Suddenly, Seb realized that he was standing, frozen, just inside the airport doors. He hurried after his family.
He and Dragan nudged through the crowds until they found the airline the Scout had booked with. He’d arranged everything, just as he’d promised, so Seb only had to set his luggage on a conveyor belt and wait for the attendant who would accompany him to the gate.
Dragan stood beside him, untying and retying his scarf. “You don’t have to go, you know,” he told Seb.
Seb swallowed. “I already checked in my luggage,” he pointed out.
“We can get it back. It’s not too late.” Dragan looked like he wanted to leap onto the conveyor belt after the trunk.
“It’s going to be okay, Dad,” Seb said. “I’m going to learn all I can. I’ll report back every week.” It made him feel slightly better to remind himself of his mission and the prospect of returning someday, triumphant.
Dragan watched the trunk being swept away. Then he looked at Seb. “You won’t tell Angélique…anyone…about the Konstantinovs, will you?”
“What about us?” asked Seb.
“Well, first off, that we’re…” Dragan glanced around, then lowered his voice, “not related.”
Seb looked over his shoulder at the Spanish contortionist, the French sword swallower and the clown from New Jersey, who had begun to wheel around on a luggage cart. He turned back to his father. “You don’t think she might have guessed that already?”
Dragan frowned. “Sebastian, this is very important. I’ve spent decades building the story of the Konstantinovs. You mustn’t tell her.”
“Okay, okay,” said Seb.
“And more important,” his father went on, “do not tell her or anyone else about our financial situation. That is a family matter. Do you understand?”
Seb nodded. “I won’t.”
“Good,” Dragan said, but he was still frowning.
“It’s going to be okay, Dad,” Seb repeated. And because a lump was forming in his throat, he decided not to prolong things.
“Guys, I’m going,” he called to the Konstantinovs, who were pulling doughnuts on the luggage cart.
Aunt Tatiana hurried over to hug him, and he buried his face in her beard. Maxime offered him the complicated secret handshake they’d made up years before. Stanley teared up, then pulled out a handkerchief that turned out to be six feet long. Seb forced a smile.
“Yeah, it’s not my best joke,” the clown admitted, honking his nose with the handkerchief. “But we’ll miss ya, kid.”
Then Seb turned to hug his father, pulling away quickly, aware that if he lingered too long, he’d lose his nerve and never go through with it. “Bye, Dad,” he said, and he turned to the attendant who’d come to accompany him.
He began to walk away, then stole a glance back, and the Konstantinov Family Circus waved. Juan turned a backflip. Stanley jingled his shoes.
“Bon courage!” called Maxime. “We’re counting on you!”
Seb waved back, then turned and hurried away.
Part 2
THE BONAVENTURE CIRCUS SCHOOL
SEB STARED OUT the window of the taxi at the dark, rain-slicked streets of Old Montreal and noted that they had passed the same set of streetlights three times. He didn’t think this was a good sign.
“What’s the name of this school again?” the driver asked over his shoulder.
“Bonaventure,” Seb replied.
“Huh.” The driver turned back to the road and switched the windshield wipers up to their highest speed. Seb watched them flip back and forth, back and forth, and his eyelids began to droop.
The Scout hadn’t been able to pick Seb up at the airport, so he’d sent his regrets with the taxi driver. The man had met him at the baggage claim with a sign that read SEBASTIAN CONSTANTINOPLE. Seb, who had been traveling for over a day thanks to a delayed flight in Frankfurt, decided this was good enough.
“I can’t find this place,” the driver complained. He spoke English with a French accent, but different than Maxime’s, somehow. Seb was too tired to really think about it. “Are you sure it’s real?” asked the driver.
Seb shook himself awake. This was something he hadn’t considered—that he would arrive in Montreal only to discover that his new school did not, in fact, exist.
Seb peered out the window at Old Montreal. It did look suitably old, with narrow cobblestone streets and the kind of ornate buildings he expected from Europe, but not from Canada. He wondered if there was also a New Montreal, and how it was different, but he decided not to ask, as the driver was growing increasingly grumpy.
