There’s a second’s pause as he shakes his head at me. “You arse!” Then he whacks me on the shoulder as I convulse with laughter.
“I just can’t deny it any more!” I yell over his head, in between yelps as he continues to wallop me. “I can’t live a lie! This is the real me!”
“It’s official, you are a complete and total tool, Franconi!” But we’re both laughing. He stops beating me up and starts to turn away.
“Hey, Hector?”
He turns back. “What?”
I pull my red nose off again. Then I take one of his hands in mine, pull him towards me, and kiss him on his ridiculous clown lips.
Everyone’s buzzing after the show. The whole thing went perfectly, dozens of people have asked to join – even kids from our school – and they liked Hector so much, we’ve had requests for clown classes. When the audience have gone, we have a big party in the warehouse. We crank the music up loud, tuck into all the food Mum’s made, and she and Dad are still dancing like teenagers in the centre of the ring at midnight.
We did it. We saved Franconis’. But for the first time, it feels like it wouldn’t matter if we hadn’t. We didn’t do it for the building or the equipment or the classes. I didn’t walk into that ring so we could keep a roof over our heads – I did it for Hector. And Py did it for Janie, and Janie did it for Birdie, and Hector did it for me.
I dance and laugh like a lunatic along with everyone else at the party, but for once I’m not thinking about Franconis’ at all.
Monday morning I wait until 8.37. But no Hector.
I’ve been up since 7 a.m. I dreamed about the show all night, but when I opened my eyes this morning, the first thing I thought about wasn’t the circus. And it wasn’t Birdie. It wasn’t even Hector. It was my wardrobe.
I leapt out of bed and spent a full hour getting dressed. Then I sat on the front doorstep for half an hour, wondering if I’d got confused. If I’d missed something in one of his texts. If I’d dreamed the whole flipping circus/show/kissing event.
At 8.38 I can’t wait any longer or I’ll be late, so I run down the road and arrive at school out of breath, expecting to find Hector on the yard wall waiting for me, but he’s not there. Still five minutes to the bell, so I sit down and start to panic.
A couple of people walk by and say, “Hi, Finch, liked the show!” and others wave from across the yard, which should make me feel great, but all I can think about is the empty space on the wall beside me. Adi and Davy walk past, look me up and down and snigger.
I’m wearing a blue tartan kilt, black-and-white stripey leggings, bovver boots, a black T-shirt and eyeliner. I know turning up to school in a skirt is asking for trouble, but it seemed like a good idea when I got up this morning. Now, it seems less so.
The problem is, the higher you are, the further you have to fall.
That post-show rush is like helium, and since I ran out of the ring I’ve felt so light, I floated through the whole weekend. On Friday night I was a closeted trapeze artist and by Sunday I was a gay clown. It felt like everything could change.
Even coming out at home was easy because, of course, my family reacted like the super-cool family they are.
Dad said, “Oh my God, you’re not dating Py, are you? I don’t think my nerves could stand it.”
“No, Dad.”
“OK, then we’re good.”
And Mum said, “Hadn’t you already told us that? I could have sworn you did.”
“Uh … no.”
“No? Maybe it was when Wren went vegan.”
“I guess so.”
Then they went back to their Sunday newspapers and I stood there awkwardly for a minute. Even I was expecting more of a reaction than that. Was I supposed to just go now, or what?
“Um, is that it? I mean, you understand what I’m saying, don’t you? You know ‘gay’ doesn’t mean ‘happy’ these days?”
Mum laughed and then said gently, “Of course we understand. And we knew, sweetheart. Of course we knew.”
“Oh. I think Birdie knew too actually. I guess I should stop wearing that I am gay T-shirt everywhere.”
Dad flapped the pages of his newspaper and said absently, “I think it’s very nice. Maybe try a jacket.”
When I told Lou, she looked me over, shook her head and said, “I don’t know. I’ve seen gays on the telly and they’re very fashionable. I don’t think they’ll take you.”
“You don’t have to apply, Lou! And there’s nothing wrong with my clothes!”
“Can you get me into one of them gay bars? They look like a laugh.”
I rolled my eyes. “Still underage, Gran. But maybe. Someday.” She started practising her club moves and the two of us laughed until my face ached.
But I guess the high is temporary. It tricks you into thinking anything is possible, and then you find yourself sitting on the yard wall on a chilly Monday morning, surrounded by games of football and other minor skirmishes, and the sense of anticlimax is kind of crushing.
I try to remember the costumes, the spotlights, the music, the applause. But then I look around at the whitewashed school and the tarmac yard and all the grey people and think, What does any of that have to do with this?
I was an idiot to think anything would be different. The euphoria of the weekend now seems ludicrous. All that talk about being brave suddenly seems like just that – talk. And what it boils down to is a lot of complicated, scary things that I now have to think about.
