Strangely enough, I think I’m the only pyro here with this problem. Brian asked at lunch today what everyone was doing, and Jill’s going home, and Raúl’s going home and to his grandmother’s house for the actual meal. I didn’t have to answer because the bell rang to signal the start of afternoon classes—have I mentioned this place is old school? Saved by the bell, anyway.
November 13
Things have been going on as usual—classes, tests, no arts programs, or sports for that matter, dorm living, seeing Brian every day and never getting to say anything meaningful. Except that we just did. Right there in front of everyone at dinner, Brian asked me if I wanted to go home with him for Thanksgiving. And boy, am I giving thanks. He says he already asked the principal, and because his house already has a firestarter (him, but also his dad!), I’m allowed to stay with them. The place is already sufficiently fireproofed and there will be people there who know how to deal with fire emergencies and know to make sure we have our patches on and our safety sacks nearby. In fact, Brian says we’re going to be each other’s buddies over the break. Who could have imagined?
I don’t think Dad will mind at all. So now I have to call Grandma and tell her. Apparently, she has to sign a permission slip or something. These school authorities make it their business to know where we are, that’s for sure. I think I’ll tell Grandma it’s Jill’s house I’m going to, and she can come drop off the slip and meet Jill and everything.
November 28
Grandma mailed the permission slip in, so she didn’t get to meet Jill or see what the school is like, but at least I have somewhere really good to be for the break.
I’m writing this in the guest room they have all set up for me while everyone—and I mean everyone, even Brian—takes a nap after Thanksgiving dinner. The room is so nice and cozy, with fluffy comforters and art on the walls. Not really a pyro’s room at all. I think they must know what they’re doing since both Brian and his dad are firestarters, but it feels a little dangerous to be trusted with so many flammable items. In fact, I doubt the legality of quite a few of the things they do here.
Brian’s mother came to pick us up yesterday afternoon after a history test (easy). We were so ready to be out of there, we’d been waiting at the front entrance with our bags for a half hour. I’d sent Jill off with a hug and she winked at me like I was doing something naughty. Standing there in the November nip, looking across at Brian, I honestly didn’t care if anyone ever came for us. But of course now I’m glad she did. His mother is a tiny woman, a few inches shorter than him already. She acted like she knew everything about me—well, the good stuff, if there is any. Brian threw our bags in the trunk and we both sat in the back. I didn’t want to assume shotgun, and apparently Brian didn’t either, so it was kind of like no, you go first, no you, and it always ends up with a solution that makes everyone uncomfortable. But his mother didn’t complain, and this way Brian got to touch my hand. He reached over to get my attention as if he didn’t already have it and pointed at the Big Blue Bug as if I’d never seen it before. Well, I’d certainly never seen it in such good company.
They live in Warwick and have a view of where the planes take off. Brian’s dad loves watching the planes. Apparently he was a pilot for a while, until the new regulations made it impossible for a pyro almost to get on a plane, let alone fly one. He held his hand over his heart when he was showing me the view and swore he never started a fire above ten thousand feet, and I believe him. It’s a real shame regulations get in the way of Talent. Even if they’re not following the rules strictly, I’ll never report them.
But before all that, Brian’s dad took my bag and showed me through the house to this guest room, which happens to be right next to Brian’s bedroom, I realized to my panic. What if I snore and he hears through the wall? What if I talk in my sleep? If I did last night, he’s been a gentleman about it. By the time Brian’s dad finished swearing to me that he could safely fly a plane, it was time to sit down to dinner.
I would have thought it was already Thanksgiving, the dining room was so beautifully decorated, and there were so many platters and serving dishes on the table. There were almost as many choices as at the dining hall at school. And Brian’s mom said, “We like to eat light on the day before Thanksgiving. I hope that’s okay with you, Kelly.”
