The Bonaventure Adventures

by Rachelle Delaney

  CONTRARY TO SEB’S theory, Room Number 5 did not look better in the daylight. In fact, the light streaming through its one small window the next morning only illuminated the shabby carpet and the large water stain on the ceiling.

  But it wasn’t terrible, Seb decided. And since his roommate in the top bunk was still snoring away (not nearly as throatily as Maxime), he took the opportunity to review his Plan to Survive Circus School. He dug into his pocket, as he’d fallen asleep in his clothes, and pulled out the crumpled sick bag to review the plan.

  PLAN TO SURVIVE CIRCUS SCHOOL

  Option 1: Meet with Angélique Saint-Germain.

  Explain that I am a Circus Scholar, here to observe the ways of the modern circus. As such, I’d be better off watching during skills classes than participating.

  This, he believed, was his best bet. It involved next to no lying and would justify spending most of his time in the library.

  Option 2: Fake an injury.

  Option two was less desirable. Not only did it involve a pretty big lie, it could land him in a doctor’s office. He did, however, have a good injury in mind: the fractured metatarsal. One of the Konstantinov acrobats had once fractured his metatarsal, which was a very important bone in the foot, and he’d been out for weeks.

  Option 3: Hide.

  He hoped it wouldn’t come to option three. That would make for a very long four years. But desperate times called for desperate measures, as they said. And Seb was pretty good at blending into the walls.

  Soon Sylvain’s alarm went off, and the boys rolled out of bed to prepare for the day. For Seb, this involved locating his trunk and digging out some cleaner clothes. For Sylvain, it involved locating a giant bag of candy and digging in.

  “That’s your breakfast?” Seb was impressed.

  “First breakfast,” Sylvain corrected him. “Second breakfast happens in the cafeteria—toast, cereal, you know.” He tossed a handful of gummy bears into his mouth. “Want some?” He held out the bag.

  Seb took a string of licorice. “I’ve never had candy for breakfast,” he admitted—although he had, during some particularly lean times for the Konstantinovs, resorted to breakfasting on the previous night’s show popcorn. He didn’t share this with his roommate.

  “Then you’ve been missing out,” Sylvain informed him. “But maybe don’t mention my stash. The teachers here want us to eat healthily—they think it improves our performance. But you know what really improves performance? Chocolate peanut butter cups.” He tossed one in the air and caught it in his teeth. Then he offered one to Seb, who ate it like a normal person.

  A knock on the door made them both jump.

  “Are you boys ready?” the Scout called from the other side.

  “Almost,” Sylvain yelled back, hiding his candy bag in the top drawer of the dresser. “Better hurry,” he told Seb. “He’s taking us to orientation.”

  “Really?” Seb said. “He does that?”

  “Not for everyone.” Sylvain pulled on a very wrinkled T-shirt. “Just you, Superstar.”

  “Oh.” Seb’s stomach lurched. Clearly there was no time to lose in putting his Plan to Survive Circus School into action. “Hey, do you know where the directrice’s office is?” he asked as he changed his clothes.

  “Third floor,” Sylvain replied. “Why?”

  “I want to meet with her,” said Seb.

  “What?” Sylvain’s eyes went wide. “No, you don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Seb insisted. “Can’t students meet with her?”

  “Well sure, they can,” said Sylvain. “If they’re crazy enough to want to. Trust me, you don’t—”

  “Almost ready?” the Scout called. Seb heard a shout outside the door, followed by laughter.

  “Tell you later,” Sylvain promised, and he flung open the door.

  The Scout stood there waiting, wearing the same spotless suit as the night before. His hair was once again perfectly coiffed, and Seb wondered if he slathered it in hot oil at bedtime to make it shiny, or if that was just a Dragan thing.

  He stepped into the hallway to find a completely different scene than the night before. Now the old carpet was strewn with duffel bags and suitcases, juggling pins and unicycles. And there were kids everywhere—mostly boys, as this was the boys’ wing—laughing and chattering away.

  “Ready for breakfast?” the Scout asked. “You must be hungry.”

