Awash in Talent

by Jessica Knauss

  “And?”

  “And I think I can help us both out. If I become your buddy, you won’t be such an outcast, and I won’t have to share a triple.”

  I wanted to jump for joy and maybe hug her, but I couldn’t let her in so easy. “So you decided living in a sulfurous smog all the time was better than hanging around with Melinda?”

  “Yeah. It can’t be that bad.” She gave a wry smile that made me want to cry even more.

  “Thank you,” I said, reaching for her hand, but then thinking better of it.

  “Cool,” she replied. “I told the principal we might do this, and I think we have enough time to sort it out with the admin office and move me in after lunch if we eat fast. Is that your safety sack?”

  “Huh?” It turns out that’s what they call the clump of extra kryptonite they tied up in a little pouch and made me wear on my wrist, visible at all times. I hadn’t realized everyone had one.

  “I can take it from you now, and Willa will give you mine at some point.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s part of the buddy system,” Jill explained with admirable patience. “In a pair, the partner takes his or her buddy’s safety sack and keeps it available in case the patch fails or there’s a problem in the night. In our group of three, Melinda took Willa’s, Willa took mine, and I took Melinda’s, so everyone has a link to the other two.”

  “It sounds a lot like Ms. Matheson’s lead keychain.”

  “Well, she would have had to carry her lead the same way we wear a patch, and her buddy would have had to carry another pouch for her when she was in school, too. She just has to keep carrying as an adult. We won’t. So we’ll go get my safety phosphorus for you to carry and Willa can take Melinda’s.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Melinda’s kryptonite is platinum. You’re trading platinum for sulfur? Are you sure?”

  She undid the knot around my wrist with a pull of the string and brought the porous fabric to her nose.

  “It’s not so bad,” she choked out between coughs. “I’ll get some foil to put around it or something.” She stowed the pouch in her pants pocket and leaned in. “Actually, it smells better than hanging around Melinda any day.”

  I smiled, and it hurt, because it’s been two months since I’ve exercised my real smile muscles. As soon as I could relax my throat enough to finish gulping my tortilla soup, we went to the principal’s office with linked arms like any other pair of buddies.

  We sat through a few lectures from the principal about responsibility and teamwork. The secretary called the PE coach and told him Jill and I would be missing class. Yes! After promising never to go buddy-less again and to carry my buddy’s safety sack faithfully, I signed a few stacks of papers, and Jill signed a couple (she didn’t have to promise as much because she’s never presented a security risk the way I have). The security guard, who had never told me his name but I really felt warming up to me by that time, knelt before me like a suitor and undid the ankle bracelet. Suddenly I could breathe again. It was like opening the window in a cramped, stuffy room.

  Which is exactly what my room was. I was embarrassed to let Jill into it. But she just looked around and said, “Great, you took the bed I wanted you to take,” and headed back out into the corridor to get her stuff from the triple. It was only a few doors down from me—us—and when she opened the door, I could see why she chose me over this arrangement. The other two girls had their stuff all over the place on the furniture, and Jill had all her stuff on the floor. Even I would seem like a reasonable tradeoff after a couple of nights of that. She apparently slept on a mattress on the floor, but, piled high with colorful comforters and pillows from home, it still looked amazing and far from industrial, which is the only word I can use to describe my bed with its single, useful pillow, school-issued grey blanket, and white sheets.

  I scooped up some comforters and she took some pillows and we headed back to my—our—room. I snuck a look at the labels and they boasted a flame-resistant guarantee. I started scheming to get some stuff like that over winter break. We went back and forth several times with lamps, her share of the room’s extinguishers, her e-reader, her computer, her phone, and two plastic boxes she hadn’t had the space to unpack. When we headed back to her old room for a last look, Melinda and her clone (I mean Willa, of course, poor thing, she would absorb the personality of anyone she lived with and she ended up with Melinda) were there between classes.

  “Willa says you weren’t in PE. Where were you?” Melinda demanded of Jill, ignoring me. “And where’s your stuff?”

