Blaze

by Coop Kirby

  True as Brick's words might be, that was before. Before I decided to follow Blaze wherever she leads. "Franny wants me to be happy." My voice is small, not weak.

  "Sure she does. She’s Franny and she’s amazing. But I sat in that hospital room, watching every moment of agony you felt when you thought she was a goner."

  "This convo is over, Brick. Back the hell up outta my life, man." Any sliver of doubt - about casting aside the lies, the hate, the misguided attempts at what it means to be a man - melts away as I drop the basketball, drop Brick, drop the guy I used to be. I let too much slide that needed to be called out and squashed for good.

  So many ways to walk away. I choose the most peaceful, because above all that’s what I deserve. Some damn peace. Heading for the green glow of the EXIT sign, I thrust open the gym doors. Sunshine floods across my face. I begin to walk.

  I walk until I cross the railroad tracks. I walk until I reach the Wild Big Top. I walk until I find the courage to tell Blaze I watched her dance in secret. Her brazen performance haunts me. Every spin, every spark of flame was a deliberate dare invited and waved away with equal confidence.

  Why won't she tell me about that part of her life, any part of her life? I will not be distracted by her lips against my skin or the smell of her hair splayed across her shoulders, or the way she calls me #22 like I'm no hero to her.

  Blaze emerges from an animal-pen behind the main tent, looking up when I whistle lightly. For the first time I notice the flecks of gold centered in her gray eyes as she advances on me in silence, taking me by the hand into a tent I instantly recognize as her home.

  Candles flicker on the makeshift vanity. Silk drapes over her cot instead of a headboard. She pulls me on a purple velvet quilt. I don't fold her into my arms, I'm an idiot with too much on my mind to lose my head. "Wait," I murmur.

  Blaze's face clouds. "Seriously #22, what. Always with the waiting.”

  "I saw you. The other night, after the shack, after the bridge..." My admission is a jangle of inadequacy.

  "You saw me. So?"

  "I watched you dance. I don't want you not to know.” Damn. None of this comes out right. "I mean, I'm sorry and I get it if you're afraid of me now."

  Blaze jabs her finger in my face and I gratefully shut up. "Don't tell me how I feel. And don't expect me to explain myself to you, either."

  She rolls away from me, and as much as I want to hold Blaze, a push from any guy is not what this girl needs or wants. I'm just a dumb jock, fixing chicks is not my superpower.

  Minutes, or could be hours, tick by while I'm rooted - ready to listen. Blaze goes about her business, folding clothes and organizing odds and ends, separating her stuff from Poet's, flipping through a gossip magazine. Then, a switch flips in her like she’s cooled off enough to finally level with me. Kneeling in front of her cot, she slides an enormous metal case out from under it. Securing the lid open with two hinged straps, Blaze swivels the contents to face me.

  "Gigi's fire gear." Blaze lifts each item out, detailing the ignition mechanisms and demonstrating how each apparatus fits her body.

  "May I?" I ask permission to open a flat knapsack, the only thing left untouched by Blaze. She nods. Inside is something close to a scuba suit, remarkably free of the scorch marks marring the rest of the equipment.

  "My mother wasn't wearing it the night she died, she never did. Cannon blames her for sticking him with a daughter who's not his, but Gig’s death had nothing to do with wearing this stupid thing. Cannon believes he can protect me if he doesn't give me an act. He thinks I like to play with fire, cuz I'm a rebel or whatever. He's wrong. I didn't just inherit a talent, or a gift. Neither did Gigi. Let me ask you this, Ford. When you watched me -" I avert my eyes, embarrassed of my admittedly creeper status. Her hand guides my face back to look into hers. "Did it seem like I was messing around to you?"

  I replay the calculated but spontaneous choreography I witnessed. How Blaze seemed to invoke risk without a trace of hesitancy, the boldness of her craft.

  She beams when understanding breaks over me. I can't believe I'm saying this, but - "No. You don't play with fire. You control it."

  The Thing About Playing With Fire

  BLAZE

  "Blaze, damn it!" Cannon's bellow, by design, can be heard for three square miles in every direction. He reserves its use for two occasions: emceeing the Wild Big Top, and punishing me.

