Rush (9 page)

“You're asking me what
I
want?”

“You could do something good for this town,” he continues. “And for me.”

I look off toward the window and whisper, “I'm not Scottie.”

“No, you're not.”

“And Mox made it clear he doesn't want to see me.”

“True again. But what else do you have?” Dad leans forward. “Here's the deal. You're still under my roof.” He raises his hand and lifts two fingers. “I'm giving you two choices for the rest of the year. Work at the mill.” He looks out the window. “Heck, you can have Julia's job. Or get your fire training and prove to Mox and Brockton that he's pegged you wrong.”

I stare back. “Has he?” Dad leans back slowly, and I continue. “I'm sure cutting brush was a thrill for you, but it takes a lot more for me.”

“I know.” He pushes back from the desk and stands. “So now, tragically, there's an opening on Mox's team for a rappeller. I thought dropping out of a helicopter might suit. I did make some calls. I did open the door for you. Richardson is willing to consider it. Do you want it?” Dad lowers his gaze and smiles. It's a strange grin. I-know-something and I'd-be-proud all wrapped up together.

“You're giving me a choice?” I run both hands through my hair. “You could really get me in? Even over Mox?”

He shrugs. “Possible.” Dad walks toward the door, yawns and stretches. “Thought I'd let you know.” He starts to whistle and walks out of the room. Slimy trickster. He knows he has me.

 

I BURST INTO THE BROCKTON
Library, race up to Ethel at the info desk. She smacks her gum and checks bright red nails and gabs about the spa on her cell.

A minute of finger drumming later, she peeks at me and tongues the inside of her cheek.

“Just one minute, Frances.” She covers the mouthpiece and raises both eyebrows.

“I need to talk to—”

“Conference room two.” She leans forward and slaps her hand on mine. “I didn't tell you.”

“Thanks!” I cruise past her, around the corner, and throw open the door.

“You'll never guess what just opened up for—”

Salome stands; six others don't look too pleased.

Mr. Keating, advisor to the school paper, lowers his head and adjusts his glasses on their perch on the tip of his nose. “Another accident, I presume.”

I nod and peek at Salome. My grin even feels goofy. “You're a good presumer.”

Chris Rollins, a hyperactive junior, grabs his pen and starts scribbling my quote on his pad.

Mr. K. rolls his eyes, taps his watch and sighs. “Two minutes, Salome.”

She hurries out, shuts the door behind her. “You better have a good one. ‘Evolution Debunked!' or ‘Brockton High Attacked by Killer Bees' or—”

“How about, ‘Town Idiot Gets Shot at Redemption from Most Unlikely Source.'”

She scrunches her nose. “I like it. Punchy. And the subtitle?”

“‘Jake Finally Comes to His Senses.'”

Salome stares at me and bites her lip gently. “I'll read on. Killer lead?”

I scratch my head. “Let's see. For too many years, Jake King, aka idiot, has fought against the undeniable, ignoring what stood right in front of him.”

Salome lowers her pad. “If you're making this up, Jake, you stop right here.”

“Take it to the press. I'll even give you another source so you can check my story. Dad.”

“You told your dad how you feel?” Her eyes grow big, sparkle like they haven't in months.

“Come to think of it, he's probably been onto this story a long time.”

The door opens behind her and Mr. K. pops his head out. “We need you back in here. We're discussing your prom-styles piece.”

“Working on it right now,” she says, pushes the door shut with her foot.

She puts her arms on my shoulders and steps way close. “Read me the last paragraph. Read it slow, and read it clear.”

I grab her waist and watch her eyes twinkle. She's so pumped for me.

“I've settled it in here.” I point to my head. “I belong on Mox's rappelling crew.”

ROCKFORD
. Three hundred miles due north. Five hours to fed headquarters.

It's plenty of time to think over my talk with Salome three days previous. I replay the interchange over and over. Her excitement. Her twinkle. Our embrace.

Her slap across my cheek before she silently exited the library.

Of course, she hates this: she already thinks Mox stole her brother. But I'm not like Drew. He was great, but I'm not like him. I'm not cautious or calculated, and I'm not fighting fire because it's noble.

I need it to live.

I reach Rockford. I've been driving since five A.M., and I'm beat. They could have rejected me on the phone, but Chief Richardson wouldn't say anything, so I still have a glint of hope.

I park my Beetle, step out into California heat, and rub my eyes. I sigh and walk across the brown front lawn in front of the administration building.

I push inside and glance around. Pictures of blazes taken from inside the infernos blanket the walls. Each photo holds a hero, a firefighter midyell, racing toward a nightmare that everyone else flees. And as I stand, my jaw tightens and I straighten. I want this like I can't remember wanting anything else. That's me in those pictures. It needs to be me.

I turn toward the lobby and the four reclining men who own it. They joke and laugh like we're at a comedy club. Mox reclines on the end, quiets when he sees me. They size me up, and I hate it.

