Awash in Talent (11 page)

Before we even arrived at the waterfront, I could hear the snap-crackle of the burning wood. We gazed at the spot at the opening to the harbor where the first pyre juts out of the water. Each pyre rests a good foot or two above the water on a pole, both buoyed and anchored in place by three large black underwater spheres. Both the first pyre and the next one, headed inland at the mouth of the river, were burning low embers.

“Go ahead, Kelly. Refresh the flames,” Brian said, almost like a dare.

I started to protest, but then realized Jill had my safety sack and my patch was off for the night. The feeling of freedom almost knocked the wind out of me. I looked to make sure no one was watching—it was only farther down along the river that the real crowds started. I felt a whirlwind of crackling happiness around me and poof! The first pyre was healthily ablaze again.

“That’s so cool how you do that. You could become an arsonist and no one would ever suspect you.”

“Would you want to commit arson?” I asked. I hate that word so much.

“Well, not really, but my Talent is so obvious, I’m amazed by your subtlety.”

He hadn’t had his turn yet in Ms. Matheson’s class, so I’d never seen his technique. “Please let me see. Go ahead and light that pyre.” I pointed to the one next to mine. It was about ready to go out. Where was the official stoker?

He considered for a moment, then really took a look around, even more thoroughly than I had, and pointed at the pyre with his arm fully extended. Just when I thought nothing was going to happen, that he wasn’t really a pyrokinetic at all, and what was he even doing at the PMA, a stream of sparks arced from his fingertip to the pyre, where they sort of huddled together and then settled into a cozy orange fire. How can I explain this? There was a poetry to it that I’ve never seen before in all the Bunsen lightings in class. It was so spectacular, I stood there in wonderment and he seemed embarrassed because he wouldn’t look me in the eye anymore.

“I heard the guys who keep them lit are pyros like us. Pretty good job to have, don’t you think?” he mumbled.

“That would be really cool,” I said. “Where are they now? All these embers are dying.” I did some more thinking about what we were doing there. I mean, he likes Jill, right? Who wouldn’t? She’s awesome. I decided to ask. “Did you set a fire to get me out to the docks so you could take me to WaterFire?”

“I took Raúl into the hallway without his safety sack and a pile of newspapers we swiped from the hospital, and it sort of played itself out,” he said.

My stomach clenched, but then I reasoned it out, and no one was ever in any danger, so I let myself revel in the fact that he had pulled a stunt to get me where I wanted to be. The idea was so intoxicating, I had to concentrate really hard on walking as we headed toward the festivities. He started telling me the legend of one boy at the school who had magnesium for his kryptonite. The story goes that he used to let the other students take his safety sack and light it to create distractions or momentarily blind teachers or enemies.

“Have you ever seen a magnesium flare?”

“No,” I said.

“Apparently, setting magnesium on fire creates a white flash so bright, if you don’t look away, you’ll burn your retinas.”

I thought I knew what he was talking about. A light that bright was growing in me, and soon I was sure it would engulf the entire riverbank and everyone on it.

We saw a gondola full of people float by, skirting the pyres with the kind of agility they probably need to get through the narrow canals of Venice. I don’t know, I’ve never been to Venice, but it seemed like the gondolier had. Brian finished telling me that the magnesium boy eventually escaped the PMA to go on to better things. I’m not sure what those better things might be. I’ll have to look him up.

The crowd was really thick now as we crossed Washington Street and Exchange Terrace to stay on the west side of the river. Those bridges lead to streets that take cars steeply up or down College Hill, past the First Baptist Church in America, to Brown, the pinnacle of learning every Providence kid thinks they’re going to conquer. I wondered if the curriculum at the PMA was a good preparation for a college like Brown. I certainly never planned to go to school here, and no one ever asked me if it fit into my college plans. For the past few years, I’ve actually had the Berklee College of Music on my mind. That’s in Boston.

At the bridges, there were a couple of vendor stands. One had soft drinks and lemonade ice, which were probably a big hit during the summer, but didn’t really appeal now. My hands were frozen and my nose was starting to run.

“Want anything?” Brian asked.

“I didn’t bring any money,” I said.

“I did,” he said with that sweet smile.

