The Fire Artist (18 page)

“What should I offer you?” I ask because I know soon I’ll have to pay. Soon I’ll need to come up with some kind of currency.

“Do you want to get into this? Into how the exchange works? Whenever you’re ready, I’ll tell you. That’s how it works. You say you’re ready, and I am instantly obligated as a mastered granter to review all the rules, provisos, and conditions of wishing and the guidelines you’ll have to follow for payment.”

There goes his free will again. There go his choices. The more I get to know him, the more I learn he’s a lot like me.
He doesn’t have a lot of choices. But I still have free will, and so the least I can do is let him have a taste of what it’s like to be free for a night. After my evening, I’d rather have a respite for a few hours.

“No. Not now at least. Let’s do something else,” I suggest, then insecurity rears its head. I don’t even know if he likes me. “I mean, if you want to.”

“Want to crash another show? Go bowling? Mini golf? Walk in the park? See the rooftop of the Met Life Tower?”

My eyes widen.

“Yes. That one. The last one.”

Taj reaches for my hand, and we’re not underground, he’s not leading me through the tunnels. He’s just holding my hand. I slide my fingers into his and meet his eyes. There’s a flicker between us, a spark in our touch, and I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with being granter and wisher and everything to do with being boy and girl alone in the big city at night.

The Met Life Tower is streaked with gray, but it’s not from dirt or soot. It’s from a marbling of the stone that forms the building. At night, the building is eerie and shadowy, as if it’s shrouded in secrets. As if the building could talk, tell us things it’s seen in this city after hours.

Or maybe Taj is the one who could tell me things. He must have seen all the corners of New York. He dips his free hand into a pocket and shows me a key.

“Granter perk?”

“Nope. I did a job for a security guard’s sister a while ago.”

“And so, naturally, you have a key to the Met Life Tower.”

“To many buildings, actually. New York Times Building. The new World Trade Center. Even the Empire State Building.”

“Really?”

“Really, indeed. O ye of little faith.”

“And you got them all from a security guard?”

Taj shrugs casually. “He had to make a trade. For his sick
sister. He needed to pay up. That’s what he had, so that’s what he paid with. It works well for me.”

Soon we’ll have to talk about payment. Soon I’ll have to find the currency I can trade with too.

He notices the change in my features. “Don’t worry. You’ll get to pay me too,” he says, making light of this reality. Of the fact that he probably hates being a bank for people like me.

“I don’t have much.”

“Everyone thinks that, but everyone has something they can part with when they have a great enough need. Does this mean you’re ready?”

Yes, I want to say. Yes, because of Xavier now. But I need one more night for me.

“No. Not yet.”

“Good. Because I hear it’s beautiful on the balcony.”

Taj puts a hand on my back, and his fingertips slide across the fabric of my shirt in a way that sends shivers through my skin. I wonder if he knows his touch is doing something to me, making me feel things I’ve never allowed myself to feel. He steers me around to the side of the building, to what looks like a fire exit. He presses the key into the lock and pulls the door open. We’re in a stairwell that extends to the top of the building, as far as I can tell.

I start to walk up the steps.

“We can take the elevator.” He nods to the door that must lead to the lobby.

“Oh, I can manage the stairs,” I say playfully.

“You think I can’t? That’s cute. That’s really cute.”

Up we go, nearly fifty flights of stairs, legs burning, lungs aching, panting as we reach the top floor.

“Didn’t realize you’d be getting a workout tonight too, did you? See, I know how to bring it when it comes to F-U-N,” he says.

“Next time, let’s try the Empire State Building. You might be forgetting this girl works out every day.”

“Ooh, show-off,” he teases, and now he’s just the boy who likes to have fun with a girl. There are so many facets to him, and I want him to know that I have many sides to me too, only I hardly ever show them.

We’re near the top of the building now, and he holds the door open for me. I walk out onto the balcony. It circles the peak of the Met Life Tower with a spire above us, a clock right below us. A high fence surrounds the perimeter, and there’s a perfect view of Manhattan, the rivers that surround the island, and the towns that lie far beyond. I gaze up at the sky. The stars are barely visible. The city below is a quiet hum of a radio at night.

