The Fire Artist (23 page)

The sun wakes me cruelly. It glares through the open window of my dorm room. I fling an arm over my eyes to block it out.

Then my alarm goes off. Time for practice. Time for work. Time to make beautiful flames.

I should have wished to be normal. That’s what I really want. I should have wished to be free of fire and elements and Leagues and expectations. I could be a waitress. Or a cook. I could go to college and learn about
The Great Gatsby
. I could paint houses, I could train for marathons, I could be a tattoo artist. I could do all the things that the ninety-nine-and-more percent of the world that isn’t encumbered by elemental powers can do.

But the alarm buzzes again, my reminder that I have chains.

I get out of bed, my heart hurting. Funny, now my heart is healed. Now it’s no longer burned. But it hurts way more than it ever did, a long, slow ache for Taj. For what I’ve done. I banished the one I love, and he’s not even living anymore. Or
worse, he might even have been summoned to a new wisher, someone who wants horrible things too. But then it aches for me because in seven days I will know his hell.

I pull on shorts, a sports bra, and a tank top. I lace up my sneakers, and there’s a knock on my door. “It’s Gem.”

“Come in.”

She opens the door and closes it quickly.

“So, tell me. I want details.”

I don’t even know where to start. But I’m tired of lying. I’m exhausted from maintaining a facade. I’ve done nothing but keep lies and secrets my whole life, and now they have unspooled. “It’s all a mess.”

She quirks up her eyebrows, concerned. “How? What do you mean, sweetie?”

But before I can tell her, there’s another knock.

Gem pats my knee, protectively, as if to say,
I’ll take care of this
. She opens the door, and it’s Raina. What is she doing here now? We’re not scheduled for testing or anything.

“Good morning,” Raina says, and she’s not bored-sounding today. She sounds chipper and pleased. “How are you, Aria?”

“Fine.”

“Great. We just have to do a little more testing.”

“More testing?”

“Yes,” Raina says with a smug smile. “Sometimes we get this crazy notion to do more testing. Now, if you have a moment?”

“Sure.”

Raina looks at Gem pointedly, making it clear she should leave.

“I’m fine with her staying,” I say.

Raina rolls her dark eyes. “To each her own. How can I quibble with that?”

The hair on my neck stands up. “What did you just say?”

Raina casts me a challenging look. “I said,
How can I argue with that
?”

I shake my head. “No. You said
quibble
.”

“And if I did?”

I say nothing, but my senses are now on high alert as she peppers me with questions.

What do I like to do for fun?
There’s hardly time for that
.

What are my hobbies?
I like to doodle
.

Who do I hang out with after practice?
Friends
.

I study her the whole time. She’s a code, and I’m this close to cracking it.

“And when you hang out with your friends,” Raina says, chewing up the last word, “would you say that you do so with your whole heart?”

The room spins wildly with the realization, and I steady myself by holding on to the wall. The floor feels as if it’s dropping out from under me as I connect the final pieces. Then everything falls into place, and I know how the Leagues are conducting their granter testing, and I know that granter testing isn’t a ruse at all. It’s deadly accurate.

Fight or flight kicks in—part of me wants to wrestle tiny little Raina to the ground and contain her, the other part wants to run, run, run. Because Raina is a granter.

Her questions have been dull and uninteresting because they don’t matter. The
only
way the Leagues can test for granter
use is to check the registry of wishes. Only granters have access to the registry.

That’s how the Leagues are rooting out granter use. By painstakingly monitoring who’s been entered into the registry of wishes. Her questions never mattered. The way she tests is to look in the ledger.

My mind races quickly, adding up the facts.

Raina must be in the granter union, or she’s a career granter.

My name must not be in the registry of wishes yet. That’s why she’s only toying with me right now. Because she doesn’t have enough evidence yet.

She’ll know soon, and then Imran will know that I wished for something exceedingly illegal that will get me kicked out of the Leagues.

