Flying Tips for Flightless Birds

by Kelly McCaughrain

  “I fell because I was an idiot to go up there on my own when I wasn’t concentrating. I don’t remember how it happened but I know I was in a bad mood. It wasn’t your fault, or James’s. But I guess I did break up with him because of you.”

  “Birdie, if you wanted to go out with someone, I’d be OK with it. Eventually.”

  She grins at me. “I know. But you would have been upset; I know you used to—”

  “That was ages ago.”

  “Anyway, it wasn’t just that. I wanted a break from Franconis’ and I was too scared to tell you.”

  “You wanted out of the act?”

  “Not for ever. I wanted to spend time with James, and then I got to know Sinead while I was hanging out with him and I thought it would be nice to be friends with her. But we never do anything but train and teach classes and write circus blogs and make costumes, and there wasn’t time for me to have a life.” She takes my hand. “I tried to get you to make friends with Hector so you’d have someone besides me, but you didn’t want anyone else around. I even started researching how acts split up; I wanted to know how it happens. I suppose I was looking for a way to tell you, but all I could find were terrible accidents. It seems like acts only end when someone bites it. It’s like Lou said: you don’t just walk out on your partner. That’s why I told James it was over.”

  I put my head next to hers on the pillow. “Birdie, we’ll always be partners, it doesn’t matter if we perform together or not.”

  She smiles but I can tell she’s getting tired. “Thanks, Finch. I do want to train again, just not all the time.”

  “OK.”

  “And, Finch?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know, if you wanted to go out with someone, it wouldn’t matter who it was, I would be fine with it.”

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  “James has changed a lot,” she murmurs, her eyes closing. “I know it’s hard for you to see that; I know he kind of broke your heart. But he’s nice really.”

  “I know,” I say quietly, fighting back the lump that’s suddenly in my throat. “I remember.”

  But she’s asleep.

  The show is coming up fast and everyone’s rehearsing like crazy. Hector and I are so nervous, we’ve managed several rehearsals without a single argument.

  Thursday night, two days before the show, we have the big dress rehearsal. Tony promises to take special care of Birdie because the rest of us are at Franconis’. Still, I leave the hospital as late as I can, and when I get to the industrial estate I hear The Clash pumping out of the warehouse sound system already, so I know Py is running through his opening act.

  When I get inside, his fire staff is spinning around his body, a strobe in the darkness giving flashes of his dreads and henna tattoos, and his Docs pounding the concrete in time to the music, like something primeval. He’s also topless. He does this trick where he covers his skin in an invisible fireproof gel so he can run flaming torches over his arms and chest. I admit to freezing in the doorway for a moment, mesmerized by Py’s naked torso, which has a much more impressive six-pack than you’d expect from a guy who lives on pizza and cheap cider.

  When the routine ends, he pulls on his grotty, baggy T-shirt, spits on the floor and wipes his nose on the inside of his wrist, and he’s back to plain old Py again.

  I hurriedly put on my costume and then Hector and I sit at the edge of the circus ring Mum’s created out of milk crates, waiting for our turn to go on. Hector’s in so many acts, he’s knackered already, but at the moment it’s the Juggulars’ routine so he’s getting a rest.

  “Nervous?” he says.

  “Kinda.”

  “Bet you wish you’d stuck to the trapeze now.”

  “Kinda.”

  “It’s not the same without Birdie though, is it?”

  I shrug. “I think you were right about me being scared to go up there.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that; anyone would be scared, seeing her in hospital and everything.”

  “No, it’s not that. I don’t think I’m scared of falling, it’s just…”

  “What?”

  “It was like, if I went up there alone, I was admitting that she might not come back. And we’ve always done everything together – I mean everything. It turns out I can’t even get dressed in the morning without her.”

  He raises an eyebrow at me.

  “I don’t mean literally, but you’ve seen my clothes lately. It takes guts to wear the stuff me and Birdie used to wear; I’m not brave enough if she’s not around. What if I get up there –” I raise my chin towards the heights of the warehouse – “and discover I’m just no good on my own? The trapeze is the one thing that makes me special. Without it, I’m pretty ordinary.”

