Trial By Fire

book.

ONE

Nathan was running. With the wind blowing hard against his face and whipping his long, straight hair into a banner behind him, he was happy. Running meant freedom. Running meant no one could catch him.

Though his lungs ached and his muscles burned, he drove himself on, faster and faster, as if he could outpace the heavy darkness with the force of his pumping legs. He knew that if he picked up enough speed, it would empty his head—of what he’d done, his mom, the Group Home, what the kids at school were saying about him. And maybe even old man Whitmore.

Often, at night, when his foster parents were asleep, Nathan lay awake, his head a tangle of wrongs and hurts. Then he’d get up, sneak out and run.

He’d told his social worker she never should have sent him to the Whitmores in the first place. Sure, he knew what he’d done was wrong—and stupid. He’d sweated over it often enough. But he didn’t deserve what had happened next.

You could’ve killed someone! his mother had screamed at him. And he could have, he realized now. But somehow he hadn’t thought it through on that hot, slow day when he and a few bored buddies had pulled the switch at the train tracks.

What’ll happen? Nathan had asked.

Nothing much. Joe was the ringleader, a big, rowdy boy with a grin as wild and crazy as the things he liked to do. It’ll just change the direction of the tracks, see, so instead of ending up in Alliston, they’ll go tearing off to Oshawa.

That train could’ve smashed into another one coming in the opposite direction, said the police officer who brought Nathan home. Dozens of people could’ve been killed.

I don’t get it. What’s the big deal? Nathan glowered at his mother. Nobody did get hurt, so what’s the big deal? His head ached, and there was a sour taste in his mouth. He wanted to forget the whole thing.

But his mother yelled even louder. I’ve had all I can take of you, I really have! I don’t need this kind of trouble, Nathan!

His four brothers and sisters, he remembered, were peering at him from behind different pieces of furniture. Crouched—scared and curious. They were all a lot younger than he was.

What do you mean you’ve had enough of me? What’d I ever do to you?

She slapped him hard, and he stumbled back against the shaky plywood kitchen table. One of its legs snapped, and he fell down with the table onto his smallest brother, Peter, who’d been hiding under it. Peter howled as blood streaked down his forehead.

That’s it. I’m calling the Children’s Aid. I can’t handle you any more. His mother’s voice was wild and high.

Maybe she couldn’t, Nathan admitted to himself now as his breathing became ragged and his pace slowed. I’m not proud of what I did. But that Group Home was the pits. Some of those guys were pretty hard cases. Especially the ones who couldn’t stand natives.

And the Whitmores, he thought angrily, are not much better.

Stupid thing was, he’d actually asked for a placement. Anything would be an improvement on the Group Home. He figured living with a foster family would be easy. He would impress his mom with his good behaviour, then go home. But the Whitmores were more than he’d bargained for.

His foster parents hadn’t paid a whole lot of attention to him when he’d first arrived, about five months before. They’d put him to work around their farm and acted like they expected him to keep out of their way—even Helen (she’d told him not to call her Mrs. Whitmore), who seemed all right, mostly ignored him. Nathan didn’t really mind being left alone; he was used to it. But then things started to unravel. Clive stopped ignoring him and started to pick on him, complaining about his work habits, his attitude—everything. He seemed to be getting angrier and angrier. Sometimes with his wife. But mostly with Nathan.

The first time Clive lashed out—really lashed out—they’d been on their way to feed Nell, a horse Clive kept around for reasons which were unclear to Nathan. Helen rode her once in a while, but the animal was too old even to use as a work horse. Nell was stocky and patient, solid and warm, with big, feathery hooves and a broad back. Nathan soon began inventing excuses to go to the barn to brush her or slip her an apple or two.

All that morning, Clive had been gruff and impatient, following Nathan around. Criticizing.

Hurry up! Clive barked suddenly, as they made their way to the rickety barn. The harsh comment shattered the peace of that clear, summer morning, broke the spell of the clicking crickets and the low slosh-slosh of the water in the pail Nathan was carrying. It startled the boy so much that he spilled most of the water. Now look what you’ve gone and done! yelled Clive.

