I want no part of that drama. I’ve got to get a grip. Get my shields back in place.
I finally dredge up the strength to tear my eyes away. I scoot sideways just to put some distance between us.
My cheeks are burning. I’m an idiot.
Leo looks down at the strings, and his notes peter out into silence. I pick at the hem of my shirt. I wish I could disappear.
He clears his throat. “You know what?” he says. “Let me start over. We need something more upbeat.”
He starts picking out a cheesy little tune. He plays stiffly, without his usual confidence, but once he’s got some notes down, he starts adding words.
I’m still reeling. I shiver and rub some warmth into my arms. The temperature is definitely dropping now. I scan the festival grounds. Sometimes it gets cooler before a storm, but the sky is clear.
Maybe my shivers are chills. Could I be getting sick? Maybe everyone cleared out of the city ahead of a nuclear disaster, and this is the beginning of the end for my irradiated body. I imagine my insides glowing and disintegrating.
I scan the buildings in the distance. One mirrored office complex glows blue for a fleeting moment, like the light on Galaxe. I squint, but it’s already gone. Could it have been a radioactive halo?
Leo keeps playing, oblivious to my internal ridiculousness. Before I found him, I had to stomp down my imagination all by myself. Now I have something to distract me from thoughts of radiation and disaster. I force myself to concentrate on his hands.
I wonder if it hurts, sliding his fingertips along those metal strings. His fingers aren’t as ugly as my toes, so it can’t hurt as much as pointe shoes. His veins stand out blue green on his forearms, and there’s a trail of holes in his T-shirt along the seam at his shoulders. Seeing his skin underneath, along with the edge of a dark mole, makes my face heat all over again.
The song he’s playing is strange, disjointed and wrong somehow, but he’s having fun. He stops to laugh at himself a few times. His sleeve shifts up a little as he plays, revealing more of his tattoo. Another centimeter of sharp, inky angles for me to analyze. I still can’t tell what’s at the center, but it seems like whatever it is has a halo of geometric shapes around it.
He finishes the last verse with a little flourish.
“Ta-da!” he says.
“Very nice.”
“Are you kidding? That sucked! Don’t lie to me, I can take it.”
“Okay, it was a little weird,” I admit. I’m grateful for it, though—whatever he was playing when he was staring at me was too real.
I swing my legs against the edge of the stage. “How can you tell if a new song is good or bad?” I ask.
“Well, that one was obviously trash, but I get what you mean. It all depends on what people want, and that shit changes all the time.”
I shake my head. Creative stuff like writing songs and writing words seems so hard to get right. No one’s there to tell you that you’re messing up, to bark orders at you and show you how to do it correctly. With ballet, there’s a right way and a wrong way to do everything. At the Academy, we’re trained to look for faults in ourselves. Hence the walls of mirrors. We know when we’ve done something wrong because there are rules, some of which are hundreds of years old.
Ballet is measurable. It’s not nebulous and free like writing a song or writing a story.
“I have to write about ten crappy songs before a good one comes out,” Leo adds. “I can tell if it’s going to work right away—it’s like a wheel slipping into a groove.”
I think about the handful of times that I shared something I’d created from scratch. They stand out in my memory, achy as bruises. Little eruptions of my overactive imagination. The worst was in fifth grade, when we wrote our own adventure books and bound them with string. I was so excited to show mine to my mom after school. I created a whole world in that book, with heroines and villains and flower magic. That’s what it was called—Flower Magic. A pretty unoriginal title, but I was only ten. When I got home, my mom was rushing around, herding me into the car to take me to a ballet recital. She gave the book one glance and made some over-the-top comment about it being wonderful like she does with all my schoolwork.
After the recital, she couldn’t stop gushing about my performance.
At first I didn’t understand. It was choreography someone else made up, and I was onstage with ten other girls doing identical movements like clones. Flower Magic was all me, words that no one had ever put in that exact order before. But my mom was more impressed by the recital, so it finally sunk in: Flower Magic was awful.