  Hector glances at me, then examines his fingernails as he speaks. “I don’t think you’re ordinary, trapeze or not. And I think you’re braver than you know, and … I know I’m not Birdie, but you’re not on your own, Finch. I mean, we could be a double act. A proper one.”

  There’s an awkward silence, like he’s given me a cue and I’ve totally left him hanging, and then he gets up to join Py in the ring. I watch him “helpfully” extinguish Py’s torches for him, watch everyone laughing, and I know he’s right, but it’s not that simple. What did Lou say about partners building trust, and how long that takes? Birdie and I have had for ever; I’ve known Hector about five months. I can’t tell him, but I don’t want another partner. I’m scared. I’m scared he’ll let me down. I’m scared it won’t work out. I’m even scared it will work out. Because I don’t even know what it is.

  When Hector comes back, his curly clown wig only slightly singed and Dad batting him with a fire blanket, he has another suggestion.

  “Why don’t you hang out with me and Sinead sometime?”

  “I’m sure she’d love that.”

  “She’d like to get to know you, but you’re not exactly welcoming. I think you make her nervous.”

  “I make her nervous?”

  “Sinead’s not having an easy time of it either, you know. Kitty’s furious that she’s defected.”

  “What’s ‘defected’ mean?”

  “She’s crossed No Man’s Land and joined the enemy. Which is brave, if you ask me. You could try being nice to her. And you owe her; she’s the reason I’m in the show.”

  “What? Why?”

  He looks sheepish. “My dad thinks I’m with her tonight. Most nights, actually. I told him I’m going out with her.”

  “You lied about hanging out with me?”

  “I had to – he wouldn’t stop going on about it.”

  I huff down my nostrils. “Well, you’re one to talk about being brave, Hector. You know, you’re not the only person around here who doesn’t want to be seen with me, but at least the rest of them are honest about it.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic; it’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you.”

  “Yes, it is. Your dad doesn’t like me and you haven’t the guts to tell him that you do. I mean, that we’re friends. Or whatever.”

  “Or whatever?” He shakes his head. “Yeah, or whatever really sounds like a worthwhile reason to pick a fight with my dad.”

  But it’s our turn in the ring and we don’t get a chance to say anything else. We run through our act woodenly, our clown grins stiff and forced. Janie looks worried, but neither of us feels like going over it again. Everyone’s nervous actually, so although we get through the whole rehearsal without much of a hitch, it all feels a bit flat.

  “Don’t worry, Finch,” Py says. “It’ll be different with an audience; that’s where the energy comes from.”

  But that’s what I’m worried about. What if our audience is Mr and Mrs Wood and All the Little Woods? What if no one comes?

  On Friday I sit on the yard wall as usual with my lunch, but Hector doesn’t run out to join me. In fact, he hasn’t spoken to me since yesterday’s dress rehearsal. I try to enjoy the silence but actu
ally I feel miserable. I’ve wanted him to go away pretty much since the moment I met him, and now that I’m used to him being around, he’s gone. Flipping typical.

  Kitty and her crowd walk past on their way to the canteen. James isn’t with them, I notice.

  “Has he ditched you, Finch?” Adi calls out. “Never mind, want me to set you up on a blind date? Kitty, do you know any blind people?”

  It’s ironic, really, that I get teased about my love life when I’m about a million miles behind everyone else in the dating department. People in my year talk about relationships so casually, and when they meet someone they like, they know what to do about it. But they were all kissing behind the bike sheds when they were eight and playing spin-the-bottle when they were eleven. They’re on to the serious stuff now and I’ve still never even held anyone’s hand.

  I’m about to give up on the celery sandwich Wren’s made me when Sinead plonks herself down on the wall.

  “Hector’s not here,” I say, as if that’s not obvious.

  “Yeah, I can see that. He’s in the canteen.”

  “Oh, well, don’t let me keep you.”

  But she doesn’t move. “He’s pretty mad at you.”

  “Me? He’s the one—”

  “He told a tiny fib, that’s all.”

