Page 8 of Under Southern Stars
Izzy’s gaze sweeps over the decorated locker, the apparatus board, and finally lands on me. For just a moment, I could have sworn I see the corner of her mouth twitch.
“McKenzie,” she says. “My office. Now.”
As I follow her toward the small administrative office, Rodriguez whispers loudly, “Don’t forget to use protection!”
Izzy stops dead in her tracks. Slowly, deliberately, she turns around.
“Rodriguez,” she says, her voice sweet but simultaneously terrifying. “Toilet duty. All week. With a toothbrush.”
Rodriguez’s face falls. “Aww, come on, El-tee—”
“Two weeks.”
Rodriguez’s mouth snaps shut.
Izzy gestures for me to continue into her office, closing the door behind us with a soft click that somehow manages to sound ominous. The small space suddenly feels charged with tension, though whether it is disapproval or something else, I can’t quite tell.
Lieutenant Delgado doesn’t sit down. She just leans against her desk, arms crossed, studying me like I am a particularly interesting species of insect.
“I don’t care what you do on your own time,” she begins, her voice low and controlled. “I don’t care who you date. I don’t care if you have a whirlwind romance with the entire nursing staff at Metro General.”
She pauses, letting the words land.
“But when your flirtations are broadcast over the entire county’s emergency radio network, it becomes my problem. When one of our crew members decides to make jokes over a recorded, public channel, it becomes a professionalism issue for this entire station. Do you understand?”
“Crystal, Lieutenant,” I confirm, making sure to match her serious tone. “I’m sure it was a slip on her part, not intentional. And I had nothing to do with Rodriguez’s commentary.”
“I know. I know.” Her expression softens almost imperceptibly. “I already wrote Rodriguez up for the radio comment. He’ll be cleaning those toilets with his tears.”
Despite the tension, I feel my mouth twitch. “Bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Was it funny? Yes. My abuela probably heard it on that ancient police scanner she’s had since the Carter administration.” Izzy shakes her head. “But this station—my crew—has a reputation for being the best. That means we’re held to a higher standard. No more providing entertainment for the entire county’s gossip network. We clear?”
I study her for a moment, recognizing something in her tone I’ve heard before—the careful control of someone who knows they are being watched more closely than others. She is having to have this conversation because she’s a woman, I realize. If this was Captain Murphy’s crew acting up, the brass would just chalk it up to ‘boys being boys.’ But when it’s her station, every screw-up gets magnified. She has to work twice as hard to get half the credit.
“We’re clear, Lieutenant.”
“Good.” She straightens, all business again. “Now get out of my office and go check your rig. And McKenzie? Try to keep the romantic declarations off the public airwaves. Some of us have professional reputations to maintain.”
As I turn to leave, I hear her add, so quietly I almost miss it, “And for what it’s worth…she could do a lot worse than you.”
I glance back, but she is already focused on her paperwork, the moment of vulnerability gone as quickly as it had appeared.
Back in the bay, Rodriguez is very deliberately inventorying medical supplies, his earlier smugness is replaced by the resigned expression of a man facing two weeks of intimate toilet acquaintanceship.
“So,” Rodriguez says without looking up from his clipboard. “Scale of one to ten, how dead am I?”
“Toothbrush dead,” I confirm, unable to keep the grin out of my voice.
“Worth it,” Rodriguez says firmly. “Totally worth it. You should have seen your face when you walked in here.”
O’Malley appears from around the side of the engine, still chuckling. “Don’t worry, Romeo. We’ll make sure to answer all your calls from Metro General with appropriate…enthusiasm.”
“Professional enthusiasm only,” I warn, but can’t swallow the smile I am fighting now.
The truth is, as mortifying as the whole thing is, there is something oddly warming about it. In the weird, twisted logic of firehouse culture, this level of elaborate harassment means acceptance. They care enough about me to put genuine effort into making my life miserable.
It is, in its own strange way, a kind of love.
