“Well, on TV, it’s not two goofy sophomores who don’t know what they’re doing,” Pat replied. He stopped checking the sight through the lens and looked at Javier. “It’s a team of camera people shooting from different angles and some director in a booth watching the monitors and putting them in order. I think I want to be that guy.”
“I don’t like sports that much. I’d like to be the guy who makes a documentary that helps people think,” Javier said. “Or maybe take a book and make it into a movie.”
“Aren’t you mixing up your jobs? Do you want to make movies or write scripts?”
“Why can’t I do both?”
The whistle sounded, and they both started paying attention to the game again.
They lucked out catching another touchdown on film. When Javier saw the band lining up at the opposite side of the field, he told Pat they should go to the top of the bleachers and film half-time from a higher vantage point.
“I think we should ask Mr. Seneca to buy more cameras,” Javier said as Pat untwisted the camera off the tripod. “It would be great to have someone on the field and someone up in the stands. Editing could be more fun too.”
From the top of the bleachers, they took turns filming the band. They also panned the camera across the crowd for other images to use.
The third quarter had just begun when the drizzle started.
Pat muttered several curse words. “Rain … just what we need. If this equipment gets wet, Mr. Seneca will kill us.”
Javier was already reaching for the camera bag. He handed it to Pat and then started to fold up the tripod. “Let’s go under the bleachers. If the rain stops, we’ll go back on the sidelines.”
But the drizzle became a steady rain, and while it could have made for great film to show highlights from a mud bowl, Javier and Pat decided it was better not to anger Mr. Seneca, and neither one of them wanted to pay for damaged equipment. Besides, the Guardians were winning against Temple 18-3.
As the fourth quarter started, almost half the people had already left the stadium.
Javier and Pat agreed that it would be dumb to spend any more time standing under the bleachers, especially as thunder rumbled in the distance. Pat put the camera bag under his shirt, and Javier folded up the tripod into its smallest size and carried it in one hand against his chest. They ran to the parking lot, trying to sidestep watery potholes, and trying not to fall on the slippery parking lot.
They were both wet and panting when they finally sat inside the truck.
A clap of thunder was followed by streaks of lightning above the stadium lights.
“That’s it. They’ll end the game now. The refs won’t let them play in lightning,” Pat said, positioning the camera bag between his legs. “Man, I’m soaked!”
Javier shivered from the wet T-shirt clinging to his body. He rubbed down his wet arms and wiped his hands on his damp jeans. His face pinched together nervously as heavy rain pummeled the truck cab. Inside the small space, the noise sounded like stones fell from the sky. “I’ve never driven in a storm like this,” he said to Pat.
“Me neither. Do you want to sit here for a while and see if it stops?”
“No. I’ll just take it slow. If it gets worse, I’ll pull over.”
As Javier drove out of the stadium parking lot, he was grateful to follow the line of red tail lights in front of him. Even though it was hard to see between the hard rain and the whipping windshield wipers, Javier enjoyed the warmth from the defroster. Pat said nothing as he checked his phone again, and except for a frustrated grunt, he stared out the window silently. Javier didn’t want to try to talk and drive in the storm at the same time, so he was quiet too.
By the time he reached the exit for the Woodlawn Lake neighborhood, the rain had settled into a thick drizzle, but the thunder and lightning seemed to be over. It was good to be off the expressway and driving down a wet, but familiar street toward home. There were only a few cars on a usually busy street. All the houses looked dim and gray. Few house lights were on, and a church he passed looked empty and dark.
“I’m anxious to see the pictures we shot tonight,” Javier said. His hands relaxed on the steering wheel when he drove past his house and up the side street to drop off Pat. “I hope I didn’t shake when I took pictures of the band.”
“It’s too bad we can’t get together tomorrow and work on this film,” Pat replied. He had flipped open his phone once more and then sighed. “You know, Javier, I’ve been thinking. What if my parents buy me the same editing software we have at school? My mom can usually guilt my dad into something I want, especially if I can use it for school. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Maybe I’ll even squeeze a new laptop out of the deal.”