Do I want to do this? Do I want to be Murragh High’s gay poster boy? Do I want to sign up for years of looking over my shoulder and being on my guard and picking my battles? Do I want to have a boyfriend? Do I want to have a boyfriend who’s a million times smarter than me and has no dress sense?
If he ever even gets here.
I’m taking my phone out to text him when I hear a scream and some laughter from near the gates, and I look up to see people scattering out of the path of the unicycle lurching dangerously across the yard.
He looks as terrified as ever, but I know he’s putting it on; he’s not half as bad at the unicycle as he’s pretending to be. But he’s certainly getting people’s attention as he narrowly avoids running them down.
He’s wearing plain brown trousers that actually fit him; a white shirt tucked in at the waist, open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up; his red clown braces; and the black bowler hat, spikes of blond hair jutting out beneath it. He looks pretty cool. And kind of cute; why did I never notice that before?
Everyone’s watching, laughing and squealing at the near-misses, wincing and waiting for the crash as he comes towards me. But when he gets closer, he straightens up, winks at me and then sails the last five metres, smooth as Janie on her silks or Py with his poi. I stand up to meet him, slightly confused and with a fluttery feeling in my stomach.
But then, a metre away, he seems to hit a bump and lose his balance, because suddenly he’s falling face first towards me. I put my hands out to catch him but he tucks his head in, puts his arms out and does the neatest little tumble. He lands right at my feet and springs up in front of me, grinning and pulling something out of the folds of his rolled-up sleeve like a magician with a bunch of fake flowers.
There’s scattered applause from the yard and I laugh, waiting for him to say “Ta-dah!” because it’s the perfect ta-dah moment.
But it’s not fake flowers, it’s two slips of paper. “Movie tickets,” he says. “You won our bet. There’s a film festival in the city; they’re showing old Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin films. Come with me? As my date?”
Everyone is staring at us. A whole yardful of Ginghams, frozen, slack-jawed, like they’ve never seen a boy on a unicycle ask out a boy in a skirt before. We glance around at them.
“This isn’t going to be easy, is it?” I say.
Hector shakes his head. “It might be totally shit. Think yourself lucky; I’ve done it once already and now I have to do it again!” He holds the tickets out. “So, how
about it?”
There’s no orange wig, no sticky lipstick, no red nose. Just a couple of hundred teenagers gawping at us. I don’t care. It’s like Mum said; you can’t please everyone. One person will do.
“Yeah.” I grin at him. “That sounds great.”
There’s a moment during every trick
Posted by Birdie
It might look like letting go, leaping into thin air, but what it really is, is trusting something or someone to catch you. It could be a ridiculously small part of your own body – your knees, one foot, even your teeth. It could be a bar, a length of silk, a parent, a sister, a friend. A hand reaching out of its spotlight and into yours. The trust part comes in because you have no idea if it’s going to work out until you make that leap.
When choosing a partner for your act, remember that you’ll spend very little of your time in the spotlight. Six minutes or so, a few times a week. And most of the time you spend holding that outstretched hand won’t be when your life depends on it, it’ll be when you’re watching telly, or walking home from school, or sitting in the cinema.
The trick is to choose a hand you like holding, wherever you are.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Drum roll, please…
This book would still be cowering backstage were it not for Helen Nicholl and Liz Carrasco who very gently yelled at me until I sent it to my agent. Everyone needs friends like these.
Massive thanks to – my agent, Kirsty McLachlan, for believing in me in the first place; the truly lovely folks at Walker Books, especially my editors, Lucy Earley and Emily McDonnell, both of whom instantly got these characters and made the editing a breeze (I’m so grateful Finch leaped into such safe hands); Anna Morrison for the beautiful cover; and Michael Bell for school-related fact checking (all errors are his fault).
The spelling of Palari words varies, but I shushed most of mine from Micheál Ó hAodha’s Parley with Me: A Compendium of Fairground Speech.
Most of all, thanks to my husband, Michael, for support and encouragement beyond measure; to my family, who very rarely suggest I get a proper job; and to my sister, Lynsey, who demanded I put her name in the book. I’m putting it at the back to check if she’s read it.
KELLY MCCAUGHRAIN lives in Belfast and has recently completed a degree in English and Creative Writing at Queen’s University. She was shortlisted for the 2013 Times/Chicken House Children’s Fiction Prize. When she isn’t writing, she volunteers with Fighting Words Belfast and takes long holidays in her 1967 classic campervan, Gerda. Flying Tips for Flightless Birds is her first novel.
Visit her website at www.KellyMcCaughrain.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.
First published in Great Britain 2018 by Walker Books Ltd
87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
Text © 2018 Kelly McCaughrain
Cover illustration © 2018 Anna Rebecca Morrison
The right of Kelly McCaughrain to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:
a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-4063-8195-5 (ePub)
www.walker.co.uk
Flying Tips for Flightless Birds Page 24
