Winter Sky (10 page)

Siria went back upstairs, thinking about the last present she had to give. She’d seen it in Max’s Art Supply Store when she’d bought the painting for Izzy: a model of the
Monitor
, a Civil War ship, ready to put together.

She left Major in her bedroom and went downstairs quickly. She left the package in front of Douglas’s door.

He’d know it was from her.

Then she huddled on the fire escape, sitting on her quilt, watching a few flakes of snow drift down, and heard the clang of work boots against the iron steps as Douglas came up toward her.

At first he didn’t say anything, and she knew that if she tried to speak, she’d start to cry.

“Your present,” he said then. “The
Monitor
. Is that what we’ve been having? A war?”

“Someone’s been setting fires. Wearing your jacket. And I heard Kevin talking about your kitchen.” She shook her head. “Your hands all blistered …”

He leaned against the brick wall, shaking his head.

“I should have known you wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Begin again,” he said. “The whole thing.”

She spoke as slowly as Laila would have. The shed. The movie theater. The creek. She went through all of it, watching his face. He was listening carefully. He always paid attention.

“Where’s that piece of cloth?” he asked.

She reached into her pocket and handed it to him, with the knife tip caught inside.

“It’s from my jacket. I tore it on the roof. My mother had a fit!” He touched the knife, then squinted up at the snow. “I gave the jacket to my cousin, Kim. She said it was the ugliest thing she ever saw. She’d use it for a play her class was doing.”

Kim with the hoop earrings! Siria had seen her somewhere. Was it right after the shed fire?

Had Kim set those fires?

Douglas was thinking that, too; she could see it
in his face. He shook his head. “She’s at our grandmother’s today. When she gets back, I’ll find out.”

Siria nodded, hesitated. “You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine, too, I guess.” He grinned at her.

They sat there thinking. “Maybe we should look at the shed again right away,” Siria said. “Maybe she left something in there.”

Douglas stood up, slapped his hands together. “We have a lot to do.”

Douglas. Friends again.

Clouds scudded across the sky as they waded into the lot, circling the trees. “See?” she said. “Footprints all over the place.”

Douglas put his foot into one. “A little bigger than mine. Not much, though.” He frowned. “Maybe a teenager. Maybe Kim.”

They stopped at the shed door and stood there, listening.

“I don’t hear anything,” she whispered.

Douglas leaned forward, his head against the door. “All right, then.” He shoved it open.

Light filtered in from the spaces between the walls. The room was a mess. The quilt was bunched up in the corner, so filthy it was hard to know what color it had been.

“Someone was living here.” Douglas pointed to
the wall. “Probably not since the fire. A small piece of the wall was burned, so the wind comes through. Colder than ever.”

He kicked at the quilt. “But this wasn’t Kim. She’d never want to live in this mess. Besides, she’s afraid of her shadow.” He looked down at the quilt. “That was my brother Ashton’s a long time ago. Mom threw it out.” He grinned. “But Ashton didn’t set those fires. He hardly leaves his bedroom, texting, watching TV.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Douglas closed his eyes. “Who did I see that day? Just Jason and his friend with the tattoo. And yeah, Kim, coming out of Trencher’s.” He bent down. “Here’s something.”

Siria leaned over his shoulder. “What?”

“An earring.” Douglas grinned at her. “A star. Here’s your fire starter.”

“Mine!” She scooped it up. “But I didn’t—”

“I know that. I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Sorry,” she said again, knowing exactly what he meant.

That night, from her window, Siria watched snow swirling. She saw something a few blocks away and
angled her head. An orange glow? Was it another fire? Yes. She had to go out. She had to see.

Pop had gone to sleep early after dinner, and Major slept on the edge of her bed.

In her jacket, Siria waded through the gift wrap they hadn’t bothered to clear away from the living room. She scooped up the new gloves Mimi had knitted for her: black with a gold thread running through.

Outside, she listened for the sirens, but everything was quiet, and she couldn’t see the fire. She stepped back and tilted her head to look up at her window, to figure out the direction.

Where was it?

She spun around.

That way.

Toward the school.

She walked quickly, quietly, listening to the soft swish of her boots. Overhead, the moon cast shadows on the street. No one was out, and a few lights gleamed from windows. The whole world was home, sleeping. Except for her. And maybe someone who set fires.

The school loomed in front of her, the cement models of the presidents over the door looking weird in the dark. She went into the snowy yard through the open gate.

Dim lights shone from the halls inside. In her classroom, chairs were lined up on the tables. Mrs. Hall’s desk was in front, neat now for the holidays, with only the large wooden apple someone had given her for her birthday.

Siria still couldn’t see any fire.

Had she imagined it? That ragged orange glow that flickered in the dark?

She trudged around the side of the building where the snow hadn’t been shoveled. Litter baskets were lined up against the half-opened door of the small house where lawn mowers were kept.

Four baskets.

And two were on fire!

Small fires, but still …

She went closer. Was anyone here, watching her?

The baskets were stuffed with burning newspapers, curling at the edges. It wasn’t ordinary school litter like old notebooks, loose leaf or homework sheets. Someone had wadded up newspapers, shoved them into the baskets, and set them on fire.

Who?

Kim, back from her grandmother’s house?

Who else might it be?

Siria pulled off the new wool gloves so they wouldn’t get wet and laid them on the steps behind her. She heaped handfuls of freezing snow on top
of the baskets, listening to the sizzle as they hit the flames, her fingers growing numb.