Javier would never think to “squeeze” anything out of his parents. Pat’s attitude made Javier’s feet itchy, or maybe it was his wet socks. Regardless, he had to say, “You know, Pat, I have plenty of homework right now. I don’t know if I can afford to spend my weekends working on film.”
“That’s just the F in chemistry talking, Jack. I know you love what you’re doing for Mr. Seneca’s class. You should see the excitement on your face when you sit at the computer or when you tell us at lunch about the films you watched online.”
“Maybe I do like the class,” he said as the truck neared Pat’s grandmother’s house. “But I need to get serious, concentrate on my other classes before that F in chemistry burns a big hole in my GPA.”
“Who cares? So what if your GPA drops two or three points?” Pat replied, looking out his window. His voice hardened with more sarcasm. “What? You think your parents won’t love you if you don’t make As all the time?”
“Just shut up, Pat! You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Javier’s anger hit him like a whip. He felt the sting from his head to his feet. “Just because—”
He never finished his sentence because Pat had started yelling. “Welita’s house! It’s on fire!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“For God’s sake, stop the truck!” Pat repeatedly pulled the lever on the truck door. “Let me out! Now, Javier!”
“I can’t just stop in the middle of the street!”
“Then pull over, dammit!” His frustration made him angrier. “Damn, these doors! Javier! Stop the truck! Pull over! NOW!”
Javier jerked the steering wheel. The truck veered to the curb in front of the house next to Pat’s grandmother’s. He stomped on the brakes. They both shot forward and then slammed back into their seats. Javier did a quick shift into PARK so the truck doors would unlock. Pat whipped his door open, only to be lurched back by the seatbelt. His shaking hands tugged and pulled at the silver latch. He screamed and cursed.
“Pat, calm down!” Javier spoke in that same firm tone he used when Trey started to act like a crybaby. “You can’t help anybody if you freak out!” He quickly reached over to press the release button on Pat’s seatbelt, and then his own.
Pat stared at Javier, his dark eyes wild and frantic. But then he tossed over his phone. “Okay … here. Call 9-1-1. I’m going inside and get Welita out of the house.” He bolted out of the truck and ran toward the front porch.
With stiff fingers, Javier punched in the emergency number on Pat’s cell phone. He pressed it against his ear, and with the other hand, he opened his door. He got out and stood in the street. Thick drizzle veiled by a gray mist carried the stink of smoke and fire. When he looked directly at the house, Javier saw short tufts of reddish-orange flames spreading across the roof. As Pat got the front door open and ran inside, Javier’s fears shivered under him like a second skin.
His footsteps were heavy as he crossed the front yard. The male voice on the phone asked him for the nature of the emergency. Javier stopped and said, “Hurry! There’s a house on fire on Mistletoe Drive.” He called out the plain black numbers hanging from a wooden sign above the porch.
“A fire truck is on the way. Don’t go into the building,” the man told him.
Javier sn
apped the phone closed. He looked around for help. Not one house had a light on. Are they gone? Asleep?
Where is Pat? He shouldn’t have gone inside! Javier started running but tripped over the cracked sidewalk and fell. His shins slammed against the concrete. The palms of his hands scraped across the sidewalk. Despite the stinging pain, he got up and jumped over the small step on the porch. He pulled open the screen door. “Pat? Pat!”
A dense curtain of black smoke filled the doorway. He covered his nose and mouth but started coughing anyway. He used his arms to wave away the smoke. He tried to put his head inside, but the smoke blinded him. His eyes stung, his nose started running, and he yelled in the house, “Pat! Pat?! Can you hear me?!”
He pounded on the door frame, but it just made the smoke come out faster. He started coughing harder and leaned back against the front window. Around the side of the house, he thought, They’ll have to use the back door or climb out a window.
He limped off the front porch and around the house to the side windows of the bedrooms. “Pat! Pat!” he yelled. The rain was cold, but his body sweated heat. He was breathing so heavily that he felt like he was running laps in gym class.
