handle the underbelly of the lesson.
I am ready. “Why?”
“Because they don’t know how. Because they don’t want to even contemplate how. Because of where it comes from. To make the fire bend into the dark shape of yourself, you have to go to a dark place. This type of fire art comes from your fear, from your pain, and most of all from your anger. It comes fromevery dark thought you’ve ever had. Your fire twin is like the manifestation of all your darkness. Why do you think I learned how to do this while locked up? Why do you think I learned to do this with the other guys? Because we all have that stored inside us.”
Like a gasoline station. Tap into it and you’ve got the fuel you need. Anger? Yeah, I’ve got gallons and gallons of that. I’ve got tankers full.
“How hard is it to do though? Is it like a quadruple flip in gymnastics or a quad jump in skating or something?”
“Yeah. It’s hard. But you and me, we’ve always been the best. We can do the hardest tricks. But the other reason why it’s hard and why artists don’t want to do it? It messes with your mind. When you go to a dark place, it makes you a dark person.”
I’m already that person.
“I want to try,” I tell him. I flash back to the other day at practice. The faint outline of a pair of eyes I saw when I threw that last fireball at the concrete wall. Thinking of my dad. “I know I can do this.”
Two hours later—two hours of picturing my father and all the ways I’ve daydreamed about using my powers on him—I’ve managed a crude outline of arms, legs, the beginnings of my face in fiery form. It does my bidding. It moves with me.
This trick could be my ticket to saving everyone.
9
Stage Name
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 ofthe 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
I am ready. “Why?”
“Because they don’t know how. Because they don’t want to even contemplate how. Because of where it comes from. To make the fire bend into the dark shape of yourself, you have to go to a dark place. This type of fire art comes from your fear, from your pain, and most of all from your anger. It comes fromevery dark thought you’ve ever had. Your fire twin is like the manifestation of all your darkness. Why do you think I learned how to do this while locked up? Why do you think I learned to do this with the other guys? Because we all have that stored inside us.”
Like a gasoline station. Tap into it and you’ve got the fuel you need. Anger? Yeah, I’ve got gallons and gallons of that. I’ve got tankers full.
“How hard is it to do though? Is it like a quadruple flip in gymnastics or a quad jump in skating or something?”
“Yeah. It’s hard. But you and me, we’ve always been the best. We can do the hardest tricks. But the other reason why it’s hard and why artists don’t want to do it? It messes with your mind. When you go to a dark place, it makes you a dark person.”
I’m already that person.
“I want to try,” I tell him. I flash back to the other day at practice. The faint outline of a pair of eyes I saw when I threw that last fireball at the concrete wall. Thinking of my dad. “I know I can do this.”
Two hours later—two hours of picturing my father and all the ways I’ve daydreamed about using my powers on him—I’ve managed a crude outline of arms, legs, the beginnings of my face in fiery form. It does my bidding. It moves with me.
This trick could be my ticket to saving everyone.
9
Stage Name
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 ofthe 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
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