  “It was not a tiny fib. A tiny fib is when I go home and tell Wren these sandwiches were edible. Hector told a whopping great lie, if you ask me. And I don’t see why you’re standing up for him; did you know he’s telling people you’re dating him? Wait till Kitty gets hold of that.”

  Sinead sighs. “I don’t care. So what if people think I’m going out with him – is there something wrong with that? You’re supposed to be his friend and you’re telling me I should be embarrassed or something?”

  “Exactly; I’m his friend, and he’s the one embarrassed to be seen with me!”

  “No, he’s not, he was just trying to avoid a fight with his dad. You know, if you’re his friend you should act like it, otherwise he might give up on you.”

  “It would be about time,” I mutter. “Why do you care anyway?”

  She’s quiet for a moment. “Look,” she says eventually, “I know hanging around with Kitty doesn’t entitle me to any favours from the people she’s tortured over the years, but I want you to know I’m done with all that. I never liked her; I just kind of got stuck in that group years ago and I’ve been scared to be on the other end of it. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  I shrug.

  “But I don’t want to waste the rest of high school on her. Actually, I’ve always thought you and Birdie were pretty cool. I’d have liked to be friends with you but you’re always so … stand-offish. You won’t let anyone be nice to you.”

  “Me?” I’m genuinely surprised.

  She gives me a look. “Oh, come on. You’ve never said anything to me that wasn’t completely sarcastic.”

  “Basic defence mechanism. Maybe if I didn’t have to—” I see her stiffen, waiting for the sting, and I realize she’s right; it’s like a reflex, and I’m about to do it again. I hold my hands up. “Fine. Point taken. Go on.”

  “You two never seemed to need anyone else, so I didn’t bother trying. I didn’t want to ditch Kitty and end up all on my own. But when Hector came and you made friends with him, I thought…” She shrugs. “I used to watch you in the yard, teaching him to juggle, and I’d be listening to Kitty go on and on about nothing and wishing I could be with you guys instead.”

  “Really?” There’s still a bit of me that’s certain this is part of some elaborate joke designed by Kitty.

  “I got to know Birdie before the accident. She’s great. I’d like us to be friends, but it won’t work if you hate me. She’d never do anything to upset you.”

  “Hey, I don’t hate you.” I’m starting to feel bad for her; it sounds like life as a Bond Girl isn’t much fun. “I don’t mind if you and Birdie are friends.”

  She smiles. “I want to be friends with you, too.”

  “Yeah?” I try to look casual. “I guess that’s OK.”

  She nudges me with her shoulder. “And I want you and Hector to make up.”

  “Jeez, you want the moon on a stick, don’t you?” I roll my eyes and she giggles.

  But I don’t get a chance to talk to Hector. He doesn’t walk home with me after school, and when everyone arrives at the warehouse that night, Dad is already standing in the centre of the floor tapping Mum’s ringmaster whip against his palm and glaring at us.

  “Right, you lot,” he says. “Circus history lesson, listen up. Tomorrow night is the show and you can stick stars on your dressing-room doors and swan about like divas if that’s your thing. But you may or may not know that traditionally in the circus, everyone has two jobs: a shirt-sleeves job and a spangles job. When a travelling circus arrives in town, everyone – even the star performers – has to help set up.”

  “Sure, Mr S, we can do that,” Py says, slouching towards the enormous pile of rigging for the bleacher-style seating we’ve rented and now have to construct.

  Dad prongs him in the chest with the whip. “Not. So. Fast, Mr Carson,” he says. Then he starts pacing in front of us like a drill sergeant. “This is a public performance,” he barks. “That means members of the public. That means public liability. That means conditions of insurance that must be met. That means health and that means safety. That means regulations.” His eyes gleam; he looks crazed. Mum pops a ringmaster hat on his head. “Thank you, dear,” he says, still glaring at us. “That means that for tonight, I am in charge. I am the head honcho, the big cheese, gaffer-in-chief. That means I own you lot.” He points the whip at each of us in turn. “You will do as you are told. Exactly. Instructions will be followed.” He brandishes a complicated set of diagrams at us. “To the letter. There will not be one screw left over, misplaced or loose when we are done here.”

