Flash Fire Read Online Free
Author: Caroline B. Cooney
have to defend his property, with a great blazing enemy to stave off.
The two maids and the two groundskeepers were leaving. The Mexicans paused, hoping Beau would drive them down to the bus stop. They didn’t want to walk in this heat. The bus would pick them up on Grass Canyon Road, and two miles down Grass the road would intersect with the Pacific Coast Highway. From there they would sit stolidly for however long it took to reach their Los Angeles neighborhood.
It would have been impossible to live the way Pinch Canyon did and not have household help. What with careers and shopping, luncheon dates and fashion decisions, body sculpting and aromatherapy and relationship discussion, who had time to cook or clean? Beau’s parents had no idea what a household chore was and certainly never expected their children to do one. They could not imagine washing their own car or doing their own laundry. Beau’s mother would no sooner contribute to a school bake sale than swim in a storm drain.
His parents were fond of their children, but on the side. Like a sauce they might not want once they tasted it.
Halstead and Danna Press referred to their parents as SuperMom and SuperDad. Beau privately referred to his as SemiDad and NeverMom. He liked them. If he, too, were a grown-up, he’d enjoy their company and be friends. But they were not actually parents in any sense. They were beautiful, rich people who maintained a beautiful house in which they kept children who had better be beautiful, too.
Poor Elisabeth did not meet the guidelines. Last week, Beau’s mother lamented to her women friends, “How could Aden and I, of all people, turn out a knock-kneed, nearsighted, overweight, boring little girl?”
“Mom, don’t talk like that about Elisabeth,” said Beau afterward. “Lighten up. She’s only eight. Give her time.”
“Beau, darling, these are my friends. They understand. I need understanding. You don’t know how difficult it is, a daughter like that. Let me describe to you what I had in mind.”
Elisabeth was never going to be what Mom had in mind.
“Would you like a ride to the bus stop?” Beau asked the help.
They nodded. There were never conversations with the help, just orders and nods.
“Wanna play tennis?” he asked his sister on the way to the garage. Tennis was an essential skill in their circle. He was always trying to tutor Elisabeth in the essentials.
“You’ll beat me.” Elisabeth invariably took that view: Why do anything; somebody will beat me. Mom of course hated having a daughter so lacking in drive and self-discipline.
“You need practice, Lizzie. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Beau took the Suburban. His parents had bought it on a whim, immediately hated it and never touched it again. Everybody else had bought English: Land Rover or Range Rover. Beau loved the Suburban. With room to ferry a small band and its equipment, or else half a sports team, it was high off the road, heavy but easy to maneuver, and the driver had a great view and tons of power.
He picked up two more yardmen trudging down Pinch, and honked as he approached the gate so he wouldn’t have to slow down. The guard was poky opening up, and Beau had to come to a full stop. He made sure to glare at the guy to let him know he’d better not cause this problem on Beau’s return.
Grass Canyon Road
3:30 P.M.
M ATT MARSH WAS THE happiest, most excited twenty-two-year-old in the great state of California.
It was the big game. And he was on the team.
He was wearing a new helmet, since the old one had melted fighting yesterday’s Altadena fire, and he was using, of course, a new hose, since the one he had held to save his own life had also melted.
Matt referred to the fires in sports terms: The score, for example was: 100,000 acres burned, 240 houses destroyed, 44 casualties, no deaths.
In some weird way, Matt was cheering for the fire.
He was awed by it. Stunned by it. Fascinated by it. They were fighting it hard
The two maids and the two groundskeepers were leaving. The Mexicans paused, hoping Beau would drive them down to the bus stop. They didn’t want to walk in this heat. The bus would pick them up on Grass Canyon Road, and two miles down Grass the road would intersect with the Pacific Coast Highway. From there they would sit stolidly for however long it took to reach their Los Angeles neighborhood.
It would have been impossible to live the way Pinch Canyon did and not have household help. What with careers and shopping, luncheon dates and fashion decisions, body sculpting and aromatherapy and relationship discussion, who had time to cook or clean? Beau’s parents had no idea what a household chore was and certainly never expected their children to do one. They could not imagine washing their own car or doing their own laundry. Beau’s mother would no sooner contribute to a school bake sale than swim in a storm drain.
His parents were fond of their children, but on the side. Like a sauce they might not want once they tasted it.
Halstead and Danna Press referred to their parents as SuperMom and SuperDad. Beau privately referred to his as SemiDad and NeverMom. He liked them. If he, too, were a grown-up, he’d enjoy their company and be friends. But they were not actually parents in any sense. They were beautiful, rich people who maintained a beautiful house in which they kept children who had better be beautiful, too.
Poor Elisabeth did not meet the guidelines. Last week, Beau’s mother lamented to her women friends, “How could Aden and I, of all people, turn out a knock-kneed, nearsighted, overweight, boring little girl?”
“Mom, don’t talk like that about Elisabeth,” said Beau afterward. “Lighten up. She’s only eight. Give her time.”
“Beau, darling, these are my friends. They understand. I need understanding. You don’t know how difficult it is, a daughter like that. Let me describe to you what I had in mind.”
Elisabeth was never going to be what Mom had in mind.
“Would you like a ride to the bus stop?” Beau asked the help.
They nodded. There were never conversations with the help, just orders and nods.
“Wanna play tennis?” he asked his sister on the way to the garage. Tennis was an essential skill in their circle. He was always trying to tutor Elisabeth in the essentials.
“You’ll beat me.” Elisabeth invariably took that view: Why do anything; somebody will beat me. Mom of course hated having a daughter so lacking in drive and self-discipline.
“You need practice, Lizzie. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Beau took the Suburban. His parents had bought it on a whim, immediately hated it and never touched it again. Everybody else had bought English: Land Rover or Range Rover. Beau loved the Suburban. With room to ferry a small band and its equipment, or else half a sports team, it was high off the road, heavy but easy to maneuver, and the driver had a great view and tons of power.
He picked up two more yardmen trudging down Pinch, and honked as he approached the gate so he wouldn’t have to slow down. The guard was poky opening up, and Beau had to come to a full stop. He made sure to glare at the guy to let him know he’d better not cause this problem on Beau’s return.
Grass Canyon Road
3:30 P.M.
M ATT MARSH WAS THE happiest, most excited twenty-two-year-old in the great state of California.
It was the big game. And he was on the team.
He was wearing a new helmet, since the old one had melted fighting yesterday’s Altadena fire, and he was using, of course, a new hose, since the one he had held to save his own life had also melted.
Matt referred to the fires in sports terms: The score, for example was: 100,000 acres burned, 240 houses destroyed, 44 casualties, no deaths.
In some weird way, Matt was cheering for the fire.
He was awed by it. Stunned by it. Fascinated by it. They were fighting it hard
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