Suck It Up (12 page)

17

The Fire Knight

Morning shoved through the exit door into an alley. Hurrying toward the street, he yanked out his cell phone and speed-dialed.

“Hello, Morning,” Birnam answered cheerily. “I just saw your second outing. I thought the tree was a brilliant touch.”

“No it wasn't!” Morning shouted. Pedestrians turned and looked. He hustled down the sidewalk and lowered his voice. “Didn't you see what happened? I almost grew into one of those trees in
The Wizard of Oz.
If I had an apple I probably would have beaned Ally with it. But it's not like I needed one to scare the crap out of her.”

“I think she overreacted.”

“No,” Morning insisted, “
I
overreacted. I did exactly what you told me not to do: frighten a Lifer. But that's not the worst part. I felt something in my shadow-conscious take over. I
wanted
to scare her. For all I know, next time I'll CD into something that really hurts someone! I don't wanna do this anymore, Mr. Birnam. I wanna go to San Diego and disappear.”

There was a long pause.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Birnam said calmly. “I understand why you're upset, but let me explain something, and listen carefully. Our third commandment, to not frighten anyone with our powers, is an ideal. We strive for it, but we can never completely achieve it. Because of our past, and because we're different, there will always be someone who's scared of us. But you're going to show the world that the Lifers' fear is more about
them
than us.”

Morning rushed down the sidewalk, so immersed in the call he didn't notice the man standing in the doorway of an electronics store. Birnam watched Morning hurry by, then returned his gaze to the bank of TVs in the window. They all replayed the same clip: Morning's transformation into an apple tree. “And I might add,” Birnam said into his phone, “after your last performance, it's too late.”

“No it's not,” Morning protested. “I could—”

“By the end of the day, hundreds of millions of people will know who and what you are,” Birnam said sternly. “Turning back now is as impossible as turning back into a Lifer. Like it or not, you're our first ambassador to people of mortality. What you do in the next few days will determine the future of our race. You said it best, Morning. You can be a superhero or a supergoat.”

The connection went dead. Morning stopped and jammed the phone in his pocket. He wasn't sure what to do: go back to the studio or keep going, keep running. Then something across the street caught his eye. An American flag hung in the still air above a huge bay door. It was a firehouse. He frowned at the memory of another Lifer dream that had been cut short: becoming a firefighter. The urge to visit the old ambition pulled him across the street.

The sun sliced into the open bay, illuminating the front of a pumper truck. Its red paint and silver chrome sparkled from a recent washing. A tongue of water darkened the sidewalk.

Down the street, Birnam watched his troubled “guinea pig” scurry across the wet sidewalk and disappear into the bay. There was no point in stopping him. He knew Morning's temptation to reclaim the past would come in all colors, shapes, and sizes. And until he faced
all
his temptations, the great experiment wouldn't be over.

The firehouse was silent except for the drip of water. Morning figured the firefighters were upstairs having breakfast. Their bunker gear hung on the wall in a long row.

He stared at the row of bodiless suits. Each hanging figure was topped by a wide-brimmed black leather helmet with the fire company's red insignia on the front. Underneath each helmet hung a black bunker coat with three yellow and white reflective stripes across the back, hips, and hem. Thick black trousers reached down from under the coats, stretching toward boots waiting on the floor.

He mouthed the names firefighters used for their bunker gear:
Personal Protective Equipment, PPE, turnout.
“Turnout” was his favorite. It said action, dashing off to the rescue. Which, for Morning, is what the suits looked like they wanted to do. Like the costumes of all superheroes, the outfits seemed to have a life of their own. The neon yellow stripes quivered in anticipation, like bumblebees gathered in a hive. He imagined the alarm sounding, and the suits—unable to wait for the flesh and blood that rode inside them—jumping off their hooks, dropping into their boots, leaping on the truck, and speeding off to fight the fire themselves.

As the fantasy wailed through his imagination, an even wilder vision careened through him. What if he could become both? A superhero
and
a firefighter.

He almost laughed at the absurdity of it, and scolded himself. He hadn't entered the firehouse to indulge in fantasies. He'd come to revisit the family he had once hoped to adopt when he turned eighteen.

He moved around the other side of the fire engine, past the cab and crew cab. The expanse of detail took him back to the hours he'd spent memorizing the weaponry on one of these war wagons. He glanced up at the neat bed of folded fire hose. “Two-and-one-half-inch crosslay matidales ready to go.” He scanned the gleaming chrome of the pump panel. “Discharge gauges with crank wheels to adjust GPM, gallons per minute. Intake gauges and bleeder valves.” He touched the most massive valve protruding from the panel like a chrome horn. “Six-inch steamer valve.” He slowly walked along the back half of the rig. “Storage compartments, irons box, a five-hundred-gallon tank capable of pumping twelve hundred and fifty GPM.” His eyes caught the long steel nozzle protruding from the top of the truck. “Rear-mounted deck gun.” Swinging around the back, he stared up at the bed of heavy hose folded like a giant stack of fettuccini. “Five-inch LDH, large-diameter hose.”

“With an accordion fold,” a voice sounded.

Morning's heart almost shot out of his chest. Spinning around, he found an old fireman sitting in a chair against the wall. He had a bushy white moustache, and his swept-back hair was as silver as the chrome on the engine. His face was a craggy wall of old leather. He wore bunker trousers, held up by wide blue suspenders, and an FDNY T-shirt. A paper wrapper with a half-finished egg and cheese roll rested on his knee.

“I'm sorry,” Morning blurted, “I didn't know—”

“You didn't know I was here, but it seems you know a few things about my rig.” The fireman's voice graveled with smoke damage.

“Yes, sir, I do.” Morning was relieved the man didn't seem to recognize him.

