by Patty Blount
A tear dripped to my hand, and it pissed me off because I had to decide if that sucked more than not having a dad at all.
“Which one’s yours?” He signaled and turned onto the street where the Becketts lived.
Foster home number four.
“This one.” I pointed to the two-story with blue shutters. “Thanks for the ride. I’m…God…I’m sorry.”
“Amanda, wait—”
I shut the door before he could say anything else and ran up the walk, already feeling the cold and loneliness settle back in my bones.
***
Safely upstairs in my room, I fell face-first onto the bed, licking my lips.
They still tasted like Reece.
Suddenly, I remembered what he said the other night at the diner, about kisses so hot, so intense, they’d set records. I wanted that kiss like I wanted my next breath. I was so friggin’ jealous of the girl he described, I almost got sick.
And tonight, I was that girl.
Oh God! I smothered a sob with my pillow. What was I gonna do? I couldn’t be with Reece, and now, I couldn’t be without him. Everything was such a fucking mess.
A knock on my door made me bolt upright. I snagged tissues from the box next to my bed and wiped my eyes. “Yeah?”
Mrs. Beckett poked her head inside. “Hey, Amanda, we’re—what’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. Just really tired. It was a hard practice today.”
Frowning, she stepped inside and sat next me on the edge of the bed, holding an envelope. “Did your squad fail?”
“No. No, we won. But Lieutenant Logan didn’t even stick around for the trophy presentation.”
“Oh.” She nodded, like she actually understood a word I was saying.
“It’s not fair. We worked our asses off, and he didn’t even give us a thumbs-up.”
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s not fair. But it is what it is.” She stood up and walked to the door. “We’re going grocery shopping. You can use what’s left of the peanut butter and jelly if you’re hungry.”
Can I? Can I really?
“Thanks.”
“I almost forgot. This came for you today.”
She tossed the envelope to the table next to my bed and shut the door. I shook my head. It is what it is. What the hell does that even mean, and how is it supposed to make me feel better? “Good talk,” I muttered to the closed door.
I tore open the envelope she’d left. It was from the county. My social worker would pick me up Monday directly after school to transport me to the correctional facility upstate for a visit with dear old Mom. I was ordered to make myself available.
It is what it is. I crumpled up the order and pitched it across the room as hard as I could.
Chapter 19
Reece
I know you hate me. Blame me for everything you lost. But I lost more than you did that day. I lost my brother and my dad. He was both of those things to me, because you wouldn’t be one.
I drove all the way home on autopilot, that insanely happy moment with Amanda determined to morph into the cold greasy ball now rolling around inside my stomach.
I shouldn’t have kissed her.
From the moment I saw her at Matt’s funeral, I’d imagined being with her. Holding her. Kissing her. I imagined her being with me. Wanting me.
And then, she’d looked at me with that trademark sneer and called me Matt, and my imagination lapsed into a coma, responding only to the occasional whiffs of sweet lemons and glimpses of her smile. When she’d offered to help me catch up to the rest of the squad, I should have been happy with that. But I wanted more. I wanted all.
And that was always my problem, wasn’t it? Always desperate for the things I didn’t have, envious of the people who had them. That would stop right here, right now. I wasn’t going to cause trouble or make a scene. Amanda deserved better than that from me. I’d suck it up and focus on the job.
Keep my promise to Matt.
I walked up the path to our house, unlocked the door, and found a note from Mom: Gone shopping with Auntie Sue. I knew I wouldn’t see them until the stores closed, so I searched the refrigerator, found a covered dish that turned out to be lasagna, and slid it into the oven. While it heated, I took Tucker out for a quick walk, then sprawled on the sofa with one of the books Bear had found for me, a compilation of fire service stories from guys on the front lines in the NYFD.
