The Fire Artist (11 page)

I call Xavi later that week from my dorm room, launching straight into the most important part. “How’s Jana?”

“She’s fan-flipping-tastic,” he says.

I furrow my brow, though he can’t see me. Xavi rarely talks in such exuberant terms. “How so?”

“Just swimming a ton. Hanging with Mindy. Having fun like a kid should do. Don’t worry about her, Ar. I promise. I am being the best big brother.”

Something in his over-the-top manner worries me. As if he’s covering up. “Are you sure? Is Dad doing anything to her?”

“Nope. I swear.”

I have no choice but to believe him. “Are you making fire?” I ask.

“I am just fine. Don’t worry. Focus on the Leagues. We are all good.”

We chat for a while longer, and then say good-bye. I end the call and dial Elise next.

“Do you miss me?” she says the second she answers.

“Like you can’t even imagine.”

“So what’s it like? I can’t believe you say you suck.”

“It’s like heaven and hell at the same time,” I say, then tell her about Mariska and my lack of a fire twin. “I’ve been trying so hard, but I can’t do it.”

“Do you think the weather there is different or something, and maybe it affects what you make?”

I stretch out on my single bed. “Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe I have to be angrier. Maybe I’m only angry when I’m near my dad,” I say with a dry laugh.

“I’ll send you pictures of him if you need incentive,” she offers.

“Ha. No thanks. So we’re still getting together in August?”

“I told you. It’s unbreakable. There’s nothing that can stand in the way of that happening.”

I exhale, my shoulders falling, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath since I left Florida. Of course, I’ll probably be holding my breath again until the next renewal. I suppose I am always holding my breath.

“What about boys? Any cute ones?”

“There’s one,” I say, but then I trail off. Because I haven’t even talked to Mariska’s boyfriend. I don’t even know his name. On top of that, he’s taken. “But he’s not an option,” I quickly add.

“Well, find someone who
is
an option.”

Her directive reverberates in my brain later that night as I walk to the common room in the dorm to find some cereal. Music plays from the kitchen, and a faint light is on. I walk inside and see Mariska, Claudia, one of the water boys, and then him.

I stop in the doorway, and it’s as if my feet can no longer move. Mariska is painting Claudia’s nails, the water boy is flicking through channels on a TV, and the beautiful boy is reading.

He’s not even next to Mariska, who’s stretched out on the couch with Claudia. He’s sitting in an armchair, reading a paperback.

Mariska looks up at me, arching an eyebrow. “Are you coming to join our party? Solo tonight, again?”

It’s clear that I’m not welcome. That until I pull my own weight on the team, she’ll continue to be cold.

“Just wanted to get some cereal,” I say coolly, and I unroot myself from the doorway and head to the cupboard.

“It’s always a party in the New York Leagues,” Claudia says with a snort. “The more the merrier, you know? You could bring two next time.”

I remain impassive. I don’t want them to know how much my failure embarrasses me.

“Watch it, Claud, or your nails are going to smear,” Mariska says to her friend, and their interest—or disinterest—in me is done.

As I find the cereal box, the boy looks up from the book, meeting my eyes. I’ve never been this close to him. I’ve only seen him on my phone, in pictures, and at the end of the block. Now he’s mere feet from me, and I’m glad the lights are low because my face is flushed as I take him in. He’s more beautiful than in the pictures Mariska posted. His eyes are the purest brown, as if they’ve been flooded with the richest, deepest color that money could buy. But there’s something more to his eyes than the color. They look as if they’ve not only seen the world but also known it. I feel unsteady because I’m not used to such beautiful boys looking at me.

Beautiful boys who belong to other girls.

I have to find the strength to look away, but whatever discipline I might possess in this regard has seeped away.

“Hi,” he says to me, but I can’t read him. I can’t tell if he’s friendly or bored.

“This is Taj,” Mariska says, over her shoulder. “He’s with me.”

“Indeed I am,” he says, flashing me a closemouthed grin.

Mariska looks up from Claudia’s hand. “But I don’t know that I need you anymore.”

He springs up from the chair. “So then I can go?”

I have the feeling I’m about to witness a public breakup, so I take my bowl of cereal, say good-bye, and hightail it out of there.

Seconds later, I hear Mariska say, “I’m done.”

And then Taj is in the hallway, his book tucked under his arm, walking quickly in my direction. He slows when he sees me. “Hello again.”

I tell myself I just met him for the first time. That I haven’t been checking him out from afar. “Hi. How’s your book?”

“It is excellent, and I’m going to do everything I can to finish it in the next ten minutes,” he says, and he seems buoyant with his plan to read.

“Why? Do you turn into a pumpkin in the next ten minutes?”

The corners of his lips curl up. “Perhaps I do.”

“What’s the book?” I’m surprised that I’m talking to him, but then talking has never been my problem. Letting someone in is.

“
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
,” he says, showing me the book. “Highly recommend it. I needed a laugh.” Then he tips his forehead to the common room.

“I wonder why,” I say, and that earns me another smile. My God, he has beautiful teeth too. Straight and white, and it’s scary how everything about him is perfectly put together. His lips look so soft, and for a moment I find myself wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

“Yes. It’s a mystery, isn’t it?” he says, a playful glint in those deep brown eyes, and suddenly we’re in on it together—the Mariska joke.

“So I guess it’s over with you guys?”

“Honestly? It never even started,” he says, but there’s nothing crass or cruel in his tone.

“Oh.”

I’m not sure what to say next. I want to tell him I saw his picture online. But even though I don’t have a ton of experience with boys, I know not to say that.

Then he exhales heavily. “Sadly, I must go.”

“It was nice meeting you, Taj.”

“It was nice meeting you too … ,” he says, then waits expectantly for my name.

“Aria.”