But wishes are supposed to be confidential, so all I can figure is that the Leagues and the granter union must be in cahoots somehow. Mariska is still here, and I flash back to Taj’s words:
her situation is different
. And then how she simply told Taj in the common room that she didn’t need him and then he walked away. Of course he walked away—he didn’t disappear like he did with me—because she must not have wished. I assumed she did, but that was wrong. She’s still here, so she must be clean.

Unlike me.

I steel myself before Raina, my eyes hard, my jaw tight. I won’t give an inch. “I do everything with my
whole heart
.”

She nods, uncrosses her legs, and rises. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again very, very soon. We’ll have such family history to discuss.”

The floor buckles again as I’m smacked hard with another
wave.
Family history
. That’s what Imran was talking about in his office. Not my brother and his crimes. But my father and his wish. That’s why Imran kept a close watch on me, to see if I’d use too, like dear old dad. That’s why Imran was so worried all along that I’d use—it’s in my DNA, thanks to Dad.

“But how?” I whisper in a desperate voice.

Raina laughs drily. “You’re not the only one who can make a deal.”

Raina leaves.

“What was that all about?” Gem asks.

I turn to my new friend, a friend I’m about to lose. I press my thumb and index finger into my temples, as if I can rub some sense into myself. But that’s long gone. I’m past sense, I’m beyond smart choices. I am at the end of all the lines. “I have to go, Gem. I have to skip practice. Can you cover for me? Tell them I’m sick. Tell them I have the flu or something and went to the doctor.”

Gem looks nervous. “But they have a team doctor. They’ll wonder why you’re not there. I mean, of course I’ll cover for you. But …”

“Can you tell them I went to a friend’s house, then? Just tell them I went to a friend’s house to lie down, that I needed some quiet or something, I don’t know.” I hold up my hands. I’m coming up empty.

Gem nods several times. “Of course. Yes, I’ll figure something out. But what’s going on, Ar? You going to tell me?”

“I don’t even know how to start. I don’t even think I have time to start. Just that I’m in over my head, Gem, and it’s not going to get any easier,” I say, but then I figure what do I have
to lose now? I’ve spent so much of the last few years managing secrets, sequestering them and containing them, and where has it gotten me? In worse shape than before. Maybe keeping it all inside isn’t the way to go. I tell her, “I used a granter. I wished for better fire. I have reasons. It’s the only way I could protect my sister from my father, or so I thought, and I can’t go into all the details now. I just need you to trust me that I had to do this. And soon, in a matter of hours probably, the Leagues are going to know. The coach will know, Imran will know. Because Raina is a granter and all granters have access to a registry of wishes, so they are going to be kicking me out of the Leagues. And now I have to get home to my mom to say …” I swallow, breathe deep. “To say good-bye.”

“Oh, no.” Gem’s face turns chalky. She gropes for words but can’t seem to find any. There really aren’t any, I suppose. Then she speaks. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

She grabs me and hugs me, and it feels as good as anything can feel right now. “You better stay in touch,” she adds, because she figures all that will happen is I’ll be kicked out of the Leagues. But I’ll be kicked out of life.

“Actually, Gem,” I say into her shoulder. “I probably won’t ever see you again. I traded myself as payment.”

In less than a week my granter will be coming for payment. Coming for me.

Ironic
.

That’s the word that spirals through my head as I board the next flight, as I fumble my way through reading a magazine and doodling meaningless lines and shapes on the flight home.

Ironic
, because I was originally planning on coming home right around this time. Rendezvousing with Elise for a little storm-and-beating-heart cocktail. I’d squirreled aside money for this very reason. For a flight back to Florida to restore my bleeding fire. Only now I’ve cashed out that dough to say good-bye to my mom and my sister, so in seven days I can go take the place of the only boy I’ve ever loved.