“It’s amazing,” I whisper as I wrap my fingers around the railing at the edge of the building.

“It is. It really is,” he says, and his tone has the sound of the first time, as if he’s drinking in this view for the first time.

I turn to look at him, at his profile, his sharp cheekbones, his dark skin, his hair the color of night. He shifts his gaze to me.

“You’ve never been up here before, have you?”

He shakes his head.

“What about the other buildings you have the keys to?”

“Never been to them either.”

“Because your wisher would have to want to go?” I ask, though it’s more a statement, because this is a puzzle I’m putting together.

“You got it.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you usually take your other wishers or potential wishers or whatever they’re called, whatever we’re called,” I say, stumbling through my question as my cheeks flame red. “You know, around the city or whatever?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he touches my wrist with his index finger, tracing a line across my skin. His touch is magnetic. I want to feel his fingertips draw road maps all over my arms. I try to concentrate on something else, on the view, on the city, on the phone calls I just had, on my faraway family, but I can’t grab hold of them. They are slippery, and they slink away like banished ghosts, forbidden from my here and now.

“No,” he says, then runs his finger up my bare arm, across the inside of my elbow. “I never wanted to. Nor did I ever have the opportunity. Most wishers aren’t interested in hanging out. They don’t want to get to know their granter. They make their wish, they pay, and then they go. Or they don’t make their wish, and they leave.”

“So what does that make me? Indecisive?” I ask, as his hands reach my hair. I lean into his hands, letting him slide his fingers through the thick strands of my hair. His moves are slow and gentle, as if he savors each touch. I don’t have questions about him anymore. They are all vapor; they have all turned to
mist. There are only answers, and he’s giving them all to me in a way I feel is not a one-way street.

“I don’t know. Are you indecisive? Do you want to make a wish right now?”

“Kind of,” I whisper.

“What would you wish for?”

His hand reaches the back of my head, his other hand finds my waist, and rests on the edge of my miniskirt. We are so close now, separated by less than inches.

“Hypothetically, of course,” he adds.

“Hypothetically,” I repeat, my eyes locked on his deep-brown eyes, as if I’m in a trance. “I think I might not have to wish for it. I think it might happen anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow in that playful way he has.

“Presumptuous, are you?”

I nod, lick my lips, as he holds me tighter, brings me closer, my hips against his, his hand in my hair. “I want you to kiss me,” I say.

“Your want is my command.”

His lips brush mine. His kiss is soft and tender, his lips gentle and lingering on mine. It is a slow kiss, a warm kiss, and it’s enough to make me melt into his touch. I part my lips and soon we’re kissing more deeply. My hands are reaching into his hair, silky and soft. He doesn’t have that soapy, woody smell of other boys. He smells like oranges, and he tastes like sunshine. The perfect contrast to the shadows in my body, the dark space between my muscles. The more I kiss him, the more I taste him, the more of him I want. Somehow, we’ve managed to move even closer,
and I feel warmer than I’ve been before, and freer. I don’t bring any baggage, or history, or walls when I’m with him.

I’m the opposite of who I’ve been, and with him all I want is closeness. All I want is more of this.

Soon we pull apart for air.

“To answer your question, no.”

“No what? What question?” I ask.

“Have I kissed my wishers before?”

“I wasn’t going to ask that,” I say, but my big fat grin gives away my white lie.

He runs a finger across my top lip and I’m about to lean in for another kiss, but then his hands are on my cheeks, cupping my face. “You’re the only one I’ve spent time like this with, Aria.”

My face is flushed and my heart is lurching toward him. I don’t know how any of this has happened, but yet I know exactly how it’s happened too. Because he’s the first boy I’ve ever let into my heart, and I don’t want to make a wish, because in so doing I’d be wishing him away.

“I thought about you before I came to New York,” I whisper.

His eyebrows knit together in question.

“I saw your picture when I was in Florida. Mariska posted it online. I thought you were … beautiful.”

