by Dani Rei
Mishkin narrows his eyes and takes a step closer to Blake, whose heart is now racing in his chest. Damn it, Blake. We’re supposed to be begging here. You’re going to get your ass kicked!
Mishkin hunches over as laughter escapes his chest. His grinning lips reveal sharpened canines that make Blake’s heart jump. He shudders at the thought of teeth being sanded.
“You’re ballsy! I like you! But look, even if I want you to join, there’s nothing I can do. It’s not up to me.”
“I don’t understand, why is this so difficult?”
“Hey, kitty cat!” calls a voice from around the corner. “I see you’ve met my new friend.”
Blake’s eyes widen as a familiar old face approaches them with a cane and a cigarette.
“Shit Head!” Blake calls.
“What?” Mishkin yelps.
“So, Blake here wants to join, right?”
“No one can join without Rex’s approval.”
“Rex will approve. He’s talented enough. Besides, a machine can’t function if it’s missing a piece, can it? Letting Blake join could move things along. Hell, you can even tell Rex that this was my suggestion.”
Mishkin puts a pensive hand over his chin as he stares back at Blake. Shit Head takes another puff of his cigarette, and Blake is frozen in his spot.
Mishkin runs his fingers through his black hair, his cheeks puffing as he huffs out his thoughts. “You still haven’t told me what you’re planning, old man. Care to explain?”
A grin slithers onto Shit Head’s wrinkled face as cigarette smoke wafts into the air.
“Fine, useless schemer.” Mishkin holds out a hand. “Who has a pen?”
Blake grabs his backpack from his shoulders and pulls one from the front pocket. Mishkin grabs the pen in one hand and Blake’s wrist in the other, pulling him in so quickly that Blake’s face almost collides with the back of his head. The cat ears block the view of his arm.
Blake’s sleeve is shoved roughly up his arm, and the cold tip of the pen stabs his skin in rapid lines and curves. He clenches his teeth to avoid grunting in pain.
The back door opens again, and the crew members step out, each holding rigs and ropes in their arms. Mishkin turns around and leans his forehead against Blake’s with a grin, putting the pen back in his hand.
“Don’t say another word. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“But—”
Mishkin shoves Blake toward Shit Head, who quickly grabs Blake’s arm, and walks away from the two men before they can notice what’s happening.
“You pesky boy!” Shit Head chuckles at an obnoxious volume, paying no mind to Blake’s stumbling. “You got your autograph, now get out of here!”
“Autograph?” Blake mutters as Shit Head leads him around the building. “Gramps, what is going on?”
“I told you, call me Shit Head. The look on Mishkin’s face was priceless!” He laughs, loosening his grip on Blake now that they’re at the front of the building. “I should pay you for it!”
“Okay but, did he actually...” Blake stops to process the writing on his arm. An autograph? No, an address.
It’s an appointment.
Chapter 2
B
lake stares at the mansion with a slack jaw as he opens the front gate, surprised to find it unlocked.
He imagined The Fools’ Circus must have an office space somewhere, but he never imagined it’d be in his own state. Newport isn’t the shortest bus ride, but it’s nice that he didn’t need a plane ticket.
The gravel path cuts through a luscious green lawn, decorated with evergreen trees and bushes trimmed down to perfect raindrops and cubes. The mansion towers over the property with white paneling, black rooftops, and large windows everywhere, almost as big as a private school.
Is this where the circus owner lives? Or maybe it’s where they come to practice?
He reaches the large, roofed porch, grateful to be out of the sun. A small jester hangs from enormous doors, smiling at him with bells on his colorful hat. Ribbons of gold and purple create a wreath with small white pom poms scattered around it. He’s seen this jester all over the circus merch and has a T-shirt of it from that one time he was able to splurge on a souvenir.
He clears his throat and stands tall—as if the jester were able to smell his fear—and rings the doorbell. He takes a few deep breaths, willing his heartbeat to slow down and his nerves to relax.