  “Hi, Melinda and Willa,” Jill responded, as if no one had been rude to her in the last fifty years. I was liking her better every second. “The principal decided it was crazy to have a forced triple and one girl with no buddy, so I’m going to be Kelly’s now.” She held out a pouch I assumed held some platinum inside. It couldn’t have been much because the sack looked like it was empty. I would guess frugality would be necessary when dealing with such a coveted element. “Here’s your safety sack. Willa should take it now. I need mine to give to Kelly.”

  Willa approached Jill and took the pouch, probably because it had been directly suggested and she’s so suggestionable, but Melinda swatted it out of her hand.

  “No, that’s yours, Jill,” said Melinda. “You’re staying with us.”

  Jill dug in her pocket, extracted my safety sack, and waved it under Melinda’s nose. Melinda began to cough so violently that she fell backward onto her bed, but when Willa flopped over to help her, Jill suggested, “Willa, take my safety sack out of your pocket.” The girl turned away from what was now her only buddy and eased a little pouch out of her tight jeans pocket.

  Jill took it, saying, “Thank you,” and handed it to me. I felt like I had taken part in a sacred ceremony. I was so happy, the air crackled around me and I actually felt a strong tug on my patch. I slipped the sack religiously into my pocket and we stepped out, leaving those two buddies to fend for themselves. A few minutes later, we walked into Ms. Matheson’s class together and, for once, I didn’t care that all eyes were on me, because they were on Jill, too.

  I couldn’t have told you what happened in class if my life depended on it—I was too thrilled with everything to concentrate. And there’s yet another benefit of the buddy system: later, in our room, when I had no clue what the homework was about, Jill helped me.

  September 26

  So the very next day after that, last Tuesday, it got even better. I’m surprised I didn’t set anything on fire, sulfur or no sulfur. And then it got confusing.

  Jill and I were at lunch, next to the same floor-to-ceiling window as before, and all of a sudden, Brian set a tray of food on the two-person table next to us, then proceeded to lift the table and set it right next to ours. Brian! In my mind, we’ve already had a few different wedding ceremonies. I’ve never done this—mooned over a guy—before, but Brian is different. He’s got good hygiene, for one, and he sits up straight and smiles the sweetest smile that breaks your heart.

  He moved a chair next to Jill and slid into it with a satisfied look. Brian’s buddy, Raúl, followed him and sat next to me. His head is too narrow and he wore long sleeves even though it was blazing hot outside. He reached across my tray for the salt and I saw the puckered skin of a flame-shaped scar on the back of his hand. He must be hiding more scars with those sleeves. I uncharitably wished he could also hide his pockmarked cheeks. “So you finally decided to join the group,” he said.

  Suddenly I didn’t feel so guilty about wanting to put a paper bag over his head. My face got hot. Brian, to my glee, saw my expression and lunged at Raúl’s hand with a fork. Raúl dodged the scolding and continued, “It’s about time. You missed the class trip to WaterFire and everything.”

  A sinking feeling came over me. They got to go to WaterFire? I would have thought pyros like us would be banned from an event with large crowds and open flames. I went with my parents five years ago and since then, all I’ve wanted is
to go back.

  “It was no big deal,” Jill said. “Well, maybe it was because I had to spend it sandwiched between Melinda and Willa the whole time, and they kept blah blah blahing over the music.”

  “There’s a sandwich I’d love to be a part of,” said Raúl.

  “Really?” said Brian. “How many holes do you want in your hand?”

  “What did I say?” said Raúl, giggling.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Keep him distracted from WaterFire.”

  “You want to go to WaterFire?” asked Brian. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  And then the three of them proceeded with lunch and conversations about classes, teachers, and Melinda as if we had done this together every day of our lives. I was in such awe of the way it happened, and of course my stomach was doing flip-flops looking at Brian over there, so nice and cute, that I didn’t eat another bite. But I had to get over that quickly or I would starve to death, because at dinner they sat with us again, and then at breakfast, and now they’re with us at every meal.

