Powers Read Free Page A

finish eating, then go out to the parking lot to run my car for a while to keep the engine from freezing. While it’s warming up, I call home.
    â€œHello,” answers a male voice. Great. My father.
    â€œIs Mom there?”
    â€œShe’s busy.” I hear Mom in the background, rattling dishes.
    â€œTell Mom I’ll be home late. I’m going to Canadian Tire to get a block heater.”
    â€œGood idea,” says Dad. “I’ll reimburse you.”
    â€œFair enough,” I say. “Since you’re the reason I need one.”
    That meets with hard silence. Dad’s not one for pissing matches. He lets the silence sink in, then says, “I’ll let your mother know you’ll be late.”
    His voice is as subzero as the wind that whips off the lake, freezing my fingers before I reach the warmth of the school.
    Gwen
    Had I called him a jerk out loud? That wasn’t like me. Maybe I’d muttered it under my breath. He made me so furious. The way he moved in on Joanne, repeating her name like some smarmy used car salesman, calling her “Jo” like they’d been friends for years.
    And Joanne, so naive, falling for him. Someone has to watch out for her. She has no sense where boys are concerned. Look at Conrad. All romantic gestures, flowers and chocolate and love notes. And Joanne fell for it. Meanwhile, she even looks at another guy and Conrad goes ballistic. Something wrong there.
    I drove slowly through town, heading for my work placement as a student photographer at Rocky Waters Press. It was a gorgeous day. Twenty-five below, deep blue sky, no wind. I reached the newspaper office and entered through the back door, leading to the presses. I loved the roar and rumble, the rush of papers speeding along the rolls, the inky smell of the fresh newsprint. I grabbed a paper, and checked out the photo on the front page.
    A house on fire, with flames reaching into the night. Please no. Don’t let this be happening.
    The cutline said: “House Destroyed By Early Morning Fire.” There was little else, except to say the Rocky Waters Volunteer Fire Department had responded quickly but was unable to put out the blaze.
    I stopped by Doug, my editor’s, office. “You busy?” I asked.
    â€œHey, kiddo, grab a seat,” replied Doug, motioning with one ape-hairy arm at the chair in front of his battered oak desk.
    â€œAny more on this?” I asked, pointing to the photograph.
    â€œPolice gave more details about an hour ago,” Doug said. “Sad story. Seven-year-old boy died. Parents out of town. Older sister supposed to be babysitting, but she was at her boyfriend’s place.”
    A small casket, its lid up and waiting.
    â€œYou okay, kiddo?” Doug asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
    â€œUm, fine,” I managed to say. “Uh, did the kid set the fire?”
    â€œNot unless he was playing with gasoline and a pile of rags in the basement,” Doug said.
    â€œArson?”
    â€œ Suspected arson,” he clarified. “Look, I’d like you to get a shot of the wreckage. We’ll run it tomorrow with the latest from the police.”
    He handed over my assignment sheet—take a photo of the burned-out house, get a few shots of the penny drive at the elementary school, and a photo of the monthly birthday party at the seniors’ center. Okay. I could do that. Take the shots, get the names, triple-check the spelling, turn in my photos and cutlines.
    â€œOh, and Gwen? If the police are poking around the fire scene, try to get a statement, okay?”
    â€œOh, no. I’m a photographer, not a reporter.”
    â€œC’mon, kiddo,” said Doug. “We’ve been through this before. Hard to make a living strictly as a photographer. You need to spread your wings.”
    No way. Watchers watch. They take pictures from behind the safety of the camera lens.
    Doug gave me directions