  "I'm guessing that would be your dad." #22 doesn't look any more ready for an introduction than I am.

  "You gotta get out of here." Cannon’s about ninety seconds away from closing in on my tent.

  "Seems best from where I'm standing," #22 agrees.

  I dart outside, motioning for him to follow me, and we scamper into the camp covert-action style. I hone in on the largest of all the Wild Big Top's box cars in our caravan — and the rankest-smelling: the big cat car. We slide the door open with a flinching screech. I can't resist patting his butt as I shove #22 inside an opening barely wide enough to wedge his bulky frame through. This triggers an immediate thump and groan after he pulls his legs out of sight.

  "You good?" I half-whisper, half-giggle.

  A muffled reply: "Yeah, that was just my head."

  "Lay flat." I point toward a crevice beneath a dung-encrusted cage. Maybe he won't notice the less than sanitary conditions. Or the lion sleeping above him.

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope." I throw my weight against the door, leaving an inch open for airflow. "Try not to breathe, circus headache's no joke."

  Dashing the long way back to my tent I find Cannon’s crew of riggers stationed in rag-tag formation. He did basically raise an army. I meet him, arms folded.

  "My security team reported an intruder. A gilly." He spits out the circus slur for outsider with a sneer.

  “A gilly? No! I’ll change into my hazmat suit."

  An aerial rigger, in desperate need of a soak in hand sanitizer, speaks up, sheepish. "Came in about ten minutes ago, Blaze. A guy, your age. Headed this way. Know him?"

  "Sorry boys. Only me and my teen angst all by ourselves, getting ready for a rocking night of washing my hair." Tossing my turquoise-tipped locks, I reduce my boiling blood to a simmer.

  "B.S., Blaze." Surprise, my father doesn't believe me.

  "Where's the trust, Cannon? Can we not?"

  His eyes narrow, but he's never intimidated me. "The guy's not here, where the hell did you put him?"

  I shrug, throwing up my hands.

  "He's here somewhere, I want him found." Cannon’s troops disperse, kicking up dust in their haste to flee. My father turns on me with quiet fury. "You are not to leave camp until we roll out."

  "Okay, I'll add it to the list of all the things I'm not allowed to do: Go to school, nope. Live in a house, not. Fall in love, no way. Get real, Cannon."

  "Back up. Fall in love?" He's got this look on his face, like I told him I'm terminal.

  "Yeah, love. Heard of it? This thing that's been around forever, everyone's tried but you?" The sadness clouding his eyes tells me instantly I pegged him all wrong. "You loved Gigi." This lands like the punchline of a riddle I never cracked til now. "She's why you... She's why we..."

  "I took you after she died because I loved your mother. Even if you're not my daughter you could have been. Blaze, you should've been," Cannon growls. A single tear escapes down his ruddy cheek, he doesn't shake it off.

  "I am, Cannon." I throw my arms around him. He resists the hug, but lets me hold him for a full minute before pecking my cheek. Our first genuine father/daughter moment, dismissed in under ten seconds flat.

  The security team returns. "No sign of him."

  "Then we keep looking. I don't want him within a mile of here. Or Blaze. Let's move." Cannon sprints away, drawing a taser belted at his hip. I note with no small amount of satisfaction the big cat car is in the exact opposite direction from where's headed.

  #22's just gonna have to hang tight a bit longer.

&nb
sp; I have the big top to myself, all spare crew have been recruited for the cause of the gilly manhunt. Entering the ring isn't quite like going to church, though not far off. The gigantic lighting grid is dark, the aerial platforms disguised by angled shadows swooping down from the striped pinnacle of the structure.

  No matter, I work best without the pressure of a spotlight or spectators. Without Poet to spot my burn, I forgo my usual prep protocol, immediately stripping down to my sports bra and ear buds. I turn up my playlist, Halsey hitting my soul in exactly the right spot.

  I need to dance it out. I need to feel my mom. I need to find my flow.

  The flash point of white gas is hot and quick, bright and beautiful. Gloveless, I grasp the starter torch, igniting the steel ring of fire. I rotate the hoop evenly so all burners are completely lit. Hoisting the apparatus above my head, I pause before lowering it down my body and around my waist.