It used to piss me way the hell off when Dad, Matt, and my uncle would sit around trading stories, each one more outrageous than the last, because all I could do was listen. I had nothing to add, couldn’t appreciate a word they were saying. I was a spectator, a witness to their bravery. Matt’s gone, Dad’s gone, and Uncle Ray hasn’t been around, so there were no more stories. Strange to say, but I missed that. The house felt like it lost its soul.
Matt was the sun the rest of us orbited.
I tossed the book on the coffee table, took the note out of my pocket, and unfolded it. The words I’d written so far barely lifted the first layer of resentment I carried, but I wouldn’t erase or start over or revise.
It had to be stream of consciousness.
“Promise me, Reece.”
“No! Just hold on. Help’s coming. People are calling 911.”
“Won’t matter. You need to do this, Reece. Promise me.”
“Okay, okay, I promise. Just keep breathing!”
“Can’t. Hurts.”
“Reece?”
I blinked at my mother and tucked the note back in my pocket.
“Smells good in here. You heated the lasagna?”
“Yeah.” I stood and followed her into the kitchen. “How was your day?”
She shrugged and reached for an oven mitt. “Shopping is exhausting.” She slid out the pan, stuck a fork in it, and blew on a piece before popping a bite into her mouth. “Mm. Perfect. Grab some plates?”
I took two from the dishwasher, and a few minutes later, we were digging into hot and spicy lasagna.
Mom peered at me through narrowed eyes. “You’re too quiet. You okay?”
I snorted out a laugh. I didn’t think I’d ever been okay. “Yeah, fine.”
Mom angled her head and finally nodded. We ate in silence for a while.
“How was your fire thing today?”
“Um, good. Our squad won a trophy.”
“That’s great!” She didn’t ask about Dad. She knew the answer, so I figured she didn’t want to beat the dead horse.
“So are you doing anything tomorrow?”
Tomorrow was what, Sunday? “Nope.”
“Fix my bathroom.”
I winced. “Right. Hole patching.”
“And shelf hanging.” She pointed to a box on the counter. “Lots of shopping today.”
Another promise to keep. “Okay, okay, I’ll do it as soon as I wake up.”
“Thank you.” She stood, grabbed both plates, and headed for the sink. “I’m going to shower off my day. Wanna watch a movie?”
A movie with my mother? So not how I pictured spending my evening, but okay. “Great.”
She smacked my arm. “You could try for a little enthusiasm.”
“Sorry.” I grinned at her as she headed upstairs. I picked up the book and read another firsthand account of life in the fire service for New York City—stories that made me itch. I wasn’t sure I could rush into a fire, knowing I might not come out. I wasn’t sure I had what it took to pull charred children from smoldering ash, or to stand shoulder to shoulder with guys like my dad, guys who didn’t give two craps about me, and trust them with my life. But then, the words I was reading started to float off their pages. I swear I could hear Matt’s bravado, Dad’s clipped tone, and Uncle Ray’s city accent. It felt like I’d left the sidelines and jumped into the action. The more I read,
the more I wanted this, wanted to do this, wanted to be this kind of man.
Maybe firefighting really was in the blood.
Uncle Ray always said, It’s not what you do, it’s who you are. As soon as I was seventeen, I could respond to real calls. That was still a ways off, and I had a lot to learn before that would happen. With Amanda and Bear and all the other juniors helping me, I had a real shot at this.
It may have started off as a way to keep my promise to Matt, but it was so much more than that now.
***
The next morning, a text from Bear woke me up. Still too brain-fogged to text back, I called him.
“Hey, Logan! You got plans?”
“Jesus, Bear. It’s like the crack of dawn.” I yawned.
“It’s eight thirty, Logan.”
“You always get up this early on a Sunday?”
“You haven’t met my avó. She drags us all out of bed for chores and food.”
“Your mom?”
“No, my grandma.”
Oh right. Must be Portuguese. I sat up, scratched, stretched, and started over. “So, um, plans. I have to patch a hole in the bathroom wall. Well, I have to head to the store and buy drywall compound first.”
“Oh.” He sounded deflated. “Maybe after, you could help me with my homework again? I aced that bio quiz, thanks to you.”