He glances down at himself and wonders if his blue polo shirt and black pants are appropriate for a meeting with a circus. Would they call this overdressed or underdressed?
Images of the night before flash through Blake’s mind: the old man, the Cat, and some secret reason for giving him a chance. He grabs at his backpack to make sure it’s still there, trying to ignore the doubts in his mind.
The door opens, and his heart jumps, but he’s relieved to see a familiar face.
“Oh good, you made it!”
“Yeah. Hi, Mishkin,” says Blake.
“Follow me. I’ve already made you an appointment with the Keeper.”
Blake steps in and eases the front door closed, as if it could break with the wrong amount of pressure. He looks around at the cream-colored walls as he and Mishkin make their way down the main hall. A few scattered paintings hang just above reach, and below them are benches and end tables. Beanbag chairs and sofas with worn spots and tears in the fabric line the walls.
Their footsteps echo through the empty halls, and Blake swallows hard, doing his best to focus on Mishkin instead of the haunting silence.
“What do you mean by Keeper?” he asks.
“The Fools’ Keeper handles the paperwork,” says Mishkin. “He’ll get a feel for your personality, and then Rex will make the final decision.”
“So Rex is the boss, then?”
“To put it in Fools’ terms, he’s our King, but you’ve got the right idea. The naming just makes it feel like we’re part of our own little world, and it’s kind of nice after all we’ve been through.”
“We? So you live here with the King?”
“We all do. All forty-seven of us.”
“Forty-seven!” Blake shoots his gaze around the mansion again. “But where is everyone? It’s like a ghost town in here. It’s freakin’ creepy!”
“We just finished touring; We’re exhausted. Breakfast is being delayed too, so no one is leaving their rooms anytime soon. You’re lucky the old man showed up. I could be in bed, cuddling with my love right now, but nooo...”
“Sorry. Who is that old guy, anyway? And what did he mean by ‘getting things moving?’”
The two reach a door with a frosted glass window. Mishkin opens it without knocking and steps aside to usher Blake in. “He’s here.”
A plump man in gray flannel lifts his head from his papers. A brown moustache with a few silver streaks blocks his upper lip, and his brown eyes peer through his glasses at the stranger in front of him.
Beside him stands a tall, slender man with long blond hair falling past his shoulders to his torso, covered by a white button-up tucked into black pants and a purple blazer hanging off his shoulders. He gestures at the chair on the other side of the office desk, rings glistening in the sunlight from the large window behind him. “Sit.”
Blake does as he’s told, his heartbeat speeding up again. Mishkin shuts the office door and stands behind the chair, giving Blake’s shoulder a comforting pat. Blake looks up at him, and Mishkin winks back, which doesn’t help Blake feel any better.
“My name is Victor,” says the plump man. “I’m the Keeper of Fools.”
“And I am Rex,” says the tall blond. “The King of Fools.”
“Tell us,” says Victor, crossing his arms, “what makes you think you belong in our circus?”
“Well—” Blake clears his throat, making every attempt to hide his frazzled nerves. “I’ve been watching you guys since I was a kid, and you all inspired me to juggle. In fact, circus days with my mom are some of the happiest
memories I have. She never pushed me to perform, but she planted the idea in my mind, and it flourished after that. Then she died, and I never found anything that felt as fulfilling as performing does.”
Victor and Rex shoot a glance at each other before Victor shakes his head. “Sorry, kid. You don’t belong here.”
“What?” Blake exclaims, straightening in his seat. “But you haven’t seen what I can do yet!”
“Every child you saw on that stage was homeless when they joined. Homeless. No family. No hope. As children. We helped them because they couldn’t help themselves. You are a grown man. I did my checking up on you, and I know you were adopted by a successful business couple. You also have a full-time job and managed to move out, right? You aren’t homeless. You aren’t helpless. You can stand on your own. Hartman asked me to give you a chance. I gave it to you, now I’m saying no.”
Blake leans forward in his seat. “Is that how this works? You scout out homeless kids for a circus? Is that even legal?”
“Our process is top secret. I’m not explaining anything further, and I’m not letting you join.”
