The Bonaventure Adventures

by Rachelle Delaney

  “But what if he got kidnapped!” squeaked Giselle.

  “Doubtful,” Sylvain said. “He probably just lost his way. Or fell through a hole in the floorboards. I almost did this morning. Anyway”—he shrugged—“when Bingo gets back—”

  “I think it’s Banjo,” said Seb.

  “When Banjo gets back,” Sylvain went on, “he’ll end up in her office for sure.” He nodded at the directrice. “And I’ve heard that some students who go in…” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “never come back out!”

  “That’s not true!” cried Giselle.

  “That’s the rumor.” Sylvain shrugged. “Maybe it’s not true, but I’m not taking chances.”

  Seb shivered. He could only hope it wasn’t true. For Banjo Brady’s sake, of course, but especially for his own.

  AN HOUR LATER, sixty students spilled out of the Bonaventure theater, sweeping Seb along with them. His arms were full of papers and his brain full of teacher names and dorm rules and the many ways to get kicked out of circus school. The directrice had eventually run out of fingers on which to count them.

  The students scattered, heading off to class, but Seb hung back. He needed to find the Scout.

  He found the man striding down the dark stone hallway toward the front door, clearly on a mission.

  “Mr. Scout!” Seb called, trotting after him. “Can you hang on a minute?”

  The Scout turned. “Ah, Seb,” he said. “I’m sorry I left without you. I’ve got to go search for the lost boy, Banjo Brady.”

  Seb pictured him trading his spotless suit for a superhero costume, then bursting out onto the mean streets of Montreal to fight off the baddies who’d captured poor Banjo Brady. It would make a great story; he made a mental note to come back to it later.

  “Right,” he said. “I just need to know how I can, um, get a meeting…with the directrice.”

  The Scout looked concerned. “Is something wrong, Seb?”

  “Oh, no,” Seb said quickly. “I just…” He thought fast. “My dad actually asked me to meet with her. To, um, pass on a friendly hello.” He hated lying, especially to the Scout. But he told himself it was for a good cause.

  The man’s face relaxed. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sure she’d be delighted. I’ll talk to Bruno, her assistant, and set something up. Now, what’s your first class?”

  “Um…” Seb rifled through his papers for his schedule. “Basic Acrobatics,” he said, and he cringed, recalling the last time he’d attempted acrobatics. The three Konstantinov acrobats had unanimously agreed that he should never try it again.

  “I’ll take you there,” said the Scout. “Your instructor is Monsieur Gerard, and he likes students to be punctual.”

  The Scout marched him over to the gymnasium, where the first years were gathered, already dressed in their gym clothes. All thirteen of them turned to stare when Seb slipped in.

  Monsieur Gerard, a small, slender man with a pencil-thin mustache, glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at Seb. His mustache twitched.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said the Scout. “This is Sebastian Konstantinov.” He leaned over. “I’ll leave you now,” he whispered to Seb. “Good luck.” And he disappeared back out the door, off to save the missing boy from whatever fate had befallen him.

  “Ah, Konstantinov.” Monsieur Gerard’s face didn’t exactly soften, but his mustache stopped twitching. “Welcome. We’re just getting started. Change your clothes and meet us back here.”

  Seb did as he was told, rejoining the class in his shorts and sneakers.

  “The name ‘Basic Acrobatics’ is misleading,” Monsieur Gerard was explaining. “It sounds very simple, and for some it might be second nature.”

  Camille and Giselle exchanged smiles and nods.

  “But it is one of the most important classes you will attend this year. Here we will perfect our form and balance and flexibility—essential qualities for all other skills classes you take. Like our directrice so eloquently put it this morning…” He closed his eyes as if replaying her speech. “We will devote ourselves to the pursuit of perfection, to mastering the minute.”

  Matthieu yawned.

  “We have much to cover and no time to lose,” Monsieur Gerard said, opening his eyes. “We’ll stretch as we introduce ourselves.”

  While they limbered up their shoulders and hamstrings and wrists, each student took a turn introducing themselves and describing their training. As the Scout had said, nearly everyone had taken dance or gymnastics or circus lessons—some practically since they could walk. The exception was Frankie de Luca, the self-taught traceur.