“What kind of school is this?” the man huffed as they splashed through a giant puddle.
“A circus school,” replied Seb.
“Quoi?” The driver stepped on the brakes and looked at Seb wide-eyed through the rearview mirror. “A circus school? Like, with acrobats and…”—he mimed a three-ball cascade—“jongleurs?”
“Jugglers,” Seb supplied.
A car behind them honked. The driver made an impolite gesture over his shoulder and started driving again. “Running away to join the circus,” he marveled. “So what do you do?”
“Sorry?”
“Are you a lion tamer? Acrobat? One of those people on the…” He waved his hand back and forth in a swinging motion.
“Trapeze?” said Seb.
The driver nodded.
“Uh-uh,” Seb replied. “And not all trapezes swing.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The static trapeze barely moves at all. It’s more about the shapes the artist makes when they’re on it.” He paused, thinking about Maria, the Konstantinov aerialist. She’d recently been perfecting a new trapeze trick that involved hanging off it by her neck—no hands or feet involved. He made a mental note to ask how it was going when he called home.
“So if you don’t do the trapeze, what do you do?” asked the driver.
Seb drew a breath. He’d spent the better part of the flight from Frankfurt figuring out how he was going to answer this very question. It was part of his big Plan to Survive Circus School. Since he’d had no proper writing paper, he’d written it out on an airplane sick bag. “Well, I’m—”
“Wait, there it is!” The driver pointed left and slammed on the brakes again. “Weird place for a school, but I guess it is the circus, right?” He tapped the meter above his head.
Seb dug out the wad of Canadian bills his father had given him upon leaving Budapest. He had no idea where Dragan had gotten the money—much less Canadian money, much less in Budapest—nor did he particularly want to know. He paid the driver, then they both climbed out into the rain to retrieve his trunk, which fortunately had survived the trip intact.
“Bonne chance, kid!” The driver slapped him on the back, then hopped back into the taxi.
“Thanks,” Seb said. He grasped the handle of his trunk, shielded his eyes from the rain and looked up for the first time at his new home.
“Wait, what?” He blinked. Before him stood a very large and very old church. A cathedral, actually—with stone spires reaching up into the inky sky. Seb looked back at the taxi driver, who shrugged through the fogged-up window.
“Weird is right,” said Seb. He sloshed across the street to the giant wooden double doors, where a plaque declared, in swirling gold script, that he had indeed found the Bonaventure Circus School.
“Okay then,” he said. And he squared his shoulders and pulled open the door.
Inside, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he found himself in a dimly lit foyer whose walls and floor were lined with stone. To his left was another set of wooden double doors, which he assumed led into the cathedral. To his right stood an office, locked up tight for the night. And beyond that stretched a narrow stone hallway; the few flickering lights overhead gave no indication where it led. The air was cold and dank.
It felt more like a medieval castle than a circus, Seb decided, setting his trunk down next to his sop
ping sneakers. “Um, hello?” he called out. “Is anyone here?”
At first he heard nothing but his own voice, bouncing off the stones. But after a few moments, footsteps arose somewhere down the dark hallway. Seb waited, fighting a growing urge to turn and run back out into the rain.
A moment later, a tall, blond man wearing a neat, gray suit walked into the foyer. Or rather, he strode, swinging his arms with the ease of someone who had everything under control. With his broad shoulders and solid jaw, he could have been a strongman in a traditional circus. Or a superhero in a movie.
“Hello.” He blinked at Seb. His eyes were steely silver, like Maxime’s favorite dagger. “Are you a new student?”
Seb nodded. “I’m Seb.”
The man nodded too, but in a way that told Seb he didn’t actually know who he was. “I’m Michel. But around here, they call me the Scout.”
So this was the Scout he’d written to. “I’m Sebastian Konstantinov,” Seb clarified.