Leo’s song was awful too, but here he is, tapping his rings on the edge of the stage, completely unconcerned. He brushed the failure off so easily. I’m having trouble wrapping my head around the concept. It never occurred to me that you could just discard something if it went wrong. With ballet we have to try again and again until it’s perfect.
“Have you ever played something new and had … something bad happen?” I ask.
“Sure. One time I rolled out a new song that I thought was transcendent. I guess it was a little depressing, though. When I finished, the whole bar was silent. I made a joke about it and cranked up a crowd favorite. No one ever spoke of it again, not even my band. I have to let the songs out, you know? Even the bad ones. Because otherwise they’d get stuck inside me. You’ll know about that—ballet’s an art. It’s creative.”
“Maybe if you’re the one choreographing.”
“You get some input, though, right?”
“Nope. I’m basically a puppet. A highly trained, perfect little puppet.”
Sure, ballet is an art, and the steps—temps levé, arabesque, pirouette—are the paint that the choreographer uses to create the painting. Our bodies are the tools—the paintbrushes. Some ballerinas would disagree with me, but that’s always how I’ve felt about it.
For me, ballet is a sport, not an art. Dancers spend a lot of time outside the studio, cross-training to make sure we have the stamina and strength to dance. I’m constantly thinking about physical things: muscles, ligaments, bones. Stretching and perfecting and calibrating.
“But you’re still training,” Leo says. “Once you go pro, you’ll get to express yourself, right?”
“Nope. Well, I might have a tiny bit of creative input in five or ten years, if I rise up through the ranks high enough that a choreographer would want to create new material on me. I’d have to be a soloist, at least. Probably principal.”
Of course, none of that will ever happen if I miss the corps de ballet audition the day after tomorrow. If the rest of Houston doesn’t come back by then, all my years of training will be for nothing.
Leo whistles. “Man, ballet is intense. Like, extreme effort and dedication. I would make the worst puppet ever.” He studies me. “Just make sure you do stuff you want every now and then, okay?”
I look across the field to where the carnival rides are. The straight-drop ride towers above the rest, covered in plastic light bulbs that glint in the afternoon sunlight. I can’t see the top of the swing carousel, but I know it’s there. I did a double take when we passed it earlier, because it looked exactly like one I went on with my dad when I was little.
Swing carousels have always been my favorite. They’re somehow calm and terrifying at the same time. When I was little, I’d close my eyes, stick my arms out, and pretend I was flying. I imagined all sorts of terrain passing under me. Fizzing purple lagoons, houses with white swan feathers for roofs, forests made of Twizzlers.
Leo leans over and bumps my shoulder with his. “You look like you have an idea,” he says.
I nod. “Maybe we could go ride on that swing thing.”
“You mean you want to go ride on that swing thing,” he says.
“Are you correcting my grammar?”
“No. If you want something, it’s okay to say it out loud. You don’t have to beat around the bush.”
“Okay. I want to go ride that swing
carousel.”
“Excellent. That just so happens to be my favorite ride here,” he says, grinning.
I don’t tell him it’s mine too.
He offers me his hand to help me up, grabbing so tight it almost chases away the white-hot crackle that jumps from his palm to mine. An electric shock.
We must have built up some static electricity when we were swinging our legs against the scratchy black fabric covering the front of the stage. That has to be it.
So why can’t I move? Our hands are fused together for the third time today, and I don’t want to let go.
Leo breaks first, shaking his hair out of his eyes.
“Better get Galaxe tucked back in her bed,” he says, letting go of my hand.
I nod, but I can’t speak.
After visiting the tour bus, we make our way back through the festival grounds. It feels less creepy now. I think I’m getting used to being outside.
Astrid would love this place. I can imagine her riding every single ride, even the ones that make her puke, and playing carnival games with the laser focus of a gambling addict. She’d twirl down the midway, leaving Doc Marten boot prints in the dirt.
