by Lisa Fiedler
“He understood me!”
“Not exactly, but he knows you mean well. Keep talking. He likes the sound of your voice.”
But it’s not my voice I’m using, I realize; it’s my mother’s. I’ve called it up from deep within me, from that nameless place where, unknowingly, I’d tucked away every reassuring word she ever said, every hopeful lullaby she ever sang—the only things she had to offer to make me feel safe in my unsafe world.
“Keep talking,” James urges again.
So I lean closer to the bars and say, “Come on, Boo-boo. It’s almost showtime. Big star like you can’t perform on an empty stomach, can he? There you go, baby, that’s a good boy. That’s a good king of the jungle.”
As the lion slinks closer, I notice with a jolt that his legs are shaking. There’s also a slight heaving in his chest.
Baraboo reaches the bowl, glances at James, and emits a sound like tremendous gears grinding, a scrape from his larynx that isn’t quite a roar. It’s not an unhappy sound but there is some pain in it, I know.
Vince knows too, and Gideon.
And James knows. He doesn’t accept it, but he knows.
And Baraboo knows, even as he lowers his majestic head over his bowl and partakes of his supper. The lion knows.
And it all but breaks my heart.
“Eat up, buddy,” James murmurs. I’m not sure when he took my hand in his. Or maybe it was the other way around.
Snap.
I let my fingers slip from his and turn to see Valerie lowering the Instamatic from her face. “That’ll be a good one!” she says, beaming. “Candids are the grooviest.”
It’s almost time for the Spec to begin, so James and I leave Boo-boo to finish his supper and make our way back toward the train.
We pass children squealing with glee, and their parents don’t even try to shush them. The sense of anticipation, of joy, hangs in the air like the smell of roasting peanuts. What’s in store for us tonight?
What’s going to happen next?
To be honest, I’m wondering the same thing myself.
“Do you ever get scared?” I venture softly.
“I wouldn’t be much of a lion tamer if I said yes, would I?” James replies, with an evasive grin.
“But they’re wild animals,” I say, remembering the look in Baraboo’s eyes, the look of peace and power, mingled. “What about their instincts? What about what’s in their nature?”
“That’s what makes it so exciting. A thing that’s wild can be taught, but never tamed.” He says this with so much conviction that his voice cracks over the words. “But a thing that’s tame, on the other hand, can definitely become wild.”
* * *
• • •
Strains of the most circus-y of all circus music—the plucky “Entrance of the Gladiators”—follow me as I head back to my room. I tear off a piece of the empty popcorn bag and use my laundry marker to record James’s words there among the butter smears:
A thing that’s wild can be taught, but never tamed. A thing that’s tame can become wild.
I take a moment to consider the sentiment, then sweep away the stray kernels that are stuck to it and place it in the jewelry box, wondering if perhaps it is only half-true.
That night, I am invited to assist in Clown Alley during the show. It’s a rare honor, as the area is generally off-limits to non-clowns, but this morning after my call to Emily and before my tightrope lesson with Sharon, I offered to look after a toddler named Arthur so his parents, Sir Bailiwick and Hopscotch—two of VanDrexel’s most beloved clowns—could rehearse a new gag involving a bowling pin, a cherry pie, and a rubber chicken.
“Always remember, Arthur,” Bailiwick had called to his son. “When in doubt, juggle! It keeps your mind from wandering and never fails to entertain the rubes!”
My reward for babysitting is being allowed to spend the night backstage among the clowns, filling their squirting lapel flowers, locating their giant bowties, and polishing their oversize shoes.
During a lull in the dressing room commotion, Bailiwick teaches me to apply some basic clown makeup. “Sad or happy?” he asks, referring to whether he should paint me with a smile or a frown.
The answer is happy. So, so happy.
