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I secured the hose on the stairs and ran to help Tony lift the large man off the floor and carry him to the window. We loaded him on a backboard and then passed him out the window to the guys waiting on the ladder.
“We need to get the flames under control,” I said, as we headed back to the stairs. I grabbed the hose as Tony began chopping holes in the walls to make sure the fire hadn’t spread inside the walls. I could hear the guys on the roof using their axes to vent the fire as I doused the hallway and put out the flames.
When we emerged from the house an hour later, I saw Cal sitting on the curb with his head down between his knees, gasping for air. Tony walked over and slapped him on the back asking, “What the hell happened, rookie?” When Cal couldn’t answer, another of the guys spoke up and said, “He tried to pull the hose out without releasing the hook and knocked the wind out of his sails. Maybe busted a rib or something.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, rookie!” Tony shouted. “What the hell is wrong with you? Did you forget your brain back at the station? Hose usage is basic stuff! What the fuck, you idiot?”
When Cal didn’t respond, Tony stomped off swearing a blue streak as he helped roll up the hoses and store the gear. I walked over to where Cal was sitting and quietly said, “Hey, that was a dumb move all right, but we’ve all been there. Shake it off, rookie. You’ll do better next time.” Cal turned and looked up at me with a solemn expression, then nodded and pushed himself up off the ground.
“You should go over to the EMTs and have them check you out before we head back to the station,” I said. Silently, he nodded and turned to walk away.
Tony sidled up next to me holding a couple of axes in one hand and demanded to know why I was talking to the idiot rookie.
“Ease up, man; you’ve made your point,” I said quietly, as I looked at him and raised an eyebrow, “We’ve all been there before, or have you forgotten?”
“Fuck off, Gaston,” Tony said with a wry grin as he walked to the truck and stored the axes.
“Just saying,” I grinned, as we swung ourselves up into the rig and waited for the driver to take us back to the station.
Chapter Eight
Emily
Friday afternoon, as I was finishing hanging the best homework assignments on the board outside my classroom, I saw Nina Gaston walking down the hallway. She dragged her feet as if she were dreading whatever was waiting outside.
“Nina, can I talk to you?” I called, as she edged along the wall, intent on avoiding me. “Nina, I know you hear me.”
She looked up, surprised that I’d call her out this way, and stopped walking. I motioned to the classroom door, and silently she walked over and entered the room.
“I want to talk to you about your History grade,” I said, trying to maintain a calm, nonjudgmental tone.
“My dad already read me the riot act,” she said in a flat voice. “I know what you want and what I need to do. Is there anything else?”
“Nina, I don’t understand why you aren’t doing better,” I said, abandoning the pretense of neutrality. “You’re an incredibly smart student who has written some astute essays in the past. This change in attitude doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Not everything makes sense, Ms. Fowler,” she said, without further comment.
“Try and explain it to me,” I prodded.
“I don’t care about History,” she shrugged.
“Why not? I mean, I know my lectures aren’t the most scintillating, but the assignments are top-notch!” I joked.
“History is in the past; why dig it up?” Nina asked.
“Because we can learn a lot from it,” I said, wondering what had led her to draw this conclusion and why she was ruining her grades in order to prove her point.
“I don’t think anyone learns anything from the past,” she shrugged. “I find it boring and useless.”
“Nina, I don’t know why you feel this way, but I’m worried about what will happen if you blow off this class and sink your GPA because of it,” I said earnestly, trying to get through to her. “You’ve got to bring your grades up so that you can apply for college and scholarships next spring. You’re too smart not to take advantage of every opportunity you have.”
“Says you,” she said, looking up at me. I could see that there was something bothering her, but I was wary of prying when she was obviously intent on maintaining her defenses.
“I’m not trying to guilt you into anything; I’m just saying that I want to see you achieve your goals, and I know that staying in Waltham is not one of them,” I said bluntly, pointing out the fact that living in town and working at one of the low-paying minimum wage jobs that were available for non-college graduates should not be her first choice.
“You live here,” she said accusingly.
“Yes, but that’s because I finished my degree and made a choice to pursue a career that brought me here,” I said, suddenly feeling defensive. “I didn’t let this town become my default setting.”