Mox is the leader of this group, I know that much. He stares at me from within his brown jacket.

I peer at him and watch his face change. It hardens. Laughter turns to rage in moments. It's like Mr. Ramirez turning from Salome to me. He hates me.

“Richardson's through that door.” Mox nods. “You're late.”

I frown, then turn and knock firmly.

From inside, a cheery voice. “It's open.”

I enter slowly. Three men seated at a round table. One empty chair.

“Sit down, Jake.” Richardson leans back, folds his arms across his tremendous gut.

I nod and take a seat.

All three men slip rubber bands off thick manila folders. “We want you, Jake,” Richardson continues, opens the first page, and sighs. “But I'll be straight. We don't want you
now
. You have no business on a hotshot helirappeling crew. With no experience, you'd be nothing but a liability.”

I think of the photo gallery in the lobby, and my gut sinks. I don't get it. “So that's it.” I push back from the desk.

“Hold on, kid. Hank made quite a case. I thought I'd at least take a look at where you might belong. Here's what I found. Let's see.” He adjusts his rims. “Willful property destruction, reckless endangerment . . .” He glances at the others. “There's an irony for you, gentlemen.” He clears his throat. “Where was I? Let's see, reckless endangerment, theft—” Richardson flips through several more papers. “Shoot, none of this makes us blink. We have whole inmate firefighting crews.”

“So you
do
want me?”

“Wanting and accepting are different matters. Let me ask you, do you want to be a rappeller?”

“Yeah.” I rub my face. “Bad.”

Chief Richardson leans back, and his chair creaks. “I won't lie to you. I owe your father more favors than I've got fingers. He's been pushing hard for me to waive your two-year fighting-experience prerequisite.” He exhales long and loud. “That's pushing the bounds of sanity. You'll hold men's lives in your hands.

“But Hank's put me in a spot. He wants you with Mox, who I think would rather jam his hand in a hornets' nest.”

I nod.

“I've called you up to say I will push this through, based on your next few months of training performance and whether you can satisfy one of our concerns.”

“Just one?” I crane my neck to see his folder.

Richardson reads something, lets out a loud blast of air, taps his own head. “In here.” He slams the folder shut. “I got a list a mile long of crazy stunts you've pulled. Firing bottle rockets off the top of your school.” He smiles and wags his head. “In kindergarten? Geez, Jake.”

I bite my lip. “Can I see that list?”

“We don't care about that. But we can't send you out if the mind's not right.”

I shift in my chair.

“The fighter on your stick will put his life in your green hands.” The thin man with the thin frames massages the divot on his nose. “Your brother only lasted in Brockton two weeks. Good thing, too. It was a good thing he snapped off-season. There's no place out there to make this personal.”

I breathe deep.

“And there's this other matter of what you've described as a ‘brain cloud.'” Richardson looks worried. “Have you ever thought of suicide?”

I force my hand through my hair. I haven't talked to Dad about the fogginess for years. “Where did you get all this—”

“What's a brain cloud, Jake?”

It breaks. All my posturing breaks, and my body goes limp. I slump down in my chair. “It's like a confusion, you know? It's on me most all the time. One big brain fog. And I think, why am I here?”

I peek up. They look at one another.

“Except when I'm pumped up. Like when I'm climbing or free-falling—Salome says I'm an adrenaline junkie.” I chuckle. “She knows me better than anyone.”

I want to see her. Now. But I have to finish. “When that burst of adrenaline comes, the cloud goes, and I feel alive. I'm totally here, right? I focus and feel normal, and that's one reason why this job is perfect for me.”

I need Salome. She always bursts in and makes it right, makes me right. She's been doing that since elementary school. I close my eyes and remember.

My eyelids flutter open. She's not here, and I stare down at the table and listen to the buzz of fluorescent lights. After they deny me, I have nowhere to go. Finally, Richardson clears his throat.

“Where's this Salome?”

“Now? Brockton. Mid-Cal State in June.”

“Does she matter to you, son?”

I exhale long and loud and stare at ceiling tiles.

“Good. Never had a problem with a man who cares for a woman.” All three of them rise. “Welcome to training, Jake.” Chief hikes up his pants. “You survive it, and we'll talk about a probationary period on Mox's crew.”

I frown. “It's just a few weeks of helicopter stuff and a couple push-ups, right?”

Richardson clears his throat. “Maybe in Brockton. That would be the rappeller training you'd get. But you're not training in Brockton. You'll be in Herndon.”

“Herndon? That's a smoke-jumping base.”

“Yes, and I've told them to push you as hard as they can through the two-month ordeal. If you survive that, I'll feel much better about this little arrangement. Wait here.” Richardson slaps my back. “I'll ask Mox to come in.”

They leave, and I slump down into my chair, a mile-long grin on my face.

Ten minutes later, I pace the room. Finally, Mox slips in. He closes the door and flicks off the light. The pale red glow from the exit sign does little, and we stare into darkness.