Free Pyro by Monique Polak Page B

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.
    â€œWho, me?” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
    â€œDoes that mean no?” Jeff asks.
    â€œYeah…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.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œRemember that time we lit the bag of corn chips?” Jeff laughs out loud at the memory.
    â€œThat was crazy. Who knew corn chips were a fire starter?”
    â€œCorrection,” 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.”
    â€œMan, 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?”
    â€œWe sure did. Though you weren’t exactly a good influence.”
    That makes us both start laughing all over again.
    â€œSo what else you doing this weekend?” I ask Jeff.
    â€œI’m seeing some of the guys I used to hang with. I’m having breakfast tomorrow with Terry. You remember him?”
    â€œBig guy? Kind of full of himself? Used to call me squirt?”
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œPretty 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.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œYour folks seemed a little…well, strange with each other.”
    â€œNah, everything’s fine.”
    â€œListen,” Jeff says, punching my arm. “If you ever need to talk, you can always call.”
    â€œThanks 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,”