Free The Fire Artist by Daisy Whitney Page B

exists, and so we are implementingnew safeguards to ensure all elemental artists are clean,” Imran continues.
    “How can you do that?” my father asks, and that same note of worry repeats in his voice. I sneak a look at my father, his jaw tense. Why is he so worried about granters? Granter use can’t be monitored.
    “We have ways,” Imran says, giving my father the barest courtesy of an answer, then moving on. “And of course, we will expect Aria to uphold our fine standards for purity. I trust you will,” he says to me.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Good. I have so much faith in you,” Imran says to me. “In fact, I spoke to my superiors last night. I told them what I had seen in you. I told them of your great potential. I showed the videos I made of the show. They were particularly impressed with your fire twin, as you can imagine,” he says to me, capping the sentence with a flourish at “twin.” “It’s the sort of spectacle that can bring down the house. That audiences will talk about for weeks. Can your twin do more than bow? Can it last longer than a few seconds?”
    “I’m not sure,” I say quietly. “I just started working on it.”
    Imran doesn’t blink; he doesn’t flinch. His confidence is electric. “We will train that talent then,” he adds, though I wonder if the Leagues
can
train that talent. If they even know how. “We have the best talent and we have the best trainers. And so we want to move you up quickly. We have tutors and schooling on-site, so you can finish your senior year of high school while training and performing. Should you choose to acceptour offer, and we very much hope you will, we have decided we are going to skip Miami and send you straight to New York next week.”
    All my borrowed time drains in a second, in the shimmery outline of my replica.

11

Last Night
    I study the number of days in between my renewals, but the numbers don’t add up. There’s no obvious pattern, no way to predict when my fire will wane.
    I crouch by my bed in the late afternoon and stare at the numbers again on my sheet of paper, wishing they’d reveal a secret, tell me the only number I need to know—when I’ll start to fade. But even if I know when I’ll ebb, how are Elise and I going to engineer a rendezvous for a lightning strike? Miami would have worked, since she’ll be in college nearby. But now I’m going more than a thousand miles away, and we can’t drive an hour and meet in the middle. Will I have to secretly jet back to Florida? Will she fly to New York? I can’t picture us chasing lightning in Central Park for all the millions in Manhattan to see. Call me crazy.
    A horrid thought lands in my head: What if Elise dies? Oh God, I can’t even go there for so many reasons.
    An idea flashes before me. What if we reignite my fire wellbefore it runs out? What if we got on a schedule? I study the numbers once more, then the training schedule Imran gave me. In sixty days I’ll have my first break from training. That’s late August, right before Elise goes to school. We’ll meet up then. I have to be highly strategic now about everything. I’ll schedule renewals with Elise, and I’ll make sure my brother keeps a close watch on Jana. I hate leaving her, but it’s the only way I can help her in the long run.
    I text him, telling him I have to see him even though he’s working an all-day shift. I leave the house, hopping on my bike to head to the burger stand by the beach where he works. The sun bakes me as I ride, turning my already tanned skin even darker. My tank is drenched with sweat when I reach the bike rack and lock up my wheels.
    I walk to the screen door.
    French fries snap in hot oil.
    Xavier gives the metal basket a quick shake, then dumps the sizzling and greasy fries on a metal tray to cool them off.
    “Be right back,” he tells his coworker. He steps into the alley behind the shack. We’re next to a Dumpster. It smells like all the fried food in the world and like the