Nathan looked at him warily. But he didn’t say anything, just continued on his way to the barn, gripping the cold metal of the bucket handle in two tight fists.

You watch it, boy, Clive Whitmore called out after him. Maybe you should take a trip down to that reserve outside of town, see what’s in store for you if you don’t work harder. Just because your mother’s white, doesn’t mean a thing. Lots of people there with lighter skin than yours. Besides, you wouldn’t be here if she wanted anything to do with you.

Nathan’s eyes widened and his heart beat faster. What had got into Clive? Once inside the crumbling barn, he dumped what was left of the water into Nell’s trough, then hurled the bucket against the wall’s rough boards as though it were a live thing he wanted to kill. As it clattered loudly to the ground, the thought flashed through Nathan’s head that maybe he should pay the Reserve a visit. Just to infuriate Clive. But no. No. He mustn’t let himself get sucked in like that. He reached out a hand to touch Nell’s soft nose, then leaned against her, his eyes squeezed shut. Clive’s anger wasn’t really anything to do with him. His breathing settled down, but his hands shook as he picked up the empty pail.

Back outside, Clive’s voice whipped out at him again. Your mind is everywhere, he shouted, leaning so close to Nathan that the boy could see a strange animation in his big, dark eyes. If you don’t pull yourself together, I’m going to send you back to the Children’s Aid. If I do that, they’ll ship you off to one of those training schools, or maybe another Group Home. You’ve just got to shape up. Why didn’t you take that feed to the barn like I told you? I meant this morning, not sometime this week.

He sounded almost gleeful, and Nathan shivered. What was going on? He hadn’t much taken to Clive, even when he first met him. He was a big man, good-looking in a hulking kind of way, with heavy lips and deep-set eyes, as brown as Nathan’s own, but larger, almost feminine, with long, sweeping lashes under thick brows. The kind of eyes that seemed to slide away from you just when you most wanted to look right into them. Though the man had seemed friendly enough at first, there was a kind of forced enthusiasm to him that put Nathan on edge. He wasn’t sure he trusted anyone that hearty, especially when they came with a gaze that usually ended up somewhere over his head, and a smile that looked like it belonged on Wile E. Coyote on a bad day.

But that first morning, when he’d shown Nathan around the farm, he’d talked kind of quietly about how hard it was to keep his head above water. These days, he’d said, being a farmer can be an uphill battle. He’d seemed proud of his land and what equipment he had, even sounded fond of some of the foster kids who’d been through the place. See that fence? Nathan remembered him saying. Tod Bunting helped me put that up. And those apple trees over there? Me and Sam Ignatius put them in over ten years ago. But now this. What had brought on this barrage of angry words?

Sure, Nathan was a dreamer. He often lost track of what he was supposed to be doing because he was always thinking up more exciting adventures. A dream of happiness haunted him, a longing that things would work out, that his mother would love him again the way she used to, that he would stop being wild, or whatever it was that seemed to turn people against him. And sometimes he wanted so desperately to go home, that he really wasn’t all there in the present, where people expected him to be. But he’d been getting his chores done—a little late, maybe, but done! He couldn’t figure out what was setting Clive off.

His own home—well, it was far from perfect, Nathan knew that. His mother’s boyfriend was a real loser, and she drank way too much. But he missed being in a place where he didn’t feel he had to ask permission to burp—or even breathe. As for his mother’s problems, he wished he wasn’t one of them.

He’d really made her mad this time. So mad she’d told him that she wouldn’t let him come home until he’d straightened himself out. The trouble was, Nathan wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that.

Now, as he ran through the darkness, even the cool night air that followed the day’s white heat couldn’t soothe the worries clawing at the inside of his head. Nathan forced his legs to pump harder, hell-bent on reaching the speed where his thoughts would became as blurred as the landscape beside him.