  This wasn’t the only thing that set Frankie apart. She was nearly a head taller than most students, and still dressed in boys’ shorts and a T-shirt instead of a leotard and tights like most other girls. Her hair was knotted atop her head in what reminded Seb of a rat’s nest he once found in Dragan’s costume closet.

  “Sebastian Konstantinov,” said Monsieur Gerard. “You hardly need an introduction, but please, tell us about yourself.”

  Seb cleared his throat and readied himself for the first test of his Plan to Survive Circus School. “Okay. Well, I’m Seb. I grew up in a traditional traveling circus, so I came here to study the modern circus. I’m not an acrobat,” he added. “I’m…I’m more of a circus scholar.”

  “A circus scholar.” Monsieur Gerard stared at him for a moment, smoothing the hairs in his mustache, which all appeared to be precisely the same length. “I…see. Well, I think you’re being too humble. You can’t have grown up in a circus and not mastered many skills. I’m sure we’ll all learn from you.”

  “Oh, no, I—” Seb began to protest, but Monsieur Gerard had already turned to the next student, a stocky boy with forearms the size of a grown man’s.

  “I’m Murray,” the boy declared. “I’ve been studying the trapeze for five years already. I’m basically a master.”

  “But he’s really known for his humility,” Sylvain added under his breath.

  Monsieur Gerard’s mustache twitched again, but he only nodded, then turned to the twin pixies, who declared in unison that they’d been practicing acrobatics together since age four. Then came the jugglers, Sylvain and Matthieu, followed by three girls who’d trained on the silks and the aerial hoop, two trampolinists, a boy who did acrobatics on horseback, and a brother and sister unicycle duo.

  “Now then,” the teacher said once introductions were over. “Let’s begin with some simple tumbling.” He gestured for them all to sit down. “Wait, Sebastian. Not you.”

  Seb froze halfway to the floor. “Sorry?”

  “You will demonstrate for us. Just a few simple somersaults, forward and back,” Monsieur Gerard added, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. As if Seb did somersaults in his sleep.

  “Oh, um.” Seb swallowed, recalling the Konstantinov acrobats’ unanimous advice. “I’d really rather watch, if that’s okay.”

  Monsieur Gerard looked surprised.

  “I mean, I have so much to learn about modern performances,” Seb hurried on. “The Konstantinov Family Circus is so traditional and…outdated. Backward, really,” he added, with silent apologies to his family.

  “Nonsense,” said Monsieur Gerard. “Tumbling is tumbling. Come on now, let’s not waste time.”

  Seb straightened slowly, trying to stay calm and remember his survival plan. His first excuse clearly wasn’t working. Was it time to try the fractured metatarsal? Was it too late to hide?

  But before he could decide, the gymnasium door swung open and the Scout strode in. He stopped and glanced behind him, then beckoned with a finger. A moment later, a small boy shuffled in. He had blond hair that fell past his shoulders, and he wore a hooded sweatshirt and grass-stained jeans.

  “Everyone, this is Banjo Brady,” the Scout announced, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  The class gasped.

  “Safe and sound.” The Scout patted Banjo on the head, and the boy manag
ed a weak smile.

  “Banjo Brady!” Monsieur Gerard looked from the boy to the Scout, and the Scout returned a look that said, “I’ll explain later.” The teacher cleared his throat. “Well. Join us, Banjo. But change your clothes first.” He looked at Banjo’s jeans, and his mustache twitched again.

  Banjo trotted off to the change rooms, and the Scout strode back out, off on his next mission. Seb wished he’d take him along.

  Monsieur Gerard sighed impatiently. “Where were we? Ah yes, tumbling. I need someone to demonstrate. There’s no time to—”

  Camille’s and Giselle’s hands shot up. “We’ll do it!”

  Seb stood very still and pretended to be invisible.

  “Fine, fine.” Monsieur Gerard waved at them. “But only one of you!”

  While the girls played a hasty game of rock-paper-scissors to determine who would demonstrate, Seb sat down, relieved. He’d escaped this time, but just barely.