Then Hopscotch loans me a pair of polka dot bloomers and some tennis shoes with pom-poms on the toes. Just before the grand finale, I run back to my room and pin my mother’s brooch to the suspenders holding up my dotted pants. When Hopscotch and Bailiwick sneak me into the tent with the others, I wave and blow kisses to the crowd and even take a bow. The applause rains down around us and sounds like a beautiful storm.
I can only imagine how it feels when you’ve actually earned it.
THIRTEEN
THEY HADN’T EVEN GOTTEN out of the school parking lot before Callie heard a small, electronic warble. It took her a moment to realize it was her phone.
On the screen, Jenna’s name had popped up, along with Callie’s first-ever text message:
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH U?
Callie blinked at the phone.
Another warble, followed by a little red face giving her what could only be described as a very exasperated look.
Frowning back at the unfriendly emoji, Callie arranged her thumbs on the keyboard, and with a little help from autocorrect, managed to type a legible reply: WHAT DID I DO?
KIP SAID HE ASKED U ON A SURFING DATE AND U WERE A TOTAL B%*!H ABOUT IT.
Callie’s eyes flew open, and her thumbs jerked over the keys. HE NEVER SAID ANYTHING ABOUT A DATE. HE ASKED ME TO HELP HIM WITH A SCIENCE EXPERIMENT.
There was a long delay, during which Callie’s eyes remained fixed on her phone. At last—warble—Jenna’s response materialized, consisting of no less than a dozen tiny yellow faces, each of which appeared to be laughing so hard there were tears streaming out of their eyes. Then: DO U LIVE ON THIS PLANET? HE LIKES YOU.
Again, Callie stared at the phone. She was so amazed by what she’d just read that she didn’t even realize the car had come to a stop until her door flew open.
There was Jenna, holding her phone and smirking.
A new text: MOVE OVER.
“What’s going on?” Callie asked as Jenna climbed in, forcing Callie to slide to the opposite side of the seat.
“We’re picking up Jenna,” Quinn said.
Callie rolled her eyes. “I see that. Why?”
“Because she called me at the Sanctuary and told me you were nice enough to invite her over for dinner, but she needed a ride, so could we possibly swing by and pick her up.”
As Brad pulled out of what Callie could only assume was Jenna’s driveway, Callie just gaped at her. The girl had audacity, Callie had to give her that.
“I would have liked to pop in and meet your mother,” said Quinn, turning around in her seat to smile at Jenna.
“She was kind of busy. But next time, definitely.”
“You’re sure she’s okay with you having dinner at our place?” Brad asked.
Callie scowled at the back of Brad’s head. Our place. Gross.
“Yep, she’s totally okay with it,” said Jenna, glancing out the window.
When Quinn turned back around to segue into a conversation with Brad about adjusting Gulliver’s diet, Jenna took the opportunity to give Callie an utterly disgusted look. “He feels really bad, you know.”
“Who, Gulliver?” Callie hedged, swiping through her phone’s emoji keyboard. “Well, he’s always had digestive issues, so . . . Hey, in what context would anyone ever possibly use the fried shrimp emoji?”
“I’m not talking about your big old gassy elephant, and you know it, so stop trying to change the subject. Having said that, I feel compelled to add that fried shrimp happens to be an all-purpose emoji and one of my personal favorites. But I digress. The issue at
hand, Calliope VanDrexel, is that Kipling Devereaux really wanted to surf with you—not a euphemism—and you completely dissed him.”
“Then why was he talking about some stupid science experiment?”
“Because he was trying to be cute, you nitwit. Boyishly charming, irresistibly clever. Hashtag flirting; hashtag read between the lines.”
Callie’s mouth went suddenly dry. “Seriously?”
Jenna nodded.
Christ, it was Dabney the juggler all over again! “Seriously?”
“Well, I can get him to sign an affidavit if you want, but for now you’ll just have to take my word for it. The boy. Was asking you. Out.”
Maybe she was a nitwit. Or maybe she was just exhausted and overwhelmed. Either way, Callie honestly had no idea Kip’s proposed experiment was actually a date. “I thought maybe he was making fun of me for being in the circus.”
