I put the canister away in the garage. I get so busy thinking about Tracy, I lose track of my fire-starting plan. But I know I’ll get the urge again. I always do. And next time, I’ll be ready.
From outside, I can see the gray light from our TV. I let myself in and take a pee in the downstairs bathroom. I check out my reflection in the mirror. My hair does look like I burned it. One part of my bangs looks wispy, like it was cut with sewing shears. I use the nail scissors by the sink to even up my hair. It’s lucky no one else noticed. Not even Mom or Dad—or James.
I wonder if Tracy would ever kiss a guy like me. I might not be tall, but I’m no monster. Then I remember how Tracy asked if I had a heart. That is probably not the best sign. Girls want to kiss guys who have hearts. Guys like James.
When I get back to the Petro-Can, Tracy is waiting at the door, her ukulele case tucked under her arm. She smells like gasoline, but I don’t mention it. I figure it’s not the kind of thing a guy should tell a girl he’s interested in.
“Everything go okay with your dad’s truck?” Tracy asks.
“It’s all good.”
I carry my skateboard so I can walk next to Tracy. Tomorrow is recycling day. Some of the green boxes take up half the sidewalk, overflowing with newspapers and bottles. It’s the kind of thing that would usually bug me. Tonight it doesn’t, because it means I get to walk closer to Tracy, so close that sometimes our elbows touch. Tracy could pull back when that happens, but she doesn’t.
“It’s nice that you came all the way back to walk with me,” Tracy says.
“No problem. A girl shouldn’t be walking alone on St. Jacques Street this time of night.”
“Maybe you do have a heart.”
I can feel myself smiling in the darkness. “Maybe I do.”
“What you said about Bob wasn’t nice.”
I guess Tracy isn’t the type to let things slide. “I was just joking around.”
“It still wasn’t nice.”
I don’t know if I’m supposed to apologize, so I don’t. We walk for a bit without saying anything. It’s not the bad kind of quiet that makes the air heavy and tense, the kind I got used to in our house. This is the kind of quiet that lets you appreciate the sound of the crickets and the shuffle of your footsteps on the sidewalk.
“How’re things going at your house?” Tracy asks.
My shoulders tense. “Okay, I guess.”
Tracy doesn’t let this topic slide either. “It must be hard.”
“It is kinda hard.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Uh-huh.” I feel this awful lump in my throat. I swallow hard to make it go away. “I’d rather not talk about it. If you don’t mind.”
“Sure thing. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Tracy lives just past the “hump,” a steep section of Westminster Avenue near the northern edge of town. On our way, we pass a row of red brick low-rise apartments. Most of the balconies have flower boxes. One even has potted tomato plants.
At first, when I hear Mom’s laugh, I’m not sure where it’s coming from. Maybe I’m imagining it. I hear the laugh again and realize it’s coming from the parking lot beside the apartments.
I think about crossing to the other side of the street. But it’s too late. Mom, who is carrying a box in her arms, has spotted me.
What’s surprising is the weird look on her face. She looks like she wishes she’d crossed the street too. “Fr—Franklin,” she says. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Oh, I see you’re with a friend.” Mom rests the cardboard box against her belly so she can shake Tracy’s hand.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Westcott,” Tracy says.
Now someone else appears out of the shadows. It’s James. He’s carrying another box. Mom’s car keys are hanging from his lips. I recognize the cupcake keychain.
“Hey, Franklin!” James says. “Nice to see you hanging out with a lady. Cute one too!”
I want to throttle James. Right now.
But Tracy’s not embarrassed. “I’m Tracy,” she says, which reminds me that I should have introduced her. “I work at the Petro-Can. Franklin offered to walk me home.”
Now James does something worse. He winks! Then he says, “Our Franklin’s quite the charmer.”
“I’m not your Franklin.” Everyone else gets really quiet after I say that. Not the good quiet.
“Of course you’re not,” James says.
“What’s in the boxes?” Tracy asks.
I wish she hadn’t asked. I don’t want to know the answer. “We should get going,” I say, tugging on the sleeve of Tracy’s jacket.
“Moira’s stuff. She’s moving in with me,” James says.
I get that sick feeling in my stomach again. She’s moving in with him? Couldn’t she have waited awhile? This means Mom definitely won’t be moving back home.
“So you live in this building?” Tracy asks James.
“That’s my apartment.” James gestures to a corner balcony on the first floor. “The one with the tomato plants.”
“James has a green thumb,” Mom says.
I want to say that James is a smarmy wife-stealing, mom-stealing jerk. I’ve never been so angry at anyone in all my life. Mom is a complete idiot to fall for him and his tomatoes.
But I’ve never been the sort of person who says what I really think.
Mom wants to know if I’d come for dinner at the apartment next week.
“I’ll see,” I say.
I want to leave, but James won’t let me. “We’d really like to have you over, Franklin,” he says. I wish he wouldn’t use the word we like that. When I try backing away, James just steps closer. “You’re going to love my stuffed tomato recipe,” he says. “I use my own tomatoes. I only make them for my favorite people.”
I don’t want to be one of James’s favorite people. Not next week. Not ever.
“I’m really looking forward to bonding with you, Franklin,” James adds.
In the end, Tracy saves me. She points to the boxes Mom and James are carrying and then to the tomato plants. “I think all of this is a lot for Franklin right now.”