The Fire Artist

by Whitney, Daisy

  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.”

  “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, an
d 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.

  22

  Ticking Clock

  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.”