“Hold on,” says Rex. All eyes dart over to him as he rubs a pensive finger along his chin, eyeing Blake with a smirk. “Victor, please elaborate on your thoughts. How would you describe his desire to join our circus?”
“I’d say it’s stupid,” Victor scoffs.
“Would you say it’s...foolish?” Rex grins at Victor, who throws his head to the side, huffing to himself.
“My dear boy,” says Rex, sending a soft smile toward Blake, “do you know why we call ourselves The Fools’ Circus?”
Blake hesitates, shifting his eyes to the ground, before shaking his head.
“All throughout history, we’ve had creators, explorers, remarkable individuals who changed the world. The world called these people fools. They faced their adversities and grew from them. They believed in their visions and led the world’s greatest changes. Shakespeare himself acknowledged the fool as someone who sees the truth and dares to speak it, even to royalty.
“Even now, the Fool card in a tarot deck is the card of opportunity—a chance to fly for those foolish enough to take the leap.”
“Wow.” Blake drops his gaze to the patterned carpet beneath him. When he’d thought of fools before, he’d always pictured clowns and jesters.
If what Victor says about the kids is true, it would add new meaning to the name he’d dreamt about for so long.
“Look,” he says. “I don’t want to sound selfish, or anything. But the kids you adopted are adults, now. Would it really be so weird to hire someone their own age? It’s not like I’m asking to join a fourth-grade art club, here. Hiring me won’t take any opportunities away from the others.”
“Perhaps not” Rex responds. "But you still haven't given us a good reason to hire you. I've seen you juggle, but what else can you offer?"
Blake sinks in his seat. "I guess I don't have much else. Juggling has always been my favorite. But I'm willing to learn other things, too. I can learn to swing on a trapeze or flip on a trampoline. I don't even care if I never get a lead role. I just want to perform alongside my childhood heroes."
“Is that so?" A tiny smirk curls the side of Rex's lips. "Then tell me, is the title of ‘Fool’ one you can wear with pride?”
“Of course.” Blake responds. "I'd be even prouder to wear it now that I know what it really means."
“Then I suppose you deserve one chance,” Rex smiles as he steps out from behind the desk. “Victor, get his paperwork started. I have an appointment to get to. Don’t let your guard down, boy. The fool will always suffer before he rises.”
Rex pats Blake’s head as he leaves the office. Blake doesn’t breathe until he closes the door behind him.
Is that it? I'm accepted just like that?
“Victor,” says Mishkin, “there’s something else. I didn’t mention this part to Rex, but Hartman said letting him join would get things moving. Whatever that means.”
Victor groans and leans his elbow on his desk. He takes off his glasses with one hand and rubs the bridge of his nose with the other. Blake’s mind flashes back to Shit Head, unsure of whether to thank him or curse him.
“That crooked geezer is going to be the death of me,” Victor sighs, picking up his pen and shifting through some files in one of his desk drawers.
“Um, please, sir,” Blake says, leaning forward in his seat. “Who is Hartman, exactly? I met him yesterday, but he didn’t tell me his name.”
“He’s our biggest investor. Rex hates taking orders, but we need Hartman’s money, so we’re stuck under his thumb. He’s the only reason we’re saying yes. In fact, I said no because I thought Rex would follow along and decide the money wasn’t worth it. I guess I was wrong. But make no mistake, you won’t be accepted by the others so easily. I suggest you choose your words and actions very carefully.”
He places a sheet of paper on the desk. “Fill out this form at home and bring it back with your ID and social security card. I’ll expect you back on the second of October, and you’ll be with us for one year. We’ll decide later to renew or terminate. You can tell your parents you’re taking a trip or that you started school, or whatever you want, but you can’t tell them you’re here.”
“What? Why not?”
“We keep our information under wraps for the safety of the cast and crew. It’s a big part of why we don’t allow people to audition. We don’t need word spreading that The Fools’ Circus is taking in a lost pup. The rules will explain everything. Just read them very closely before you sign.”