“Wow.” Jenna leaned into the backrest and sighed. “You really are out of your element, aren’t you? It’s actually kind of amusing.”
“I’m glad my lack of experience entertains you,” Callie said tartly. “But it doesn’t matter because I’m not going to be here long enough to get romantically involved with anyone.”
“See? Perfect example. Nobody who’s ever been romantically involved with someone would actually use the phrase ‘romantically involved.’”
Callie made a face. “Noted.”
“But the good news is that you, my friend, have caught the eye of one of Lake St. Julian’s most eligible surfer dudes, who, in addition to maintaining an extremely impressive grade point average also happens to have a heart of gold and an incredibly cute ass.”
“So why don’t you surf with him? Better yet, why don’t you go surf with yourself?” She shot Jenna a look. “And that is a euphemism.”
“Yeah, I got that.” Smiling, Jenna tapped on the back of Quinn’s seat. “So, Ms. VanDrexel. What’s for dinner?”
* * *
• • •
While Brad and Quinn were at the mansion preparing their meal, Callie treated herself to a quick workout on the tightrope. She couldn’t afford to let her skills get too rusty, in case Marcello’s reply came sooner than she expected. She knew it was rude to practice while she had a guest, but then again, the guest had invited herself, so Callie figured they were even. And Jenna seemed happy enough to watch Callie perform.
“No wonder Kipalicious wants to get you on a surfboard,” she said. “You’ll probably pick it up in five seconds flat.”
“Well, I guess we’ll never know, will we?”
Callie was in the middle of executing a perfect Russian split on the wire when Jenna’s phone dinged.
“Dinner’s ready,” she announced.
“How do you know that?”
“Because your mom just texted me the words ‘Dinner’s ready,’ so unless she’s using some super-secret spy code language, I’m pretty sure she’s telling us that dinner’s ready.”
“You,” said Callie, pointedly. “She’s telling you that dinner’s ready.”
“Well, yeah, probably because she figured since I wouldn’t be the one doing backflips on a shoelace, I’d be more likely to answer my phone.”
Callie slipped off her tightrope shoes and stepped into her sneakers. “Right. Probably.”
Brad and Quinn had whipped up an amazing meal of grilled swordfish and sautéed vegetables, which they enjoyed on the mansion’s back terrace. DiCaprio looked on from a distance, catching the last rays of evening sunshine, and farther away Gulliver trumpeted boldly, setting off a chorus of birdcalls from the trees.
Since the conversation revolved mostly around the Sanctuary’s new website, Callie found herself without much to say. Jenna, however, offered several suggestions, all of which Brad pronounced revolutionary.
Halfway through the main course, Quinn reached over and patted Callie’s hand. “I’m so glad you’ve found a friend,” she whispered. “Jenna’s a terrific kid.”
“Yeah,” Callie huffed. “She’s just great.” And so was my Russian split, but I guess you’re not going to ask about that.
After dessert, Quinn headed out with Brad to walk the grounds, and Callie and Jenna went back to the carriage house, where Jenna spent some time studying the bulletin board plastered with Victoria’s notes.
“It’s cool that you have these,” she said. “It’s like you and your grandmother are still communicating. It’s kind of sad that people don’t write things down anymore, doncha think?”
Callie thought of the letter she’d mailed to Marcello, which was probably in the cargo hold of some jetliner that very minute, bound for Perugia. “Well, at least we’ve got emojis” was Callie’s sarcastic reply.
“A distant second to old-school forms of expression.” Running her fingers across a piece of a peanut bag, then a cardboard scrap torn from a red-and-yellow box, Jenna shook her head. “The Rosetta Stone, the Gutenberg Bible, Shakespeare’s folios—and circus scraps. I told you my professional association with Benigno’s Pizza has been permanently terminated, right?”
“Yeah. You got fired.”
“So would you mind if I co-opted a little of your gram’s motivational mojo to aid me in my employment search?” Sliding her thumbnail under the head of a tack, she removed a white triangle-shaped scrap. Everyone has a job to do, it said.
