by Lisa Fiedler
I un-ball the cigarette package and remove it from its outer wrapper just as the hi-fi’s needle reaches the end of the record and the song fades out. The firecracker noise of the cellophane has Valerie glancing over her shoulder.
I smile sheepishly, and she turns away again, humming.
Pulling apart the corners, I smooth out the cigarette package and write on the blank side: Find someone to show you the ropes. Learn from those who know. I place these notes inside the jewelry box as well, then close the lid with a muffled thunk.
I’ve just slid the box under the cot when Sharon pokes her head in the door.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Great,” I tell her. “So how’s tomorrow, right after lunch?”
“For what?”
My reply is a smile and an expectant lift of my brows. When she finally gets what I’m asking for, she lets out a whistle and claps her hands. “You got it, sister,” she says on a chuckle. “Tomorrow, you learn to walk the sky!”
SEVEN
BEAUTY ON THE OUTSIDE, danger on the inside.
“Well that’s grim,” Callie muttered, standing in front of the bulletin board on Monday morning, pondering the array of handwritten notes that represented either her grandmother’s wealth of wisdom or a long-hidden desire to become a writer of fortune cookies.
When Quinn came into the room, Callie didn’t even bother to turn around.
“Brad’ll be here in ten minutes to drive you to school.”
“Can’t wait. We can bond all the way there.”
Quinn stiffened but didn’t take the bait. Instead, she dropped an apple into the nondescript blue backpack Callie had purchased yesterday under duress, during a ritual Brad identified as Back-to-School Shopping. But she was hardly going “back” to anything. School was just another step further away from things that used to be, and everything about it would be unfamiliar and miserable.
And with any luck, temporary, she reminded herself.
Next, Quinn held out a couple of dollar bills. “Lunch money.”
Callie took the cash without looking, her eyes still leaping from scrap to scrap. She was hoping to find something that might work as an incantation to ward off even the most evil of high school demons—whatever they might turn out to be.
Observation is the beginning of understanding.
No thanks. Callie had already observed Quinn flirting incessantly with Brad Marston and had come to the somewhat disturbing understanding that her gracefully aging mother could not be accused of suffering from a diminishing estrogen supply.
When in doubt, juggle.
Much better. It was pithy, circus-specific, and unlike some of the other—what should she call them? Insights? Warnings? Mantras?—from the jewelry box, this was one that she’d heard her grandmother invoke a thousand times. So she removed the thumbtack and slid the note—which was written on the back of an index card featuring, of all things, a recipe for cherry pie—into one of her new backpack’s numerous outside pockets.
“Need anything else?” Quinn asked.
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well, what about . . . this?” Smiling, she produced a brand-new iPhone from behind her back.
Callie almost smiled. “When’d you get that?”
“I didn’t. Brad did. When I mentioned I was planning to get you one, he just went out and took care of it. Pretty sweet, huh?”
Callie took the phone, remembering how Beatrice, Bianca, and . . . the other one . . . had basically been addicted to their touchscreens. Now she could see why. This one was certainly sleek, and knowing Brad it was probably the best model money could buy. She wondered how long it would take her to become proficient. Odd that she could do a backflip on a wire roughly the circumference of a nickel, but she didn’t know the first damn thing about how to download an app.
Quinn gave her a quick tutorial, which included adding both herself and Brad to Callie’s contacts.
“Maybe Brad can give you some more pointers on the ride to school.”
There was that helium voice again. Dropping the phone into her backpack, Callie gave her mother a cool look. “So what’s his deal, Mom? I mean, I thought you came here for a job.”
Quinn’s left eyebrow rose, the universal mom sign for I don’t think I like your tone, young lady. “I did come here for a job. Or didn’t you notice all those tigers prowling around the backyard?”
“So then what’s with the dinners, and the grocery shopping, and the cell phones? I mean, he knows he’s not my father, right? Because I have a father.” Callie made an exaggerated rolling gesture with her hand, pretending to jog Quinn’s memory. “You remember him, don’t you? Guy about your age, speaks with an Italian accent, makes his living swinging from a trapeze.”
“Oh yeah,” Quinn snapped, perfectly matching Callie’s sarcasm. “And by the way, be sure to let everyone in school know about that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means . . .” Quinn closed her eyes and let out a long rush of breath in an attempt to compose herself. “Just be aware that some of your new classmates might have preconceived notions when it comes to . . . circus people.”
Circus people? The only thing that could have made that phrase more insulting was if Quinn had surrounded it with air quotes.
“So you’re saying everyone’s going to think I’m a freak because I walk the tightrope and my father is an aerialist and my mother knows what it means when some dumb monkey smiles at her?”
“Maybe,” Quinn replied honestly.
“Great.” Callie folded her arms and cocked her hip. “You force me to come here, you insist I make friends, and now you’re like, ‘Just don’t forget you’re a freak.’ Helpful.”
“I’m not saying you’re a freak. I’m just saying . . .” Quinn paused and took a breath. “Look, I know you’re proud of where we come from, and you should be. You, my darling girl, are a star. I just . . . want you to be prepared. I want you to understand that not everyone will get it. So maybe just don’t . . . I don’t know . . . lead with the circus thing.”