  “Not really.” Sylvain bounced out to greet a few boys with high fives. The boys, however, seemed more interested in Seb; several stared at him openly. He even caught one mouthing, “It’s the superstar!”

  “Not really,” Seb agreed. On the contrary, he once again felt a little ill.

  “Well, then, I’ll show you around some more,” the Scout said. “Follow me.” He sidestepped a hula hoop and led Seb down the hall. Sylvain followed close behind.

  “It’s him!” one boy said to another as they passed.

  “Really? That’s him?” his friend whispered back.

  Seb blushed to the roots of his hair.

  “Move along, kids!” Sylvain commanded. “Nothing to see here. Give my roommate some space!” He nudged the boys aside so Seb could pass.

  “But it is him, right?” one of the boys asked Sylvain.

  “Of course it’s him. And he has a name,” Sylvain replied haughtily. “It’s Sebastian Konstantinov. Did I mention he’s my roommate?”

  Never had Seb wanted so badly to blend into the walls.

  “There are sixty students at Bonaventure this year,” the Scout said as they left the boys’ wing. “About fifteen in each year. We have all disciplines represented, from acrobatics to unicycling.”

  Seb tried to ignore the stares and hurried to catch up. “Where have they all trained?” he asked.

  “Theaters, dance schools, gymnastics clubs,” the Scout replied. “Some, like Sylvain, trained at smaller circus schools. And there are always a few with no formal training at all, who simply show tremendous talent. My favorite part of my job,” he added, “is finding those students—the ones who’ve never before even considered studying circus arts.”

  “Where do you find them?” Seb asked.

  “You never know where they’ll be.” The Scout grinned. “I like to think I have a sixth sense for it.”

  Before Seb could ask more questions, the Scout led him into the girls’ wing, which looked identical to the one they’d left, except now all the kids shouting and laughing were female. Two girls sporting matching purple T-shirts and pixie-like haircuts appeared to be practicing an acrobatics routine in the middle of the hallway, despite the bags and suitcases around them.

  “Look out,” Sylvain warned as they began to cartwheel toward them. Seb jumped out of the way, only to land right on someone’s foot.

  “Ow!” the someone cried out.

  “Sorry!” Seb whirled around to find a very tall girl scowling down at him. Her face was long and thin, her brown eyes so dark they were nearly black. She wore boys’ shorts and sneakers, and her hair reminded Seb of the Konstantinov lion’s mane, except dark like her eyes.

  “Sorry,” he said again. “I was just trying to avoid them.” He gestured to the twin pixies, who were now walking down the hall on their hands.

  “Join the club,” the girl said darkly. “And be glad they’re not your roommates.”

  “This is Francesca de Luca,” said the Scout. “She’s one of those rare talents I just mentioned. Francesca—”

  “Frankie,” the girl cut in.

  “Frankie,” said the Scout, “has no formal circus training, but she is a brilliant, self-taught freerunner.”

  “Traceur,” Frankie corrected him. “I do parkour.”

  “Cool!” Sylvain held up his hand for a high five. Frankie regarded it for a moment, then left him hanging. Sylvain shrugged and high-fived himself with his other hand.

  Seb had seen some kids in Prague practicing parkour, so he knew it involved using the city as an obstacle course. He recalled
them scaling walls and flipping off ledges, and feeling certain that if he attempted it, he’d end up in a full-body cast.

  “I discovered Frankie in Rome,” the Scout said. “It was a stroke of luck, really. Frankie, this is Sebastian Konstantinov, of the Konstantinov Family Circus.”

  Frankie looked him up and down. “Never heard of it.”

  The Scout started. Sylvain snorted. But Seb was only relieved: at least one person at Bonaventure didn’t think he was a superstar.

  Before the Scout could explain, Frankie excused herself to go unpack.

  They continued on, down three flights of stairs and a few dark hallways until they reached the front foyer where Seb had stood the previous night.

  “This way.” The Scout led them to the other set of wooden double doors and pushed them open. “This is the Bonaventure theater.”

