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  When Dad says us, I know he means me too. I wonder if Dad’s right. Has Mom been cheating on me? Is that how it works when you have a kid?

  Mom doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t say she hasn’t been cheating, or that this is a terrible misunderstanding. That she’d never cheat on us.

  I wish she’d say something, because her silence is only getting Dad more worked up. “You know what you are, Moira? You know what you are? You’re rotten to the core!”

  I sit up in my bed when he says that. It’s occurred to me lately that my mom might not have the best character, but rotten to the core is going too far.

  You’d think Mom would object, but she doesn’t. Maybe she thinks it’s true.

  One of them is crying now. It could be Dad, but I can’t tell for sure. I’ve never heard him cry before—not even when Grandpa died two years ago.

  “I’ll leave,” Mom says. “If that’s what you want.”

  I hear gulping. It is Dad who’s been crying. Now his voice is hard as steel. “You will not leave, Moira. Not until after the election. What would people think if the mayor’s wife—?”

  Now Mom does something I wouldn’t expect from her. She laughs. “What would people think?” she says in a decent imitation of Dad. “Don’t you see that’s what’s wrong around here? If you cared more about the people you live with—about me and Franklin—I might not have fallen in love with someone else.”

  My chest hurts when she says that.

  “And, by the way, I’m not just the mayor’s wife. I’m my own person. Which is something else you’ve lost sight of, Mr. Mayor.”

  Now Dad is howling like some half-dead animal. I want to tell him to stop. I want to tell him she’s not worth it. But I can’t bear the idea of seeing the two of them right now. And I definitely can’t listen to any more of this crap.

  I need to get out of here. I need to forget everything I just heard. I grab my black hoodie and head for the back stairs. Dad’s howling is louder when I reach the ground floor. Mom is telling him something in that make-it-all-better voice, but I won’t listen anymore.

  In my head, I’m thinking la la la, la la la. Really loud. Get me out of here. Now.

  I push open the back door and take a deep gulp of summer air. That helps. It’s as if I couldn’t breathe inside. I’ve never heard Mom and Dad fight like that. Usually they let things smolder. Maybe this is what happens if the smoldering goes on too long.

  The crickets are singing. I could go over to Jeff’s, but then I’d have to tell him what’s going on.

  No, I’ll keep walking till my head clears. I’ll try to relax.

  Who am I kidding? There’s only one thing that’ll help me relax—and it isn’t a walk.

  There are hardly any lights on inside the houses I pass. Montreal West isn’t exactly full of night owls. So many of the people who live here are old. I’m getting close to Elizabeth Ballantyne, my old elementary school. I spot a metal trash can at the edge of the schoolyard. Perfect.

  The wind picks up, carrying with it some brochures someone dropped. I reach out and catch them. It’s as if the wind wants in on my plan. Wind and fire make a powerful pair.

  I reach into the front pocket of my jeans for matches.

  Though the only light is the pale yellow from the streetlamp, I can see there’s stuff inside the trash can. Cigarette packets, more brochures, plastic water bottles. I scrunch up the brochures the wind brought me. Just like Dad showed me.

  Then I light a match—oh, that feels good—and toss it into the trash can. I take two steps back without lifting my eyes from the trash can.

  There’s a whoosh as the fire starts, then crackling as it spreads inside the trash can.

  A light goes on in the back room of one of the houses that borders the school property. It’s time for me to get out of here.

  I shuffle sideways, keeping my back to the wire fence that surrounds the schoolyard. I keep away from the streetlamps.

  I don’t go far. Fire starters never do. We don’t want to miss the show.

  Smoke billows from the top of the trash can now, but no flames.

  I hear the sharp whine of the fire engine’s siren in the distance. Whoever spotted me must have phoned 9-1-1.

  The volunteer fire brigade will be wasting its time. This fire is going to put itself out.

  Not all of them do.

  Chapter Five

  When I get home, the lights are out. Dad’s truck and Mom’s car are both in the driveway. Could they have sorted things out?

  But I know nothing’s been sorted out when I take the back stairs and hear Mom whispering in the living room. She’s on her cell phone, probably filling Honey in on the latest developments.

  Upstairs, Dad is in their bedroom, also on the phone. I can hear him bellowing from the hallway. He must be talking to the volunteer fire chief. I hear him say, “You’re sure, then, that everything’s okay out there? No damage? What about clues? Did you scour the area for clues? Hmm, that’s interesting. All right, then, let me know if you need me. Call at any hour.”

  For a man whose wife has been getting it on with some other guy, Dad sounds pretty good.

  Somehow, I managed to fall asleep and stay asleep till morning. When I first wake up, I don’t remember how screwed up my life is. The sun is coming through my blinds, making stripes on the bedspread. It’s Sunday. I have no gardens to weed.

  Then I hear shuffling noises coming from the hallway where the big closet is. There’s a loud clunk, and Mom says, “Oops.” Now I hear her dragging what has to be her suitcase out of the closet.

  I consider staying in bed and never getting up again. But I have to pee. Badly.

  I walk right past her. I keep my head down so I don’t have to make eye contact.

  “Franklin, honey,” she says, but I keep walking. “We need to talk.”

  “I need to pee,” I mutter.

  “Then afterward.”

  When I leave the bathroom, she’s standing in the middle of the hallway, blocking my way. She’s got one hand on her suitcase. “I’m leaving, Franklin,” she says, as if it’s not a big deal. “It’s just temporary. Till your dad and I can work things out.”

  I know that isn’t true. Not with Honey in the picture.

  “Okay,” I tell her.

  Mom’s eyes are red-rimmed, like a rabbit’s. Maybe she’s been crying all night. If she has, I don’t feel sorry for her. She’s the one who’s leaving.

  Dad is in the kitchen, toasting himself a slice of whole-wheat bread the way he does every morning. “Morning, son,” he says, as if nothing’s wrong. As if his wife isn’t upstairs packing her suitcase.

  “Morning, Dad. Was there another fire last night? I thought I heard the fire engine out there…when I was, er, dozing off.”

  Dad catches his toast in midair as it pops out of the toaster. “Yeah,” he says, without looking at me, “there was another fire. This was small bones though. Trash can fire in the schoolyard at Elizabeth Ballantyne. Good news is a lady who lives nearby got pictures of the punk who did it.” Dad rubs his hands together. “First big lead in the case.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “That’s good.”

  I can hear Mom upstairs opening and closing her dresser drawers. Dad doesn’t say anything about Mom leaving. “If we can catch this wack-job before the election, it’d be good news for me.” Dad rubs his hands together again.

  Mom must be done packing, because now I hear her suitcase thumping down the stairs.

  A minute later, she is standing at the kitchen door. Her eyes look even redder than before. “I’m sorry,” she says, looking first at me, then at Dad. “Really I am. I just don’t see another way. Franklin, I’ll phone you later. We’ll get together for supper sometime this week, okay?”

  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 o
ne 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 i
t’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.