She heard something. Someone coming around the side of the building? Coming toward her? The footsteps were almost silent, just the faintest crunch in the snow.

She told herself it was her imagination. Really. No one was there.

She couldn’t make herself turn; she couldn’t move. She looked past the litter baskets to the end of the building, to the fence.

There was no way out.

She picked up an icy chunk of snow, ready to throw it, and then she did turn, arm raised …

To see Major, trotting up, panting a little.

She dropped the chunk of ice and slid down in the snow. “Oh, Major,” she breathed. “I’m so glad it’s you. How did you ever get out?”

He stood over her, licking her cheek, and she put her arms around him. The night was different now, the dark a friendly dark. The dying flames from the litter basket sent a warm glow around them.

After a moment, she put out the rest of the fire. “We can go home,” she said. “Home to bed. To our quilt.” The quilt was a little chewed; so was the pillow, and even the corner of the rug. But she didn’t care.

They plodded along the side of the building, squinting through the falling snow. Siria held one hand on Major’s head, the other hand deep in her pocket.

Then Major whined. He took a few steps forward. Someone was there—a boy. He stood in the shadow of the building, head bent, and he was watching her.

She couldn’t see his face, but it was a teenager, much taller than she was. He wore sneakers and Douglas’s green jacket. He turned, stepped back, raced along the wall toward the Cyclone fence, and was gone.

It was someone she knew. But who?

She waited long minutes, afraid to follow, afraid to get too close. And next to her, Major was quiet. He was no watchdog!

But why had he whined? Did he know who had been there? Did he know who was setting those fires?

She went through the gate with Major at her side and ran up the avenue, almost flying, looking over her shoulder. The street was empty; there wasn’t even a car in sight.

Across the way, Max’s had a new painting in the window: apple trees with a froth of white blossoms. And at Trencher’s, the Christmas lights still flashed, reflecting off the snowy street, and the Santa Claus reached out. She stopped.

The Santa Claus’s hands.

Her gloves were still in the snowy schoolyard. Mimi’s beautiful Christmas gloves!

“We have to go back, Major. But it’s all right. I think he’s gone.”

If only she could be sure!

The wind blew around them, pushing them along. She couldn’t wait to be in her warm bedroom, snuggled next to Major.

“Come on. We have to do this.”

He followed her back down the avenue and in through the schoolyard gate. She could smell the charred newspapers as they neared the litter baskets.

Her gloves weren’t there. Not on the snow. Not in front of the little storage house, not blown up against the fence.

Someone had taken them.

On Sunday, Siria walked Major around the block a few times, wearing her old mittens.

What would Mimi say about the missing gloves? After all that work! She’d feel terrible.

Siria felt terrible, too.

Hapy New Year
was written on the wall of the elevator, almost covering
Mery Christmas
. In her apartment, something smelled delicious. Sausages? Bacon?

“I’m so glad you’re home, Pop,” Siria said, shrugging off her jacket.

Pop hobbled back and forth between the counter and the stove, a crutch under one arm. “It’s great to be here. Hospital food is not like Willie’s meals at the firehouse.” He turned the bacon he was frying
and popped up the bread in the toaster. “It isn’t even half as good as my own poor cooking.”

Siria picked out a can of beef for Major.
Dogs eat beef like crazy
, Mike had said.

“Where’s that can opener, anyway?” she muttered.

Pop smiled. “Mom tried to use a knife sometimes.”

“Did it work?”

“What do you think?”

“Guess not.” She stopped, looking down at the drawer, remembering the knife tip she’d found in the theater, picturing the spray of food against the screen.

Someone had been eating there. No kitchen. No can opener.

Was that what it was all about? Someone had been living in the shed, trying to keep warm? Then in the theater? Then …

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Pop asked.

Siria broke off a piece of toast. “Can’t talk, have to eat.” She dumped Major’s beef into a bowl and finished her breakfast. “I’m on my way to see Douglas.” She patted Major. “Stay here. Eat everything in sight.”

“Chew everything, you mean,” Pop said over his
shoulder. “Wait until you see the couch cushion. The stuffing is coming out. We need to get him a bone.”

“Eek.” She gave Pop a kiss and headed for the third floor.

Ashton stuck his head out the door. “He’s up on the roof.”

She headed for the roof, but the door wouldn’t budge.

She banged hard and heard Douglas’s voice. “Wait a minute.”

He opened the door, just a crack. “What?” He wore a new wool hat over his corkscrew hair.

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry, don’t need you.” He grinned. “Go away.”

She tried to peer through the opening, but she could see only a bit of gray sky, and Laila, bending over something. “What’s going on?”

Douglas came into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him. “You’ll see.”

Was it the star shelter! Her birthday present?

“But I want to tell you something,” he said. “Kim is back. She didn’t set those fires. She wore the jacket in the school play and then left it in the costume box.” He shrugged. “Someone at the play must have taken it. She thought she saw Jason, the delivery boy.”

“And he was at the schoolyard last night.”

“Really?” Douglas tilted his head. “Later. I can’t talk anymore. I have work to do.”

“I could help.”

“You can’t see what we’re doing.…” He squinted. “Not until New Year’s Day.”

So it really was the star shelter. A surprise for her. She leaned against the wall, feeling joy in her chest. She whispered it to herself:
Douglas. Laila. The star shelter
.

She went back downstairs. Mimi was in the hall, hands on her hips. “Where is that delivery boy? I’ve ordered the makings of a good dinner.”

“I’ll go,” Siria said, her hands behind her back.