I squirmed. “Come on, all I did was teach you one mnemonic.”
Bear laughed. “Hey! I can help you fix the wall, and then maybe you can help me study?”
I got of out bed and searched for clean clothes. “You know how to repair drywall?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of big. You know how many holes I’ve put in walls?”
I thought about it for a minute. “Be ready by nine. Text me your address, and I’ll pick you up.”
Still cursing that I was awake before nine on a Sunday morning, I pulled up in front of Bear’s house. He was waiting for me on the porch, wearing denim shorts that reached all the way to his knees and a huge white T-shirt with an American flag. With a wave and a grin, he shuffled down the walk, folded his girth into the front seat of my mom’s car, and grinned.
Bear fastened his seat belt and slunk low in his seat, nodding in time to the song on the radio. We said nothing until we reached the local home center. We roamed up and down aisles and pulled a bucket of wall joint compound from a shelf and then found some sandpaper and drywall screws. Bear led me to the lumber section where we found some plywood furring strips and tossed one into the cart. I paid for the materials, and we were back on the road, only to come to a dead stop at the first intersection, where a minivan had been T-boned by an SUV.
“Turn right or we’ll be stuck here all day.” Bear pointed north to a side street.
I turned, and we were soon out of the traffic, rolling with the windows down through neighborhoods barely awake on a Sunday morning. Sprinklers ticked across lawns, and a few homeowners raked yards or trimmed hedges. The faint acrid odor of smoke wafted into the open windows. Somebody was burning leaves—illegal here.
I continued driving, and when I reached a stop sign, I saw a few people all running the same direction.
“Holy crap, dude. That house is on fire!” Bear pointed to a boarded-up house on a property whose lawn hadn’t been cut in weeks. Smoke drifted out from the top, leaking from windows and the attic ridge. I pulled over, cut the engine, and got out of the car.
“Logan, man, what are you doing? We can’t work a scene. It’s against the rules—especially without gear.”
Impatient, I waved a hand to get him moving his ass. “I know the rules.” Had the damn things memorized, didn’t I? “And I have gear.” I popped the trunk where all of the practice gear from yesterday was still packed. The only problem was the oxygen tank was pretty much drained. “We can’t just leave. What if there’s somebody inside?” I kicked off my shoes and shoved my feet into the boots tucked inside bunker pants.
Bear nodded, took out his phone, and called 911. I took a breath, and my nose wrinkled at the odors. In my mind, I pictured an exact copy of the chapter in my textbook about responding to a structure fire. First, firefighters are supposed to do a size-up, an assessment of the scene, so I did a three-sixty. A crowd had started to form across the street—maybe a dozen people. I looked at the house; it was a standard, vinyl-sided two-story. There was a shed to the side of the house, near the backyard. I hoped it was empty. Fertilizer, gasoline, and other lawn care products presented huge risks to firefighters. I looked for the tallest column of smoke to tell me where the fire’s source was. There were two; I couldn’t tell which one was taller. Smoke was venting along the soffits too. The smoke was light, thin, and looked like it was boiling. That meant it was a fast-moving fire, but I didn’t see flames. The property was boarded up, though many of the boards were loose, allowing smoke to leak.
I grabbed my cell phone, tapped the video button, and panned the lens across the small crowd standing and pointing at the burning home. Choruses of Oh my God! and other prayers floated over the air. Three men ran across the street with pry bars, and I forgot about video recording so I could stop them.
“Stop! If you open that door, you’ll feed the fire. Wait for the crews to arrive.”
“Get out of the way, kid!” A heavy guy wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxers knocked me aside. I chased after him, my throat tightening. Christ, the stench was bad. Melted plastic, something chemical.
“Listen to me. I’m a volunteer with the LVFD. You have to wait for the crews so they can vent the building at the top.”
The heavy guy peered at me and nudged his friend. “Okay. Let’s grab that ladder and get the roof opened.”