“Konstantinov!” The Scout’s eyebrows leaped toward his hair, which rivaled Dragan’s in terms of thickness and volume. “I’m so sorry! We’ve been expecting you. I didn’t recognize…I mean, you look—”
“It’s okay,” Seb said quickly, knowing exactly what he was about to say: that Seb looked nothing like what he’d expected. In other words, nothing like his father. He reached up to flatten his hair, which even sopping wet still managed to stand on end.
The Scout took Seb’s wet hand and shook it hard. “Welcome, Sebastian Konstantinov,” he said. “Or Seb, you prefer? I’m very sorry for not meeting you at the airport. We had a bit of an emergency, and I had to stay and take care of it.”
“Is everything okay?” asked Seb.
“Oh yes,” the Scout assured him. “When your school is this old, things break down all the time. Today it was the stage in the theater—the boards needed patching in time for orientation tomorrow.”
“That sounds important,” Seb agreed. “So you do carpentry too?”
“I’ve dabbled in a few different things.” The Scout winked at him. “Now, shall I show you your room?” He pointed to Seb’s trunk. “Is this all you brought? No other equipment? Unicycles, hula hoops…” He scanned the foyer.
“That’s it,” said Seb.
“Well, then.” He picked up the trunk and tucked it under his arm. “This way.”
He led Seb down the dark hallway, under the flickering lights. It was eerily quiet; the only sounds came from the Scout’s shoes tapping on the stone floor and Seb’s sneakers sloshing behind.
It was definitely creepy, Seb decided. But if he’d learned one thing from twelve years in a traveling circus, it was that pretty well everything looked better in daylight. The spooky mountains towering over your caravan might well turn out to be snowcapped and sparkling in the morning. And a little village that looked eerie in the shadows could actually be quite charming.
Hopefully this held true for a circus school in a decrepit old church.
The hallway opened up into a common area, where half a dozen couches clustered around a massive fireplace. To the left was a cafeteria lined with tables, all empty.
“So…where is everyone?” Seb asked, trying to sound casual and not at all concerned. “I thought most students arrive a few days early.”
“Only the ones from far away,” said the Scout. “Most students live in town or close by, though they still board here throughout the week. They’ll arrive first thing tomorrow for orientation. Quiet, isn’t it?”
Seb nodded.
“I guess that’s the way the monks liked it.”
“Monks?”
“Bonaventure used to be a monastery,” said the Scout. “Didn’t you know?”
A monastery! Seb shook his head. He’d seen several monasteries in his travels, including one in Moldova, where some monks had dug caves into the side of a cliff overlooking a river. He’d sketched that one on his homemade map, which he’d left with Maxime in Budapest.
Like Bonaventure, the cave monastery had been eerily quiet. Though probably, he thought, as he surveyed the stained couches and threadbare carpet, it needed less upkeep.
“The monks left decades ago,” the Scout explained. “We now use their dining hall as a cafeteria.” He gestured at the empty tables. “And their cathedral as a theater. You’ll see that tomorrow at orientation. Some say it’s the best part of the school. It’s also where we host our Friday night soirees for the circophiles of Montreal.”
Circophiles! Seb perked up at the word.
“Students aren’t actually invited,” the Scout went on, “but perhaps the directrice could make an exception for you someday. The soirees are quite a sight. And they bring in some much-needed money,” he added.
It was an odd thing to say to a new student, Seb thought, but there wasn’t much point in denying the state of the school. There were holes in the carpet the size of dinner plates.
At the notion of dinner, Seb’s stomach growled loudly.
“Ah, of course you’re hungry. One moment.” The Scout disappeared into the cafeteria, emerging a minute later with an apple and a peanut butter sandwich. “I’m sorry, this is all we’ve got tonight. Our cook will be back tomorrow morning.”
“This is perfect,” Seb told him, and he meant it.
“I’ve never seen a Konstantinov Family Circus show,” the Scout said as he led Seb through a door near the cafeteria, then up three flights of stairs. “But I’ve heard they’re excellent.”
