Stones and Spark by Sibella Giorello

where a cast-iron pan smokes on the stove like it's going to explode.
    Ignoring the fire hazard, Teddy rolls over to his refrigerator and tugs on a knotted rope, wrapped around the handle. He's never said how he wound up in a wheelchair—and swears he never will—but whatever injury snapped his spine also curled up his fingers. He can work his thumbs okay, but his fingers look like their sides were super-glued and stuck together.
    "How much bacon can you eat?" he asks.
    "None."
    "You don't want bacon? Man, something is wrong."
    I regret my choice as soon as he lays the thick slices in the smoking pan. The sizzle of grease forces Teddy to turn his head. He doesn't consider turning down the flame.
    He yells over the spattering, "You think something bad happened?"
    "Yes."
    "Drew ain't no shrinkin' violet."
    "I never said she was."
    He paws paper towels off the roll secured to the lower cabinet. As always, I feel an urge to help. But the one time I tried, he seemed insulted.
    "Let's say Drew didn't high-tail it out of town. What would be your first step?"
    "Identify the problem."
    "Which is . . . ?"
    "Drew is missing."
    "Then?"
    "Gather all the information."
    "Then?"
    "Form my hypothesis—Teddy, I know the scientific theory."
    "You forgot the whole point of it."
    "Test the hypothesis."
    "Right." He looks over. The green in his eyes looks both wise and wicked. "Which part you expecting me to help you with?"
    "Gathering the information."
    Suddenly his mouth drops open, he looks down. "You see that?!"
    I hurry over. "What's wrong?"
    "I'm paralyzed!"
    I glare at him. "Everything's a joke to you."
    "Ain ’t it? You want me —a man in a wheelchair—to gather information? Raleigh, that's what I hire you for."
    For the past two summers, I've been Teddy's research assistant, collecting those rock samples.
    "But you know things," I tell him. "Things I don't."
    "Why don't you ask your dad to help?"
    He waits. I don't reply.
    "What I thought," he says. "You ain't told him."
    "I told him Drew's missing. Last night."
    "But I'll bet you left out this whole part about rootin' around for information. What else you hiding from him?"
    "The point is: if her parents weren't retarded, I wouldn't even have to do this."
    He cuts the flame and tongs the brown-almost-burned strips onto the paper towels. As the grease spreads through the paper like a flood, my mouth waters.
    "Raleigh, do you know who pays my salary at St. Catherine's? Parents."
    "So?”
    "Parents pay my salary. Drew's parents, for instance."
    "I'm sorry. But I need help, and my dad's got his hands full dealing with my mom. Okay?"
    Teddy rolls over the sink, tosses the tongs into the stainless steel tub. Then looks at me. "Does it help, knowing you're part of a long Southern tradition?"
    "The Harmons?"
    "I don't give a flip about that landed-gentry stuff. I'm referring to your having a crazy mother. It's a Southern tradition."
    "No, that doesn't help."
    "Well, there's always bacon."
    He offers me a slice.
    I bite down, and my mom's horror-breakfast evaporates. This bacon tastes of smoke and maple and meat. I close my eyes, feeling a dance on my tongue, and when I open them, Teddy is smiling.
    "All right," he says. "What d'y a need from me?"
    I smile back, relieved.
    But my heart is some weird mixture of glad and sad.
    Glad for Teddy's help.
    Sad for why I need it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    Teddy's van belches black smoke all the way up Grove Avenue. I ride my bike behind it, grateful for the rain that washes the sooty clouds into the pavement.
    When he pulls into St. Cat's parking lot, he bypasses the reserved space with its sign, "Science Teacher of the Year!" Teddy's won that award twice—once for Virginia, once for the entire United States. I'm pretty sure the award is the only thing keeping Ellis from firing him. They have a mutual dislike; you can tell because whenever Ellis comes around Teddy's classroom, Teddy will slip into even deeper hillbilly talk, just to drive our grammatically