Free Burning by Elana K. Arnold Page B

myself from asking—“this is one of those major cards, right?”
    She nodded. “Yes, the Major Arcana.…”
    “And didn’t you say that the Major Arcana … that the cards in it can, you know, represent actual
people
, too?”
    Lala looked at me as if she was considering something. Her head was cocked slightly to the side. A wisp of hair was caught in the corner of her mouth. It took all my effort not to reach across the table and stroke that curl back away from her face.
    “It can,” she said, “if you wish it. You are the Questioner—as I said, you determine meaning. But”—her hand touched the final card. This one needed no interpretation. It was a heart, bloodred, stabbed through by three swords. Rain darkened the landscape behind it. “This card represents the Final Outcome. Your path—depending on the path you choose—may not end the way you would will it to.”
    And as I sat staring at that final card, that bloody, betrayed heart, I found myself questioning everything. Could it be true—might there be magic in this world, in this tent, in this girl across from me? Because it seemed that she knew things about me—about my life, my fears, my desires—that no one else should know. And I made a decision then, as I looked back and forth between the Lovers and the Three of Swords.
    It didn’t matter what I had thought before about fate, about God, about magic. Lala White had appeared in the desert for a reason. She was meant for me.
    No matter what the cost.

It seemed to me that Ben Stanley did not want to leave the tent after his reading was complete. I gathered up the cards, tapping them into a neat stack and then sliding them into their small velvet bag. I cinched the cord tight and tied a knot. The table was cleared; the cards were put away; our time together was over.
    Yet still he sat across from me, his blue-gray eyes stormy with some emotion, one I could clearly read yet hesitated to put into words, even in my own mind.
    The other two—Pete and Hog Boy—slid back their chairs and rose, but they did not leave the tent. It was as if they were unsure what moves to make without first watching to see what Ben would do.
    I saw this too among my own people, this looking to a leader to determine which course of action to take. In my family, and in my
kumpànya
as well, it was to my father, Mickey White, that people turned for guidance. My father was the
rom barò
of our
kumpànya
. Probably to the
gazhè
he would seem something of a king, but actuallyhis was an elected position, decided upon by a council of elders.
    And they did not choose him blindly, just as these boys in my tent did not look to Ben Stanley for leadership without good cause. A
rom barò
—literally, a “big man”—is chosen for a combination of qualities: He should be wise and experienced, and, of course, clever as well. My father was all of these things, and my people listened gladly to his counsel.
    Hog Boy and Pete had chosen well to follow Ben Stanley, I thought. After all, which of the three of them had earned a way out of their failing town, which of these three had an open door in front of him? He was too young still to be considered truly wise, and I gauged by the way he looked at me—desire tinged with flustered embarrassment—that his experience, at least with girls, was not wide. But he seemed clever, and something else—perhaps something I would consider more important than any of these three qualities, though my father Mickey White would disagree, I knew—Ben Stanley was kind.
    I knew this was the truth because of the way he tolerated his obnoxious friend. I could read his kindness in his dismay over leaving his family. His kindness infused his desire to be good, good enough for everybody.
    Romeo Nicholas would never be
rom barò
. He had some qualities, too, that might recommend him for leadership … but he did not have the makings of a wise man, not even if he was blessed with a hundred years to add to his