The Fire Artist (17 page)

“Tonight. Next show. Can you do that again?”

“Yes.”

I answer without hesitation because I know now I can do it again. My twin isn’t a fluke. I wasn’t angry enough before. When I came to New York and moved away from my father, it’s as if the distance muted my anger. But the rules and the laws and the stupid, awful reality of my half-baked heart are all too real once again. I don’t even know how I’ll pay for my wish, but I’ll have to figure that out soon, and hell if that doesn’t make me mad.

I fire off several more replicas. Several more copies that shoot flames as high and as wide as they can go. Mariska watches me. Her jaw-dropped, google-eyed stare makes it clear she’d never mock me for my work ethic again.

The fire inside me crackles and growls. It burns off corners of who I am, like flames stalking through a forest, ripping off branches and swallowing twigs. I keep going, an artist gone wild, who no longer makes sparks and starlight but fearsome, legendary, wild duplicates.

If my father were here right now, I’d shoot fireballs in his direction. Then I’d roast marshmallows on the flames as he cooked. I’d watch, steely-eyed, as the fire he tried but failed to make in me, the fire I went out and took from the sky, burned him alive.

My image is broken when Mattheus whistles. I notice all the coaches and all the teammates and even a few of the staffers, the woman who processes paychecks, the guys who clean the locker rooms. They’ve all migrated to the field. To see the Girl Prometheus do the thing she skipped a grade for, to finally after all this time, deliver.

To see her unleash wildfire from her hands. Bending, racing, rising high and hot above us, obedient to only me. Fueled by the desire to not just kill her own father but to also rage against all the rules that have trapped her, that have made her into
this
.

Something I never, ever wanted to be.

Now I am.

Now it’s awful, more awful than it ever was.

It’s show night, and Intrepid Arena is packed.

Imran is here. Mattheus called him after practice. Imran was in Boston visiting some of his underscouts, who check out the newly gifted and chat up parents about the farm leagues. Mattheus told him to take the next shuttle back, and now Imran is here in Central Park for tonight’s performance of Coeur de la Nature. He finds me before the show, plants his hands on my shoulders.

“I knew you’d be a star.”

He’s beaming, proud of his find. I don’t know what to say. My heart feels like coal. My head feels vacant. I am probably narrowing my eyes at him, at this man who gave me every chance I’ve ever wanted. Only, when I take those chances, I feel parts of me sliced off, making room for darkness, for badness, like my brother warned. I force my mind to my sister. To her sweetness. To her snarky sense of humor. It makes me feel the slightest bit human again. She is worth this. She is worth everything I will ever have to do.

“Thanks.”

I walk to the stage, decked out in the slinkiest of black outfits—a sleek, tight thing covering most of my skin, and I give the audience what they want; fireworks and flaming art.

Then I move on to the main attraction, to the special trick the audience has been whispering about since they walked down the aisles, slid into seats, and waited with their programs in hand. They’d heard tonight’s show would be special; rumors had started to spread.

At last the girl from Wonder might be wonderful.

I start small with the twin, moving her hands and her arms with mine.

Then I move on to the release, to the flames she shoots high. Her shadowy, shimmery talent elicits gasps and cheers. I even turn in a circle, my twin turning with me. Bending, bowing, almost dancing, though I don’t really dance. But then, she has a mind of her own. She steps without me. I startle, look at her, my mouth agape for the briefest of seconds. Then I snap my fingers to turn her off. But as she burns out, one small piece of her flames shears off, racing away from me, and my chest lurches.

I
know
this moment.

I know it too well.

The spark drops quickly down to the ground, landing in a fading fireball at my foot. I stomp it theatrically, raise my arms triumphantly.

I meet Imran’s eyes, and he’s so immensely satisfied with me. He has no idea what the errant spark means.

Loss of control.

I tell myself it’s a misstep. This is the first night with a new
trick. It’s not an unraveling. It’s not the beginning of the end. But I don’t know that I believe me.

Later, I sit on the bench in the locker room, my head dropped into my hands.

“Hey, you all right?”

Gem’s voice is soft, concerned. I look up at her, wanting to say I feel like soot, I feel blackened, and I’m terrified now too. How is it possible to house so many different feelings in one body? How is there room for all this emptiness, all this fear, all this hate?

I nod. “Just tired, I think.”

“You want to walk back together?”

“Actually,” I start, but I don’t have to finish, because Gem jumps in.

“You’re going to see that guy tonight, aren’t you?”

I manage a slight smile, and it’s partly for Gem and partly for Taj. They seem to be the only things that can counteract the tangled mess of me.

“I think so,” I say. “I mean, yes. Yes, I am.”

Gem smiles broadly, and I mirror her, and soon she’s telling me to go for it, and I tell her I want to, I really want to.

“You can do my daisy tomorrow.”

“I promise.”

Taj isn’t waiting for me outside the Lipstick Building. He’s not near any of the grates. I’ve circled the block three times. I’ve
peeked into all the nearby grates that surround this building shaped like a tube of lipstick. I’ve whispered his name, I’ve called his name. I don’t want to rub the lamp. Not yet. It seems so … demeaning.

I try one more time. “Taj. Are you there?”

“Lost something?”

I look up, startled. An older woman with white hair and a bent-over back looks at me kindly.

“Um, I thought I dropped my phone,” I say, improvising. If my phone were named after a boy.