The ice vendor also had t-shirts, bags, hats, and prints of WaterFire, and I desperately wanted to own one of those items with the logo (Is it water? Is it fire?), but I couldn’t let him buy something for me. It didn’t seem right.

“No, thanks.”

“Okay, but I’m getting some Red Hots.”

I looked, and the other vendor was all about fire. Hot chocolate, jalapeños, Firebrand chili, and Red Hot candies. His stall was pretty popular, and we waited in line for I don’t know how long. I watched the people, listened to the eclectic mix of music, and inhaled the fragrant smoke that wafted over from the river. All while holding Brian’s hand, by the way. He didn’t let go until he had to reach into his pocket for his wallet. He was fully dressed, and I wondered if Jill had been in on this, and if so, why she didn’t warn me to stay in my real clothes. I ran my free hand through my hair to see if I could tell how it looked. No luck.

Brian made his purchase, and there are these steps that take you down right next to the river, and Brian held my hand again so we wouldn’t be separated by the thickening crowd. We stepped down there and the primeval feeling increased. Even though there were mere centimeters of room between people, there was a certain hush as they moved about like a single organism. Down here, it was easier to hear the piped Celtic-inspired music. I was mesmerized, watching the flames over the river, the people barely illuminated by the orange light, and I let myself be pulled along. That must be what it’s like to be a pagan fire worshipper.

We made our way toward the round end of the water they call Waterplace Park. Brian put a few Red Hots in my hand, so I swallowed them, and they gave me a pleasant warming feeling. It sounds kind of dumb, doesn’t it? Walking through a huge crowd eating Red Hots. But I can’t explain it—it was the most mystical experience of my life. All the people there were united by the dark night and warm fires, and there was no history anymore, we were transported back to a time before electricity and cell phones.

I don’t want to quit writing because it’s hard enough to hold all this in my mind and try to organize it without taking a break, but my hand is cramping so bad and I have to get some sleep. And then study. More as soon as I can!

October 18

I had Jill tell the PE teacher I was sick so I could come and finish writing all this. She’s amazing, all she did, all the ways she covered for me so I could go to WaterFire with Brian. I’ll never be able to thank her. She knows how important it is to write it down, but I doubt Mr. Bacchus would understand. So of course I have to tie my safety sack around my own wrist when we separate like this, but it’s so annoying to write with my wrist clunking along the table that I’ve set the sack aside. It’s not too far away, don’t worry. I could slip it back on in case someone sticks their head in here for a random check. What do you think I am, some kind of troublemaker? Jill gets to keep her sack in her pocket when we separate. I can’t really blame them for trusting her more than me after my first day fiasco.

Jill is sitting next to me at meals now so Brian can sit directly across from me and he even held my hand at lunch today. Talk about loss of appetite. We’ve never really talked about all this because we haven’t been alone. How could we talk about it in front of other people?

Anyway, there we were, being all mystical, and after we finished the Red Hots, we went up the stairs that lead to the vantage point at Waterplace Park. I have no idea why no one else was there—well, maybe the crowd was thinning a little because WaterFire was almost over—but we had it to ourselves, that’s the important thing. We leaned on the railing and looked at the people milling around, and the vendors starting to pack up, and of course the luminous pyres. My face was pretty cold, but with my arms folded and thinking about the fires, it almost seemed like a summer night.

“I feel so free here,” I said.

“Me, too,” said Brian. “Out among people, no patch, no safety sack. And look! No one’s catching on fire. I think we have more control over ourselves than they tell us we do.”

He was so right, all I could do was nod. I was enjoying the music—something from Cabo Verde, I think, I’ll have to look it up—and thinking the moment could not possibly get any more perfect when the music changed and it came on. “The Prayer of St. Gregory.”

That’s the track I heard all those years ago when my parents first took me to WaterFire. Even then, long before I manifested as a pyro, I found it haunting. I found the name of the piece and the composer, Alan Hovhaness, in the program and then I told my mother I wanted the entire album of that music for my next present. I waited and waited, hoping it wouldn’t be reserved as a Christmas present, and tried to keep the music alive in my head even while I begged my parents to take me back to WaterFire before it stopped for the winter. It turned out the next time Mom felt like giving me a present was as a consolation for the first day of sex ed at school. But even such a sketchy association couldn’t ruin my enjoyment of the piece, and all the music on the disc. When I played it, it was even better than when I’d heard it over the speakers. I closed my eyes and I could see the sparking pyres and glittering water and all the people in their own trances.