  Burning is an act of pure balance and concentration, manifested as a swaying beat to my own pulse. My only formal instruction in fire comes from Gigi, like memories she's sharing with me as they were shared with her. This is what Cannon always gets wrong: I am not obsessed with my mother's legacy, I am possessed by it. Nothing else exists outside the spectacular glow of the mini suns. It's just me and Gigi.

  Any flow artist will tell you fire cannot be tamed. The hypnotic allure of a fire act depends on a high consequence flirtation between performer and audience. I sense the sparks jump to my body before I see the flames crawl up my limbs, before I feel my sports bra melting and evaporating in uneven polka dots on my blistering skin. The heat is about what I expect, as is the pain.

  I'm finally in on a family inside joke, way too late. I get it now. This is how it happened, the night my mother died. Sixteen years ago, Gigi didn't lose control of the flame which took her life and orphaned me in the last American circus. Gigi never had control to begin with. Neither do I.

  Any flow artist will tell you - pure alchemy is unattainable. There is no magic there.

  I'm an idiot, I think, before I black out.

  Oops

  FORD

  Choking and gasping, my eyes fly open. I am propelled by an agonizing need to breathe. Still pinned beneath the metal of the lion's cage, my hands clutch the bars. I ball my fist to bang a steady SOS on the side of the train car, both eyes on the big cat.

  A spontaneous rush of fresh air floods my lungs. An untold number of hands yank me out of the train car. The whack I hear is my head hitting packed dirt.

  I wheeze in and out. Through the fading fog of ammonia, I'm being mocked by a crew of bros who are luckily not mine.

  "Damn, dude."

  "It's all good, she's in love with him - right, Cannon?"

  Looming over me are sinister eyes and a proper mustache. This would be Blaze’s father, just guessing. "Get up!"

  "Yes, sir." I tell my body to pop up, but my head swims, and I sink to my knees.

  "We’re gonna hit up happy hour, boss - you want us to wait while you kick this poor kid's ass?" Cannon’s crew is way past due their current mission.

  "I'm eighteen." I have no idea why I say this, except I am strangely small on Blaze's turf, under the Wild Big Top. These guys don't give a damn what team I'm the celebrated captain of, let alone how old I am.

  "You heard him, he's a big boy. Nothing to worry about, here." Cannon releases his crew and I find my footing long enough to extend my right hand. Staring down his forties, the ringmaster still seems more than spry.

  I shift my weight when Cannon refuses to shake. "I'm Ford and I'm in love with Blaze."

  "Honesty doesn't impress me, kid. There are no prizes for telling the truth simply because most men don't." This tidbit of wisdom is wrapped in patent disapproval and a potential beatdown.

  Time to make my case, best I can. "Sir, I get that I am trespassing and I apologize. Won't happen again. With all due respect, is the issue that I'm in love with your daughter, or that someone is in love with her, period? Must be the latter since we only met five minutes ago."

  Cannon appraises me with something close to respect or at least a signal that an ass-kicking is off the table.

  "Kid, let me tell you how men think of women from my world." His arms stretch to encompass more than the physical presence of the Wild Big Top. "The women here are anything but freaks. They are artists, performers, and beautiful in ways most people never appreciate."

  A whistle interrupts the tension, and I'm so very grateful to see Poet. "Hey, Cannon. you met Blaze's beau. And he's not dead. So that's awesome." Her heart-shaped face is all smiles and for the tiniest second I think maybe this is all gonna work out.

  Then we hear the screams.

  An alarming flicker appears in silhouette as we race to the main tent. The glow ebbs briefly before flowing into a perilous eruption of light. Only Poet gives voice to the realization the three of us share. "Blaze!"

  Dashing inside the entrance, I am unprepared to find Blaze with limbs and chest alight in flame, seconds away from her entire body catching fire. Oblivious to our arrival, she drops to the ground and rolls in the sand which covers the entirety of the ring.

  Cannon scales a ladder connected to the lighting grid and walks the expanse of rigging, knocking down troughs of water that do little to douse the flames. He swears as Poet rushes past me, toward Blaze. "Breathe, sweet girl. You got this."

