Read Online The Fire Artist by Daisy Whitney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daisy Whitney
Ads: Link
bit of life from him.
The scout turns to me; the corner of his lips curls up like there’s a private joke that might make him laugh. “Is that so?”
I rearrange my features, return the mask of steel to my face. “Yes. I’ve always loved fire. It took me a while to control it.”
“You have precision control now,” he remarks.
If only he saw me a few days back, when my fire was scurrying away from me …
Imran runs his hands across my palms, touching the grooves. How much will this calf command?
“Still … ,” he says, and his voice trails off. It’s unclear what his silence means—that he doesn’t believe me? Or that I’m not good enough? Didn’t he see what I did tonight? Isn’t that more than enough? His eyes shift to my father. “
How
did she play with fire when she was younger?”
“Lighting matches, playing with burners. I couldn’t keep her away from it. Starting little fires in the backyard. Setting bottles on fire. Firecrackers too.”
He lies with such abandon it makes me want to cry, and I rarely cry. I hate crying, I hate weakness, I hate that he makes me weak.
Imran considers the answer, as if he’s measuring whether there’s any truth to it.
“Perhaps that is good. We want all our players to have passion.” Then he turns back to me. “Passion is one of the five tools of the best elemental artists in the world. Do you know the others?”
The five tools have been drilled into me since I could walk, since I could breathe. Xavier had four of them. I have all of them most of the time.
“Beauty, power, passion, presence, and control.”
“Yes. You have all of them. You are a five-tool artist. You are rare.”
I have goose bumps for a moment, and it feels good to be praised by this man.
But more than good, it feels like hope. Like a map with a treasure in the middle, and I can find it and never let go of the gem.
A gem that I’ve earned. Because even though my fire was born of a lie and bred from a crime, fire has become who I am now. My fire feels real, as true and native as if I’d been born with it, because it’s necessary. Because fire saved me, and fire will save the rest of my family.
“If you were to join the circuit, you would need a stage name. Have you thought about one?”
I have thought about stage names before. Entertained them,considered them. Names like Nitro or Flame Thrower are passé, not to mention taken by other artists in the Leagues. But I know my stage name. Because I know who I am.
“The Girl Prometheus.”
Now he raises both eyebrows and his face splits into a full-on grin. Nava laughs lightly, nodding, though she has no idea why the name is so fitting. She likes it because it’s bold. Because I’m the performer she could never be. Fearless in her eyes.
No one thinks it’s the truth.
Why would they?
Everything about me is a lie.
Except my new name.
“The Girl Prometheus,” Imran repeats. “A fire stealer. It is a perfect stage name,” he says, and extends his hand. I try to suppress a smile because I’ve been taught to keep it cool, to be stoic, to stomach all my emotions. But I’m grinning, I’m bursting. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. “We’ll start you in Miami next week. Welcome to the M.E. Leagues, the Girl Prometheus.”
10
A Wish for Peace
My dad has finished drawing a bath for my mother, and I’m getting ready for lunch with Imran and my father to review the details of my contract with the Leagues.
“Wear the pink dress with the scalloped neckline,” my mother whispers before she closes the bathroom door and locks herself into her potpourri of lavender and steam. “The one I got you for your birthday.”
I head into my room and stare at the open closet. I’m not wearing the pink dress. It’s babyish and has a lacy hemline. I’ve never worn anything remotely like it.
“Isn’t it just so feminine and delicate? It’ll look beautiful on you,” my mom said when I feigned liking it. “Feminine” and
The scout turns to me; the corner of his lips curls up like there’s a private joke that might make him laugh. “Is that so?”
I rearrange my features, return the mask of steel to my face. “Yes. I’ve always loved fire. It took me a while to control it.”
“You have precision control now,” he remarks.
If only he saw me a few days back, when my fire was scurrying away from me …
Imran runs his hands across my palms, touching the grooves. How much will this calf command?
“Still … ,” he says, and his voice trails off. It’s unclear what his silence means—that he doesn’t believe me? Or that I’m not good enough? Didn’t he see what I did tonight? Isn’t that more than enough? His eyes shift to my father. “
How
did she play with fire when she was younger?”
“Lighting matches, playing with burners. I couldn’t keep her away from it. Starting little fires in the backyard. Setting bottles on fire. Firecrackers too.”
He lies with such abandon it makes me want to cry, and I rarely cry. I hate crying, I hate weakness, I hate that he makes me weak.
Imran considers the answer, as if he’s measuring whether there’s any truth to it.
“Perhaps that is good. We want all our players to have passion.” Then he turns back to me. “Passion is one of the five tools of the best elemental artists in the world. Do you know the others?”
The five tools have been drilled into me since I could walk, since I could breathe. Xavier had four of them. I have all of them most of the time.
“Beauty, power, passion, presence, and control.”
“Yes. You have all of them. You are a five-tool artist. You are rare.”
I have goose bumps for a moment, and it feels good to be praised by this man.
But more than good, it feels like hope. Like a map with a treasure in the middle, and I can find it and never let go of the gem.
A gem that I’ve earned. Because even though my fire was born of a lie and bred from a crime, fire has become who I am now. My fire feels real, as true and native as if I’d been born with it, because it’s necessary. Because fire saved me, and fire will save the rest of my family.
“If you were to join the circuit, you would need a stage name. Have you thought about one?”
I have thought about stage names before. Entertained them,considered them. Names like Nitro or Flame Thrower are passé, not to mention taken by other artists in the Leagues. But I know my stage name. Because I know who I am.
“The Girl Prometheus.”
Now he raises both eyebrows and his face splits into a full-on grin. Nava laughs lightly, nodding, though she has no idea why the name is so fitting. She likes it because it’s bold. Because I’m the performer she could never be. Fearless in her eyes.
No one thinks it’s the truth.
Why would they?
Everything about me is a lie.
Except my new name.
“The Girl Prometheus,” Imran repeats. “A fire stealer. It is a perfect stage name,” he says, and extends his hand. I try to suppress a smile because I’ve been taught to keep it cool, to be stoic, to stomach all my emotions. But I’m grinning, I’m bursting. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. “We’ll start you in Miami next week. Welcome to the M.E. Leagues, the Girl Prometheus.”
10
A Wish for Peace
My dad has finished drawing a bath for my mother, and I’m getting ready for lunch with Imran and my father to review the details of my contract with the Leagues.
“Wear the pink dress with the scalloped neckline,” my mother whispers before she closes the bathroom door and locks herself into her potpourri of lavender and steam. “The one I got you for your birthday.”
I head into my room and stare at the open closet. I’m not wearing the pink dress. It’s babyish and has a lacy hemline. I’ve never worn anything remotely like it.
“Isn’t it just so feminine and delicate? It’ll look beautiful on you,” my mom said when I feigned liking it. “Feminine” and
Similar Books