“Beautiful,” he repeats with a smile.

“You are. I want to draw you.”

“Draw me?”

“I make little graffiti drawings. I want to try drawing you.”

“I want to watch you do that.”

“I want to keep seeing you,” I whisper.

He leans his forehead against me. “Me too.”

Then he pulls back. “But I have a job to do, and you have a need, and we should talk payment soon.”

He’s serious again, but this time he’s business serious, by-the-book serious.

“Taj, I don’t want to talk about that.”

“But we have to.”

“Why? You said we only had to talk about it when I brought it up. That that was part of being a mastered granter,” I say, and the last two words taste bitter. Still, I don’t want to go there right now.

A shadow falls across his eyes. The warmth of a few seconds ago starts to dissipate. “Because that’s part of being bound. You might be able to do whatever you want, but I can’t just run around forever and ever. Sure, you’re my master and you can dictate what I do, but we can’t play at this until the end of time.”

“Why not?” Maybe I should run away. Maybe we could run away. “We could get out of here. Get out of town. We could go. You’d never have to live underground again. You’d never have to stop living again. You could just be, right?”

It occurs to me that it would be far too early in a normal relationship to suggest running away with a boy. But this isn’t a normal relationship by any stretch, so I don’t feel clingy or needy by asking him. I feel as if I’m taking charge of my own fate.

“Ar, I love the thought. But I can’t.” He holds his palms out, showing me they’re empty, of course. “There’s always a ticking clock.”

“Why? Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight for real? Do you expire after seven days with a wisher?”

He shakes his head. “If we ran away, then you’d, for all
intents and purposes, no longer be in such desperate need of a wish. That’s how I found you, remember? That’s how you found me. I don’t come to everyone who needs something. Some people need things in life—a home, good health, escape—but they’re not wanting to wish, so we don’t appear. But when someone is so hungry for a wish, like you were, that’s when I’m called. I could sense your need, your deep, desperate need to wish. That’s what summoned me to you. When you stop needing a wish, you’ll no longer be my wisher. When someone decides they no longer need a wish, I can’t be kept at their beck and call,” he explains.

“Is that what happened to Mariska the night I met you? She was done wishing, so you were no longer at her beck and call?”

“Her situation was a bit different,” he says evasively.

“So what happens if I don’t need a wish, then?”

“I won’t be able to come out to see you. I’ll cease to exist, whether you wish or not. It’s only the condition of your needing something so badly that keeps me with you. When that goes away, I can’t stay.”

It’s as if I’ve been dreaming, sinking farther away into pretend, into the land of make-believe. Now, I’ve been harshly awakened. This thing between us is like my fire. Always ticking, always unwinding.

I kick the rooftop, a petulant child.

“I wish there were another way.” I walk away for a minute. “That wasn’t a real wish,” I call out, and I pace toward the other edge of the balcony, thinking, working through scenarios, looking for a loophole. But I find none, because magic makes its own loopholes. It circles back in on itself and twists inward, like
those trees whose roots sprout back up to form new branches, but they’re all part of the same mother tree, never splintering off to become their own.

I walk back to him. The faint sound of a siren plays far below, cars and life happening many stories away. “How exactly does the payment thing work?” I need information so I can come up with a plan.

“Wishes don’t come free.”

“That much is loud and clear. How do I pay?”

“
Dearly
. You pay dearly,” he says through clenched teeth, as if the words pain him.

“Like how dearly? The key the guy gave you? That hardly seems very high a price.”

“It was for him. The keys were his livelihood. He didn’t just give me keys. He gave up his job in exchange for the wish. Besides, his sister became well again, so I assume he felt it was worth it.”

“Oh. So the keys are sort of symbolic. But that doesn’t seem fair for him to give up a job.”

“I don’t make the rules, Aria. I have no say in them. I only administer them. It’s not as if I wanted this job. It’s not as if I asked for it. I may have the magic, but I have
no say
,” he says, enunciating the last two words carefully.

“So how else do people pay for wishes? With money?”

He shakes his head. “Rarely with money. Some people have paid for wishes with their children.”