The fireman gave him a friendly wink. “All right, let's see what you know. If I'm the one that just washed her down, who am I?”

“The chauffeur,” Morning answered.

The old man's mustache spread into a smile. He pointed his meaty hand at the engine's running board. “The chauffeur says have a seat.”

Morning sat on the chrome running board.

Taking a bite of his sandwich, the fireman chewed and talked at the same time. “Lemme guess, you wanna be a firefighter, right?”

He wasn't sure how to answer. “I've thought about it.”

“Have you thought about it enough to know whether you wanna be a firefighter or a fire knight?”

The term caught Morning by surprise. He thought he knew firefighter lingo inside and out. “What's a fire knight?”

“A firefighter knows the equipment; a fire knight knows the code.”

“The code?”

“It's all right here.” The fireman plucked at the FDNY emblem on his shirt. “Know what this is?”

“The fire department logo.”

“More than that, it's a Maltese cross.” He took another chomp of sandwich.

Morning stared at the stubby cross with FDNY worked into it. “I thought it was a four-leaf clover.”

The fireman laughed and sprayed sandwich dust. “It's your lucky day, son, 'cause I'm here to set you straight.” He tapped his shirt. “The Maltese cross has been the symbol of all firefighters since 1095.”

“What happened then?”

“The First Crusade.”

Morning watched the fireman place the sandwich on his knee. Obviously, this was too important to chew through.

“The Knights of St. John were fighting the Saracens in a battle to take back the Holy Land. As the army of crusaders advanced on the walls of the Saracen city, the Saracens started catapulting glass bombs at them. When the bombs broke they released a stinky, jellylike liquid. Then, when the crusaders were soaked in the stuff, the Saracens launched a volley of burning arrows which ignited the liquid.”

“Was it napalm?”

“No, a crude form of gasoline. Hundreds of knights were burned alive, while other knights risked their lives to save crusaders from fiery deaths. When the battle was over, the Knights of St. John were recognized for their heroism and given a badge of honor in the shape of a Maltese cross. The Maltese cross was chosen because the Knights of St. John were from the island of Malta.”

The fireman pressed his hand to his chest. “Any firefighter who wears the cross knows three things. He lives in courage, a ladder rung from death. He lives knowing he may lay down his life to save others. And he lives knowing his life is protected by all firefighters. That's the code. When you live by it, you're a knight at the fire table.”

Morning was transfixed. And stunned that he'd never heard this before. It wasn't in the books. It was something you learned after being initiated into the brotherhood.

The fireman lifted his sandwich and took a bite. “If you still wanna be a fire knight when you turn eighteen, come back and see me.”

The words slapped Morning out of his reverie. You had to be eighteen to get into the Fire Academy. Being sixteen forever didn't cut it. He could never live by the code, or sit at the fire table.

“Morning!” a voice shouted from the sidewalk.

He jumped up and saw Portia standing outside in the sun. His skin prickled with anger. If he were Plastic Man he would have shot out a thirty-foot arm and cuffed her for butting in.

“Whoa,” the fireman said, eyeing Portia, “that's a harsh way to start the day. Is that your girlfriend?”

“No.” Morning doused his irritation, and extended a hand to the fireman. “Morning is my name.”

Shaking hands, the fireman's wrinkles deepened as he searched for where he'd heard it before.

Morning started out. “Thanks for the story.”

“Come back anytime,” the fireman called after him. “The chauffeur will give you a ride.”

Joining Portia on the sidewalk, Morning told himself that Birnam was right. It was too late—too late to be a fire knight; too late to be anything but the first vampire to come out, for better or worse, for superhero or supergoat. And for whatever Portia was about to hit him with.

She surprised him by apologizing. “I'm sorry I shouted, but I—I—” She cleared her throat and reminded herself this was no different than when Jake Gyllenhaal had visited her school. If she could talk to Jake Gyllenhaal when it felt like he was holding her heart in his hands, she could talk to Morning McCobb when it felt like he was holding her entire future in his hands. “I thought I might never see you again.” She cringed and shot up a hand. “Don't take that the wrong way.” She caught a quick breath and tried to collect herself. Gyllenhaal had been a cakewalk compared to this. “Look, I'm a little nervous, and I just wanted to say, I'm sorry I didn't believe you.”

Her confession blew away his lingering annoyance. Under her tough-girl armor maybe there was a human being after all. He shrugged. “Hey, if I were in your shoes, I wouldn't have believed me either.”

She dug into her jacket and pulled out his Yankees cap and sunglasses. “You better put these on.”

She was right. Passersby were beginning to stare. He slipped on the hat and glasses.

“We should walk,” she added. “It's harder to recognize a moving target.” They started back toward the studio. “Do you mind if we do something?”

“What?”

“Hit the reset button. I want you to forget that I thought you were some lowlife trying to take advantage of my mother.”

He pressed an imaginary button on his forehead. “Bzzt. Reset.”

“And I'm going to totally forget about the video project I
thought
I was making.”

“What was that?” he asked.

“Portrait of the Con Artist as a Young Man.”
He laughed as she hit her own reset button. “Bzzt. Forgotten.”

As much as she wanted it to be that easy, she knew it wasn't. If rule number one when it came to guys was
assume the worst,
when it came to this guy, she no longer knew what
worst
was. The guy she had thought was coming to the plate without a bat was not doing it because he was sneaky-clever or gay. He didn't need a bat. He had fangs. The only comforting thing about that was knowing he hadn't sunk them into her or her mother in the last thirty-six hours. Maybe he wasn't the bloodsucking fiend he claimed he wasn't. Whatever, the chance to make an up-close-and-personal film about the first outed vampire far outweighed the risks. For now. But pulling out the camera would have to wait. As well as asking him everything he knew about vampires. First she had to earn his trust by talking to him about everything
but
vampires.