  Leveraging the momentum of my weight, I dive on top of Blaze and hold her against me with everything I have, everything I know. I ignore the burning that travels from her body to mine. "I'm here, I'm here," I promise, feeling her body go limp as a powerful stream of retardant pelts us. "Stay with me," I whisper, pledging to worship her heart and head, to celebrate her battles and victories, and to cradle her next to me until we share our dying breath.

  The din of the medic's tent crashes through my consciousness. My skin is bubbly and raw. A painful moan escapes my throat, charred from smoke. I scan the surroundings for Blaze, my heart shattering when I finally see her on a nearby stretcher, obscured by the flurry of medical attention she receives from Poet.

  Her eyes are shut, which Poet assures me is courtesy of a shot for pain and when I ask, "How bad -" the blonde presses her lips together and just shakes her head in deference to Cannon, who is pacing and barking orders like a four-star general.

  "Give her room, okay?" Poet scolds him.

  Cannon turns on the medic. "None of this is okay!"

  I struggle to sit up, desperate to be near Blaze. Her father's fingers close around my collar, pulling me inches from his face.

  "You created a catastrophe in my daughter's life where there was none before. You will be held accountable."

  "Back off, boss," Poet pulls on Cannon's arm until he releases me, dazed. The events of the last fifteen minutes hit him all at once.

  I hobble over to Blaze, and kiss her forehead, the only visible part of her body spared the agony of what Poet announces are second-degree burns. "How can I help, baby?" I bury my face in the jasmine scent of her hair. "I want to help."

  "You can help by getting the hell out of this tent, out of my camp, and out of our lives," thunders Cannon.

  "I won't leave her, sir." I set my jaw, daring Cannon to bring it.

  "I think you will. I think you will march yourself right back into Louisiana and never return here. If you do, I'll kill you where you stand."

  I don't care about his approval and at this moment I've got nothing to lose. "Doesn't have to be this way."

  Poet pushes me out of the medic tent, too weak to protest. I choke out, "She needs me, I belong here."

  "She needs you alive." Her face tells me Cannon means it: whether I stay here now, or I come back later, he wants me dead.

  Gigi The Great

  BLAZE

  Heavy armsthoughtsheartno controlspinning burning

  Head dark why crashing sobbing

  Backboard immobilekind eyes Poet

  No words one number twice

 
; "You're okay, sweet girl.” The sparkling smile of my BFF gives me life, when I come to after what feels like a nasty nightmare I can’t quit. In the years since she arrived at the Wild Big Top in the nick of time to save me from battling Cannon solo, Poet's never seen me cry. Right now I can't help it. Torment rips through me, eclipsing whatever's left of my pride. She hushes me, pointing to the passed-out ringmaster sagging against the entrance to our tent. A guard dog asleep on his watch.

  Wearing her first responder’s stethoscope, Poet’s in medic mode. She takes my pulse and wordlessly logs the result in a binder. She seems satisfied, slipping back from all-business to bestie, curling next to me on the cot with her head tucked next to mine on the pillow.

  “Ford?” I whisper, a sob raveling directly from my gut to my lips.

  “Your guy made it, no worries."

  I picture #22 in agony, in some other sterile place that is too far away from me. "Cannon found Ford?" This isn't a question really, more me confirming just how bad all of the bad is.

  "Yes. It went the opposite of smoothly. Does it hurt?" Poet drapes a cool cloth over my head.

  Shaking my head, I swallow hard to banish my tears. “You must have loaded me up with a shot of the good stuff. Help me up, girl."

  Poet does as I ask, though my sharp yelp when I push myself upright startles Cannon.

  "You're awake," he growls.

  I keep the weakness out of my voice. "Alive, too."

  "Ford is gone. He's gonna stay gone.” His warning feels emptier than usual. What just happened is bigger than he realizes, maybe bigger than even I understand.

  "I have no energy for this." Truth: I stopped having energy for Cannon a long time ago. Okay, so he actually signed-up for daddy duty after all. That doesn't mean he sees me. He never has, what makes me think he ever will?