Winter Sky (2 page)

Piece of cake
.

He jumped back on the truck with the others, although she couldn’t see Izzy, her favorite. The sirens were silent, but lights flashed as they pulled away.

People were leaving now, and Siria turned her bike to head for home with Douglas riding next to her, whistling, his red hair hidden under that backward cap.

She was glad she wasn’t alone on the empty streets as they pedaled past houses and old factories, past the lots with rusted pipes and engines, past the old shed that tilted against the trees.

In a few hours Pop would be home, bringing warm cinnamon-raisin bagels from the all-night diner. His voice would fill the whole apartment.
Where’s my girl?

They’d sit at the table, sipping hot tea and buttering those crusty bagels. Pop would tell her about the fire while Siria leaned forward, listening, as if she didn’t know about the red-hot flames, the smoke, and Pop on the ladder.

Now she looked toward their seven-story apartment house, its red bricks soft in the darkness, the
bushes in front covered with snow. Home. Almost there.

It began to sleet; sharp bits of ice stung their faces.

She yelled to Douglas, “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Love fires,” he called back, grinning.

Siria couldn’t wait to get home to snuggle under her quilt. Then she remembered that she’d left her window open. Her bedroom would be as cold as it was outside.

A coyote night.

Head tilted, the mother stood on her balcony, watching the constellations
.

The midnight blue above reminded her of her new daughter’s eyes. And one star stood out among the rest; it glowed with white light, the brightest in the winter sky
.

Men had been looking at that star for thousands of years. It gleamed as a perfect blue-white diamond in the collar of Canis Major, the Great Dog
.

Its rising in Egypt marked the annual flooding of the Nile River
.

Its appearance in the Greek sky announced the hot days of summer: the dog days
.

Here, where the mother lived, only a glimpse of it could be caught in August. But in January it shone in the sky, huge and glowing, the month of her baby’s birth
.

The star was called Sirius
.

“That’s what we named our daughter,” the mother said. “Siria, for the brightest star.”

It was late Friday afternoon, almost dark. Siria huddled on the fire escape with Laila from the sixth floor, her purple wool scarf pulled over her chin. They leaned against the brick wall, Laila’s WIPE YOUR FEET mat pulled over their heads like a roof.

“What luck!” Laila said. “All this snow. No school until after the holidays.”

Siria nodded. She didn’t mind school the way Douglas did. He liked to be moving around, building things. And learning was hard for Laila in her special class down the hall. But during the holidays, Siria missed art and math, and her friends: Patti, who played the guitar, and Jilli, who drew wonderful pictures.

Too bad they all lived in different directions. Siria
wouldn’t see them until after New Year’s. Sometimes they texted, but they usually forgot during the holidays.

Siria looked up at the gray sky now. “My twelfth birthday on New Year’s Day!”

Laila nodded slowly. She took time to think about what people said; she took even longer to answer.

Siria grinned. Laila looked a little like an owl, with her glasses sliding down her nose and her mouth popped open to catch a snowflake.

“We’ll see Canis Major, and Sirius, my star.” Siria peered through the narrow spaces in the rusty fire escape. Blocks away were the white sledding hills and the creek that wound its way around them, a thin thread of water that had iced over.

Last summer, she and Douglas had spent days leaning against the picnic house, the creek in front of them with its overhanging branches. Tiny silver fish darted along the edge, and turtles the size of dinner plates sunned themselves on the rocks.

They’d built a sloppy wooden raft even though their feet touched the bottom. They’d stuck their heads in a pipe that hung out over the water, almost hidden in the long, reedy weeds. “Hello in there!” they’d called, their voices echoing back at them.

And they’d fished! Weeks of fishing, but there probably hadn’t been anything big enough to catch since Pop was a boy.

Now, Jason, the delivery boy, and Mike, who followed him around, slid along on the frozen creek. They’d better hope the ice was solid.

“I know what you want for your birthday,” Laila said. “A huge family, like Douglas’s. That’s what I want, too.”

Siria nodded. Douglas, with his four brothers and a mom who made gallons of steaming cocoa on cold days for all the kids in the building.

“That family on TV,” Laila added dreamily. “A mother, a father, a couple of kids, and even a horse.”

And today was the beginning. A knife lay on the fire escape between them—not sharp, but it would have to do.

“Aunts. Uncles. Cousins,” Laila said.

“You and I can join up to make a family,” Siria said. “You have the mother, I have the father. We’ll be the start of the kids. Douglas can be the brother. Too bad about the horse, though. It would never fit in the elevator.”

Laila smiled. “I always wanted a horse.”

Siria glanced up at the sky. “I’ve always wanted a dog. I’d carry her in my backpack. You’d never feel alone if you had a pet like that.” She picked up the butter knife and slashed at her index finger. Not hard enough; no blood, not even a mark. She raised the knife again and plunged.…

Yeow.

She’d stabbed the edge of her boot. That didn’t dent, either. “Wait.” She pulled off her Christmastree pin. “We’ll just use this.”

“Right above my alley,” Laila said.

“Up my alley,” Siria said absently. They kept poking their thumbs but couldn’t dredge up a bit of red. They stuck their hands together anyway. “Blood sisters,” Siria said.

Just then, the noises began. They grinned at each other. The Byars in 5-D were fighting again. Plates would fly like Frisbees, glasses shattering.

It was as good as watching TV.

They raced down the fire escape, holding the ice-covered railing. Too bad Almo the super hadn’t bothered with de-icer. How would Mrs. Gold, the old lady in 2-C, escape in an emergency?

Now came the tricky part.

On the fifth-floor landing, Siria slid onto the railing. With Laila holding her feet, she balanced herself on her stomach. It was very uncomfortable, but a prime way to watch Mr. and Mrs. Byars.

