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Authors: Daisy Whitney
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should be terrified, and somewhere inside me, I am. But there’s a bigger force at play in my body. A razor-sharp desire to leave home. No one ever told me that needing to escape is stronger than love, greater than fear. I figured that out on my own, and I channeled it into my fire.
I take my place on the now-and-again pitcher’s mound. I begin releasing flames. Streams of fire are reflected in the eyes of the crowd, brilliant streaks that I weave and thread against the dark of the night. Then a circle of flames, like a coil runningaround my body. Next is an arc of fireworks, a willow tree canopy of sparks around me. I see my father in the crowds, his eyes wild and alive with some sick hope.
A dark place.
I flash on the garage, the matches, the bandages my hands used to be wrapped in. The wicks of fire that torched my palms the other night. Something flares deep inside me, it collides with the memory of Xavi this morning, with his words, with the trick I practiced. My twin this morning was clunky. But can I pull it off now? As I stare at my father I know it’s in me.
After I finish the last trick in the playbook, I go for a coda. Unexpected, unscripted. Something I’ve only managed to do in an abandoned insane asylum.
One more raising of the arms, high and tight. One more strike of fire into the night. I will the fire to split off, to replicate.
The fire obeys, and I create a crude, rudimentary, shimmery shadow of myself.
I bow, and the girl made of flames bows too.
Then I snap my fingers and she disappears in the night.
The crowd goes wilder than any crowd has ever gone.
If my brother could see me now, I’m sure he’d be thrilled at the wicked grin on my face.
A reporter is the first to find me in the dugout. She thrusts a microphone in my face and asks me how I made the twin. “We’ve heard stories of fire twins, but no one’s seen one in years. Not since a fire artist in London made one. How did you do it?”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been interviewed before.I picture my brother and I think about what he would say. He’d be cool and witty.
“It’s just a little something I thought the audience might like,” I say, hoping my answer is vague enough.
“Have you been working on it for a long time?”
“I’ve definitely been working on it,” I say.
“But this was the first time you’ve done it in a show?”
I nod.
“Will we see more of your twin, Aria?”
“I hope so,” I say, then I head to the locker room.
“What happened to her hands?”
The question comes from the scout. His skin is brown, his hair is black, and his words are accented with his Arab roots. He speaks English flawlessly, and he has other matters on his mind besides my fiery copy.
He holds my hands in his, my palms up. I don’t like having my hands touched. It makes me feel exposed.
I press my lips together and wait. The question is not for me. It’s for my father, who stands next to me in the coach’s office. Nava is seated in a chair. I feel like a calf at market, the buyer asking the farmer if I’ve been fed and kept properly. Poking my haunches, prodding my belly to see if I’d be a good cut of meat.
“It happens,” my father says coolly, casually.
The scout raises an eyebrow. His name is Imran, he told us. And he’s been on the circuit since the Leagues began, years ago.
“Not like this,” Imran says, shaking his head.
My father holds up his own hands. His palms are craggy and ragged too. But not like mine. No one has palms as far gone as mine. “It happens with fire artists. It happened to me.”
“Yes, I know,” Imran says, his voice clipped. He is commanding. He is the one in charge here. “But I have never in all my years seen someone so young with so many scars, so many burns.”
“Aria played with fire a lot when she was younger,” my father says in an empty voice.
My stomach lurches and I want to lunge at him, to throttle him, to grab his neck and strangle the last
I take my place on the now-and-again pitcher’s mound. I begin releasing flames. Streams of fire are reflected in the eyes of the crowd, brilliant streaks that I weave and thread against the dark of the night. Then a circle of flames, like a coil runningaround my body. Next is an arc of fireworks, a willow tree canopy of sparks around me. I see my father in the crowds, his eyes wild and alive with some sick hope.
A dark place.
I flash on the garage, the matches, the bandages my hands used to be wrapped in. The wicks of fire that torched my palms the other night. Something flares deep inside me, it collides with the memory of Xavi this morning, with his words, with the trick I practiced. My twin this morning was clunky. But can I pull it off now? As I stare at my father I know it’s in me.
After I finish the last trick in the playbook, I go for a coda. Unexpected, unscripted. Something I’ve only managed to do in an abandoned insane asylum.
One more raising of the arms, high and tight. One more strike of fire into the night. I will the fire to split off, to replicate.
The fire obeys, and I create a crude, rudimentary, shimmery shadow of myself.
I bow, and the girl made of flames bows too.
Then I snap my fingers and she disappears in the night.
The crowd goes wilder than any crowd has ever gone.
If my brother could see me now, I’m sure he’d be thrilled at the wicked grin on my face.
A reporter is the first to find me in the dugout. She thrusts a microphone in my face and asks me how I made the twin. “We’ve heard stories of fire twins, but no one’s seen one in years. Not since a fire artist in London made one. How did you do it?”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been interviewed before.I picture my brother and I think about what he would say. He’d be cool and witty.
“It’s just a little something I thought the audience might like,” I say, hoping my answer is vague enough.
“Have you been working on it for a long time?”
“I’ve definitely been working on it,” I say.
“But this was the first time you’ve done it in a show?”
I nod.
“Will we see more of your twin, Aria?”
“I hope so,” I say, then I head to the locker room.
“What happened to her hands?”
The question comes from the scout. His skin is brown, his hair is black, and his words are accented with his Arab roots. He speaks English flawlessly, and he has other matters on his mind besides my fiery copy.
He holds my hands in his, my palms up. I don’t like having my hands touched. It makes me feel exposed.
I press my lips together and wait. The question is not for me. It’s for my father, who stands next to me in the coach’s office. Nava is seated in a chair. I feel like a calf at market, the buyer asking the farmer if I’ve been fed and kept properly. Poking my haunches, prodding my belly to see if I’d be a good cut of meat.
“It happens,” my father says coolly, casually.
The scout raises an eyebrow. His name is Imran, he told us. And he’s been on the circuit since the Leagues began, years ago.
“Not like this,” Imran says, shaking his head.
My father holds up his own hands. His palms are craggy and ragged too. But not like mine. No one has palms as far gone as mine. “It happens with fire artists. It happened to me.”
“Yes, I know,” Imran says, his voice clipped. He is commanding. He is the one in charge here. “But I have never in all my years seen someone so young with so many scars, so many burns.”
“Aria played with fire a lot when she was younger,” my father says in an empty voice.
My stomach lurches and I want to lunge at him, to throttle him, to grab his neck and strangle the last
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