On Young Adult Fiction...

“Fire Bug”
I started writing this story as the result of taking an online Children’s Writing class through The Gotham Writers Workshop [ www.writingclasses.com ] in NYC last summer. It is loosely autobiographical. I received enough praise on my submissions that I feel like the story is marketable. Here are some excerpts:

Simon is nine, pushing ten, and has a fascination with fire. Ever since he was five and found a book of matches on the floor of an am/pm store, he has been attracted to all things that flicker, like a fish to a shiny lure. At first, he experimented with single matches, holding them tightly to see how long he could last before the flame burned his fingers. Then, he advanced to burning entire books of matches and small household items. His fascination has escalated to the point where he knows he’ll get caught someday, and that fact alone provides most of the thrill. No object is off limits. Experiments with burning matches, twigs, and string have become passé to Simon. Even burning his sister Samantha’s stuffed toys and making hair spray torches has lost its appeal. Simon knows his next quest involves gasoline and a fire pit. He just needs the right opportunity. He keeps waiting for a time when both his parents will be gone at the same time, but ever since they announced their impending divorce, they never leave the house together. Waiting for that precious moment burns his belly in every waking moment.

Simon’s build is slight, lanky even. For nearly ten, he is tall. The magic height line never stood in the way of him getting on any carnival rides, but that didn’t matter much because he always sought out the flame jugglers anyway. Simon has a dress code. Shorts. Striped t-shirt. Slip-On shoes. It doesn’t matter if it is winter either. The uniform remains the same. His hair is blonde, white really, but his Fremont Elementary School student I.D. says blonde. Once, his mother had said, “People would think he was albino if he didn’t have such a great tan.” Simon toted a red L.L. Bean backpack, complete with the essentials: two books of matches, a lighter for special occasions, flints, lighter fluid… and, oh yeah, textbooks, pencils, and a 3-ring binder that held his math homework and the rest of his college-lined kindling. His only scar, a BB-sized blemish on his left thumb, the result of burning a plastic Q-tip swab and not moving in time before the flaming drops began to fall. At the time, it burned like the devil, but Simon now saw the scar as a badge of strength.

“What on Earth do you think you are doing, Simon?” asked Karen Culpepper, next-door neighbor, second grade teacher, snoop.
“Burning weeds,” Simon replied emphatically. “What are you doing? Letting your dog deliver a present to us in person?” Knowing he had been busted, he tried to throw her off his trail.
“Never mind what I’m doing,” she said. “Do your parents know that you’re out here playing with fire so close to the house?”
“Of course they do,” Simon replied. “They asked me to do it. This was on my list of chores to do today.”
“You mean to tell me your parents gave you the green light to burn plant material directly adjacent to your home?” she queried.
“Yep. You can ask ‘em if you want to, but you’ll have to wait until my mom wakes up. She worked the night shift at the hospital last night. She’s sleeping right now.” Simon could sense her tone of voice easing up.
“What about your father, then. Is he available for me to ask?”
“Nope. He’s at work.” Simon said, thinking she was about to back down.
“Do you have the number?” Ms. Culpepper asked.
Simon had always wondered why “Ms.” Culpepper never became a “Mrs.” Culpepper. Now he knew. She asks too many questions. “I think the number is listed in the phone book,” he answered. “He works for the law firm of Dewey, Cheatham and Howe. You could look it up.”
“Listen, Smarty McSmartypants, I think you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing. Let me see your chore list, this instant,” she demanded.
“Just a minute,” he said.
Dejected, Simon ran inside. He scrambled to find a piece of paper and pencil. In his best handwriting, he wrote down a quick list of chores to show Ms. Culpepper. He began sweating bullets, but tried to remain calm, determined not to let her call his bluff. His hand trembled, as he scribbled. “Think. Think. Think,” he chanted as he wrote.
Out of breath upon his return, Simon handed Ms. Culpepper the list, thinking he had her beaten.
“This is some list,” said Ms. Culpepper. “One: Let mom sleep. Two: Be nice to your sister. Three: Take care of ‘weedz’, W-E-E-D-Z in the side yard? Four: Let mom sleep. I mean it. –Dad,” read Ms. Culpepper.
“See, I was taking care of the weeds in the side yard when you showed up,” said Simon. “Just like the list says.”
“Tell your mother I would like to speak with her the instant she is awake, do you understand me, young man?” Ms Culpepper scorned. “And, when your father gets home, tell him I want to talk to him about YOUR spelling.”
“Please don’t tell on me Ms. Culpepper,” Simon begged. “I’ll never do it again. I promise. Just don’t tell my parents.”
“I can’t do that, Simon. It’s not the right thing to do. We’ll talk about it together with your parents,” she replied.
“I’ll pull the weeds in your yard if you don’t tell,” Simon pleaded.
“Nothing doing, young man. You’re not going to talk your way out of this one,” she stated and walked hastily away.

Simon spent the afternoon destroying all possible evidence and pulling every weed in the yard. If he was finally going to get caught, he would have a bargaining chip against his impending punishment, which no doubt would entail being grounded for the remainder of his youth. By the time he was finished, four hours had passed, and he had picked 127 dandelions and 422 weeds he didn’t know the names for. He didn’t even mind picking up the dog poop that Ms. Culpepper’s dog left behind. He decided he would try to convince his parents the clean yard was merely a gesture of good will and he acted out of boredom, nothing more. He would claim he had seen, but never spoken to Ms. Culpepper. “Besides,” he would say, “What kind of person would let her dog go #2 in front of you and not pick up after it. Clearly, she’s crazy.” Simon kept the poop in a plastic bag marked “Exhibit A”, just in case he was forced to make a case proving her mental ineptitude.

[Here are the parts that are true: I did, in fact, set the ear of my cousin’s toy fox on fire when I was a kid. I think at the time I denied doing it and got away with it. (Sorry, Jen—I don’t remember if the toy was yours or Missy’s, but I’m the guilty party). I also used hair spray as a blowtorch. It’s a wonder I didn’t burn a house down. I also went to Fremont Elementary School in Carson City, NV. Beyond that, the rest is fiction. I used the name Simon because that’s what Stephanie and I called Elliott when he was still in utero. As the story goes, my wife had hyperemesis when she was pregnant (barfed incessantly). We called him Simon because Stephanie was not in control of her body at the time like a game of ‘Simon Says’: Simon says, “Barf.” or Simon says, “Eat watermelon, then barf.” It’s funny now, after the fact, but at the time it wasn’t funny at all. Actually, it’s still not funny, at least not the barfing she endured.]