  He could only hope the Scout was marching off to book Seb’s meeting with the directrice. He clearly couldn’t wait much longer.

  BUT WHEN BASIC ACROBATICS ended an hour later, Seb still hadn’t received word from the directrice. He checked his schedule, hoping for mathematics or recess—anything but another circus skills class.

  The schedule read “Introduction to Clowning.” Seb tried not to groan.

  The good news was that the clown teacher, Audrey Petit, was nothing like Monsieur Gerard. For one thing, she smiled—a lot. And she wore rainbow-print pants that billowed when she walked—or more precisely, pranced—around the room. She didn’t have a clock in her classroom, and only welcomed Banjo Brady when he wandered in late, still looking lost. What’s more, she insisted the students call her by her first name.

  “Unless, of course, I’m in clown mode,” she added with a big smile. “In which case, my name is Audacité!”

  This made most students giggle, but Seb understood. All clowns had two personalities: there was the everyday person, who wore normal-sized shoes and had a normal job—say, in nursing or insurance. And then there was the inner clown, who emerged when the everyday person slipped on a big red nose or a wig or a mask. The inner clown was like the everyday person, but with bigger emotions and reactions. They never tried to hide their feelings.

  Seb had always loved to watch the Konstantinov clown slip into clown mode—from a distance, of course, so as not to disturb him. Stanley would simply put on his clown nose and giant red shoes, and just like that, the tax accountant from New Jersey would become Snickertoot the clown.

  Back when the Konstantinovs still held out hope for Seb as a performer, he’d had to take lessons from Snickertoot. For two weeks, he’d practiced falling down, bursting spontaneously into tears and imitating random people on the street. And at the end of this trial period, Snickertoot had come to an important conclusion.

  “You’re not funny, kid,” he’d said.

  “Really?” Seb had sighed, though he wasn’t surprised.

  “Not that all clowns are,” the clown went on. “There are plenty of sad clowns in the world. But I don’t think you’re one of those either.” He studied Seb for a moment, then whipped a water pistol out of his jacket pocket and squirted him between the eyes.

  Seb sputtered and wiped his face with his sleeve.

  “See?” Snickertoot shook his head. “You’re just not entertaining. Better try something else.”

  Seb remembered that advice now, as Audrey Petit pranced around the room, handing each student a spongy red nose.

  “I’m sure you’re well acquainted with these,” she whispered as she pressed one into Seb’s hand. “I know we can all learn from your expertise!”

  “Oh, I’m not a clown,” he told her. “I’m actually a circus schol—” But she moved on before he could explain.

  He glanced around at his fellow first-years. Camille and Giselle were comparing noses to make sure theirs were identical, while Sylvain was balancing his on his real nose like a seal. Frankie, once again, looked less than thrilled, but this might have been because she was stuck sitting beside Murray, the trapeze “master.” He seemed to be telling her all about his training. She seemed to not care a bit.

  “The nose is a very important part of clowning,” Audrey told them once everyone had received theirs. “Once you put it on, you’re no longer yourself.” She held up her own red ball and popped it on her face. “See? Now I’m Audacité!”

  She gestured for everyone to put their noses on. Seb did so reluctantly, with silent apologies to Snickertoot for not heeding his advice.

  Audacité beamed at him. “This must be second nature for you, Seb.”

  “It really isn’t,” he insisted. “I’m not a clown.”

  “Yeah, the superstar’s a circus scholar,” Murray piped up.

  A few kids gasped. All heads whipped toward Murray, then over to Seb.

  “What?” Murray said innocently. “That’s what he said, isn’t it?”

  Seb felt his face turn scarlet, or maybe crimson. He glared at Murray, then turned to Audacité to explain. “My circus back home is really traditional and outdated. So I came here to watch and study the modern circus.”

  Audrey slipped off her nose and smiled down at him. “As I’m sure you know, clowning is a very old art,” she said. “And traditional clowns are very much like modern clowns. I think you know a lot about clowning, Seb. And I know we’re all going to learn from you.” She winked at him.