It was really overwhelming. They all seemed so happy and talkative. I guess I thought all families were like mine, and we would sit there and stare at one another while we ate for all four days. But that’s not how it was. I sat next to Brian and to Brian’s dad at the head of the table, so his mother was across from me. His grandmother was at the foot and the other two chairs were filled by Brian’s sisters, Linda and Clare. His mother explained that aunts and uncles, cousins, and another sister with her husband would join us today, and right away I knew I’d never be able to keep track.
Brian’s mom, first thing after everyone had a full plate, asked what my main career interests are. “Oh, I’m not really sure,” I said around a mouthful of meatloaf, trying to disappear and let this lovely family carry on with their lives.
“I bet it has something to do with music,” said Brian.
“Oh? Do you sing?” Brian’s father asked.
“No, but I play the piano.” Honesty escaped me before I had a chance to lie.
“Did you see we have an upright in the library?”
Did I see? I had hardly noticed anything else on the tour. The vision of that piano and what looked like an entire built-in shelf of sheet music next to it danced before my eyes. My fingers ached for the feel of the smooth, cool ivories and warmer ebonies and the beautiful sounds they used to make as they gave way so willingly under the slightest pressure.
“You could regale us all with a performance. If you like,” Brian’s dad said.
“Don’t pressure our guest,” said Brian’s mom.
I smiled meekly at her. “Well, my grandma doesn’t have a piano, so I’m out of practice.” I scratched at my belly button, where I had my patch. It was under the table at least.
“Oh well,” sighed Brian’s father. “A Scrabble tournament it is.”
I think both of the sisters and the mother play the piano, so I was a little confused, but we all went into the library and sat in the overstuffed chairs and played Scrabble in a group of three and another of four. Brian and I played with his grandmother, and she trounced both of us three times. Either she’s really sharp or I was too distracted watching what Brian was doing and eying the piano, so lonely and unplayed in the corner. Then they did championship playoffs between Brian’s grandmother and mom and Linda, who was studying vocab lists for the SAT. Brian was really into it, cheering and booing, and you could tell they’d done this so many times before. It seemed to go on all night, all the laughing and joy, but it was barely ten when Brian’s dad earnestly announced that everyone should get to bed because they (we!) had a big day tomorrow.
I followed Brian past the piano with regret and he led me back to the guest room. I gathered my nighttime toiletries, then tore off my patch so I could put some soothing aloe or some anti-itch cream over the exposed area while I was in the bathroom. When I was coming back down the hall, Brian was waiting outside my room. My heart was in my throat, but I tried to smile casually at him as I sauntered. I stopped in the open doorway, and he joined me there.
“So, you like me, too, right?” he said.
I couldn’t help it. I started laughing hysterically. He’s the only boy I’ve ever had the slightest interest in. Like him? It’s such a weak word.
Brian’s father poked his head out the door to the master suite at the end of the hall and said, “Time for bed, kids.” He waited while Brian sort of waved at me and went into his room, shutting the door tightly. I waved at his dad and closed my own door. I didn’t even think of pushing the button lock because I’m so used to the open-door policy at the PMA now. It wasn’t a minute after I sat down on the bed that I heard tapping from the other side of the wall. I kno
cked back and was puzzled when I didn’t get a response, but soon enough, Brian was in my doorway, silent but smiling.
I went to join him in the doorway because the thought of him coming to sit on the bed with me was terrifying. He put his lips so close to my ear, I thought I could feel little zaps of static electricity going back and forth between us.
“It’s funny that I like you?” he whispered.
I stifled another guffaw to whisper back, “No. It’s dead serious.”
The comment could have been interpreted just about any way, but he took it exactly how I meant it. He leaned in and our lips met and how can I explain the feeling of nausea that I didn’t want to end? I don’t know how long my first kiss lasted. Real time doesn’t seem to apply to these things. Thank goodness I’d just brushed my teeth. Then I smelled that tension in the air and heard popping sounds all around. I backed away to look, and wondered where I’d left my safety sack, when a bright orange spark burst in the middle of the room.
