Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  By the third jump, I gain so much height that my pulse races ahead of my thoughts. I feel like I’m taking way too long—when in reality, I’m probably not in the air for more than ten seconds.

  I use my arms for balance. Higher and higher.

  I’m supposed to just…step onto the little platform, mid-air. Go for it, I tell myself.

  And I try.

  My foot touches the lip of the platform, but I careen backwards. Shit. I slip and plummet downwards. My back hits the trampoline net and bounces me. I use my core strength to right myself upwards, but I aim towards a mini-net. Shitshit.

  My shoulder touches the net, and I catapult off, barely able to hear Dimitri and a few others coaching me on where to go. What to do.

  Somehow I land in the center of the trampoline again, and I kneel and force my body down to ground myself. Impeding all movement.

  My heart is stuck in my throat. Anxiety burns me up, and I feel some Kotovas start to shift towards me. Including Luka. “I’m fine,” I say, extending my arm so they’ll stay put.

  I’ll try again. It’s not like everyone succeeds the first time. Some do, but in most disciplines, practice is important. Whenever I try a new juggling trick, I still drop balls and clubs.

  Ignore everyone.

  I find a calm place inside, and I just jump and jump. Gaining enough height again, I don’t rush myself this time. I bounce once more, and mid-air, I extend a leg to try and touch the tiny square platform.

  I land fine, but my momentum pushes me forward. I run into the pole, and I wrap my arms around it (hands already full of juggling balls).

  Stable.

  I breathe heavily and rest my forehead on the pole, thankful that I made it to the platform. The first time is always the scariest. And sometimes the hardest.

  When I sit, legs hanging off, everyone but Luka reroutes their attention. His gaze lingers on me for a long moment, as though to ensure I’m secure. That I’m okay. When he sees that I am, he focuses on his cousins and the choreographer.

  I really enjoy this part. Observing the Kotovas in their intense training session. It’s like witnessing each individual piece of an extraordinary puzzle. All before it’s put together.

  Now that I’m allowed, I mostly watch Luka. I find myself smiling way more than I ever would—and it’s not a coy smile. It’s a giddy, uncontrollable smile that has been locked away for years.

  Luka propels himself at the back wall with one deep jump, and then he runs up the hard surface. Three cousins in tow. So swiftly, they land on top.

  Naturally graceful, they may as well have wings.

  Luka steps off the wall like it’s nothing, but he physically drops from forty-feet.

  I inhale strongly, even if he’s done this a million times before. Dimitri stands close on the trampoline and digs his foot deep. So as Luka plummets, he hits the taut surface and soars straight up.

  He does a quadruple back tuck over Matvei who performs a triple layout below. Luka also has enough air for a triple full (one back somersault with three twists). My view isn’t of haphazard, awkward actions. These aren’t a bunch of guys on a backyard trampoline flopping around.

  Their lithe movements carry extreme precision. They call out to one another in Russian, making eight in-flight bodies look like ordered chaos. They’re unequivocally picturesque slicing through air, and this is just practice.

  Geoffrey stops them more than once and asks who can do what combination, and they all always raise their hands, their advanced skillsets the same.

  “You two.” From the ground, Geoffrey motions to Luka and Robby. “Full twisting triple backflip. Luka goes from the far left to right, and Robby crosses in the middle.”

  Panting, Robby rubs sweat off his brow. “We’re doing the same thing?”

  “Yes. Listen.” Geoffrey glares. “You cross like this.” He just crosses his arms.

  Abram rolls his eyes, but it’s hard to frustrate Luka. He runs his hand through his soaked hair, and he nods a few times like he’s ready to just go ahead and try it.

  I wrap my arms around my stomach and lean forward. If this is timed wrong at all, Robby will crash into Luka, and it’s not like a full twisting triple backflip is easy.

  Luka is positioned at the far left, and Dimitri counts in Russian, ignoring the choreographer’s earlier rule about speaking in English.

  I chew my bottom lip, worried.

  Dimitri shouts one last time, and Luka jumps and twists his body three-sixty-degrees. Now facing backwards, he performs rapid, technically perfect layouts across the trampoline, hands never touching the surface. Just feet.