Javier banged on the window frames with his fists. One of the rooms had to be where Pat would find his grandmother asleep and where Javier would find them together. Oh, please, God, let them be there. Keep them safe, he prayed.
“Pat! Pat!” he yelled and paused to catch his breath. He must have swallowed smoke, because his throat hurt. He pounded on the last two windows. “Pat, can you hear me?” He clenched his fists and pounded harder. His nose ran, and his eyes watered. Where is that damn fire truck?
He was about to step away and try the back door when he heard the scraping noise of an old windowpane lifting open.
“Javier! Javier! We’re in here!” Pat’s voice sounded raspy and hoarse.
“Ayúdame,” groaned an old woman’s voice. “Help me.”
Javier pressed his hands against the screen. “Hang on, Pat! The Fire Department’s on the way.” He could barely make out his friend’s shape and didn’t see Pat’s grandmother. “Are you okay?”
“Dammit, Javier! Get us out of here!” Pat’s voice screeched with panic. “The bedroom’s full of smoke. My grandmother’s going to suffocate! Me too!”
There wasn’t time to wait for firemen. “Open the screen,” Javier told him, back to giving orders to keep Pat calm. “Unhook the latch at the bottom.”
“It’s stuck! It won’t open!” Pat cried. “Both of the latches are stuck!”
“They’re probably rusted shut,” Javier replied. He had dealt with his share of old windows when Uncle Willie used to take him along to help the painters.
Javier couldn’t see for the drizzle in his eyes, but he pounded on the bottom of the windowsill, hoping to shake the hook from the latch. “You need to find something to hit the latch and loosen it. Hurry, Pat!”
“Ayúdame.” The old woman kept coughing and gasping.
Javier jabbed his fingers against the bottom of the screen, hoping to poke a hole. He felt sharp little wires pricking his fingers, but he kept prying at the screen, trying to make an opening.
Hard tapping, metal on metal, came from inside. Pat groaned, coughing, and cursing. Javier coughed too. The smoke sailed through the window, and he had to step back to catch his breath. He wiped his nose, but burning soot filled the air.
A siren wailed in the distance, but Javier was scared they’d be too late. “Keep trying! You need to get the latch open. Pat, don’t stop!”
“I got it!” Pat gasped. “It’s loose!”
Then he pushed open the screen—right into Javier’s forehead. Firecrackers seemed to explode in his eyes. Javier stumbled back, but he grabbed the bottom of the window screen and pulled himself upright. He couldn’t fall now.
Javier held on, and by an instinctive knowledge that came from helping his brothers on remodeling jobs, he knew to lift up so the screen popped off its hinges. Then he tossed the whole thing over his shoulder.
Pat’s grandmother had already lifted a leg out of the window. One bare foot dangled off the windowsill. Javier stood up on his toes and reached in to grab the old woman’s body and pull her through the window. She was so much lighter than Mr. Seneca had been that afternoon, but he felt off-balance and clumsy as he tried to keep a grip on her. His wet hands slipped over her thin cotton gown. His fingers pressed against the soft flesh of her stomach. He put another hand at her head, scared she might hit it against the window pane.
“Let me help! Let me help you!” said a man’s voice behind Javier, but Javier didn’t turn around for fear he would drop Pat’s grandmother. “Señora Mendiola! I’m here to help. It’s me, Tomás, your neighbor.”
Javier was so grateful for the neighbor’s help not only to get her out, but also to carry her away from the house. Once Welita looked safe in the older man’s arms, Javier turned back to the window and called inside, “Pat! Pat, can you hear me?” Smoky ghosts answered, making him cover his mouth and wheeze.
Then he felt Pat’s grip on his arm. “I can’t breathe,” he whispered.
“I’m here. I won’t let you go.” Javier reached in with both arms. He tried to pull Pat’s heavy body out into the rainy, smoky night. His hands reached higher, grabbing Pat by the shoulders. He groaned, pulling and tugging.
“No, you can’t do this.” Pat’s raspy words sounded tired and weak. “I’m too big … you can’t … get real, Jack.”