  “What about the one in your head!” Lou shouts from the doorway.

  He points the whip at her. “You will limit yourself to bagging popcorn, old woman, or I will tell Edna O’Brien who jammed her cigarette machine with foreign coins!” Dad is in his element. Mum looks kind of impressed. Everyone else looks stunned. “Right! To work!”

  So we all spend the whole of Friday night constructing seating, running through fire drills and safety checks, rigging up ring-door curtains and setting up changing cubicles behind them. And every time I get near Hector, Dad hands one of us a screwdriver or a hammer, or drags us off to lift something heavy.

  When the seating is done, we go home, exhausted, five of us stuffed in the back of Dad’s car and five more in the back of Mum’s. Hector sits between me and Janie in the back seat, but Wren is sitting on his knee and Jay is jammed onto mine so neither of us says anything when he squeezes out past me.

  When I get to my room, I sit at my desk for a while holding my phone. But I don’t want to say this over the phone. And anyway, I have no idea what it is I want to say. It occurs to me that Hector didn’t text me as usual before going to sleep last night and I wait to see if he’ll remember tonight.

  At midnight I give up and go to bed.

  On Saturday we come back to do some more setting up, and by lunchtime the place is starting to look like a circus. All the bare warehouse walls have been covered with black curtains and we’ve made a “ring” from a semicircle of red and yellow painted boxes, and hung a red silk curtain to separate the ring from backstage. While Dad does final spotlight checks, Hector, who’s been flat on his back under a malfunctioning fog machine for most of the morning, stands in the centre of the ring and looks around, smiling like it’s Christmas morning. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile since before our argument at the dress rehearsal, and I remember what Birdie said in her blog about belonging here. Maybe it’s not just me then.

  Dad orders us all home for a rest before the show, but we’ll have to walk because he and Mum are sticking around to do last-minute stuff.

  I reckon
this is my chance. “Hey, hang on, do you want to walk home?” I call to Hector as he passes me on his way to the door. He stops but doesn’t look at me. Then he shrugs. “Some other time,” he says quietly, walking away.

  I should be rehearsing. Or resting. Or pacing nervously or bouncing around, getting overexcited. Today’s the day we’ve been waiting for, planning for, for months. For ever. Today’s the day we save or lose Franconis’.

  And what am I doing? Sitting on my windowsill absentmindedly picking the stitches out of a beanbag ball and staring at my phone.

  I sent Hector a text an hour ago.

  Hey, did I leave my bowler hat at your house?

  It’s not at his house, it’s at my house. On my head. What the text really says is, How mad are you? Are you too mad to even answer a text about a bowler hat?

  And apparently, the answer is Yes.

  I tell myself it’ll be OK, I’ll talk to him before the show, I’ll apologize properly.

  I’ll also work out what I’m supposed to be apologizing for.

  I guess for calling him gutless for lying to his dad when really he was just trying to help us put on a great show. And for taking things out on him when I was stressed about Birdie. For not appreciating everything he did for me when Birdie was ill. For pushing him away every time he tried to be friends with me, and then getting jealous when he made friends with someone else. For being too scared to be his partner. Oh yeah, and for calling him hopeless about twelve billion times when actually he’s one of the best performers we’ve ever had, and if anyone’s going to save Franconis’, it’ll be him.

  A whole seam of the beanbag ball comes apart and it spews its beanie guts all over my lap. I put my phone away. Hector’s never going to forgive me and I don’t blame him; I’ve really messed things up. Not leaping into random friendships is all very well, but I guess sometimes you can leave it too late.

  I go back to staring out the window, flicking polystyrene beans at the glass and watching the empty lane in front of our house. I suppose I’ve been hoping all afternoon that Hector might come tripping down it any minute, because when I see a figure come round the corner at one end, from the direction of his house, I jump up in a cloud of beans, and I’m halfway down the stairs before I remember Hector doesn’t wear a red denim jacket, knee-high boots and a hairband.