But he is gone.
27
Better Luck Next Time
I look around, in case Taj pulled his disappearing act again, in case he’s playing with me. Or maybe he’s relishing his freedom, boinging and bounding around, a happy dog jumping through snowbanks, carpe diem-ing.
Or maybe when a granter is freed, he returns to his home. Did I send Taj back to the M.E.? Back to his parents? But I want him here with me. I want to rejoice in our freedom. I want to hug him and kiss him, and yeah, I want him to tell me he loves me too. I want to see the twinkle in his eyes that says he knows I pulled it off, and I saved us.
I hunt through the park, look under benches, peer up in trees. I run to the playground to see if some I’m free moment came over him, and maybe he’s climbing the swings and hooting at the sky. I search through every corner and then do a loop around the city blocks that surround the park.
It occurs to me he might have just up and left. Thank you, ma’am, I’ll be on my way. But Taj wouldn’t run off. He had to be feeling it too. I don’t think I was the only one falling. I flash back on that smile when I said I loved him, the way he was about to speak too. The memory reassures me, so I search again.
When I return to the spot where he granted my wish, there’s a note tacked up to a park bench, a note that wasn’t there before.
I pluck it off the bench. The ivory sheet of paper has been stamped from The Union of Granters.
Underneath the spot is a note in pristine cursive script.
Dear Aria—
In the world of granters, we operate according to rules, guidelines, regulations, and a little thing known as the quibble. A quibble, if you will, is a catch. Some might call it a loophole. We also refer to it as “reading the fine print.”
Here are a few provisos, loopholes, conditions, etc., etc., you might not be aware of in the granting of wishes, and in the freeing of granters. The condition of freedom via love can only be achieved when the wisher has a whole heart, as in said granter must be loved by someone with his or her whole heart. Perhaps you might love with the entirety of your heart. But alas, our world operates according to the profound power of semantics.
Here comes the quibble. You, Aria, do not have a whole heart. Yours has been charred. The rules are clear when it comes to love, and you simply do not have the proper parts to set a granter free. We’d wish you better luck next time, except there won’t be a next time.
Sincerely,
The Governing Body of the Union of Granters
I sink down onto the bench, my legs heavy cinder blocks, my head a brick.
You don’t get to have it all. You can’t beat the system. I am what I have always been. A defective thing, a Frankenstein’s monster, and in seven days life as I know it ends.
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.
28
Command
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.
Soon Jana comes home, and the first thing I do is grab her hands. They’re grayish-blue and veiny. She looks like a zombie. “Dad’s been freezing your hands, hasn’t he?”
She turns away. I grab her arm. She tries to shake me off. But I’m stronger than Jana, and eventually she gives in. “Yes,” she says, her eyes hard and dark, the blacks of her pupils threatening to take over her whole iris.
“What else is he doing? Is he forcing you to stay underwater? To hold your breath till you turn blue?”
“Yes.”
I slam a fist into the wall. A picture frame rattles. The five of us from so long ago that the sun has bled out the color, and now we’re just a sepia-toned half-baked family, a son in prison, two daughters with damaged hands, a shell of a mom, and a monster of a father. I grab the picture from the wall, take it to the garbage, and toss it where it belongs.
I return to my mom in her chair. She is nearly catatonic, but underneath her stillness she is quivering. I want to slap her, to knock her senses back into her. To ask her how she could have let this happen. How she could just play the spectator to her husband’s blows. But she was just the collateral damage in the path of the bullet; the bullet of a wish.
“Do you even love him?” She shrinks into herself as I spit out the words. “Do you anymore?”
She is a terrified animal. She doesn’t know where to go, what to say, so she just backs up farther, camouflaging herself in the walls of her cage. I kneel, try to be gentler this time. “Do you want to be like this, Mom? Do you? Or do you want to be well? Do you want this stupid wish-curse gone?”
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The air conditioner hums in the background, cooling the air between us. Then she looks at me. “I want to go out again. I want to swim again. I want to be your mom again.”
The Fire Artist Page 17