  Robby is coming at him.

  My fingers touch my lips, just as he accelerates and passes his cousin in a split-second. Luka gains a lot of air at the end, and he finishes his last rotations, his triple backflip powerful.

  And beautiful.

  Then he lands on his feet, wobbling a little more than I think he’d like, but his tiny movement may be unnoticeable to an audience.

  Geoffrey critiques them more than praises, and he has all the Kotovas perform a few skills again. Hopping on the available platforms. Flying at the mini-nets. Soaring up the wall. Thirty minutes tick by before I’m called on.

  “Baylee, come down to the trampoline’s base.”

  That means falling, but this is the fun part. I jump down, and all eight guys kill my momentum with their weight. I can’t even figure out how, but they just did it.

  Focused eyes on me, Geoffrey asks, “You expressed grief over which trick?” He can’t remember because I didn’t actually vocalize my concerns yet.

  “The eight-ball, seven-up pirouette. Six-ball, six-up is more manageable to start.” Just saying.

  “We’ll see. For now it’s eight and seven.” Geoffrey fingers his goatee before pointing at…no. “Sergei, lift her on your shoulders. You’ll assist…”

  I partially tune out the choreographer’s instruction, my eyes narrowed on Luka’s oldest brother. Sergei raises his squared head, shoulders pulled back. His whole authoritarian demeanor puts a weird taste in my mouth. He looks ready to order me around, as though I’m a prop to his act. In actuality, he’s assisting my discipline just as much as I’m assisting his.

  I don’t have the heart to glance at Luka.

  Those not participating position themselves on the metal frame and the platforms. I stand in the middle while Sergei approaches.

  I expect him to say, tell me when I should rotate. Or call out to me with commands.

  Instead, Sergei says, “I’ll lift you and begin jumping. I’ll spin after three counts.”

  “That’s not how it works,” I say. “Three seconds isn’t enough time for seven balls to be airborne.”

  If he hears my opinion at all, he doesn’t say.

  Sergei just clasps me by the hips and hoists me on his shoulders. My body is completely rigid. Uncomfortable, for one. My legs drape down his chest, and he grips my calves and begins jumping without even the slightest pause or call-out.

  I feel like I’m on a theme park ride that I didn’t ask to be a part of, and it’s made of a Russian man and hard muscle.

  At least thirty-feet high, all eight balls still in my palms—I internally freak out. I don’t trust Sergei with my life, and if he drops me, I could bounce and go flying at the back wall or the metal frame of the trampoline. Which is hard enough to crack a skull.

  “Any day now.” Geoffrey pressures me.

  And it works. I concentrate on juggling.

  Rather than simply tossing, I push the first two balls into the air so I don’t fall backwards. I work in pairs, the balls soaring in a clean arc, and then Sergei rotates just as I launch the fifth and sixth balls.

  Juggling is about timing. It’s practically math, and when the timing is off, this happens.

  The balls fall.

  On the trampoline.

  And they fling every direction thereafter.

  It’s less embarrassing than it is aggravating. I w
ant to succeed badly, but I’ve never relied this heavily on someone else. This is going to take a while.

  I must wear the dejection because Geoffrey snaps, “What’s wrong?”

  Catching my breath, I say, “I don’t think this partnership is going to work out.”

  Sergei is not my favorite person ever, and he technically owes me a grand that he’ll never pay—but I’m not unearthing my personal life at work.

  “Fine, we’ll try Dimitri.”

  Sergei switches out with Dimitri, and in another breath, I’m on Dimitri’s shoulders and he tells me, “Throw my balls, Baybay.”

  Ignore.

  I’m not in the mood for his jokes, and ignoring them is the easiest tactic here, especially in front of a choreographer.

  As soon as Dimitri jumps, I have trouble concentrating on the trick. I’m thirty-feet up again, but I keep thinking about Dimitri losing his footing and then me falling and face-planting into a mound of hard muscle or metal.

  I realize fast that the problem wasn’t just Sergei.