She’d come up with a whole themed outfit to wear. Red-and-white-striped leggings and popcorn ball earrings, or a vintage A-line dress with Ferris wheels printed on it. Her hair would be in immaculate 1940s waves, but her gauges and industrial piercing would save the look from being too sweet.
Every year, Astrid drags me along for her back-to-school shopping trip, and every year it’s the same. She pops out of the changing room in colorful combinations that verge on being costumes, not outfits. Sometimes I’d feel a flare of desire to join in, to use my allowance to buy flowing, paisley-print dresses so I could wear them with no shoes and ivy woven through my hair, but in the end, I never spent a penny on those shopping trips. Astrid filled the spot for zany dressing in our friendship. Instead of inspiring me to try different things, being her best friend had the opposite effect on me. I felt even more penned into my role as pristine ballet girl.
So all my clothes came from dance catalogs, pages dog-eared and items circled so my mom could order them, plus a couple of pairs of jeans and sweaters in solid pastel colors. Anytime I tried on Astrid’s clothes, I felt like a fake. Like I was stealing her personality.
I cross my arms over my cream leotard as Leo and I stop at the low metal fence that surrounds the swing carousel.
“How do we get it going?” I ask.
“It can’t be that hard. Let me take a look.” Leo hops over the fence and jogs to the operator’s hut. I look at the bouncy castle next door while I wait. The sign says Age 8 and Under Only, but I’m going to jump on it after this. I haven’t been on a bouncy castle in forever.
The lights on the swing carousel blink on and start flashing in psychedelic patterns. After a few loud clicks, the swings jerk to life, chains jangling as the ride starts to revolve.
Leo runs out of the hut. “Quick, hop on!” he shouts.
I climb over the fence, and we jog alongside two of the chairs. I plop awkwardly into mine and pull the metal safety bar down just as my feet start dangling above the grass.
The ride takes us six feet off the ground and swirls us around. It’s slower than I remember, tamer than my childhood memories.
Then the hydraulics hiss. The ride raises us up higher, and the spinning accelerates. We’re looking down on the food trucks now. The swings gravitate out, away from the trunk in the center hiding the mechanical parts. The carousel does the same thing to my blood that pirouettes do, flinging it into my fingertips and feet.
In front of us, twenty empty chairs sway, twisting peacefully without the weight of riders.
The air is even colder on my face now that we’re going fast. Leo lets out a little whoop, and when I look over at him, our eyes catch. We laugh at the speed, at the thrill of the ride, and his face is a mirror of mine, lit with delight.
For a moment, I get the sense that even if there were a whole festival full of people milling around below us, it would still feel like only us.
The scenery passes in a whirl: stage, overpass, skyline, stage, overpass, skyline. Over and over, faster and faster. The ground below turns into a blur, and I’m glad, because now I can almost imagine there are people milling around down there.
“Close your eyes and hold your breath!” I shout to Leo.
He doesn’t hesitate—he just does it. He’s game for anything, and it makes something in me swell.
I close my eyes and let go of the chains.
Up here it’s bliss. The g-forces pin me in place, but not being able to move makes me feel weirdly free.
Clank.
My eyes fly open at the sound. In front of me, two chairs judder like they’ve just collided. They’re way off course, not swaying in formation like they’re supposed to.
A sharp wind slices across my face.
I wait for it to die down, but instead it gets stronger and colder and louder. It’s one long blast, like a giant with unbelievable lung capacity blowing out birthday candles.
Clank. The chairs ram into each other again.
That’s not supposed to happen.
Down on the ground, bags of cotton candy roll across the grass like small animals scurrying for shelter. A whole stack of red Solo cups takes flight and smacks into the side of the hot dog stand.
And then … the wind stops. The swings settle back into formation like it never happened. The air we’re zooming through is still and silent again.
“Uh, that was weird,” Leo calls out into the calm.
The only time I’ve seen stuff fly around like that is in tornado videos. I try to recover the soaring feeling I had before, but I can’t. I didn’t know the chairs could hit other chairs, and now I just want to get down.
“Hannah? Do you think that—”
A second gust of wind rips Leo’s voice past me and into nothingness.