  Seb stepped inside and froze. “Whoa,” he breathed.

  It was, as the Scout had said, a cathedral—or had been, at one time. Parts of the original church remained, like cream-colored marble arches and statues of dour-looking saints. Overhead, stained glass windows beamed rainbow light onto the wooden floors. But the church pews had been removed, replaced by rows of folding chairs. The rafters were rigged with bolts and hooks for the trapeze and silks. And where the altar once stood there was now a big stage.

  “This is amazing!” Seb whispered, imagining the shows that could take place here, under the stained glass windows and sky-high ceilings. It would be beautiful and haunting and just…just…

  “Perfect,” he breathed.

  “Far from it,” sighed the Scout. “This place needs a lot of work. Ideally, we’d rebuild the theater altogether, but that costs a lot of money.”

  On closer inspection, Seb could see what he meant. The floors were hopelessly scratched and the purple stage curtain stained. The stage bowed dangerously in the middle, and it had clearly been patched several times over the years.

  And yet, he still loved everything about the theater. In fact, the only thing he’d change would be to have the place all to himself. Students had begun to stream in around them, claiming seats for orientation. There was a clamor onstage too, where a bald man in a suit was scurrying around, giving orders to some stagehands.

  Somewhere backstage, a woman hollered, “Bruno!” The bald man jumped and ducked behind the curtain.

  “Come this way.” The Scout led the boys up to the very front row.

  Seb hesitated—front and center was Dragan’s preferred spot, not his. He glanced behind and saw Frankie de Luca claiming the very best seat, in the back corner. He wished he could join her, though she did scare him a little. Maybe more than a little.

  As if she could hear his thoughts, Frankie looked over and gazed back at him coolly. He quickly looked away.

  And that was when he first saw the staircase.

  It stood at the back of the theater, its crooked steps winding up to what looked like a large wooden box with no lid. At one time, Seb guessed, it might have been a choir box for the monks; now it looked largely unused, judging by the rope that cordoned it off.

  Sylvain poked him in the ribs, and he turned to find his roommate surrounded by other students. Seb recognized the twin pixies from the girls’ floor, plus a few boys who’d sized him up earlier.

  “This is my roommate, Sebastian Konstantinov. But you can call him Seb,” Sylvain informed them. “We all know each other from circus classes around here,” he told Seb. Then he rattled off a list of names, most of which Seb promptly forgot.

  “Did you hear that Madeleine didn’t get in?” one of the pixies asked. The twins’ names were Camille and Giselle, but Seb couldn’t for the life of him remember which was which. “Apparently, she’s on the wait list.”

  “Apparently, there are fifty kids on the wait list,” the other pixie added. Seb decided to call her Giselle.

  “It’s always like that,” Sylvain said wisely. “And a few always get in late. Because someone always gets kicked out.”

  “They do?” said Seb. He didn’t like the sound of that.

  “That’s what I’ve heard too,” said one of the boys, a juggler named Matthieu.

  “Well, it won’t be us,” Camille said to Giselle. “Swear it.” She held up her pinkie, and her twin hooked her own around it to swear.

  “Just don’t get on her bad side.” Sylvain leaned in and lowered his voice. “I’ve heard awful stories of what happens when kids end up in her office.”

  Before Seb could ask him to explain, the lights flickered and dimmed, then went off completely. The students and staff fell silent, waiting in the dark.

  For a few moments, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, a spotlight flared and the curtains were swept aside to reveal a small woman clad completely in crimson, from her high heels to her suit to her short crimson-colored hair. Or was it scarlet? Seb wondered, and he wished that Juan the contortionist were there to weigh in.

  The woman marched across the stage toward a microphone, and the audience burst into applause. She acknowledged it with a nod, and the students cheered.

  This, Seb decided, could be none other than Angélique Saint-Germain.

  “It’s her!” Camille squealed.

  “She’s just as beautiful in real life as in the photos in her biography,” whispered Giselle.

  “Destined to Soar,” added Camille.

  Sylvain snorted.

