, I want to ask you something.” Jeff sounds serious. I hope his question doesn’t have anything to do with Mom and Dad. Mom and her brother—Jeff’s dad—are pretty tight. Maybe my Uncle Ron knows about Honey. Maybe Uncle Ron said something to Jeff.

  I take a deep breath. “Fire away.”

  Jeff looks at me funny when I say that. “Fire away,” he says, repeating my words. “You still doin’ crap like that, Franklin?”

  I know exactly what Jeff means. He wants to know if I’m still playing with fire. The way we did when we were kids.

  “Who, me?” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

  “Does that mean no?” Jeff asks.

  “Yeah…I mean no.”

  Jeff takes a big spoon of ice cream. “Tell me, little cuz, that you’re not lighting those fires in Montreal West.”

  “I’m not lighting those fires in Montreal West.”

  Jeff relaxes into his chair.

  I’ve told him what he wants to hear.

  Later, when we’re loading the dishwasher, the subject comes up again.

  “Remember that time we lit the bag of corn chips?” Jeff laughs out loud at the memory.

  “That was crazy. Who knew corn chips were a fire starter?”

  “Correction,” says Jeff. “Who knew the four-portion-size bag of corn chips were a fire starter? Nothing happened when we lit the single portion bag.”

  “Man, that was something!” I say. “Almost as good as when you turned your mom’s can of hairspray into a blowtor—” The memory makes me laugh so hard, I can’t finish my sentence.

  Jeff nudges my arm. “My mom was pretty ticked off when she couldn’t find her hairspray. We had some good times, didn’t we, little cuz?”

  “We sure did. Though you weren’t exactly a good influence.”

  That makes us both start laughing all over again.

  “So what else you doing this weekend?” I ask Jeff.

  “I’m seeing some of the guys I used to hang with. I’m having breakfast tomorrow with Terry. You remember him?”

  “Big guy? Kind of full of himself? Used to call me squirt?”

  “That’s him. Did you know he joined the volunteer fire brigade? He’s aiming to get a job with the Montreal Fire Department. It’s all he talks about. The guy’s obsessed.”

  “Pretty cool!” I say. I don’t tell Jeff what I’m thinking-how his old pal Terry and I have something in common.

  Chapter Three

  Jeff sticks around to check out my new skateboard. “Everything okay around here, little cuz?” he asks when I walk him to the door.

  “Sure.”

  “Your folks seemed a little…well, strange with each other.”

  “Nah, everything’s fine.”

  “Listen,” Jeff says, punching my arm. “If you ever need to talk, you can always call.”

  “Thanks for the offer.”

  I’m sprawled out on the couch, chilling. If it wasn’t July and hot and dry out, I’d build a fire in our old brick fireplace.

  I shouldn’t have told Jeff he was a bad influence. He wasn’t the one who got me hooked on fire. I was hooked way before the corn-chip and spray-can tricks.

  Dad got me hooked. Mr. Mayor himself.

  My first memory of fire has to do with this fireplace. I used to love watching Dad start a fire. Dad is the kind of person who’s always on the go. Even when I was little, he’d head off to one meeting or another. Or he’d be on the phone doing city business. But when Dad made a fire, he was one-hundred-percent present. It was the only time he wasn’t distracted.

  I’d sit right here on the couch (in those days the couch was maroon-now it’s got this kooky cupcake fabric Mom picked out). Dad would be on his knees in front of the fireplace. He’d tell me exactly what he was doing. “First you gotta scrunch up newspaper—like this. You payin’ attention, son?” Dad would show me the balls of newspaper. “If they come undone,” he’d say, “they’re no good.”

  “Can I try?” I used to ask him.

  “Fire’s a powerful thing, Franklin. It creates, but it destroys too. You’re not big enough yet to light fires,” Dad would tell me. “But how ’bout you scrunch up some of that newspaper? Nice and tight, okay?”

  I’d try so hard to get the balls of newspaper right.

  “This one’s a little loose, Franklin. Really scrunch it up.”

  Mom would be on the couch, reading a romance novel. Every once in a while, she’d look up from her book and smile. I think she liked to see us bonding. Dad wasn’t the mayor yet. He was just a city councilor, but already he was away a lot.

  “Next you need to make a teepee with the kindling.” Dad would pile kindling into a small teepee. After that, he’d add some small logs, laying them against the teepee, but not so hard that the teepee would fall over.

  And then…my favorite part. Dad would light a long match, toss it in and slam the glass door of the fireplace shut. I’d press my face against the glass and watch as all that newspaper would burst into a giant blue-and-orange flame. I’d never seen anything more beautiful.

  It wasn’t just the appearance of the fire I loved. It was also the sound. I loved the crackling as the fire spread, especially if the wood was damp. And the smell, the delicious aroma of wood smoke.

  “It’s getting smoky in here,” Mom would complain from the couch. “The smoke detector’s going to go off. And I’m not putting down my book to deal with it.”

  “You and your romances,” Dad would tease her. “You’d let this house go up in flames if you were reading one of those books. Aren’t I romantic enough for you?”

  I remember other fires too. There were the bonfires Dad and Uncle Ron made when our families rented a cottage together in the Laurentians. Sometimes, usually after they’d put away a couple of beers, Dad and Uncle Ron would let us use bulrushes to light the bonfire. Man, that was fun! Nothing beats a flaming bulrush!

  Mom and Aunt Lena would pack
potatoes and corn in tinfoil, and we’d roast them over the fire pit. Jeff and I would spend the whole day hunting for just the right twigs for roasting marshmallows. They had to be long but not so thin our marshmallows might fall off and disappear into the flames. To this day, nothing tastes better to me than roasted potatoes and corn, or a marshmallow charred black on the outside, hot and gooey inside.

  Mom says when I was little, I spent hours watching the fire in our fireplace or in those fire pits. She says it used to relax me.

  The funny thing is, it still does.

  I’m surprised when Dad’s truck pulls into the driveway. What’s he doing back so soon?

  “Hey, Franklin,” he says when he sees me on the couch. “The meeting broke up early. Where’s your mom?”

  “Still out walking, I guess.”

  Dad sighs. “She’s been taking an awful lot of walks lately, hasn’t she?”

  For the first time, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—Dad isn’t as out of it as he seems.

  Chapter Four

  I was right about Dad.

  I’m upstairs when Mom gets in. It is nearly 9:30 by then. The argument starts almost instantly. Then it builds in intensity the way some fires do.

  “What the heck’s been going on, Moira?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought you had a council meeting.”

  “Don’t go changing the subject. Moira, you’ve gotta level with me. There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

  I try putting my pillow over my head, but they’re too loud. Besides, part of me wants to hear what she’s going to say.

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  “What’s this about, then?” I can’t tell from Dad’s voice if he’s angry or sad.

  “We’ve grown apart,” Mom tells him. “That’s what this is about.” She’s using the voice she used with me when I was little and I skinned my knee. The I-can-make-it-all-better voice. Only she can’t make this better.

  “No, that’s not wh…what this is about,” Dad sputters. “This is about you, Moira. It’s about you cheating on us.”