“They’re pretty great,” Seb agreed. “Our performers are really talented. I like the sword-swallowing act best, but the contortionist has this great new routine where he fits himself into a guitar case. It’s pretty wild.” His chest tightened a little. He missed the Konstantinovs already.
The Scout smiled. “Your father has built a real empire over there, hasn’t he? I hear he’s a visionary.”
“A what?” Seb stopped halfway up the second flight of stairs.
“A visionary,” the Scout repeated. “Someone with creative and inventive ideas.”
Seb knew what a visionary was. He just wasn’t sure who would have used the word to describe his father. Except maybe Dragan himself.
He made a polite humming noise and continued climbing.
“We’re thrilled to have you here, Seb.” The Scout stopped in front of a door marked with the number 5.
“Me too,” Seb said, though at that moment, he was more exhausted than anything.
Room Number 5 contained a set of bunk beds, a chest of drawers, a small sink and a carpet as threadbare as the one downstairs. But more important, it contained a boy about Seb’s age, who was juggling two oranges and three balled-up socks.
The boy jumped when they entered, and the objects rained down around him. “Bonsoir!” he cried.
“Bonsoir,” Seb replied. “Je m’appelle Seb.”
“You speak French!” The Scout looked impressed.
“Our sword swallower is from France,” Seb told him, then recalled Dragan’s warning. “I mean, my brother—”
“Cool.” The boy shook his hand vigorously. “I’m Sylvain.”
“Seb,” said Seb.
“And your English is very American for someone from Eastern Europe,” the Scout observed. “But a few of the Konstantinovs are from America, aren’t they? Your performers come from all over the world.”
Seb started. “Wait, you know?”
“Know what?” said the Scout.
“Uh, that we’re not related?” said Seb. He told his father that they’d know!
Both the Scout and Sylvain nodded. “I think I read it on Circopedia,” said the Scout.
“I checked out your website,” added Sylvain. “You guys look nothing alike.”
“Yeah,” Seb agreed. It was a relief, actually, to have one less secret to keep from his new classmates and teachers. He had enough to worry about. “So, are you from far away too?” he asked Sylvain.
The boy shook his head. “I’m from Montreal
.”
“Sylvain decided to come a day early.” The Scout chuckled. “To meet his new roommate.”
Sylvain didn’t deny it. “My friends were pretty jealous when they heard I get to share a room with the superstar,” he said.
Seb dropped his sandwich on the carpet. “The what?”
“I took the top bunk,” Sylvain went on. “But you can have it if you want. I don’t mind.”
Seb declined and retrieved his sandwich, though his appetite had disappeared.
“I’ll leave you two then,” said the Scout. “And I’ll see you tomorrow for orientation.”
Seb wished him goodnight, then sank down on the bottom bunk, now as perplexed as he was exhausted.
“Hey, you going to eat that?” Sylvain pointed at his apple. Seb shook his head, and Sylvain snatched it up. Then he resumed juggling, this time with three socks, two oranges and one apple.
“So, no offense,” the boy said as he tossed the objects in a perfect arc above his head. “But you look different than I imagined. People keep saying you’re known for your charisma. So I pictured you, I don’t know, taller?” He dropped the socks and began juggling the fruit in one hand.
“Charisma?” Seb repeated. It was just getting worse.
“Yeah, you know. Like charm that inspires—”
“I know what it is,” he said. What he didn’t know was who would call him that. Though he suspected it was the same person who’d called Dragan a visionary.
Now he definitely needed to lie down.
He stretched out on the bottom bunk and closed his eyes, listening to the patter of Sylvain’s juggling. It’s going to be okay, he told himself. Remember, you’ve got a Plan to Survive Circus School. He patted the pocket of his jeans, to make sure it was still there, written on the airplane sick bag.
It’s going to be okay, he told himself again, and he repeated the words until they became as rhythmic as Sylvain’s juggling. Within moments, it lulled him right to sleep.
The Bonaventure Adventures Page 4