  It’s me.

  During the rotation, all the balls drop. I shake my head at Geoffrey. I try the trick with Erik and Robby to only meet the same failed result.

  Off Robby’s shoulders and firmly planted on the trampoline, I walk towards the metal frame, lungs ablaze. Because I know what I’m about to do.

  Please let this work.

  Act Eleven

  Baylee Wright

  I ask Geoffrey, “Can I try this with Luka?” I don’t believe the outcome will change with anyone else.

  Whether Marc Duval informed the choreographer about my history with Luka, I can’t tell—but Geoffrey nods. He approves.

  I don’t question whether Luka will be upset at my proposal. He was the one that helped me earlier, so he should be okay with close contact at work.

  I walk to the center of the trampoline, and Luka abandons his spot by the back-left pole to join me. Instantly, we lock eyes.

  My lungs inflate, a thousand memories rushing towards me.

  Dancing—God, we danced for long drawn-out hours. Drum beats thumped and rumbled the ground beneath our feet, and club lights swept our limbs that tangled. That touched.

  We blistered in rhythm.

  My head lolled back, and his strong hands found my hips. Sweat built between us, and our bodies—we fit just right.

  I try to bury this image with one large breath. I have to concentrate on my job. Not the past.

  Not us.

  Because there is no more us. There can never be an us. Just separate lonely entities.

  What am I even thinking? I didn’t keep tabs on Luka. He may not even be lonely. He may have a significant other. Like a friends-with-benefits or an actual girlfriend. I try desperately to block out these agonizing thoughts.

  It shouldn’t be this painful.

  He was allowed to move on. We both were ordered to. I should be traveling forward like him, not barreling into the past.

  Luka comes to a stop a foot from me. Not shying away, he drinks in my features and his grays tenderly stroke my cheeks, my lips and eyes.

  Touch me. I inhale.

  He inhales even more powerfully.

  Touch me.

  His right hand instinctively rises up. Towards my cheek.

  I step forward.

  He steps forward. Our legs collide, and then he hesitates. I hesitate. We remember where we are. Who watches. He’s not able to touch me that way.

  Luka tightens his hand in a fist before it drops to his side. His brows cinch, face pained, but I nod once in understanding. We’re working. We can’t really reconnect here.

  We’re not even allowed to reconnect outside of the gym. This work relationship is what we’ve been granted. It has to be enough.

  My dry eyes burn like I need to release four-and-a-half years of pent-up emotion, but my body knows it can’t.

  Luka tries to smile, and then he dips his head to me. “Tell me what to do.” Work.

  Work.

  So I explain the jugging trick in detail, and he asks a few questions about timing and jumping. Cordial, easy enough.

  After I answer, he nods and says, “Just squeeze your thighs when I need to rotate. If you want me to shift at all as I jump, dig your right heel in my chest to go right. Left to go left.”

  “That’ll work.” I like this system more than Dimitri’s “call-out” method. I’m sometimes deep inside my head during routines that I forget to use my voice. Using my body should feel more natural.

  Geoffrey shouts, “Any day now!”

  Luka’s lip quirks, almost laughing at the absurdity. It makes me less stressed, and then he takes two balls out of my hands.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “You said six-ball, six-up was more manageable, so let’s do six.” He listened to me from earlier?

  I try to restrain my smile. You haven’t changed, have you?

  Do you ever think of me?

  Do you even still love me?

  Or am I just a heartbreaking memory?

  My own lips inch up but falter. “Luka Kotova, already testing the choreographer’s limits.”

  “Yeah.” Luka’s smile brightens the angelic creases of his face. “Because he’s not the juggler. You are.” At this, he chucks the two extra balls at Dimitri, who easily catches both.

  Now I’m left with six. Which will make our chance of success a lot greater.

  Luka stares fixatedly down at me. “Ready?”

  I nod, and in one sudden motion, he clutches my hips and lifts me onto his shoulders. I sit securely on Luka, three balls in each of my palms.

  He grips my calves so I won’t fly off of him.