“Help me! Use your legs! Come on! Friends don’t give up that easily.” Javier felt as if he was sobbing. Every inch of him was determined not to be clumsy and to step up in every way possible to save his friend.
Javier took a deep breath and pulled again. Pat pushed himself forward, and Javier gripped so tightly that he thought his arm muscles might explode. Using the leverage of the windowsill and gravity itself, he tugged and shifted Pat’s body down and out. He tried to catch Pat, but the bigger guy came down on him like an avalanche, and Javier toppled over. Pat’s full weight landed on Javier’s chest and legs, knocking the wind out of him. Javier surrendered to the empty black feeling that released him from the pain of his aching body.
From out of that dark place, someone grabbed him and lifted him up, and when his eyes fluttered open, Javier saw two moving legs, the muddy ground. He was being carried on someone’s shoulder, away from the smoke and the burning house, but closer to loud voices, sirens, and flashing red lights.
Then he felt the wet ground against his back, but this time, two arms braced his fall like hard cushions around his shoulders. Then he was released, and when Javier opened his eyes wider, he saw Pat’s body slump down beside him.
Javier had never been so grateful for his mom’s FBI personality than he was that night in the emergency room. He felt invisible; no one would tell him anything.
When his parents arrived, he sat upright on a hospital bed inside a curtain enclosed cubicle. He was affixed to a clear thin tube with two prongs that went inside his nose, providing him with fresh oxygen. A nurse had covered him with a blanket. She stood at his bedside taking his blood pressure when his mom’s questions began. Then, a young intern got the same treatment a few minutes later. They told his parents Javier had suffered from minor smoke inhalation which a few hours of oxygen would help. He’d be released and could go home in three or four hours.
His dad had stood silently on the other side of the bed. He had grasped Javier’s hand, and after several minutes of listening to the nurse and doctor, had still not let it go.
When they were alone again, his mom looked at Javier, her dark eyes blinking back tears. She leaned down and kissed Javier’s forehead. “Gracias a Dios.”
His dad slowly released Javier’s hand. His smile trembled as if it was hard to wear it on his mouth comfortably. “Nivia, do you remember when Selena threw Vivian’s doll into the barbecue pit? It looked like Javier’s smoky face, verdad?”
When his mom laughed, Javier
smiled and started to relax, but when he tried to talk, he barely recognized his own voice. “I’m okay, but what about Pat? No one will tell me where he is, what happened to him, nothing.” He wasn’t crying, but because of all the smoke, his nose kept running and his eyes watered. Also he couldn’t stop his voice from shaking since he felt wet and cold. His shivering never stopped, even with the thick hospital blanket on top of him.
His mom cleared her throat and stepped back. She rubbed Javier’s shoulder. “Don’t worry … I’ll find out something for you.” Then she looked at her husband. “Marc, call Eric and get him to go to our house and bring Javito some dry clothes. Son, you need to rest. I promise I’ll be back with news about Pat.” She pushed the curtains aside and left.
His father’s expression was very solemn as he called Eric. Javier watched his dad, listening while he walked around the bed and kept assuring Eric that his little brother was going to be okay. It had been a while since Javier had paid attention to the wrinkles around his father’s tired eyes, the thickening of his chin, and the small bald patch on the back of his gray head. Tonight, his dad really looked sixty years old.
After his father ended the call and turned back to look at him, Javier said, “I’m sorry, Dad. I hate to make you and Mom worry like this, but I’m going to be fine.”
“I know.” He nodded like his neck was stiff. Then his dad sat down on the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you tell me about what happened tonight, Son?”
Unlike his mother, who questioned every detail, his father listened intently as Javier took the time to describe the night’s events, but his dad wasn’t without his sense of humor. “And what if there had been burglar bars on the windows? Did you two think you were the Hulk and Spiderman?”
Javier smiled, but he had thought the same thing earlier. So many houses in the neighborhood had iron bars on the windows. He knew it was lucky this wasn’t the case tonight. “But you know what really helped, Dad? I knew about old windows. Thanks to those spring breaks when you made me work with Uncle Willie, I could help Pat get his grandmother out.”
The F Factor Page 18