Taj will be free though. At least there’s that. Maybe this is how I repay all my debts—to Elise, to the Lady, to the Leagues. By giving up any freedom, and letting someone have it instead. Taj. I take some solace in knowing, come the end of the week, he’ll no longer be dying and dying and dying in between wishers.

As I cap my pen and tuck my magazine away, I think of all
the things I want to do and say in the next seven days. My chest tightens as I picture saying good-bye to my mom and my sister, then it’s squeezed when I imagine telling my mom the whole truth of all my father did to me and to her. But maybe I won’t feel that bad. Maybe telling her is what I should have done all along. It never occurred to me before to tell her what he’d done. What held me back so long? Was it self-preservation at play the whole time?

Maybe I shouldn’t have lived that way. Maybe I should have spoken up sooner.

But I will now. I will speak the truth now.

I am like a person dying, who has to say her final good-byes. Who wants to clear the air with everyone before she goes. It will hurt, but it also has to be done.

I step off the plane, walk through the terminal, and check my phone. There’s a message from Elise telling me Kyle will pick me up at the airport, and she’s pulling every string to return from sea for a few days. Then there’s a message from Gem that she thinks they bought her cover-up, but Imran has called too, asking me if everything is okay. I can practically hear each second ticking away as my expiration date draws closer. The only question is what the Leagues will do to me before I trade places with Taj. Or to my sister.

So much for my foolproof plan. So much for the debt that would never come due.

I exit the airport and head for Kyle’s car. He’s waiting at the curb. The Florida heat is sticky, a wool blanket of wetness. It clings to me, as if I’ve just wrapped myself in cellophane and sat under a hair dryer.

Kyle opens his door, hurries around to the passenger side, and lets me in.

He doesn’t know what I did. But when Elise asked him to pick me up, he said yes without question.

He returns to the driver’s seat, gives me a long and friendly hug, and I realize I have missed all the people here who I care about. I thought I hated this place. I thought I wanted more than anything to leave Florida in my wake. But the people are more than the place, and there are enough people here—Jana, Xavi, my mom—who I do love. Even with my half heart.

Kyle drives away from the airport, onto the highway, toward Wonder.

“So … ,” he begins tentatively. But he’s not really waiting for me to tell him more. He assumes I’m here because of what happened to my brother. I don’t disabuse him of that notion.

“It sucks,” I say, and that’s the truth that applies to all situations. The one thing that doesn’t suck is that my dad won’t be home for another day. He’s anchored somewhere in the deep-blue sea, drinking beers and angling for the big one.

We ride in silence most of the way, breaking it only to share small talk about the Coast Guard, because that’s about all I can manage, and I’m glad I don’t have to fake being happy to be home, though he doesn’t know the truth of why I’m sad.

He pulls up to my house and opens the car door for me. “Don’t be a stranger while you’re here. ‘Kay, Ar?”

“I won’t.”

He leaves and I give my home a once-over. A new coat of paint, an inviting yellow, the kind realtors tell you to paint a house when you’re trying to sell it, because yellow homes sell
faster, because yellow seems warm and cozy, like this is a home full of love and many happy memories.

I open the door, greeted by the perfectly modulated central air-conditioning we now have, thanks to the money I made that Dad spent, since most of my checks have gone to him. My mom is where I left her, marooned in her chair. She is a little starfish, washed up on the beach. I go to her and hug her, and she lets me.

“Now are you going to let me know what was so important you had to fly down and tell me?”

“Mom,” I say, and my voice cracks. Because it’s time for her to know.

I start at the beginning, the first time her husband took me to the garage and set my hands on fire. By the time I’m done, I’m pretty sure she’s about to pass out from shock. I’ve drained her, let whatever air was left in her seep out. She is empty, but I have more. I tell her about my father’s wish, and she nearly sinks into the floorboards with the realization of why she’s confined.

“No,” she says over and over, shaking her head. But it’s clear she knows I’m telling the truth. It’s clear she knows the word
devastated
in a new, fresh way.