The Fire Artist (8 page)

The park is a constant hum, loud and buzzing and beating. The whole crowd is expecting something to happen tonight, even though scouts don’t make announcements before the crowd. They run under the radar, they dress like the rest of us. We haven’t had an M.E. Leagues scout visit our team in more than a year. The last time a scout appeared, he was gone the second the show ended. He was impressed with exactly no one.

Tonight the metal bleachers are overflowing, and for the first time this summer, we have a standing-room-only crowd. I recognize many of them—other guys from the junkyard, friends of mine from school, my history teacher, the track coach, Elise’s parents, the woman who sells the old library books at the discount bins on the lawn outside the library, Nava and her parents, the pretty girls from school who rarely come near me, whether because of my fire, my brother, or both. Even Shortstop is here, and he’s so damn cute there in the second row. But I don’t let a boy distract me as I sweep my eyes over the rest of
the crowd. Jana’s in the front row, next to our dad, and he keeps trying to hold her hand, and she keeps pulling her hand away. Her hair is still slicked back and wet; he made her spend the whole day at the local pool doing laps.

I wish Xavi and my mom were here. But they’re not, so I keep my focus on the rest of the team, on Elise as she harnesses a long swath of wind she’s created, turning herself in and out of it like a gymnast. Then Corinne, the water girl, who must be terribly nervous tonight because her fountains are smaller, slighter, and less powerful than usual. Then Angel, who moved here from Orlando and who can make the earth shake and shimmy. He’s tall and wispy, and he barely speaks during team meetings. You’d think a boy with the powers of the earth might like making tremors and cracks, but instead he’s like Ferdinand the bull in that children’s story that I read to Jana many times over when she was younger. Angel likes to make flowers, growing lilies and roses and daisies that he gives to the ladies in the first row. They giggle and sniff the flowers, and if Angel doesn’t make it all the way to the top, I don’t know who will.

Then it’s my turn, and I should be nervous. I should be terrified, and somewhere inside me, I am. But there’s a bigger force at play in my body. A razor-sharp desire to leave home. No one ever told me that needing to escape is stronger than love, greater than fear. I figured that out on my own, and I channeled it into my fire.

I take my place on the now-and-again pitcher’s mound. I begin releasing flames. Streams of fire are reflected in the eyes of the crowd, brilliant streaks that I weave and thread against the dark of the night. Then a circle of flames, like a coil running
around my body. Next is an arc of fireworks, a willow tree canopy of sparks around me. I see my father in the crowds, his eyes wild and alive with some sick hope.

A dark place.

I flash on the garage, the matches, the bandages my hands used to be wrapped in. The wicks of fire that torched my palms the other night. Something flares deep inside me, it collides with the memory of Xavi this morning, with his words, with the trick I practiced. My twin this morning was clunky. But can I pull it off now? As I stare at my father I know it’s in me.

After I finish the last trick in the playbook, I go for a coda. Unexpected, unscripted. Something I’ve only managed to do in an abandoned insane asylum.

One more raising of the arms, high and tight. One more strike of fire into the night. I will the fire to split off, to replicate.

The fire obeys, and I create a crude, rudimentary, shimmery shadow of myself.

I bow, and the girl made of flames bows too.

Then I snap my fingers and she disappears in the night.

The crowd goes wilder than any crowd has ever gone.

If my brother could see me now, I’m sure he’d be thrilled at the wicked grin on my face.

A reporter is the first to find me in the dugout. She thrusts a microphone in my face and asks me how I made the twin. “We’ve heard stories of fire twins, but no one’s seen one in years. Not since a fire artist in London made one. How did you do it?”

I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been interviewed before.
I picture my brother and I think about what he would say. He’d be cool and witty.

“It’s just a little something I thought the audience might like,” I say, hoping my answer is vague enough.

“Have you been working on it for a long time?”

“I’ve definitely been working on it,” I say.

“But this was the first time you’ve done it in a show?”

I nod.

“Will we see more of your twin, Aria?”

“I hope so,” I say, then I head to the locker room.

“What happened to her hands?”

The question comes from the scout. His skin is brown, his hair is black, and his words are accented with his Arab roots. He speaks English flawlessly, and he has other matters on his mind besides my fiery copy.

He holds my hands in his, my palms up. I don’t like having my hands touched. It makes me feel exposed.

I press my lips together and wait. The question is not for me. It’s for my father, who stands next to me in the coach’s office. Nava is seated in a chair. I feel like a calf at market, the buyer asking the farmer if I’ve been fed and kept properly. Poking my haunches, prodding my belly to see if I’d be a good cut of meat.

“It happens,” my father says coolly, casually.

The scout raises an eyebrow. His name is Imran, he told us. And he’s been on the circuit since the Leagues began, years ago.

“Not like this,” Imran says, shaking his head.

My father holds up his own hands. His palms are craggy and ragged too. But not like mine. No one has palms as far gone as mine. “It happens with fire artists. It happened to me.”

“Yes, I know,” Imran says, his voice clipped. He is commanding. He is the one in charge here. “But I have never in all my years seen someone so young with so many scars, so many burns.”

“Aria played with fire a lot when she was younger,” my father says in an empty voice.

My stomach lurches and I want to lunge at him, to throttle him, to grab his neck and strangle the last bit of life from him.