  After that first lunch, Jill and I went back to our room to get our e-readers and in order to stop thinking about Brian, I commented on Raúl’s long sleeves and what they must be hiding.

  “I bet that was from his manifestation. He must have been holding something tight and then set it ablaze. You don’t get such deep scarring from casual contact,” Jill mused.

  “No, you don’t.” I knew all too well. I got a horrible feeling. “Do you think most firestarters start on themselves? I mean, does the manifesting incident usually turn back on the pyro?”

  “Yeah,” she replied casually. “It happened to me.” She lifted her shirt to reveal a slate of second-degree burns over her lower torso. Only her belly button was intact. Suddenly I put together how no one here dressed skimpily like the normal, un-Talented people on the street, even on the hottest day. Nope, everyone’s modest and unassuming like me. I should have figured that out since not even Melinda shows cleavage. I’m so slow sometimes! I’ll have to pay attention to the girls who come out of the shower wrapped up in towels to see if I can tell how many of them have these scars.

  Jill put down her shirt hem and kept talking. “It goes a little farther, and I have a little bit of scarring on my legs. I’m not ashamed to say, I was imagining the Hunger Games fire dress and spinning around the living room. My brother, thank God, is a quick thinker, and he threw the couch blanket over me while I pulled the fabric away from my skin. It could have been a lot worse. Did you know fingerprints grow back, even from a burn?”

  She put her hand practically in my eye socket and the healing was amazing. Her skin just looked a little more mottled than usual. If I thought about it, I was guessing she had pigmentation issues.

  “Wow,” was all I could say. I can’t even sort out these emotions in writing.

  September 27

  Jill was telling me about how they figured out which element takes her ability away. After she got out of treatment for her burns, but a few days before her appointment at the testing center, her brother was being mischievous and bringing phosphorus-headed matches to her because he thought it might be easier for her to use her powers from a starting point. But she could never do it. She said she set the stack of newspapers that were going for recycling on fire, and a pile of weeds, and finally the drapes, but nothing when those matches were around. So when she got to the testing center, she said she thought her kryptonite was phosphorus, and they confirmed it in like five minutes and she went home. I told her that was a major advantage, because the testing center over there in Warwick is the most boring place in the entire universe. It took them eight hours to figure out sulfur for me, and there was nothing to do while you were waiting—no TVs, no phones allowed, nothing.

  Now that I think of it, that testing center might be training for the academic portion of the PMA. I’ve decided all the classes here are pretty stupid. For example, all we’ve learned about in History are big fires. The various London fires, the Chicago fire, the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory—how different can each fire be? Fire, fire, fire. I would think they’re trying to scare us straight, but I already have a healthy fear checking everything I do, so maybe I can get a pass on all that history stuff. I’m learning more about the world with Jill’s music. She listens to a lot of French and Moroccan pop, which is insanely cool.

  Mr. A. teaches History. He wrote his name out on the board the first day without really expecting any of us to remember how to spell or pronounce it, so he encourages us to call him Mr. A. You’d think with that much explanation, he would actually be interesting.

  The one good class is Ms. Matheson’s Science, because we get rotating duty to light the Bunsen burners. I think normal kids have to turn a dial or maybe use matches or something, but each day one of us gets to take off our patch (with the safety sack nearby) and have at it. It was finally my turn today. I’d put my patch on my neck in anticipation and when Ms. Matheson gave the okay, I ripped it off and savored the feeling of relief for a second. The air buzzed and crackled around me, and all ten burners lit up with a perfect blue flame fading to yellow, just right for melting lead. That’s good control, I tell you. A couple of the kids clapped and Ms. Matheson patted my shoulder while Jill reapplied my patch. You see, the tendency has been for the others to have to light each burner individually with some elaborate gesticulation or skin-to-gas contact, taking forever, but not me. Fwoomp, and it’s done. That’s the Kelly way, and now they all know.