“Oh, dear. These grates are so dangerous. I thought perhaps you’d lost a doggie under the sidewalks. I once did. But then I found him near the park. A nice young man brought him back for me.”

Then there’s a bleating sound from my back pocket. My ringtone. I grab my phone. Elise is calling.

“Looks like you found it,” the lady says with a smile and shuffles off.

“Hey,” I say into the phone. “Aren’t you out at sea?”

“Yeah, but we’re closer to shore now, so I finally got a decent signal. But it won’t last long and I have to tell you something.”

“Is everything okay?” I ask, as I step away from the grate and walk to the doorway.

“Yeah, obviously. But I kinda think I should be asking you that question. Are you using a granter?” Her voice sounds tense.

“Yes. But what do you have to tell me? Is everything okay?”

“Listen, it’s your brother.”

I close my eyes and grasp for the nearest thing, the rough edges of a brick building, to steady myself. “What’s going on?”

“He’s fine, but Kyle said one of his buddies saw Xavi over at the abandoned mental institution and that he was using his fire. You know the place I’m talking about?”

I know it too well. “Yep.” I sink down to the sidewalk, crouching. “Is he doing more than lighting up at the abandoned asylum?”

“I’m not sure. Kyle thought he saw him shooting off flames near an old car too. He gave him kind of a warning. Kyle said Xavier was there with a bunch of guys he might have known from his time in prison. They were doing all sorts of stuff, you know?”

“Yeah, I can imagine.”

“I know you can’t stop him. I know you’re not even here and you have a million things on your mind. But maybe you can talk some sense into him. I mean, if he’s caught by the authorities, then, well, you know. It’s life, for sure.”

“I know,” I say, my voice heavy. “I just don’t think he’ll listen to me, though.”

“But you should try. And, I’m still working on August. You may not have to—”

Then the line goes dead.

But I have to
, I want to say.
I have to
.

From my perch on the sidewalk I dial Xavier. He picks up on the first ring. “You need to stop,” I tell him, not bothering with small talk. “They’re onto you. The cops are going to find out. You need to stop and you need to stop now before you do something stupid. You need to look out for Jana.”

“Stop? Ar, you’re crazy. We’ve already sold like eighty tickets to our first show. We’re going to bring in some serious change.”

“Don’t you get it, Xavi? You have a record. They know who you are. They’re keeping an eye on you. They’ll be thrilled to send you away forever if you light up another car.”

“Aria, I’ve told you not to worry about me.”

“I am worried about you, Xavi. I need you and I love you and I can’t have you locked up again. And you have to look out for Jana. So stop this stuff, please? I’m making some money, and next year when I’m eighteen, I won’t have to split the paychecks with Dad. And I can give you whatever money you need.”

“Aria, I’m not taking money from you.”

“Why not?”

“You’re my baby sister.”

“And Jana is
our
baby sister, so you can’t afford to get locked up. Be careful, Xavi. Are you keeping an eye on her like I told you?”

“Yes. I even went with them to the beach on Sunday, okay?”

“The beach?” I say, tensing up because that’s the worst place for my dad to take Jana.

“Yeah, the beach. That big expanse of sand that meets the ocean. You familiar with it?”

“Yes, Xavi. But …” I let my voice trail off, afraid to say the words out loud.

“But what?”

“Did anything happen?”

“Happen like what?”

I suck in a breath then blurt it out. “Did Dad hurt Jana?”

He scoffs as if the idea is ludicrous. “No! He was swimming with her the whole time. Whole day. It was fabulous. I was even able to fall asleep in the sun.”

My heart falls. “Xavi, please be careful. I love you.”

“I’ll try,” he says. “I love you too.”

Then we say good-bye, and I stare at the phone for a few seconds, wishing I could unwind the day, tie it up, and tuck it away in a drawer while I rewrite my messed-up, broken family into a normal, happy one. Instead, I try again for Taj. I return to the Lipstick Building, to the grate where I’m supposed to have a kinda, sorta, maybe date.

I exhale when I see a strong hand holding up the grate a few inches. I kneel.

“Hi.”

“Hi. Can I come up?”

“Do you need my permission?” I ask.

He nods. “Yes.”

“But you didn’t the first night.”

“That was the first night. And last night, you came down to the library, but I couldn’t leave until you okayed it. Because now, I am at your beck and call. You know, that old bond thing between granter and wisher.”

Master and servant—the roles don’t technically make sense because the granter possesses incredible, monstrous power, yet the wisher claims all the control.

Taj shifts his eyes to the grate he’s holding up. His arms must be quite strong, his muscles under those long shirtsleeves sharp and defined. I stare at his arms, at the way the fabric of
those crisp shirts he wears stretches across his muscles when he holds up the grate.

The heavy iron grate.

“Of course. Come up,” I say, breaking my reverie.

He lifts the grate higher and swings his body up onto the sidewalk, then drops the grate with a heavy clang. He brushes one palm against the other. “Sorry I’m late. I was talking to my mom.”

“Your mom? Is she down there?”

“No. But we have other ways to communicate. We try to talk now and then, since granters can’t see their family members. But I like talking to her.”

“I wish my mom would talk to me,” I say wistfully. Then my eyes go wide at the word I just used aloud with a granter. I hold up a hand. “Wait. That wasn’t a wish. That wasn’t an official wish.”

“Don’t worry, Aria. You’d have to offer me something first. Don’t forget—there’s always an exchange.”