Free The Fire Artist by Daisy Whitney

“delicate”—that might have been the first time anyone had used those words to describe me. I am motorcycle leather, I am ripped jeans, I am white and black tank tops. I am boots and sunglasses, flip-flops and cutoffs.
    The dress is still on the hanger in my closet.
    Jana’s on her bed, reading one of my magazines. I yank on the pink frock. I glance at myself in the mirror. I look like a doll.
    “This dress is hideous,” I whisper to Jana.
    She nods her assent. “It’s totally disgusting.”
    I tug it off and pull on a denim skirt and a black T-shirt, then sink down on the bed next to my sister. “Oh, Jana, what am I gonna do?”
    “Take me with you.”
    I pull back to look at her. “Really? You want to get away from here?”
    “Uh, yeah. Who doesn’t?”
    “What happened at the pool yesterday?”
    She gives me a curious look, like my question doesn’t compute.
    “Did Dad try to … ?” But my voice trails off. Because I’m not even sure what to say or ask. “Did he make you stay under the water or something?”
    She shrugs. “He just timed me. To see how long I could hold my breath.”
    “How long can you hold your breath?”
    “A long time,” she says with a slight smile. “Do you think I’ll be a water artist?”
    “Jana, you’re going to be anything you want to be.” I give her a kiss on the forehead. “I promise.”
    I step back into the hall and head out with my father.
    We drive to the only fancy restaurant around, a steak and lobster joint one town over. It’s a darkened place with burgundy booths and chocolate-brown carpets and the air of money.Thick, heavy menus; waiters and waitresses with white dress shirts and black ties; linen napkins.
    “Shrimp cocktail?” Imran suggests after we sit down.
    My father nods, and I follow suit. Imran calls the waiter over and orders. I like the sound of his voice, the smooth caress of words like “another” and “shrimp” and “please” flowing from his tongue like warm honey, thanks to his accent. He’s older than I am by a few years. He has high cheekbones and lush black hair. Something about him reminds me of my beautiful boy. Maybe it’s the hair, or the cut of his jaw. Or maybe it’s that he seems kind, as I imagine my beautiful boy to be.
    The shrimp arrives and it’s delicious. We never eat like this at home. At our house, it’s rice and beans and pasta Jana makes because my dad decided cooking meals is her task. As the youngest and the only one without a job, she must have dinner on the table when my father returns home, smelly and greasy, from the junkyard.
    He orders a steak and I opt for a garden salad, even though I really want the roast chicken and mashed potatoes. But I have a feeling Imran wants to know I have control over what goes in my body, that I will stay trim and tight. Imran asks for water for all of us, then hands the menus to the waiter.
    His brown eyes land on me. He clasps his hands together. “Aria, have you ever been to the M.E.?”
    “No, sir,” I say. I haven’t been anywhere. I haven’t been on a plane. I’ve never left Florida.
    A light laugh, then he tells me I can call him Imran.
    “Yes, sir.”
    He shakes his head, bemused.
    “It is the most beautiful land in all the world,” he begins, telling me of the mosques and temples, of the desertscapes, and the mountains, and most of all how the towns and cities there have all changed. The M.E. used to be a land of disparate countries, torn apart by wars with the United States, with Israel, with each other. There once was a time when you could say, wryly, “What do you pray for?” and people would answer, “For peace in the Middle East.” Unrest could be traced back thousands upon thousands of years; this was biblical territory, after all.
    But after multiple oil crises and myriad occupations, a miraculous thing happened. The fighting stopped. The wars ended. Not overnight. Not with a snap of the fingers. But over several years, it was as if all