  “No, but—”

  “You just haven’t discovered your inner clown yet,” she went on. “There’s one inside each of us, and this year, we’re going to uncover them!” She spun around, rainbow pants billowing.

  “It will be an incredible journey,” she went on. “When you get to know your inner clown, you get to know the person you really are deep inside, not just the person you might sometimes pretend to be. It can be soul-expanding!”

  Seb stole another glance at Frankie, who now looked a little nauseated. But again, this might have been because of Murray. He was whispering to her, but loud enough that everyone could hear.

  “I just don’t buy that you’re self-taught,” he said. “Come clean—where’d you train?”

  Frankie rolled her eyes but didn’t reply.

  “You’ve got a secret, don’t you?” he persisted.

  “Murray, be quiet,” Sylvain told him.

  “Clowns love new experiences,” Audrey went on, ignoring Murray’s bad manners. “They’re always willing to say yes. So with that in mind, we’re going to play a game. This one is called ‘Yes, Let’s!’ ”

  A game already? Once again, Seb swallowed a groan.

  “Everyone will start by finding a partner,” said Audrey. “Seb? Would you help me demonstrate?”

  “Me?” Seb couldn’t believe it. Again?

  “It’s easy, I promise,” said Audrey. “All you have to do is say yes. One person will suggest an activity, and their partner will agree to it, with a resounding ‘Yes, Let’s!’ Then you’ll go off and do it.”

  It did sound easy, but still Seb resisted, recalling Snickertoot’s advice. Meanwhile, Murray kept on pestering Frankie, his voice growing louder.

  “I bet you’re, like, Italian royalty,” he said.

  “Italy’s a democracy,” Frankie informed him. “And you’re an idiot.”

  Murray was undeterred. “Or maybe a member of the Mafia!”

  “Murray stop!” Camille shushed him. But now all the students were listening to him instead of their teacher. It did seem likely that Frankie the self-taught traceur had an interesting past. But Seb was pretty sure this wasn’t the way to uncover it.

  “I know—you’re a criminal!” Murray declared. “Covering up a life of crime!”

  “Now pay attention, everyone.” Audrey clapped her hands. “Seb, you’ll help demonstrate, won’t you?”

  Seb turned back to the teacher, once again wishing he’d talked to the directrice before classes began. But before he could explain the circus s
cholar thing once again, a loud noise across the room made everyone turn.

  It was a vaguely familiar noise. It sounded a bit like the Konstantinov lion when she got really sick of having her picture taken.

  Except the Konstantinov lion didn’t swear in Italian.

  Seb turned around just in time to see Frankie wind up and punch Murray in the nose.

  AT LUNCHTIME, it was all anyone could talk about.

  “Did you hear the crunch?”

  “I’ll never forget it!”

  “Did you see the blood?”

  “It was a gusher.”

  “Did Camille really pass out?”

  “Giselle had to drag her to the nurse’s office.”

  Seb couldn’t blame them—it was an excellent story. And Murray wasn’t badly hurt; his nose wasn’t even broken, though it would have to be bandaged for a few weeks.

  But as the lunch hour wore on, Seb grew tired of hearing the story retold, and his mind began to wander. It was evening in Eastern Europe, so the Konstantinovs were likely preparing for a show, possibly trying to round up some locals with popcorn bribes. His chest tightened so painfully at the thought that he had to put down his half-eaten ham sandwich.

  “You okay?” asked Sylvain, who was now on his third sandwich. “You’re looking a little…” He closed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

  “I think it’s jet lag,” Seb said. It wasn’t true, but Sylvain accepted it. He turned back to his friends to debate exactly how much blood had poured out of Murray’s nose that morning.

  To distract himself, both from the debate and from thoughts of home, Seb returned to the story he’d been tossing around for weeks: the Konstantinov animals’ daring escape from the Bucharest Zoo. Each time he thought about it, he added a few more details or a new plot twist. Most recently, he’d decided that the monkey would find an old tarp and drape it over the elephant, so that when they encountered humans, everyone could hide underneath it and pretend to be a tent. It was pretty ingenious.

  “Have you seen her, Seb?”

  “Sorry, what?” Seb dragged himself back to the cafeteria.