  After class, Ms. Matheson beckoned me over and said she would make me the permanent burner lighter, after everyone else had a turn, if she could get approval. Good luck. Actually I’m surprised they let me, the big security risk, take off my patch even for that short moment.

  The other day, this kid Abe stretched in English and his patch popped right off his arm. Mr. Collart, the teacher, who’s a little wacky, anyway, ran to the side of the whiteboard and tugged on a cord I’d been wondering about. An alarm screeched through the entire school and upset every cell in my ears. No fewer than three guards poured into the room with fire extinguishers and pointed them at Abe as if they were guns.

  “Don’t move,” said one.

  “Relax,” said Abe, reaching for his patch on the floor. All three guards blasted him with white fire-retardant foam and before I knew it, he was on the floor, choking. The biggest guard lifted him up and took him away in a fireman’s carry with the other guards and Robert, Abe’s buddy, running behind.

  All the students were too stunned to ask the questions we had swimming in our heads: Was he being taken to the hospital or to jail? Would he be allowed back into class? Would we see Robert again? The questions weren’t answered until two days later, when Abe entered our first class of the day with an ankle bracelet like the one I’d had to wear, a safety sack around his neck, and a t-shirt warning everyone to make sure his patch was visible at all times.

  I didn’t dare protest, like I wanted to, “He was just stretching.” If they did all that to him for stretching, what would they do to me for saying what I thought?

  A security guard has stood at the back of all our classes ever since and he’s a little weird. He does that thing with his fingers to his eyes to show he’s watching every time I glance over. And poor Robert now has to carry an entire kit around with him everywhere, including a small fire extinguisher, a giant safety sack, and a stack of patches for Abe in case of another emergency.

  And have I mentioned that the only assignments are to write essays about the devastation caused by fires? Mr. Collart lectures long and hard, and even though I’m not really paying attention, I get the drift: we are dangerous to society and must be kept under lock and key.

  October 4

  Today I went on my first field trip with the class. They said it was the first of its kind, and it was, because the other principal had been calling them to encourage inter-Talent cooperation, whatever that means. I don’t know what they were trying to accomplish with this trip, but I also
don’t think it turned out like anyone really expected.

  The guard drove us in a giant van, with buddies holding tightly to each other and Mr. A. at the lead, over the river and up College Hill via Hope Street to the Moses Brown Academy for Telekinesis. You can tell it’s going to be different, just from the name. Not only did some rich old guy actually want to be associated with this Talent, but it’s an academy for, which is to say, in favor of, this Talent. The PMA is for the management of pyros, but this school is for the promotion of telekinetics. I couldn’t get over the difference. I eyed the wrought iron fence with graduation year plaques proudly displayed and the wide, sweeping lawn and couldn’t help but feel skeptical.

  They—a smiling woman and three students—led us through the grand front gate and across the lawn and such a strong feeling of empowerment came over me, I nearly jumped the fence and went running through the streets of the East Side to show my freedom to the world. I squeezed Jill’s hand and whispered, “What is this place?” She squeezed back and made a humming sound like she knew exactly what I meant. Have I mentioned yet that Jill is awesome?

  After a little speech by the woman, who turned out to be the principal and a strong believer in inter-Talent cooperation, they gave us a grand tour through the library and classrooms. It was weird to look through the windows in some of the classroom doors and see things like paintbrushes apparently creating art by themselves, or tortillas and cans of beans flying around the Spanish class. There were also tiny places like where a singer would warm up before a performance, which they called “concentration rooms.” The lunchroom wasn’t a complete dining hall, because this isn’t a boarding school, like ours, but it was still a monument to gothic architecture. I would say it imitated Harry Potter, but I think this building was here a few years before J. K. Rowling. We rushed through an enormous auditorium and ended up in a giant gym. I mean, it was huge, like you could fit six basketball courts in there. I hesitated to go in, thinking they were going to have us run in circles or shoot hoops, or something else ridiculous, but they just pointed to a long bench for us to sit on. They were going to give us a show and there weren’t enough of us to pull out the bleachers, they said.