The empty swings jump and twist, and then Leo’s swing careens sideways and crashes into mine. My teeth knock together at the impact.
“Is this a tornado?” he shouts.
“I don’t know!” I’ve heard of invisible tornadoes, but this time the air is all blowing in one direction, not swirling in a funnel. Another chair rams into the back of my seat.
Again, the wind blows for longer than wind is supposed to blow, and then, just like that, it stops abruptly.
“Are you okay?” Leo calls out.
“I think so.” I swallow down a whimper.
“Oh shit,” he says.
“What?”
“Uh … it’s probably nothing.”
I stop squeezing my eyes shut long enough to glare at him. “Leo! What’s probably nothing?”
“It’ll stop soon,” Leo says.
“The wind?”
“No … the ride.”
The ride?
My stomach drops.
“What do you mean?” I ask in a shaky voice. “Does someone have to be in the hut to turn this thing off?”
“I’m hoping not. It must be on a timer, right?”
The ground is fifteen feet below us. The panorama of Houston spins past as we go around and around and around. I’m not on the verge of panic anymore—I’ve gone over the edge to full-on freaking out.
“I’m gonna have to jump!” Leo shouts.
“What?! You are not jumping, Leo! No way.”
“How else are we going to stop?” he asks.
“You’ll break both your legs! Don’t be an idiot!”
“If I can hang off the bottom of the swing, I can get at least six feet closer to the ground,” Leo says.
I don’t even know what he’s talking about. But he’s unclipping his safety bar and my stomach is flipping over. I bleat one last “Please, Leo, don’t,” but he’s already out of his seat. He maneuvers down over the back of his chair, biceps straining. For two full carousel rotations, he just hangs there, legs dangling, his feet still a good nine feet from the
ground.
I’m going to puke. I can’t believe he’s doing this.
Then he lets go. For a few heart-stopping seconds, it looks like he’s going to be able to run it off, but he can’t keep his balance. He trips and goes down face-first.
I twist in my seat.
“Leo!!”
The next time I glide past him, he’s still on the ground, unmoving.
Oh my god, what was he thinking? There aren’t any doctors or nurses or hospitals. I’m hyperventilating. What should I do?
But the next time I go around, he’s moving. Picking himself up slowly, brushing off his clothes, rubbing his wrist.
“Are you okay?!” I shout, frantic.
“Uh, I’m good!” he shouts back.
I almost collapse in my chair as he disappears into the hut.
It takes forever for the ride to lower me. As soon as it stops, I bolt out of the chair and run over to him.
“That was so idiotic!” I yell, and then I’m touching him, checking his grass-stained arms for injuries, but he’s in one piece. “I’m so sorry, Leo. I shouldn’t have asked to go on this stupid carousel.”
“What? Hey, no. We’re fine. It was fun,” he says.
Another gust of wind tackles us, blowing dirt into my eyes and up my nose. A metal menu board flies off a food truck, whizzing past my arm. I jump back—if that had been an inch closer the sharp edge would have sliced me.
“We need to get inside!” I say.
I grab his hand and we run to the nearest food truck, but the handle doesn’t budge. Think, Hannah. The tour buses are too far away.
“Your car?” I shout. Leo nods.
We have to walk right into the wind. It’s so strong, and I’m leaning so far forward that I can almost touch my fingertips to the ground. We fight through it in silence, and the moment the wind lets up, Leo stumbles at the sudden disappearance of resistance. I manage to stay up but only barely.
In the lull, everything is still again. Dead calm. We start flat-out running for the car.
When the next gust hits, there’s a loud ripping noise. Behind Leo, something red and enormous looms.
“Holy crap!” he yelps.
It’s the bouncy castle. The wind ripped it from its moorings, and now it’s tumbling after us. The fabric swishes like some nylon monster, heavy and lethal. It’s the size of a house. If we get trapped under it, we’ll suffocate. It’s so ridiculous I almost have to laugh. Death by bouncy castle.
You & Me at the End of the World Page 7
