Awash in Talent (12 page)

Then, one of the pyres the stoker had already put out flared up with a great whooshing sound. Luckily, no boaters or gondoliers were still there when it happened, but I’m sure my face was as red as those candies we’d eaten.

“Was that you?” Brian asked.

I think my silence told him all he needed to know. God, it was so embarrassing to lose control like that right in the middle of the best thing that’s happened to me probably ever. But he was thinking about the fire, not who lit it.

“Let me try something,” he said. He held his finger out like he had before to relight the other pyre. He stared and stared at the flames I’d just created. I couldn’t imagine he was trying to increase the flames, so I was puzzled until, with a great snapping sound, sparks arced out of the pyre in a reversal of what he’d done before. The sparks zeroed in and disappeared at the tip of his finger.

“That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” I said. “It looks like it hurts.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said, showing me his fingertip, which had no trace of a burn or ash. “And it didn’t totally work,” he added modestly. I looked, and indeed, the fire was not put totally out. A single flame licked rhythmically at the embers. “But I wanted to prove to myself that I could put a fire out as well as make one. You know, I think I could really get the hang of both directions if I had some practice.”

I imagined some kind of controlled environment where we could go every day at the PMA and set fires and then try putting them out. It was an exciting prospect.

“Yeah, they should definitely let us hone our abilities. I had no idea it was even possible to put a fire out with our Talent. Why wouldn’t they want us to have that kind of control?”

My words hung in the air for a moment. Then Brian realized all the other fires were out and said (probably again), “We should get going. We don’t want them to miss us.”

It was probably a mile and half back from Waterplace Park to the meeting point on the docks, so we grabbed hands and sprinted. It’s not easy to go that fast in flip-flops. Smack, smack, smack. I do have blisters torturing the bottom of my feet now, but it was all worth it. There was no one left on the riverside walk, so it was fast going. We ducked through a deserted Johnson and Wales campus and in spite of our best efforts, we heard a couple of guys screaming obscenities in the DownCity area.

Amazingly, when we got to the dock, everyone was still there. It must have been quite a blaze Raúl started if it overcame all those layers of fireproofing. I hoped no one’s stuff got damaged in the fire or in the sprinklers. The fire truck was turning back into the station next door and the overnight teachers were doing roll call before letting the students back inside. Jill grabbed my hand and steadied me so it would seem like I had been there the whole time. In the streetlamps, I noticed I had flecks—smudges of ash—along my arms. Jill looked at me meaningfully, but all I could do was smile. I watched Brian with Raúl and wondered what kind of trouble they were going to get into for the way they got me to WaterFire. I told Raúl, “
Domo aregato
” and, to my surprise, he started doing the robot as if he got the reference. Eighties music comes out of me at these emotional times, no matter whether I think people know it or not.

Brian had set the newspapers far down the hallway so as not to ruin anyone’s homework or incriminate anyone in particular. Then, he’d sent Raúl to the opposite side of the building to pull the alarm in addition to the ones that were already starting to go off. It was just enough to confuse the issue, so the next day, the school had no choice but to declare it an accident. I’ve been meaning to ask Jill exactly how they managed to keep our absence for those two hours a secret, but so much has been going on, I haven’t had the chance.

I followed Brian up the stairs and he looked back at me, smiling with the most knowing look as we each turned our doorknobs. (The doors don’t lock—safety hazard, they say, but it makes it awfully convenient to do surprise checks, too.) I can’t help but wonder if he was going to kiss me. It’s my main preoccupation, morning to evening and all night long.

“Good night?” said Jill inside the room.

I sort of hummed and peeled off my sweats. I lay back on the pillow, turned my head into my hair, and inhaled. It smelled like wood smoke.

October 22

The whole trouble with journals like this is that when interesting things start happening, you have no time to write it all down. We had the science midterm and I’m pretty sure I passed because it was so easy. I hate to say it, but I agree with Melinda—the school’s curriculum leaves something to be desired.

When I finished writing about WaterFire the other day, I shook out the cramps in my hand and checked my phone. PE class wasn’t quite over yet, so I decided to do my own little surprise check on Melinda. I hadn’t seen her at a PE class more than once or twice the whole time we’ve been here and I wanted to know what she was really doing in secret. So, I strapped my safety sack back on my wrist and tiptoed into the hallway. I was expecting to find her fainted on her bed, her arm across her forehead and smelling salts nearby. I pressed my ear to her door and was puzzled to hear sounds of movement, and, more surprising, music that wasn’t the latest Top 40. Jill said that was all they listened to when she lived with them.