He offers a hand to shake, and I gladly take it. Then, as his fingers wrap around mine, I remember the thing I should never forget. My scars. I press my teeth against my lips, embarrassed that he’s touched my hands. But his are warm, and there’s something electric in his touch, the start of a spark in my belly. As he walks away, down the hall, down the stairwell, and out into the night, I find myself missing him.

The next few weeks pass in an exhausted blur, full of all-day practices that tire out every particle of my body. When practice ends, I drag myself to the nearby dorm the Leagues use, grab something to eat, call my brother, talk to my sister, and crash. I see my teammates many hours every day, but we are hardly teammates at all. We are competitors vying for the same spot—the
next
spot, the next thing, the next rung on the ladder up, up, up. But I’m still the flailing rookie, the kid they called up too soon.

One afternoon in the locker room as I’m zipping up my worn-down black combat boots—I wear them even when it’s hot out because flip-flops in New York City are an invitation for crushed toes and because boots make me feel safe—one of the earth artists speaks to me. I brace myself, prepared for more thinly veiled barbs or aloofness.

Gemma is a “chorus” earth artist, like the backup dancers
to a pop star, an understudy to Mariska. Gemma, along with a waiflike beanpole of a boy named Cameron, crafts mini fault lines and creates tiny flowers to pair up with the bigger quakes and the oak trees that Mariska draws from the ground, like a magician making things appear, then disappear. Our creations are fleeting.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

“I hear you’re from Florida.”

“Yeah. I’m from Florida.” I answer cautiously, not sure where she’s going, uncertain if we’re making conversation or if I’m being set up.

“Me too.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She nods. “This tiny little town in the Panhandle no one has ever heard of.” She tells me the name of the town, and she’s right—I haven’t heard of it. I adjust my denim miniskirt and pull my gray tank over the belt buckle of my skirt.

“How psyched were you to get out of Florida? It’s the most backward place.”

“Totally,” I say. I’m not sure how I’d even begin to answer how half of me is happy to be away from home, but the other half is shredded with guilt over leaving my sister, a guilt that’s only been eased somewhat by Xavi’s updates—Jana’s doing fine, he claims.

“Florida is too hot, too full of old people, and too full of scam artists.” Gemma runs a hand through her black hair. It’s shoulder length, straight, and the color of midnight.

“My mom always said that. The part about scam artists,” I add. “She ran into them when she was on the party circuit years ago. She’s a water artist. Well, used to be.”

“You know, I think it’s cool that you skipped Miami. I’ve seen your moves. You’re good. Really good.”

“Thank you,” I say. She sounds genuine, and it’s a sound I could get used to. “So are you.”

Gemma waves a hand in the air. She wears several rings, big sparkly ones in various colors—blues, maroons, reds. Costume jewelry that she clearly doesn’t wear when she’s practicing or performing. “I was in Miami for a few months before I came here, but even then I was counting down the days till I could leave,” Gemma says as she places a foot on the bench, then bends over to tighten the laces on her sneakers. She wears deep-pink sparkly sneakers. She’s an explosion of color, the color copy of my black-and-white photo.

“Cool shoes,” I say. They remind me of Elise.

“Thanks. Yours too.” She tips her forehead to my boots. My armor, my shield. Then she extends a hand. “I’m Gemma, but my friends all call me Gem.” I already know her name, but I like her friendliness. She waggles her fingers. “Since, well, I like sparkly things. Maybe they should call me Squirrel.”

I laugh out loud at that.

“Hey, want to get an iced coffee?” she asks.

“Sure.” Then I add, “Squirrel,” and now it’s her turn to laugh.

We’re about to leave when the head coach barks at us. “Team meeting. Now! Back on the field, but don’t suit up. Head of scouting and artist development is here.”

I glance at Gem, and she shrugs. I walk outside with her to the field into the heat of the late afternoon. Imran stands next to a short, curvy girl who’s probably about our age. The girl wears black slacks and a crisp white blouse.

“As you all know, granter testing is going to start,” Imran says in his soothing voice. “I’ve talked with many of you privately, so this should come as no surprise. But just to reiterate, this is the first year we’ll be undertaking this process. And we are going to expect you all to check out. This is Raina. She’ll help facilitate the testing.”

Raina gives a quick nod but says nothing. Her hair is dark and thick, with the kind of loose, effortless curls that everyone wants but no one gets without a salon. She can’t be any older than sixteen. She looks as if she never laughs.

“All the teams are going through testing. And I expect all the teams to be clean. Especially the New York team. The others look to New York to set the standard, so you need to do just that. As you know, if anyone is found to be using, you’ll be banned from the Leagues forever and ever and then some.” Imran pauses and flashes his reassuring smile. I don’t think the man has ever raised his voice. I don’t think he has to. Even when he issues orders, he sounds like he’s giving praise. “So do as Raina says.”

Another crisp nod from Raina, and then we’re dismissed for good this time.

As Gem and I make our way out of Chelsea Piers, I ask her what she thinks Raina will be doing.

“Nothing,” Gem says with a scoff.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because how could they possibly know?”

“I don’t know. How could they?”

“They can’t. That’s the point. You can’t test for granter use. It’s not like getting a wish leaves some sort of mark. It’s not like there are trace amounts of leftover wish dust in your pee.”

“So you think it’s all a ruse?”

She nods her head. “Totally.”

“But Imran made such a big deal about it when he recruited me. Why would he do that?”

“They don’t
want
us using granters. But they can’t
stop
someone from using a granter. Besides, everyone in Miami was talking about granters all the time, and how you find one. It’s virtually impossible,” she says as we walk to the coffee shop.

“How is it impossible? What do they say?”

“That’s all I know. But it’s not like finding a genie in a bottle. Everyone says it’s more …” Her voice trails off.

“More what? Complicated?”