“I can’t seem to control myself when we’re alone together,” I blurted. I really wish I had my mother to tell me what’s okay to say to a boy. Anyway, what I said wrecked the mood and the pyrokinesis process came to a halt.
“You are magical,” Brian said, which was the last thing I expected. Then, “Good night.” He left the room and I shut the door and staggered to my bag. I rummaged around even while my knees were about to give out and found my smelly little safety sack. Wondering if I was going to throw up with all these unfamiliar feelings swarming around inside me, I clutched the sack to me and lay down. I moved only to turn out the bedside lamp and fell asleep fast so I wouldn’t think about how Brian was on the other side of the wall. I dreamed of herds of black pianos, as far as the eye could see.
And then I woke up tangled in the sheets, having slept my best night in about a year. And it’s Thanksgiving! I took a shower as fast as I could because I wasn’t sure how many people I was sharing the bathroom with, and when I came out in my cozy sweater and wrinkled pants that I save for special occasions, Brian was in my room.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said, and I said it back to him. He hugged me like that, in his flannel pajamas, and then went off to take his shower. We still have that old magic. Nothing has changed since our first kiss. I felt like I might faint. I couldn’t exactly follow him into the bathroom, so eventually I got up the courage to leave the guest room. The sisters and dad were all in front of the TV watching the parade with hot chocolate and croissants, so I went to get some. Brian’s mom and grandma were so busy in the kitchen, hoisting a huge turkey into a roasting pan, stirring five pots simultaneously, that I offered to help even though I felt nervous and sick just stepping into the cooking space.
“No, no, enjoy yourself, dear,” said the grandmother as she put a mug and plate in front of me. I headed back to the TV room and stuffed the croissant in my mouth standing behind everyone, shy without Brian there and desperate for a way to feel more comfortable.
Then I thought about that piano again. I sipped my chocolate and tiptoed to the library, and no one else was there. So I lifted the cover off the keys and breathed in the enclosed, wooden smell. I gazed at the keys, how polished and inviting they were, and moved to scratch at my patch when my left index finger touched middle C totally unbidden. It gave so easily and rang out with a pure sound that absorbed warmly into the drapery and bookshelves. I stopped to see if anyone had heard, but the impulse won over and I sat and began playing “Edelweiss” as if I had never stopped practicing.
Quickly enough, Brian appeared in the doorway, his entire family murmuring behind him. I missed a beat on the keyboard to wave at them, and Brian’s dad took it as a signal. He scanned the bookshelf and pulled out a tome of Christmas themes. As he plunked it on the music stand and started turning pages, Brian’s mother said, “Wonderful. Leave the door open so we can hear in the kitchen.”
I picked up the tune where Brian’s dad had opened the page, and in the next bar, he started in on “O Holy Night” with a baritone that gave me chills. Then Linda turned to “The Christmas Song” and Clare joined her with a smooth soprano. When they finished their harmonies, they all looked at Brian, but he didn’t reach for the songbook. He began to blush, so I did an instrumental version of “Carol of the Bells” and then sort of hummed along to “In the Bleak Midwinter.” We were all crooning “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” together, even Brian—I heard the potential for a lovely tenor if only he gained some confidence—when the doorbell rang.
Brian’s dad went to answer, and I heard him tell whoever was there that we were having a musical Thanksgiving this year. Before long, the house was full of so many aunts, uncles, cousins, and sisters that there was barely room to move and there was no way I would ever remember who anyone was. I kept the tunes rolling for everyone’s joy until I cracked my knuckles and scratched at my patch.
“You must be exhausted,” said Clare. “Let me take over.”
I gratefully gave up piano duty. It had been like sitting for two years and then running a marathon. But it also made me feel that good, like I was doing what I was supposed to again. In that way, I was a little jealous of Clare, touching the keyboard I had so arduously warmed up to do whatever my fingers commanded.
