Awash in Talent

by Jessica Knauss

  I sat on the end to be sure I’d only have to sit by Jill, and not someone obnoxious like Melinda. Already on this trip she’d stuck her head into one of the concentration rooms and sung the important words of that stupid old Alicia Keys song, surprising and knocking over some poor guy who was innocently trying to levitate feathers in the pattern of a clownfish. Willa instinctively brushed the pieces of down out of Melinda’s perfect waves, but she missed some of them, and I certainly wasn’t going to point them out, and no one else did, either. I guess most of us agree Melinda deserves to look like a jerk.

  But I’d underestimated Brian’s determination to form a foursome with me and Jill and him and Raúl. He sat right next to Jill on the bench, and in that moment, I was sure he liked her. I can’t say I’m not crushed into a pulp of emo raw sadness, but Jill is awesome enough that I can understand why any boy would go for her.

  There were two new telekinetic students standing before us, and the ones who had been on the tour joined them. Behind them was a series of objects, some familiar, some probably traditional in telekinetics training. The tallest student went into presentation mode. “Welcome to Moses Brown.”

  I sighed reflexively. This was going to be hokey.

  A pack of cards floated in the air over the first kid who had been with us on the tour. Suddenly, they fanned out, then shuffled themselves, then made a little halo over this guy’s head. It may not sound impressive, but there was something so creepy about it, it couldn’t be hokey. It was impossible to look away. I think all of us pyro kids were holding our breath by the time the next girl started. She worked with feathers not unlike the ones the poor kid in the concentration room had been using. She made them travel in arcs toward the ceiling, and as they traveled back down, they made a pattern like a flock of geese. But I don’t mean just a V—it moved and morphed just like a real flock of geese, and at the end, it became a single goose that looked like it was flying, with eerily flapping wings and all. “Ooh,” was all that could be heard.

  Then the last kid who had been on the tour faced one of the new kids and they started tossing these weirdly shaped foam things in various sizes at each other. Without using their hands. It was like a pair of jugglers. Each one had to not only keep track of the stuff he was throwing, but also his partner’s stuff so that he could dodge it if need be. And as they went faster, they had to dodge the stuff, I mean it was flying everywhere. It started to look like they were ninjas, swerving wildly to avoid . . . Nerf balls. They got a lot of claps and woohoos from the audience when they both stopped and let everything fall at the same moment. The choreography was impressive, I’ll give them that.

  Mr. A. said, “The real talent will be the one who picks all that up, of course.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two adults dressed in janitorial jumpsuits heave great sighs of agreement. Our guard looked down the row at each one of us, almost making me believe he could make us do that work if he decided to. Such a weirdo.

  “And now for the grand finale,” the tallest student said then. “It takes all of us . . .”

  The telekinetics all lined up in front of us and switched positions as if who they had on one side of them made a huge difference, like in a choir lineup. They all raised their right arms in a graceful motion, but nothing happened.

  They looked at one another, and we looked at them expectantly, until the new girl, who hadn’t performed yet, spoke.

  “I sense the presence of aluminum.”

  She had straight brown hair and looked younger than the rest of the presenters, and also a little queasy.

  Jill pulled out my safety sack, which shone in the crinkled fashion of aluminum foil. “I covered this lump of sulfur so it wouldn’t reek so bad—sorry, Kelly. I’m not saying you reek . . .”

  The brown-haired girl made a sound like she was going to hurl and looked like she was about to fall over. Just what the world needs: another drama queen. Two of her fellow students rushed to her side and I wondered if they had a buddy system. It didn’t seem like it. And then I thought, if she can be such a big baby about her kryptonite, so can I. I had been restraining myself since we were in this civilized place and I wanted Brian to see me as the elegant swan I’m not, but things being the way they were, I jammed my hand under my collar and started scratching all around my shoulder, where my patch was driving me crazy with itching.

  “Why do you have a lump of sulfur?” the principal asked Jill earnestly. She let the principal take the foil off the sulfur and hand it to one of the telekinetic kids, who rushed out of the room crumpling it.

  “It’s Kelly’s kryptonite. I keep it nearby in case her patch falls off or something.”

  “Patch?” asked the principal.

  Mr. A. stepped in, finally. “We give each student at the Pyrokinesis Management Academy a patch with their kryptonite”—here I could swear he winked at the principal, as if there were something else unspoken in the patches—“to wear during waking hours to prevent mishaps. It’s not enough to make them really sick, but the . . . urge to make flames remains under control during wear.”

  The principal gasped. “That’s terrible. Look at this girl.” She gestured at me, scratching like there was no tomorrow. “She’s clearly very uncomfortable. As you can see, we don’t keep our Talented students hemmed in by their weaknesses. We have an encouraging environment that promotes self-esteem, not shame. Take all those patches off this instant.”

  The guard stepped toward us, ready for trouble.

  I could see it all: we take off our patches, all the posters on the walls go up in flames, and, depending how good their sprinkler system is, we’re all soaked in less than a minute. And that’s the best-case scenario. I don’t have to tell you what the worst-case scenario is. This lady needed some serious sensitivity training if she was really going to promote inter-Talent cooperation. It does not do to tell the bird it’s caged.

