Burning by Elana K. Arnold Page B

These correspond to the spades, and they are associated with the element of air—those things that are more mental, more abstract than the physical world of the Pentacles, but no less important. Hopes, thoughts, fantasies … cunningness as well. The ability to plan and betray.”
    When I said the word “betray,” it seemed that Ben flinched.
    “Then there are the Cups. In a regular deck of cards these would be the hearts. And like hearts, the Cups represent emotions … feelings … romance. Relationships. The element connected to the Cups is water.”
    “How come?” asked Pete.
    “You are in love, are you not?”
    He nodded. Hog Boy snickered.
    “Then you should know that love, like water, changes its form according to the vessel into which it is poured. Water,” I said, “like love, flows into whatever holds it.”
    Pete seemed to think about this, and he winced a little. I suspected that his love—his Melissa—might be less than overflowing with love when she learned what had become of her twenty-two dollars.
    “And finally there are Wands, representing spirit. These correspond to clubs in a deck of playing cards. These we can think of as fire.” Here I faltered, thinking of the fire that had been lit in me by one look at this stranger, this fool Ben. I placed this thought to the side and pressed on. “The Wands, like fire, represent creative imagination. Like fire,the Wands act as a catalyst—they can transform others, as fire can turn a tree to ash without itself being changed.”
    I looked at the cards spread before me. “Ben,” I said, “you have not drawn any Wands.”
    “Is that bad?”
    “It is neither bad nor good. It simply is. Are you ready to begin?”
    “Wait—” he said. His eyes were difficult for me to read. There was so much in their depths … nervousness, perhaps, still some irritation with his friends, and attraction, I thought. “What’s your name?”
    “My name? Lala. Lala White.”
    “Lala. That’s pretty.”
    I liked the way my name sounded in his mouth. He said it slowly, like a caress.
    “I’m Ben Stanley.” He stretched his hand to me, across the cards I had dealt. “Pleased to meet you.”
    His grip was solid and warm. I looked down, suddenly bashful and unsure of myself. It was not a feeling I was accustomed to. I did not like it.
    I took my hand back and placed it in my lap.
    The flaps of our tent were not tied shut, and the sudden gust of hot wind that blew in set them to dancing wildly. My hair blew across my face in a tangle of curls, but I ignored it as I rushed to keep the cards in their places on the table. Ben leaned forward too and both our hands reached for the same card—the Lovers—to keep it from blowing away.
    Again I looked into the blue-gray eyes of Ben Stanley, and this time the message in them was easy to interpret.They were like a mirror now into my own secret heart, and I saw twinned in them the desire that grew within me. The wind died down and the tent was silent, and the other boys and my sister waited silently as Ben and I released the card, each of us slowly returning to our seats.

I’m not the kind of guy who believes in things. Ask anyone—they’ll tell you. It irritated the hell out of my mom when I was little, my unwillingness to believe that some fat fuck came down the chimney each December to drop off presents.
    For one thing, our matchbox of a house didn’t have a chimney. For another, if some magical guy was going to bring me presents, he sure as shit wouldn’t have bought the same crap you can pick up at the Walmart in Reno.
    Mom used to say wistfully that there had been a time when I believed, but I don’t remember it. My first memories about all that—Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, the Easter bunny—are all about incredulity, about hammering my parents with questions until they were forced to admit that those magical incarnations were really just them.
    And that was better, right? I mean, that I had actual,