The scout turns to me; the corner of his lips curls up like there’s a private joke that might make him laugh. “Is that so?”

I rearrange my features, return the mask of steel to my face. “Yes. I’ve always loved fire. It took me a while to control it.”

“You have precision control now,” he remarks.

If only he saw me a few days back, when my fire was scurrying away from me …

Imran runs his hands across my palms, touching the grooves. How much will this calf command?

“Still … ,” he says, and his voice trails off. It’s unclear what his silence means—that he doesn’t believe me? Or that I’m not good enough? Didn’t he see what I did tonight? Isn’t that more than enough? His eyes shift to my father. “
How
did she play with fire when she was younger?”

“Lighting matches, playing with burners. I couldn’t keep her away from it. Starting little fires in the backyard. Setting bottles on fire. Firecrackers too.”

He lies with such abandon it makes me want to cry, and I rarely cry. I hate crying, I hate weakness, I hate that he makes me weak.

Imran considers the answer, as if he’s measuring whether there’s any truth to it.

“Perhaps that is good. We want all our players to have passion.” Then he turns back to me. “Passion is one of the five tools of the best elemental artists in the world. Do you know the others?”

The five tools have been drilled into me since I could walk, since I could breathe. Xavier had four of them. I have all of them most of the time.

“Beauty, power, passion, presence, and control.”

“Yes. You have all of them. You are a five-tool artist. You are rare.”

I have goose bumps for a moment, and it feels good to be praised by this man.

But more than good, it feels like hope. Like a map with a treasure in the middle, and I can find it and never let go of the gem.

A gem that I’ve earned. Because even though my fire was born of a lie and bred from a crime, fire has become who I am now. My fire feels real, as true and native as if I’d been born with it, because it’s necessary. Because fire saved me, and fire will save the rest of my family.

“If you were to join the circuit, you would need a stage name. Have you thought about one?”

I have thought about stage names before. Entertained them,
considered them. Names like Nitro or Flame Thrower are passé, not to mention taken by other artists in the Leagues. But I know my stage name. Because I know who I am.

“The Girl Prometheus.”

Now he raises both eyebrows and his face splits into a full-on grin. Nava laughs lightly, nodding, though she has no idea why the name is so fitting. She likes it because it’s bold. Because I’m the performer she could never be. Fearless in her eyes.

No one thinks it’s the truth.

Why would they?

Everything about me is a lie.

Except my new name.

“The Girl Prometheus,” Imran repeats. “A fire stealer. It is a perfect stage name,” he says, and extends his hand. I try to suppress a smile because I’ve been taught to keep it cool, to be stoic, to stomach all my emotions. But I’m grinning, I’m bursting. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. “We’ll start you in Miami next week. Welcome to the M.E. Leagues, the Girl Prometheus.”

My dad has finished drawing a bath for my mother, and I’m getting ready for lunch with Imran and my father to review the details of my contract with the Leagues.

“Wear the pink dress with the scalloped neckline,” my mother whispers before she closes the bathroom door and locks herself into her potpourri of lavender and steam. “The one I got you for your birthday.”

I head into my room and stare at the open closet. I’m not wearing the pink dress. It’s babyish and has a lacy hemline. I’ve never worn anything remotely like it.

“Isn’t it just so feminine and delicate? It’ll look beautiful on you,” my mom said when I feigned liking it. “Feminine” and “delicate”—that might have been the first time anyone had used those words to describe me. I am motorcycle leather, I am ripped jeans, I am white and black tank tops. I am boots and sunglasses, flip-flops and cutoffs.

The dress is still on the hanger in my closet.

Jana’s on her bed, reading one of my magazines. I yank on the pink frock. I glance at myself in the mirror. I look like a doll.

“This dress is hideous,” I whisper to Jana.

She nods her assent. “It’s totally disgusting.”

I tug it off and pull on a denim skirt and a black T-shirt, then sink down on the bed next to my sister. “Oh, Jana, what am I gonna do?”

“Take me with you.”

I pull back to look at her. “Really? You want to get away from here?”

“Uh, yeah. Who doesn’t?”

“What happened at the pool yesterday?”

She gives me a curious look, like my question doesn’t compute.

“Did Dad try to … ?” But my voice trails off. Because I’m not even sure what to say or ask. “Did he make you stay under the water or something?”

She shrugs. “He just timed me. To see how long I could hold my breath.”

“How long can you hold your breath?”

“A long time,” she says with a slight smile. “Do you think I’ll be a water artist?”

“Jana, you’re going to be anything you want to be.” I give her a kiss on the forehead. “I promise.”

I step back into the hall and head out with my father.

We drive to the only fancy restaurant around, a steak and lobster joint one town over. It’s a darkened place with burgundy booths and chocolate-brown carpets and the air of money.
Thick, heavy menus; waiters and waitresses with white dress shirts and black ties; linen napkins.

“Shrimp cocktail?” Imran suggests after we sit down.

My father nods, and I follow suit. Imran calls the waiter over and orders. I like the sound of his voice, the smooth caress of words like “another” and “shrimp” and “please” flowing from his tongue like warm honey, thanks to his accent. He’s older than I am by a few years. He has high cheekbones and lush black hair. Something about him reminds me of my beautiful boy. Maybe it’s the hair, or the cut of his jaw. Or maybe it’s that he seems kind, as I imagine my beautiful boy to be.