A Little Bit Pyro

2: Recruiting Mr. President

After school, right after I swing by my house to check on my sustainable energy project, I will figure out who is responsible.  It shouldn’t be that difficult. Anyone stupid enough to steal crap from the chemistry closet, and then use it to set fire to the lab—during school hours, less than a week later—will be easy to catch.   

And then they will turn themselves in, unless they want to know what a real pyro is capable of.

Chapter 2: Recruiting Mr. President  

The back gate creaks as I ease it open. Cringing, I step onto the stone path with as much stealth as possible. Every footstep, and bump against the surrounding foliage freezes me in my tracks, waiting for my mom to jump out at me. Dad is speaking at a seminar today, so I won’t have to worry about him until later.

 I’m not scared of her, I remind my-self. I just don’t want to wake her up, in case she’s still sleeping. And if she’s not, I don’t want her to get all worked up about today. She has it in her head that I’ve regressed, that I’m back to my old tricks. And I’m not. So, I’m just doing her a favor, helping her to keep her blood pressure down, by staying out of sight.

 After a whole year of court mandated therapy I learned a couple things. First, I’m not a true pyromaniac. That title is reserved for those who compulsively start fires to relieve stress, or for gratification.

For me, it isn’t a compulsion. It’s like a favorite pastime.  Gamers don’t compulsively play Halo every night into the wee hours of the morning. They choose to do it because they enjoy it so much. Fire is my game.

The second thing I learned is that, if I just change the name of my favorite pastime everybody is happy. Chemistry is celebrated, whereas making explosives is frowned upon. The difference is that now my equipment is more specialized, and I can call it experimentation.

In the name of supporting their recovering pyromaniac son, my parents built me a laboratory in the back yard, just because my therapist suggested it would help me channel my enthusiasm in a positive direction. I’ve been meaning to send her a thank you card for the past few years.

I’m not the kind of guy that sends little cards out or anything, but I figure that a person who can convince my parents to build a chemistry lab in the perfectly landscaped backyard deserves a medal, at the very least, a thank you. Maybe I should enlist her help when Christmas comes around.

But to me, my lab represents Christmas every day, endless possibilities of what I can create, with the right chemicals. My favorites are acids, like nitric acid, which is one of the chief ingredients of ammonium nitrate, a compound used in numerous explosives.

I glance up at the third story window of my parent’s bedroom, to make sure my mom hasn’t seen me before slipping into the lab. I lean against the door and let out a deep breath once inside.

“Rough day?”

I jump to see my mom standing in front of my chemical storage closet, her arms crossed making her look taller than her actual five foot height. Praying that she hasn’t been sniffing all of the chemicals that I’ve labeled “H2O”, I decide its best just to get this over with so I can get back to the school to check out the lab before they lock up.

So instead of running in the opposite direction, I shrug my shoulders at her and walk toward the table where I have a special heat resistant glass beaker suspended in the air by a metal support. Inside it is a blue liquid, burning a low flame, which although I leave it burning when I’m not here, has almost no chance of causing a fire. Not with the flame resistant glass, and the fact that it doesn’t touch anything.