The Fire Artist by Daisy Whitney

beautiful fire artist. He had woven flamesas if he were conducting an orchestra. He’d been on the Wonder team since he was thirteen, the earliest a fire artist had ever performed in the southern farm circuit. I went to all his shows, sat in the front row, and followed him around like the proverbial puppy dog.
    But Xavier liked fire too much. He’d disappear after shows sometimes, and when he returned home a few hours later, he’d rap on my door and tell me what he’d done, like a confession, but guilt-free. “I lit a fireball in a tree. Watched it flame up for a few minutes.”
    “Then what?”
    “Put it out, of course.”
    Next it was garbage cans, then a few Dumpsters. Each time, he’d put out his own flames. He didn’t want to get caught. But maybe he did. I don’t know. All I know is he became careless. Or angry. Or proud. Because he started setting cars on fire. Cars he’d find in empty lots late at night. Cars parked along the beach after midnight. He’d set them aflame, watch them burn, and then douse his own fire, leaving behind the charred remains.
    I’m not entirely sure what drove him to my dad’s junkyard one night. Maybe he had a beef with dear old Dad too.
    When he returned, he woke me up, told me the story of how he watched the cars burn, how he presided over them, inhaling the smell of the burning tires, noxious and thick, and the scent of the seat belts smoking. How he watched as a dented, faded red door slowly peeled away from a Mustang.
    Dad’s favorite model.
    Then he extinguished the flames.
    My dad was the first to see the destruction, and he crafteda cover-up for his boss and for the fire department. He claimed a lit cigarette had wreaked the havoc, even though he didn’t smoke. But he needed to protect his son, his first hope for fame, for money, for glory. Besides, it was a junkyard, a wayward land for broken-down parts, smashed-up pieces, and really, a cigarette being flicked there could have done that kind of damage. It was plausible enough.
    When our dad yelled at Xavier for what he’d done, my brother just said, “What do you expect? You gave me your fire. You made me this way!”
    Xavier laid waste to many more cars in our town. Late at night, like some sort of avenging ghost rider, he’d pace down the streets, flick his wrist, and watch Fords and Buicks and Cadillacs ignite.
    He was arrested quickly for the car bombings.
    Xavier Kilandros wasn’t just a fire artist. It was as if the fire in him had twisted too far, forked in on itself, and made him destructive.
    Then again, that may be what fire powers do to us. That may be another part no one understands. That behind our hardened skin, we are driven mad by our so-called gifts.
    Xavier has been out of prison for one month now. Sometimes, I wonder if my dad would have set my hands aflame if Xavi hadn’t been locked up. If Xavi had continued performing and rising to the top of the Leagues. If my dad had another fire artist, a true and pure one, to focus his energy on. But then, maybe my dad was programmed—in his own sick way by his father—to hurt his kids.
    I don’t blame my brother for anything. I’m just happy that he’s home.
    He takes a sharp right and guides us onto a long stretch of empty road, only a few houses on each side. The homes thin out more, and we pass an orange grove, then a field. Soon he turns on a hard-packed dirt road, and I grip my handlebars tighter because the wheels of this bike weren’t made for roads like this. I’m looking down, and I barely notice where we are.
    The abandoned mental asylum in nearby Winter Springs.
    “Why are you taking me here?”
    “I’ll show you why.”
    We pedal up the road that leads to what was once a serene and tranquil setting for those who’d lost their minds. A sprawling mansion that a Florida couple donated to the state for a mental institution, in memory of their daughter who’d suffered from schizophrenia—the Elizabeth Jane Hansen Center for Respite