Brian took me into the kitchen for a snack and, oh my God, there were like a million potluck dishes steaming away on the counters. The ovens and burners were cooking away, too. It was like an army was coming through, and Brian pointed to each dish and told me what it was and whether I could dig in yet. Most of the things were predinner lunch-snacks. We each took a plate of roasted chicken and noodles to the back deck, where we would have been able to see the planes coming in if only it weren’t Thanksgiving Day with its small number of flights. No one else was out there—it was freezing.
We ate our food and talked about stuff. He complimented my piano playing and I complimented his singing, and because I smelled wood smoke in the air, it made me think of WaterFire.
“Brian,” I said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about how you can put fires out with your Talent. Do you think it’s something any pyro can learn?”
“Yeah,” he said, setting his plate on the railing. “Let’s try it now. Make a fire on my plate. It’s stoneware.”
“I can’t. I’m wearing my patch. Aren’t you?”
He reached inside his sleeve and pulled out his tungsten patch. “Where do you have yours?”
I set my plate down next to his and lifted my shirt a little to reveal the patch next to my belly button. The location had worked well yesterday for scratching unseen at the dinner table.
His hand was strangely warm as he lifted the side of the patch and tore it off. I guess it was the feel of skin on skin. We gravitated toward each other. I lifted my face and he bent down a little and, like magnets, we were all of a sudden kissing.
I feel so funny writing about it. Our first kiss was so sweet, but this, this was more like the nasty stuff you see in music videos. But it’s not nasty when you’re doing it, just when you’re watching. Or maybe it would be nasty if you weren’t doing it with someone you really liked. I don’t know. Why is this stuff so confusing? Would my mom be able to explain it? It was almost scary, the way those kisses made me feel, but I’d give anything to kiss him like that again.
He had both of his hands on the small of my back and I had my arms wrapped around him so tight. The night before, only our lips had touched. I’d thought that was about as sexy as life ever got, but I sure learned I was wrong.
I heard an explosion near my ear and pulled away in time to see sparks falling onto my plate and settling around the leftover noodles and bones, smoking a bit and making a decent little blaze.
“You didn’t have to do that to get me to make a fire,” I said.
“No, I wanted to do that, didn’t you?” he said.
“Right now you should put out the fire,” I told him.
“No, it’s your fire. You try.”
A few adults had come runnin
g to the back door at the sound of the explosion, so I felt watched. Brian waved them away, and finally Brian’s dad told them we had it under control. All the while the blaze was growing in strength and I was getting more and more stressed.
“You can put it out now,” said Brian.
Easier said than done. I stared at the flames until they looked dark, but couldn’t wrap my head around the way to take them out of existence. I’m still not sure how I get them into existence, after all. I squinted and strained, then looked at Brian for help. “How do you do it?”
“I just reverse the process of setting a fire. It’s very intuitive.”
I sighed and tried sticking my hand out the way he had at WaterFire, but the only thing that happened was my arm got cold.
“I give up.”
“See, this is why we need practice rooms at the PMA. How will any of us ever get familiar with how we operate, how can we focus our intentions, when all they ever do is throw flame retardant at us?” He held his hand out and sucked my fire into his finger with no apparent effort, like he’d been doing it all his life.
He blew on the end of his finger like it was a pistol or something and came in for a hug.
“Back to the piano for a while?” he asked me.
I nodded, and when he went to open the back door, I scooped up my patch and pressed it under my shirt again. It had some dirt and twigs stuck to it, but it was a lot better than setting fire to his family’s home.
I have no idea how they were planning to fit more food anywhere, but they did. When it was dinner time, at about four, everyone gathered in the dining room. Through the crush of people—there must have been thirty of us all told—I could see the giant turkey, all the fixings you could imagine and some I’d never seen before, and ten—I counted!—kinds of pie for dessert. Imagine the cacophony of sweet, spicy, salty, and meaty aromas.
Awash in Talent Page 10