“So what should I lead with?” Callie shot back. “That I live on the estate where all the roaring is coming from and pizza delivery guys fear to tread?”
The Range Rover’s horn sounded in the driveway. Callie scooped up her backpack and bolted down the stairs.
* * *
• • •
Per Jenna’s directive, Callie arrived at Lake St. Julian High School a full forty-five minutes before the first bell. She still had no intention of taking Jenna up on her offer to show her around, but she’d spent the better part of the car ride trying to figure out how to connect to the Internet on her new phone and had come up empty. So she’d satisfy Gram’s “learn from those who know” adage by letting Jenna help her with that.
After a few wrong turns she found the library, stepped into the silence, and positioned herself near the circulation desk to wait. At least she had the place to herself.
Five minutes later, no Jenna.
But lots of Ponce de León.
The explorer’s name seemed to be plastered all over the building—on posters, flyers, even a banner strung across the main corridor announcing something called the Ponce de León Fountain of Youth festival.
Eight minutes. No Jenna.
Callie sighed and snatched a flyer off the circulation desk:
COME DRINK FROM THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
AT LSJHS’S ANNUAL
FESTIVAL DE PONCE DE LEÓN
FRIDAY, APRIL 8–11:00 A.M.
THE ST. JULIAN INN
ALUMNI, DON’T FORGET:
COME DRESSED IN THE MOST POPULAR FASHIONS
OF YOUR HIGH SCHOOL YEARS!
Next to the flyers was a cli
pboard pinning down a sign-up sheet for something called the Surfing Conquistador Competition.
And they’re going to think I’m the freak?
Twelve minutes. No Jenna. Callie was beginning to doubt the girl would show up.
At the far end of the long desk, Callie spotted a bin marked LOST AND FOUND. Riffling through the contents she found phone chargers, a dog-eared paperback copy of The Catcher in the Rye, an empty Vera Bradley makeup case, a lacrosse ball, several plastic travel mugs from Starbucks, a zip-up hoodie with LSJHS VARSITY SWIMMING AND DIVING emblazoned across the back, and a small plastic container of something called Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax.
Moving to the center of the still empty library, she positioned a few of the items in her hands and began to juggle.
The items took flight, chasing each other, rising and falling, leaping from one of Callie’s hands to the other, as if playing a game of aerial tag in which all of the objects were “it,” but never came close enough to each other to tag or be tagged.
“’Scuse me . . . I think that’s my sex wax.”
The voice startled Callie, breaking both her concentration and her rhythm. The lacrosse ball hit the floor hard, followed by the plastic mug.
Luckily, or perhaps not, she managed to catch the third item.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, because, really, what else do you say to a boy who’s just accused you of juggling his sex wax?
“It’s okay.” She noticed that his nose was sunburned—not too much, just enough.
“So, if you’re done . . .”
“Done?” His hair was the kind of perfect mess usually reserved for magazine covers. For some reason, she found this very distracting.
He held out his hand.
“Oh, right.” Callie handed him the wax. It wasn’t like she’d never seen a cute boy before. Cute boys came to the circus all the time, but then, she was always either looking down at them from a height of approximately sixty feet, or waving to them from a float in the Spec, or signing autographs for their little sisters. One-on-one conversations like this were more of a rarity.
“Thanks.” He smiled. “I . . . don’t know you, do I?”
Callie shook her head.
“Didn’t think so. I’m Kip.”
“Calliope,” she said, instantly regretting it. “Callie.”
“Calliope? After the Greek muse of poetry?”
Callie’s cheeks burned. “After the steam organ actually.”
“Oh, okay, well, still very cool. And hey, I totally feel ya.”
“I’m sorry . . . you . . . what?”
“I get where you’re coming from. About the name. Kip’s short for Kipling, as in Rudyard, because my loving-but-slightly-pretentious parents happened to meet in a college literature class, and decided to commemorate it in a way that I will be paying for as long as I live. I figure I got off easy, though. I could be standing here introducing myself to you as Mowgli. Or Shere Khan.”
“We had a Bengal named Shere Khan once.” Shut up, Callie.
“Did you just say you had a Bengal? Like, a Bengal tiger?”
“Well, I didn’t. The circus did.”
“You had a circus?”
Jesus, what is wrong with me? “Yeah, kind of.”
“Well, I guess that explains the juggling.” Kip grinned. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Calliope.”
“Nice to meet you, Kipling.”
A name is a kind of enchantment.
Kip was about to put the sex wax in his backpack but stopped. “Hey, think you could teach me?”
“To juggle?”
“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to learn how.” He held out the plastic container and grinned.
Panicked, Callie glanced around the library. “Um . . .” Seventeen minutes, and Jenna still MIA. “I should probably get to homeroom.”
“C’mon. I mean, it’s not every day you come across a girl juggling coffee mugs and sports equipment in your school library. I feel like this is the kind of opportunity a guy shouldn’t let slide.”