  Think about what you’re saying, idiot, I thought. And then I heard the words outside my head. “Think about what you’re saying, Principal,” said Brian. “You may be kryptonite-free here, but our patches are preventing death and injury.”

  “You couldn’t buy enough insurance to have us here without our kryptonites,” said Raúl. Cynical as it sounded, he was probably right.

  “I’m an Other-Talented Healer,” said the aluminum-hating girl. She looked fine now, not sick at all. “I can heal anyone and it will be like nothing happened.”

  I don’t know what an Other-Talented Healer is, but this girl had no idea what she was talking about. I think she’s about the same age as me, but her overconfidence, which she clearly thought made her seem more mature, sounded like a squawking little girl.

  “Why don’t you continue with the presentation we’re all so anxious to see?” said Mr. A.

  The telekinesis kids looked like I felt: let down. Deflated like old balloons. Like, how could they do their grand finale now, with everything that’s been said in this ginormous room?

  But they looked at one another, then planted their feet and swept their arms upward (not as elegantly as before), and the bench we were sitting on began to rise from the floor. As soon as I could tell what was happening, I hopped off to stand next to the guard, and my side of the bench lifted a little faster. “Get back on,” said the aluminum girl. “We’ll hold you safe.”

  I shook my head at her, so she turned her attention back to the bench, and, apparently with the help of her classmates, lifted it even faster. They were headed straight for the ceiling, which, as I mentioned, was like a million feet above. Even from below, I could see the white knuckles on the sides of the bench. Melinda screamed, so it was a happy time, anyway. Mr. A. looked at the principal and said, “What are you thinking?”

  “They’re fine. My students are holding each individual on the bench in addition to lifting the bench itself. Even if the bench falls, none of the students will,” she replied with the same self-assurance she had when explaining about inter-Talent cooperation.

  But Melin
da wouldn’t stop screaming, and Willa joined her, because she’s Willa. So after a stern look from Mr. A., the principal waved at her students and we never got to see what they were planning to do. The bench alit and all nineteen students clambered away, brushing each other off as if terror had stuck to them like a powder. First thing, I made sure Jill was okay, and she was, having held onto Brian’s arm the whole time.

  Aside from the guard, who could hardly get over what he thought was the comedy of the day, everyone was quiet on the ride back. I think we were all processing different reactions.

  I followed Jill inside and looked at our undecorated cinderblock walls—posters, tapestries, and even paint present too much of a threat when we take our patches off at night—and my mind flashed back to the architectural grandeur of Moses Brown. Each room seemed to imitate a different style, like a palace or something, and there were objects everywhere, many of them flammable. Objects to decorate with, objects to use. Objects any of those telekinetics could send through the air in complex loop-the-loops, but here, they would expect us to merely set ablaze. And that accounts for the Spartan, yes, I’ll say it, prisonlike look of the PMA. Those telekinesis kids should have a field trip over here.

  Why couldn’t I be a telekinetic? Or even just normal? Apparently, only 10 percent of the population has one of the three Talents at any given time, so I’ve ended up in a group of something like 3.33 percent. Pretty darn special. Why is this my lot in life? Why does my family deserve me to be this way?

  October 17

  I have to write this quickly so I don’t forget anything and because I’m so tired I might pass out at any moment, and I can’t do that because we’ve got our science midterm next week. How will I ever get this all down?

  Last night, we had another fire drill. Or so I thought. It was earlier than the alarms usually go off, about ten thirty. Jill and I had just gotten under the covers when the blaring started. We’re practiced at this now, so we had our flip-flops, sweatpants, and sweatshirts (it’s definitely fall now) ready to grab by the door. I checked Jill’s pocket for my safety sack and she checked for hers and we were out the door.

  Since I got a buddy, fire drills have been kind of fun. I don’t have to fake-smile anymore. I just go with Jill and find our little group and stand around in good company, listening to Raúl’s latest stupid comments. This time, we went down to the designated area on the docks and quickly found Brian and his buddy in the crowd, but there was no hanging around.

  “Hi,” I said casually, but both Brian and Raúl were panting, and Brian had this intense look on his face.

  “There’s an actual fire,” he said. “It’s going to be a while before we can go back inside. Jill, can you cover for Kelly?”

  She grinned like an accomplice. “I got this. And so does Raúl.” I watched her punch Raúl on the shoulder, but still had no clue what was going on until Brian grabbed my wrist and started moving away from the group. My heart was leaping out of my chest—Brian was kidnapping me. The boy I liked was taking me away in the dead of night. Didn’t he like Jill? What was he planning? What did any of this mean?

  Pretty soon, we were holding hands and running, and finally the questions cleared out of my head because we were headed in the direction of Waterplace Park and, was that—? Yes, through the buildings, I could see masses of people gathered along the water’s edge, and flickering, shimmering air, and tendrils of smoke. We were going to WaterFire! In sweats and flip-flops over pajamas, but still. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.

  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 we
re 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.