Blake furrows his brow at Mishkin, then turns back to Victor. “Wait, but two weeks—I can’t just quit my job.”
“Why not?” Victor asks. “Two weeks is the standard notice for most jobs. Just give yourself time to pack up whatever you want to bring with you. We’ll get a room ready with a new bed and empty dresser.”
More objections, questions, and anxieties whirl through Blake’s mind, but Victor puts his glasses back on and returns his attention to the work on his desk. Mishkin taps his shoulder and nods his head toward the door.
He follows the prompt, plucking the application from the desk and staring at it as Mishkin walks him out in silence.
Blake’s dream of joining The Fools’ Circus is about to come true.
So why does his heart feel heavy?
Chapter 3
“Y
ou’re wasting valuable time.”
The familiar voice can send chills even through the phone. He hoped putting her on speaker and keeping it a foot away would be easier on his ears. Nope, they’re still burning with her disdain. “Time that can be spent on better things.”
“Sure, Ma,” Blake groans as he takes another bite of the shepherd’s pie she brought him yesterday. He turns up his nose at the lack of flavor and quietly sprinkles salt and pepper over the top. Not that its blandness is anything new.
He takes another bite as her disapproving rant continues. His eyes wander around the pantry, passively scanning the floral wallpaper stained with oil spots and lifting at the edges. The nutty smell of pests fills the air, and he catches one of them crawling along the wall before its slick, brown body darts into a small crack in the cupboard.
With a silent scowl, he holds out his plate and lets the rest of his food drop into the trash. He forgot to wash the already clean dishes before he ate. Microwaved roach shit is probably the only seasoning he won’t eat. Right along with the rat piss in the stew pots under the counter.
“We didn’t adopt you so that you could quit college and goof off,” his father chimes in, voice as forceful as ever. “What do you hope to achieve by driving around with your friends for an entire year?”
He shrugs to himself. “Experiences, maybe?”
It was the wrong response, and Blake deflates over the counter as they yell, assaulting his ears with the usual arguments. “Experiences don’t pay bills,” and “think ahead,” and blah blah blah
. He’s grateful they can’t see him rolling his eyes and grabbing a small bag of chips to replace his dinner.
Their lectures don’t end soon enough. They finish the call with reminders of how much they love him and want the best for him. He promises to never become a delinquent and that he’ll find a way to make ends meet, minding his words to avoid any mention of the circus. He spoke to them about wanting to join before, but they mocked the performers’ very existence; patronized them as if performing were a low-intelligence career.
Finally, he can hang up, and he lets out a heavy breath, head falling back. The peeling paint on the ceiling reminds him to keep his mouth closed, in case of falling paint chips. He trudges to his room and closes the door behind him.
A fire lights in his chest when his eyes land on his backpack. The application—his ticket to freedom—is right inside, waiting to be filled out.
But first, juggling!
Blake pulls the clubs from his backpack, setting the application on his desk to wait for him.
He tosses the clubs from one hand to another, controlling the patterns and shapes with a simple flick of his wrist. Images of Shit Head—no, Hartman—flood his mind, along with the faces of Victor and Mishkin, as he replays the most confusing interview of his life.
And Rex.
The last club falls past his hands, and Blake sets out his foot to catch it and balance it on his ankle until he kicks it up to his hand. He drops his hands to the side and lets out a heavy breath as he stares at the popcorn texture of his ceiling.
So that’s the ringleader. Rex’s piercing blue eyes have etched themselves into his memory. He dresses like a modern-day king. He speaks like a king. He walks with his head held high and moves with confidence, as if no one can touch him. What did he mean when he said, “the mercy of the stage”?
The fool must always suffer before he rises. The fool must always suffer. Rex’s voice rings in his ears, and a chill runs down his spine. He’d read stories and watched movies about circus performers being rude or self-centered. Maybe there’s some truth to it, but he swallows down the anxiety and continues to toss his clubs around, allowing the swirling patterns to hypnotize his thoughts and calm his heart.