“Go ahead,” said Callie, walking into the living room and trying to imagine any or all of the Bertière triplets ever using the words co-opt, motivational, and mojo in one sentence . . . or lifetime. “Jenna, exactly how smart are you?”
“Well . . .” Jenna grinned, following Callie to the kitchenette. “Profoundly Gifted is the official designation, but the words ‘borderline genius’ have been bandied about on more than a few occasions.”
Callie opened the fridge, took out two grapefruit seltzers, and handed one to Jenna. “About your job search . . . I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need you to teach me how to navigate the circus websites. I want to start reaching out to some of them to inquire about openings, but I’m not exactly tech-savvy, so I was hoping you’d help me fill out some applications, maybe download—or is it upload?—some videos of my performances, set up an email account.”
“You’re offering me an IT position. Nice. What’s it pay?”
“Nothing.”
“Hmm. Well, that’s a little less than I’m used to, but what the hell? Count me in.”
“I also need you to keep coming over here and acting like we’re friends.”
Jenna raised an eyebrow. “You’re offering me a job as your friend? Isn’t that a little desperate?”
“It would be if I were going to pay you. But I’m not, so it isn’t.”
“Sounds like another fabulous career opportunity.”
“Look, my mother’s worried about me making friends and fitting in, but I really don’t see that happening here. First of all, why bother? And second, I’m just not the Ponce de León Festival type. But if she thinks you and I are bonding and becoming great friends, she’ll relax and stop driving me crazy about having a social life.”
Jenna considered it. “Just out of curiosity, what would be so wrong with at least trying to foster a social life? I mean, you don’t have to go out for head cheerleader or anything, but would it kill you to go to a slumber party sometime?”
“Are you inviting me to a slumber party?”
Jenna looked away. “Absolutely not. But you could join a club. Or a study group.”
Callie felt a rush of anger. “Why are you taking my mother’s side?”
“I’m not.”
“And other than the Recently Fired from Benigno’s Pizza Society, what clubs do you belong to?”
“I’m croquet captain, although I’m taking what you might call an extended leave
of absence from my leadership responsibilities. But I used to do peer tutoring, and before Kristi became unbearable, she and Emma-Kate and I were on the tennis team.”
“I’m hearing a lot of past tense.”
Jenna shrugged. “So what happens if during the course of this so-called job of friend impersonator, we actually do become friends? Do I get a bonus?”
“Yeah. If we become actual friends, I’ll double your salary.”
“Nothing times two.” Flopping onto the sofa, Jenna popped open her seltzer. “How can I possibly turn that down?”
“Excellent,” said Callie. “And in return for you doing those things for me, I’m going to secure you a real paying job working for Brad and my mom.”
“No shit?” Jenna’s face lit up. “Done. But before we make it official, you’re gonna have to do something for me.”
Callie was immediately wary. “If you’re going to make me agree to go on a surfing date with Kip Devereaux you can just forget—”
“I want to hear you say I was right about Kristi.”
“You were right about Kristi.”
“Damn straight I was!” said Jenna. “But to be honest, I wish I wasn’t.”
Callie took a long drink of soda. “So she and Kip used to date, huh?”
“Kip? Kip Devereaux? You mean the boy that you, for some unfathomable reason, don’t want to go out with? Yeah, they did. Didn’t last long, though.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it was your classic teen-angst-ridden romance, based mostly on good hair and kick-ass pheromones. I mean, he’s gorgeous, she’s gorgeous, and they’re both so freakin’ charismatic they’re practically made of neon, so I suppose they kind of had to take a run at it. But when she started channeling her inner Regina George, Kip was smart enough to walk away. Hey, will ya look at us, doing the whole girl-talk thing, pretending to be friends! I guess that means I’m on the clock, huh? So, lemme see . . . five minutes, at zero dollars an hour . . . yep, still broke.”