Jesus H. Kristofferson on a bike, did this guy have even a single functioning neuron in his brain? I heard sirens and air horns in the distance and knew the crews from LVFD would be here in just a few more minutes. I had to hold him off that long or the crew would be dragging this guy out in a body bag.
“Fire needs oxygen to burn. You have to wait for the hoses. That’s how we do this. Guys on the roof vent the fire, lure it up and away from the entrances. Guys on the ground sneak in with hoses and knock it back. You open that structure, you’ll flood it with fresh fuel.”
The man danced on coiled muscles, itching to be useful, to do something.
“Help me get those hydrants clear.” I pointed to the motorcycle parked in front of the closest hydrant. Down the block and across the street, another hydrant was blocked by a parked car.
With a nod, the man strode off, his friends following. Together, they bodily lifted the motorcycle up and out of the way just as Truck 3 and Engine 21 turned onto the scene, Chief Duffy in his own vehicle right behind them. I didn’t stop to watch what the men did with the car blocking the second hydrant.
“Fire line is right here—get those people back. I want an attack line here.” The chief barked orders into his radio and waved toward the front door. Then he saw me. “Logan. Acosta. What the hell are you two doing here?”
“First on scene, Chief. We called it in,” Bear reported. “Reece kept that big dude from breaking down the door.”
Chief Duffy glanced at the neighbor in his boxer shorts and grunted. “Good job. Okay. Acosta, I want you down there, directing traffic off this block. Logan, you maintain crowd control. Stay put.”
Whoa, he was letting us stay? “Copy, Chief.”
I moved to the street in front of the burning house, spread my arms, and raised my voice. “Everybody, please step back. Keep this street clear for the apparatus and let the crew do their jobs.”
The crowd—now up to about thirty spectators—surged backward. I scanned faces. Everybody looked scared, sickened, and worried, except one kid. He was sending a text message.
Glass broke, and I whipped around. The truck crew already had the roof cut and, firefighte
r Ken Tully had just shoved a Halligan tool through a window on the top floor. The smoke turned dark and rushed to fill the hole. Flames lashed out—orange, red, green, yellow. Jesus, the heat. I felt it from here. The crew spread out—two guys already had the hose stretched, ready for Chief Duffy’s order to attack. Another pair positioned a ground ladder. I tapped the record button on my phone’s camera and shot some more footage. Maybe I could update the station website, since I couldn’t do anything else that was useful. I panned around the fire line, recorded the chaos on one side and precise choreography on the other. The fire shot out another arm from a rear window, and my heart rate kicked into high gear. The heat, God! It was vicious. I stepped back, trying to move the crowd with me, but the smell, holy God, it was worse than the heat.
I watched and recorded, and something scratched at the back of my brain.
This wasn’t right.
I studied the burning house. The flames were wrong. The smoke patterns were wrong. The smells, everything was off. Nothing matched what I’d read.
I spun around and scanned the crowd again. Bear had the traffic direction under control, along with a neighbor who’d decided to help. A police car blocked the street across from Bear. Up and down the block, the crowd of now fifty stood and watched, their expressions horrified.
All except one.
The boy sending the text message.
He didn’t watch the fire. He didn’t watch the crew trying to fight it. He just kept scanning up and down the street.
The textbook said to look for the people who stand out, and hell, did he stand out. He was the only thing at this scene that matched the textbook. He wore clothes at least two sizes too big for him. He looked familiar, but I didn’t know him personally. I pegged him at about twelve, maybe thirteen years old. I doubted the cell phone even belonged to him, because he pressed every letter one at a time with one finger instead of using his thumbs.
I watched him a moment longer. And then, one of our guys emerged from the black smoke. In his arms, he cradled a small bundle. My heart squeezed and stopped—just stopped.
The firefighter removed his helmet and mask. Chuck Avers gently laid his bundle on the grass where Engine 21 was parked. It was a cat. A cat and two kittens, one black and white, the other with gray stripes.