I cracked the door open and peeked through to see Melinda throwing her arms wildly around and repeating complicated footsteps. Even though she had the volume pretty low, I recognized the driving rhythm as the “Ritual Fire Dance” from de Falla’s
El amor brujo
. I couldn’t help myself, I was so surprised. I swung the door all the way open to get the full effect of the legwarmers and leotard, and said, “The ‘Ritual Fire Dance’? Psychological issues much?”

She stopped in utter shock. Her arms fell to her sides as if she had been standing there innocently for an hour. Her face was white. Then she came to her senses and pressed “Stop” on her iPod deck. With an anger I would never have imagined even from her, she said, “The school doesn’t have any arts programs, much less dance.”

It was a great point. I know I would be happier if there were a music class, a marching band, or even if they let us study song lyrics as poetry. Suddenly finding her interesting, I said, “So you’re putting together your own interpretive dance?”

But there wasn’t to be any mutual understanding between us, no common ground, even though I would happily have discussed ballets or how other music can be used in modern dance with anyone, even Melinda.

“Why aren’t you in PE?” she asked pointedly, like she was going to report me.

“But, Melinda,” I said.

“Get out!” she shrieked, so I bowed away and shut the door. She’s pretty convincing that way. So now I have a weird secret against her and she knows I skipped PE for no “good” reason. We’re in a really weird standoff now, kind of looking at each other, while before, we always looked the other way. I’m dying to tell Jill about that dance and I can’t imagine why Melinda would want to keep her dance dreams such a big secret, but now it’s turned into this thing where she’s entrusted me with something she doesn’t want anyone else to know. Well, more blackmailed than entrusted. So weird!

The other weird thing is about Jill. The day after WaterFire, we were studying, and I was telling her a strictly factual version of what happened with me and Brian (she agrees, he was probably going to kiss me) and finally I asked her what happened at the dock while we were gone.

“I was hanging out with Raúl,” she said. She noticed my expression, which must have been a little disgusted, in spite of what he did in order to help me and Brian—I’m so ungrateful sometimes!—and she overcompensated. “I had to stay with our regular group so less would seem out of the ordinary. It helped them not notice you two were gone.”

The sweet smile that flashed on her face was a dead giveaway. I realized that the new seating arrangement at meals meant she was across from Raúl now, and I must have been too distracted to notice any change in the way they interacted.

“You like Raúl.”

“N . . . yeah. He’s really nice. We had such a great time last night.”

I just think Jill is too good for anyone. But, with Brian out of the picture because he’s mine (mine! Can you believe he chose me?), really, wouldn’t anyone have been better than a skinny-headed guy who always says the worst thing possible?

“Did he kiss you?” I asked, a little too high pitched.

“No, don’t worry, you and I are in the same place as far as that goes,” said Jill. “But give us a little more time alone . . .”

I knew what she meant. We need to find a way around this constant surveillance so we can have some proper time with our . . . boyfriends (?). But I still had to bury my face in the pillow to keep from groaning at the thought of anyone kissing Raúl.

And now I need to write about something that isn’t weird at all, unfortunately. In science today, Ms. Matheson took me to the side and whispered that she can’t make me the official Bunsen lighter. When I asked why, she said it was because the principal thinks my manifestation was too violent. I went back to my seat deflated. At least we weren’t using the burners for that class, so I didn’t have to endure someone else’s joy. I can’t say I’m surprised. Disappointed, yes. I mean, she believed in me—why can’t the rest of the authorities? I’m guessing she doesn’t believe in me now that she knows about my manifesting incident. But how much does she know? Would they give her details if she asked? How many details do they actually have? I wonder about the files they keep on us. If they were paper, they’d probably fill up a room for each of us. But of course they can’t be paper here.

My biggest grief right now is that I don’t know what I’m going to do for Thanksgiving break. I don’t think I’m welcome in Boston, where Mom is, and Grandma is having Uncle Jack over because I never told anyone what he tried to do. So is it worse to have to be around him, or to stay here, more or less on complete lockdown? Who even knows what I would have to eat while the rest of the students are gone?

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.