  Angélique Saint-Germain was beautiful, just as Dragan had said. If Seb hadn’t known she was his father’s age, he would have assumed her much younger. Possibly she too spent a lot of time on her pores.

  Madame Saint-Germain reached the microphone and gestured for silence. The students immediately fell so quiet that Seb could hear the twin pixies breathing, in perfect unison of course. “Welcome,” said the directrice, “to a brand-new year at the Bonaventure Circus School.”

  “Thank you,” Camille whispered reverently.

  “Would you stop?” Sylvain hissed at her.

  “As you know, Bonaventure has extremely high standards,” the directrice told them. “You have all been accepted or invited to continue based on your talent and potential for greatness. It was a rigorous audition process, and many did not survive it.” She paused, as if taking a moment of silence for the fallen. Seb couldn’t help but picture them hidden away somewhere, like in a pit beneath the stage.

  “And you might be thinking that now the hardest part is over.” The directrice smiled at them, then shook her head. “You would be wrong.”

  The room grew even quieter.

  “As you returning students know, a school year at Bonaventure is challenging. Arduous,” she added, rolling her Rs with gusto. “Grueling, even. You must balance skills training with excellence in academia. I’ll be honest with you,” she said, lowering her voice. “Some of you will fail. And there is a long list of students waiting to take your place.”

  “This is some pep talk,” Sylvain whispered.

  Seb stole a quick glance at his fellow students, all of whom had survived the grueling audition process that he surely would have failed. He took a deep breath to quell the panic rising in his chest.

  You’ve got a survival plan, he reminded himself. Though now he was seriously questioning the part that required him to meet face-to-face with this crimson-clad woman. She was even more frightening than Frankie de Luca.

  “So how does a student succeed at Bonaventure?” the directrice went on.

  Camille’s hand shot up in the air.

  “The answer,” the directrice went on, ignoring her, “is, diligence. Dedication. Devotion, even.”

  “That’s what I was going to say,” Camille whispered.

  Sylvain rolled his eyes to the rafters.

  “You must pursue perfection, practice at every opportunity,” said the directrice. “You are here because you want to be world-class circus performers. And that does not happen without thousands upon thousands of hours of work.”

  “Sounds exhausting.” Sylvain’s f
riend Matthieu yawned.

  “It will be,” Camille said. She turned to her twin. “But we’ll practice ’til we drop, won’t we? We’ll give up sleeping if we have to.” Giselle nodded, though a little reluctantly, and they pinkie swore again. Seb wondered how Frankie would survive the year with the twins as roommates.

  “If you fail to practice, you may be asked to leave Bonaventure,” said the directrice. “But there are other ways to fail, of course.” She began to count them on her crimson fingernails. “Not excelling academically. Not perfecting all your skills. Not respecting teachers. Not arriving on—”

  A clamor at the back of the theater interrupted her. Seb turned around. Near the doors huddled a group of adults—teachers, Seb assumed—whispering amongst themselves. The directrice cleared her throat into the microphone, but they didn’t seem to hear.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Angélique Saint-Germain called out, as if the teachers were misbehaving students.

  “Non, Madame!” The bald man who’d been onstage earlier popped out of the huddle and trotted down the aisle toward her, a slip of paper in hand. She snatched it from him, scanned it, then quietly cursed. Or rather, it would have been quiet had she not still been holding the microphone.

  Some students gasped. A few more giggled.

  The directrice cleared her throat. “It appears,” she said, “one of the first-year students has gone missing.”

  “Missing!” The students buzzed.

  “A student”—she checked the paper—“named Banjo Brady.”

  “Banjo?” Sylvain exclaimed. “That’s a name?”

  Angélique Saint-Germain glared down at him, and he snapped his mouth shut. Then she raised an eyebrow at the bald man.

  “That’s his name,” the man confirmed.

  She handed the paper back. “If anyone has seen Monsieur Brady today, please report to the teachers at the back of the room immediately.”

  A few students hopped up and hurried down the aisle, and the room began to buzz again.

  “Maybe he ran away,” said Matthieu.

  “I bet he couldn’t take the pressure,” said Camille.