Seeing no way out, Callie commenced with the instructing, talking him through the basics and giving him the standard slow-motion demo. Then she handed over the mug, directing him to practice tossing it from hand to hand a few times. Next came the wax, which she placed in his other hand and told him to toss upward, but under the mug before it came down. Lastly, the lacrosse ball entered the mix, and she proceeded to watch him go down in flames, dropping all three.
“It’s easy once you find your rhythm,” she assured him, picking up the objects and setting them in motion again herself. “There’s an apple in my book bag. Would you toss it to me?”
“Four? You’re kidding.” But he was already rummaging past her new pens in search of the fruit.
“Okay, so just sort of lob it when I say . . . now.”
Kip lobbed; Callie caught. Four items, rising and falling like popcorn—slightly more difficult than three, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She often incorporated juggling into her wire routine.
When Callie heard the library door swish open, she glanced toward the entrance, expecting to see Jenna.
Not Jenna. So not Jenna.
She let the four objects drop out of the atmosphere, catching each one expertly—plunk, plop, slumpfff, plip.
“There you are, Kip Devereaux,” purred the redhead who was now strolling into the library. “Who’s your friend?”
“Kristi Baylor, this is Callie. She’s new.”
“Yes, she is.” Kristi launched a smile at Callie. “So . . . you juggle? That’s so . . . unusual.”
Not where I come from, Callie thought, but caught herself before blurting it out.
“She was trying to teach me,” Kip explained. “Turns out I’m not very good with my hands.”
“Well, I happen to know that isn’t true.” Kristi flexed her hazel eyes at him, picked up the clipboard from the circulation desk, and handed it to Kip. A stubby pencil dangled from a ratty piece of string. “Also, the Surfing Conquistador contest is Friday and the best surfer in school still hasn’t signed up. Unacceptable.”
“Yeah, that’s actually why I came in here.”
“So not for a juggling lesson, then?” Kristi threw another bright smile in Callie’s vicinity.
“Nope, that was just kind of a bonus.”
“I bet it was,” Kristi sang as Kip added his name to the list of Conquistador hopefuls. “So, Callie, where you from?”
“All over actually.”
“Ooh, how mysterious.” Kristi’s smile broadened expectantly.
Gripping the lacrosse ball, Callie decided she might as well just get it over with. With any luck it would put an end to this unbelievably awkward conversation, and would also carry the added bonus of defying her mother’s advice. “I was in the circus.”
Kristi let out a snort of laughter that somehow managed to sound lovely, then abruptly pressed her perfectly polished fingertips to her perfectly glossed lips, as if that were the only way to keep her hilarity from escaping. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, I swear. I’ve just never met anyone from the circus before.”
Callie had the distinct feeling the subtext of that statement was nor have I ever wanted to.
“So what was that like, being in the circus?”
“I’m gonna guess amazing,” said Kip, sliding the pencil stub back into the clip.
“Well, yeah.” Kristi bobbed her head enthusiastically. “You must have some great stories. So what did you do in the circus? You weren’t, like, one of those really pretty clowns, were you?” She laughed again. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. And obviously you were something way cooler than a clown. Clowns are so creepy. Even the pretty ones. I just thought, with the juggling and all . . .” Her greenish eyes shot quickly to Kip before recoiling back to Callie like
a Ringmaster’s whip. “Please tell me you weren’t a clown, or I’m going to feel like a complete bitch.”
“I wasn’t a clown,” Callie assured her.
“Oh, thank God. That would have been embarrassing.”
For you, or for me?
Thirty-one minutes. No Jenna.
“Maybe you could sign up to juggle at the Ponce de León Festival,” Kristi suggested. “I mean, unless you’re worried about people finding out you were in the circus.”
“Why would she be worried about that?” asked Kip, a bit archly.
Kristi dodged the question. “Jugglers were a thing in the Renaissance, weren’t they? They called them fools, right? Anyway, Callie, the PDLF is a celebration of Ponce de León’s discovery of Florida, which is why there’s a Renaissance theme. It’s also our spin on homecoming.”
“It’s a pretty big deal,” Kip confirmed. “It’s held on Ponce de León’s birthday, so when it falls on a weekday, like this year, we get the day off from school. And since basically everybody in Lake St. Julian is an alum, the whole town shows up.”
“And this year, I’m Isabella!”
“I thought you were Kristi.”
“Queen Isabella,” Kristi clarified. “It’s like homecoming queen. Actually, it’s kind of better than homecoming queen, because I get to wear this awesome Renaissance gown. It’s an authentic reproduction.” Turning to Kip, she slid the clipboard out of his grasp. “Now let’s talk about how you’re going to blow everyone else away at the Conquistador Competition on Friday, and how you should definitely wear those Billabongs I got you for Valentine’s Day.”
Kip smiled evasively. “Maybe.”
After tossing Kip a final pouty look, Kristi left.
“So . . .” Kip slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “That was Kristi.”
“Yeah.”
“She’s . . . a lot.”
No argument there, thought Callie, walking back to the lost-and-found box to return the items she’d borrowed.