He struggled, gasping for breath. Then he caught sight of a bright orange light glowing through the moonless dark and he slowed, turning unthinkingly in its direction. At the edge of the woods, in the shadow of the trees, he stopped. Across an open field, he saw the Carruthers’ place—Sally’s house!—spitting sparks into the night sky like a demented firecracker. Everything in front of him was shimmering, blurred by a heat haze that seemed to hold the fire inside it, as though a star had fallen under a heavy pane of glass. As smoke boiled up and over the rooftop in a great mushroom-coloured plume, there was a roaring sound, more ominous than thunder.

Nathan could barely take it all in. In front of the house, a figure in a white and black jacket and a baseball hat clutched a burning torch in one hand and what looked like a large green stuffed animal with elephant ears in the other! Suddenly, the torch flew through an open window.

What the—! Nathan hurled himself forward, but the figure, still clutching the strange green creature, ran away into the darkness. By the time Nathan reached the house, fire engines, police and neighbours were converging on the area, confusing him with light and noise, throwing the drama of the fire all out of kilter. He hung back on the edge of the circle of light, when he really wanted to run to the rescue like a bullet to a target.

I saw someone throw a torch! he shouted, as a policeman grabbed him.

Where? the officer asked. Doubt made his voice heavy.

Just over there. Right over there.

It was Nathan they brought in for questioning.

TWO

Officer, said Nathan on the way to the station, that was my girlfriend’s house. Sally Carruthers. Why would I torch my girlfriend’s house?"

The policeman looked him over out of hard, flat eyes. Maybe she decided you weren’t good enough for her.

Nathan’s lips thinned in anger, but he said nothing. He’d been treated like dirt by the police before, and he figured he wouldn’t give them any excuse to do it again.

But he wished that cop knew how wrong he was about Sally and him. He just wished he knew.

They’d met exactly four months before the night of the fire.

She was the only kid, boy or girl, who’d given Nathan a break when he’d first arrived in Bridgeford. It’d been early April then, and Nathan remembered that it had been colder than usual—so cold, he’d shivered inside his worn black leather jacket, as he’d dragged himself towards his new school.

Bridgeford was a small village on a small lake, surrounded by farms, where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business. As Nathan headed for his first class, he could feel eyes boring holes into his back—all the way down the long hallway, all the way up the steep stairs. Hostile eyes. Scornful eyes. He even heard someone whisper . . . one of the Whitmore kids.

So that’s how it was going to be. He’d smiled bleakly to himself, concentrating on keeping his arms and legs loose. Once inside the classroom, he headed straight for the back row, hunkering down in a desk between two other guys. He was careful to keep his face composed and cool, though he felt his chest tighten. He could deal with this, he knew it. It would just take a little time.

But while everyone else was looking him over like a specimen in science lab, Sally had turned her unbelievably blue eyes on him and flashed her perfect teeth in a quick but friendly smile. Holy cats! She was gorgeous. Her hair was white-blonde, almost platinum. She was slim, even a little skinny, and probably as tall as him. The legs under her short, tight skirt seemed to go on forever.

When she’d turned her back to him, he saw the words embroidered on the back of her T-shirt: LOOKS CAN BE DECEIVING.

He raised one eyebrow and smiled to himself. Very interesting. With her looks, that could mean just about anything. Her smile had hit him like a jolt of suicide salsa. What would the rest of her be like?

At lunch, he manoeuvred himself behind her in the cafeteria line. And then wondered if he’d made a mistake. Because now, if he wanted to sit at her table, he’d have to follow her, making it obvious he was interested. Maybe he just should have sat down and waited for her to come to him. But why would she?

He figured he’d have to make the first move, there was no way around it. He shrugged to himself. That could be okay. He knew how to play it cool; he did it well, at least with a certain kind of girl. He was good-looking, after all. He was a little frightening, too. Because where he came from was part of who he was—his family, his life, his troubles. It showed in his walk, his talk, his clothes, his eyes. There was no way he could hide it; so he didn’t try. Take it or leave it. Some girls, he knew, got off on that. Others he would never get to first base with, no matter what