Mrs. Byars was gorgeous, with blond hair to her waist and bulging arm muscles; she was six feet tall, at least. And Siria wanted to be just like her.

Wait. She saw something interesting in 5-E next door. Siria wiggled out a little farther.

“Careful,” Laila warned her.

Siria felt herself falling. “Help!” she yelled, and scrambled back.

A plate smashed, just missing the window and Mr. Byars. He ducked out of the way and peered outside. “It’s those kids again!” he yelled to Mrs. Byars, forgetting she was trying to kill him.

Laila dragged Siria off the railing, and they raced back up to the sixth floor, sliding on the icy steps.

Siria sank down. “You will not believe what I just saw.” She stopped for a breath. “The Wilsons must be moving out of Five-E. Most of the furniture is gone. But …”

She stopped, shook her head.

“That stray dog is in there, big as a wolf. He stared out the window at me, trying to scrabble outside. Whew. That would have been the end of me.”

Laila poked at her glasses. “You’re safe now. We just have to hope Mr. Byars doesn’t tell our parents. My mother will have a heart attack if she knows I’m out here.”

Siria pointed. “And your mother’s coming up the avenue right now.”

“See you.” Laila ducked inside her window.

Siria made her way up one flight to her apartment. The day was really cold and getting windy.

She took a last look at the avenue. Far down, where the empty lots began, she could see the old
shed Pop had helped build years ago. “This was a clubhouse when I was a teenager,” he’d said, laughing. “We didn’t know what we were doing. We all had splinters. The walls were crooked. I can’t believe it’s still standing.”

Siria looked closer. Was it on fire?

Yes, maybe!

Siria watched for a moment. Should she climb inside and call in the fire? Pop was in bed, off today, safe, but she wasn’t sure it was a fire anyway. She saw smoke, but the shed was soaked with snow. How could it burn?

Besides, it was time for dinner. While Pop slept, Danny was cooking at the firehouse tonight.

She leaned against the railing. Even the smoke might be her imagination.

Still, Izzy’s voice was in her head:
Small fires become big fires, become dangerous
.

Douglas was running up the avenue now. Was he staring back at the shed?

Siria cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey …” She slid down the fire escape steps to
meet him as he headed for his apartment on the third floor. “Did you see a fire?”

He shook his head. “All I saw was that decrepit Santa Claus in Trencher’s Market.” He pushed up the window, tossing the hat into his bedroom. One of his brothers, Ashton maybe, pulled him inside, laughing. “Some hat.”

Siria climbed down the rest of the steps. She’d take a look at that shed. Danny wouldn’t mind if she was late for dinner.

The sky was dark, with only a handful of stars, and once she passed the stores, the streets were dark, too. She ran, breathless when she reached the next corner.

She waded through the snow toward the shed. The bare branches of the trees around it were bent into weird shapes, charcoal gray against the sky.

The walls of the shed were rough pieces of wood with spaces in between; thin icicles hung from the low roof. She broke one off and sucked on it.

Footprints surrounded the shed, larger than hers, and wider. She followed them around the sides, kicking up soggy leaves and paper, black and sooty.

Soot! So there had been a fire.

She kept searching, picking up a scrap of thick green cloth. She turned it over. Wool from a jacket? Torn from a sleeve? She tucked it in her pocket, even though it was sopping wet.

She heard a rustle, a scraping against the wood, and froze. It came again, that whisper of sound. She peered between the boards. Someone was in there. A dark figure crouched on the floor.

Could he see her?

She turned, sliding, tripping over her boots, not caring about the noise she made. She had to get out of there. She scrambled through the snow until she reached the street. Safe.

Head down against the wind, she headed for the firehouse and dinner, talking herself out of being afraid. Imagination!
Probably no one in the shed. A fire from last summer, or the summer before
.

Besides, she was starving. The cafeteria lunch today, Meat Surprise, had tasted like leftover dog food. Only the cup of pale applesauce had been any good.

She’d thrown half of it away, while Mrs. W, the kitchen helper, scarfed down her third portion of the gray meat. “Delicious, Siria, right?”

“A surprise,” she’d answered, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

Siria crossed the avenue now. The stray dog she’d seen in the empty apartment darted into the street against the traffic. Horns blared and a truck screeched, just missing him. Siria, hand to her mouth, watched as he reached the other side of the street, his chain dragging through a snowdrift.

It was only another block to the firehouse, which was squeezed between two high buildings, an apartment house and a dry-goods store that had closed years ago. The shiny red doors were high and wide for the trucks to move in and out.

Siria ran her fingers along the side of the ladder truck just inside, Pop’s truck, Number Seventeen. It waited for him, ready to go, while he was home sleeping.

“Help, guys!” she said as she ripped open the Velcro ties on her jacket. “I need food!”

“Here she is!” Willie, Pop’s best friend, called toward the kitchen in back.

By the time Siria had circled the other engines, Danny was pouring her a hot chocolate with foamy cream on top. A plate of hamburgers loaded with tomatoes and onions had already been set on the table for her.

“You have to keep up your strength, Siria,” Danny said from the stove, raising his spatula. “And you’re at the right place.”

“True,” Willie said. He loved to eat. He held a fat hamburger in one large hand and a cup of French fries in the other.

While she ate, Siria tried not to stare at the pencil marks that zigzagged up the back wall. They were bunched together, hardly getting higher.

Izzy measured her every September. “The wall is
crooked,” she’d said last year, for comfort, when the line was only a tiny bit higher than the year before.

Siria knew she was a shrimp, the smallest kid in her class, and if you didn’t count the four or five babies in her building, she was the shortest there, too, floors one to seven.

It was a miserable feeling, looking up at everyone, standing on tiptoe so no one would notice her height.