  Then he jumps, and the power of his muscles, his legs, funnels through his body and up into my limbs. I breathe controlled, easy breaths. Knowing he’d protect me before he’d drop me.

  Twenty-feet high, I push the first pair of balls into the air. Then the second pair.

  Four balls soar in a clean arc. I concentrate solely on my juggling props, not even sure how high we are or how many bounces we’ve completed—I just catch the balls and then rapidly push up one pair after the other.

  All six balls soar out of my hands. High, high above me.

  I squeeze my thighs.

  Luka spins three-sixty, and I never take my eyes off the balls. I grab them as they fall, using one finger to clasp the third ball to my right palm.

  He effortlessly deadens his momentum, and we come to a stop on the trampoline. I smile because it worked. It’s also a better indication that the trick can be done.

  From the floor, Geoffrey assesses us, fingers to his jaw. “It needs more polishing, and you have to increase the difficulty within sixty days. No exceptions.”

  My smile fades, and I just nod. I’m about to slide down Luka’s shoulders, but he’s already hoisting me off and placing me in front of him.

  I want to peek at Luka, but I shouldn’t tempt it. Should I? I hesitate. I waver. Look at him.

  I give in, and I brave a glance backwards.

  He’s already staring at me. He’s already smiling, and his lips only pull higher as our eyes meet again. Are you single?

  Are you the same as you were?

  I open my mouth to ask one of my many questions.

  “Baylee, let’s chitchat over here,” Dimitri calls out.

  I drop my gaze instantly, jostled back to reality. Dimitri motions me to the other side of the trampoline, and Robby and Abram “oooh” like I’m in trouble.

  On my way there, I slyly flash them my middle finger, and they subsequently laugh, which I expected.

  Dimitri meets me halfway, and seriousness drapes over us. He lowers his head, no one able to overhear. “I’m in a fucked-up spot here. I love that kid.” He gestures with his head to Luka.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m not asking you to choose me over him…” Why does this feel like a second divorce all of a sudden? Like Luka and I are splitting up again and all the people
that mean something to us have to choose sides?

  We did that once, but Dimitri has always sat in the middle. He was the one person we both kept equally in our lives.

  Dimitri cocks his head. “Outside of cousins and brothers, I’ve worked the longest, side-by-side with you. That makes you family to me.”

  I end up smiling a small smile, but whatever else he has to say, I sense that it’s not good. So I speak hushed. “It’s not your job to pull us away from each other. We’re not putting you in that position.” I think this is where his concern lies.

  “I read the email.”

  Okay. “Then you know we’re fine,” I whisper, glancing at the other Kotovas. They all stand at the edge of the trampoline, talking with the choreographer. Luka hangs back and constantly looks over at me and Dimitri.

  “Fine? You know what you two are? You’re both floating in space in some made-up Star Wars galaxy,” Dimitri says, “and for some reason, I’ve been tasked to rescue you two shitheads from further destruction. So I’m here, telling you, to tone that shit down. Nik thinks it’s better if you do too. So do it.” He crosses his arms. “Simple as that.”

  Except… “We were only working.”

  “Eye-fucking isn’t working. Neither is casual flirting or smiley flirting—which you two do.”

  I try not to freeze up. “Smiley flirting?”

  “I’m not demonstrating.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re like a sister to me, Baybay.”

  I cringe at him. “Brothers don’t tell sisters to ‘not suck their cousin’s cock’—which you said, word-for-word, when I was thirteen.”

  “If only you both listened to me, you wouldn’t be in this fucking mess.” He checks over his shoulder and then drops his voice another octave. “He’s a heartbeat away from tattooing your name on his ass.”

  I try not to smile too much at the Center Stage quote, but I have fond memories of seeing the movie with all the Kotovas when I was twelve. They all superstitiously watch the movie the last Wednesday of every month. The one time they skipped a viewing, a little cousin fell in a performance and fractured his skull.

  “Got it?” he asks.

  “Don’t cross the line with Luka,” I whisper. “It’s been painfully clear from the beginning.” I leave Dimitri’s side and try to build an invisible boundary between me and Luk.