From that disc, I learned all about fantasies and fugues. That Hovhaness guy can really fugue. I don’t think he’s dead. I’d like to meet him some time.

The piece begins slowly and gently, like a soft-focus sunrise, with a full string section coming in, testing the waters, supporting one another even as they start to form the hint of a melody. In the fourth bar, a totally unexpected trumpet starts in, and its singularity makes it sound like the melody, although it’s not a very certain one. It has nothing to do with what’s come before, and it’s plaintive, like someone telling you their sorrows in strictest confidence. The string section echoes the melody or supports it in a normal monophonic way, then there’s a hint of counterpoint, as if the horn and strings have some kind of disagreement, but it never jars the ear. The two coexist, not really in harmony, but with each in an independent fugue, taking turns, the strings with their unity and the horn with its solitude. The trumpet gets really mournful, almost like it’s ashamed of itself. Then, for two full, insistent minutes, sometimes lush, sometimes too high, the strings make their case without the trumpet in what seems like a traditional way. Cellos groan for support and the highest-pitched violas possible drive the point home. They’re beautiful, but it’s almost like they protest too much. When that’s about to resolve, the trumpet jumps back in as if to say, “No, that’s not it. It’s this way.” The strings hum softly below as the trumpet takes something that is dark and secret and describes it for all to hear. Finally, the piece resolves with all the instruments coming in with their strengths, but because it’s in a minor key, it’s not really a resolution. It’s more of an open-ended question.

I realized I was talking nonstop, saying all this about the music, and probably keeping Brian from hearing any of it.

This already seems like ages ago, but it’s only been two days. Looking into Brian’s eyes as he listened to me ramble on, I got this feeling I’m nostalgic for now, as if I felt it twenty years ago, before I was even born. Like it was the start of things, and you can never go back to the sweet start of anything, you just have to treasure the memory. Which is why I’m trying to write it all down.

Almost all the crowd was gone by then, and a lot of cars were coming out of the mall garage. We finally caught sight of the stoker as he came around the circle of pyres in his pontoon, but we weren’t going to see if he was a pyrokinetic like us, because as he went along, he was putting all the fires out using a giant snuffer.

“So,” Brian said, “it’s like the string section and the trumpet represent two different forces.”

“Well, their ideas are similar, not totally different. In the context of the piece, they may represent St. Gregory’s faith and his doubt.” That was my academic take on it. When I listen to it and let it touch my emotions, the strings sound like what everyone tells you to do, how to behave, and the trumpet has other ideas, and reaches toward freedom.

He smiled at me. Was I saying something amusing? He finally asked, “Which one wins?”

Suddenly, I’d had enough of reveling in Brian’s attention without full knowledge of what was going on. Because I really thought he liked Jill, and even though I’d rather he liked me, I was confused by the Jill-favoring signals and then all the trouble he’d gone to for me, not to mention the handholding. I think Brian was starting to say something about us needing to get back to the school, but I blurted it out. “Do you like me?”

I couldn’t tell if he was blushing in the dark, but he shifted his weight a lot. Finally, he said, “I like your hair. It only looks red in certain lights.” My hand went straight to my locks, which were waving a little in the wind. Up to that moment, I’d had no idea of the potential of my hair to be anything like red.

“And I like your smile,” he added.

That made me look right at his lips. I’ve studied him a lot, but this was the first time I noticed how pink they were. At least, I don’t think it was from the dye in the Red Hots. And don’t most guys have chapped lips because they don’t use gloss? At that moment, Brian did not have that problem. We faced each other and he took my hands in his. Was he going to kiss me? I think I was trembling, as hokey as that sounds. My breath was short and I thought I could feel him leaning closer. His flawless face was in perfect focus and I saw each of the little flecks in his brown eyes. My skin was all goosebumps and I felt like stepping out of the moment to ask whoever’s in charge to stop time right there.