The Fire Artist by Daisy Whitney

something to eat, call my brother, talk to my sister, and crash. I see my teammates many hours every day, but we are hardly teammates at all. We are competitors vying for the same spot—the
next
spot, the next thing, the next rung on the ladder up, up, up. But I’m still the flailing rookie, the kid they called up too soon.
    One afternoon in the locker room as I’m zipping up my worn-down black combat boots—I wear them even when it’s hot out because flip-flops in New York City are an invitation for crushed toes and because boots make me feel safe—one of the earth artists speaks to me. I brace myself, prepared for more thinly veiled barbs or aloofness.
    Gemma is a “chorus” earth artist, like the backup dancersto a pop star, an understudy to Mariska. Gemma, along with a waiflike beanpole of a boy named Cameron, crafts mini fault lines and creates tiny flowers to pair up with the bigger quakes and the oak trees that Mariska draws from the ground, like a magician making things appear, then disappear. Our creations are fleeting.
    “Hey,” she says.
    “Hey.”
    “I hear you’re from Florida.”
    “Yeah. I’m from Florida.” I answer cautiously, not sure where she’s going, uncertain if we’re making conversation or if I’m being set up.
    “Me too.”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    She nods. “This tiny little town in the Panhandle no one has ever heard of.” She tells me the name of the town, and she’s right—I haven’t heard of it. I adjust my denim miniskirt and pull my gray tank over the belt buckle of my skirt.
    “How psyched were you to get out of Florida? It’s the most backward place.”
    “Totally,” I say. I’m not sure how I’d even begin to answer how half of me is happy to be away from home, but the other half is shredded with guilt over leaving my sister, a guilt that’s only been eased somewhat by Xavi’s updates—Jana’s doing fine, he claims.
    “Florida is too hot, too full of old people, and too full of scam artists.” Gemma runs a hand through her black hair. It’s shoulder length, straight, and the color of midnight.
    “My mom always said that. The part about scam artists,” I add. “She ran into them when she was on the party circuit years ago. She’s a water artist. Well, used to be.”
    “You know, I think it’s cool that you skipped Miami. I’ve seen your moves. You’re good. Really good.”
    “Thank you,” I say. She sounds genuine, and it’s a sound I could get used to. “So are you.”
    Gemma waves a hand in the air. She wears several rings, big sparkly ones in various colors—blues, maroons, reds. Costume jewelry that she clearly doesn’t wear when she’s practicing or performing. “I was in Miami for a few months before I came here, but even then I was counting down the days till I could leave,” Gemma says as she places a foot on the bench, then bends over to tighten the laces on her sneakers. She wears deep-pink sparkly sneakers. She’s an explosion of color, the color copy of my black-and-white photo.
    “Cool shoes,” I say. They remind me of Elise.
    “Thanks. Yours too.” She tips her forehead to my boots. My armor, my shield. Then she extends a hand. “I’m Gemma, but my friends all call me Gem.” I already know her name, but I like her friendliness. She waggles her fingers. “Since, well, I like sparkly things. Maybe they should call me Squirrel.”
    I laugh out loud at that.
    “Hey, want to get an iced coffee?” she asks.
    “Sure.” Then I add, “Squirrel,” and now it’s her turn to laugh.
    We’re about to leave when the head coach barks at us. “Team meeting. Now! Back on the field, but don’t suit up. Head of scouting and artist development is here.”
    I glance at Gem, and she shrugs. I walk outside with her to the field into the heat of the late afternoon. Imran stands next to a short, curvy girl who’s probably about our age. The girl wears black slacks and a crisp white blouse.
    “As you all know, granter testing is going