The Bonaventure Adventures

by Rachelle Delaney

  “Frankie,” said Matthieu. “Have you seen her since…” He mimed a left hook and made a crunching noise.

  “Nope,” said Seb.

  Sylvain shook his head. “She must have been sent to the directrice’s office. That’s two first-years on the first day!”

  “Do you think that’s a record?” asked Matthieu. They began to debate.

  Seb tuned them out again, wishing he could be by himself to think. But where would one go to think at Bonaventure? There were kids everywhere.

  Suddenly, he remembered the choir box in the theater. It would make the perfect thinking spot—devoid of students and quiet as, well, a church.

  Could he sneak in and use it? he wondered. Could he go now?

  As if in reply, the bell rang, signaling an end to lunch.

  “What’s next?” asked Sylvain.

  Seb pulled out his schedule, praying it wouldn’t be juggling.

  “English,” he said, brightening.

  Sylvain groaned. “My worst subject. I was hoping for juggling.”

  Seb kept his thoughts to himself.

  FROM THE MOMENT Seb laid eyes on Oliver Grey, he knew they were going to get along just fine. First of all, the English teacher wasn’t a circus performer—that much was obvious from his rather rotund frame. He wore spectacles and old green sneakers, and he had a bushy red beard flecked with what appeared to be bits of ham sandwich. And like Audrey, he told the students to call him by his first name.

  But the best thing about Oliver was that during their first class of the year, he took the students to the library.

  “Go nuts in here, guys,” Oliver said as they filed inside. “Nuts in a respectful, library-voice kind of way,” he added when the librarian gave him a dirty look. “Bonaventure has an amazing collection of circus books.”

  The library was a cavernous room, low on light like much of the school. It smelled a bit mildewy and definitely needed a good dusting, but none of that bothered Seb, for the library had more books than he’d ever seen. The shelves bowed under their weight, and many were stacked in tall piles on the floor, like stalagmites in a cave.

  Seb hurried to the farthest corner of the room and began to inspect the collection. There were books on circus history and circus theory. There were books on circuses around the world, from Australia to Zimbabwe. There were books on juggling and trapeze rigging and unicycle maintenance—and even one old, worn hardcover called, curiously, L’art du pickpocket. And to Seb’s delight, there was also a small section of novels.

  He chose one titled Escape from the Haunted Prison and sank down on the floor to dig in. But no sooner had he opened it than he noticed a pair of green sneakers stop in front of him.

  “Oh, hi.” Seb looked up at Oliver Grey. “Am I allowed to read this?” He held up his book. “I know it isn’t about the circus, but it looks pretty good.”

  “Of course,” said Oliver. “It’s a great story. But, um, Seb…” He crouched down beside him.

  “What’s wrong?” Seb asked, and for a moment he panicked, assuming bad news from back home. An aerial hoop accident, maybe, or an incorrectly swallowed cutlass.

  “You’ve been called to the directrice’s office,” said Oliver.

  “Oh!” Seb slammed his book shut. “Finally!” He hopped up and dusted off his pants. “Where is it?”

  Oliver stood up slowly, still looking concerned. “Third floor. Turn right outside the stairway. It’s two doors down on the left. But Seb…” He tugged on his beard, releasing some bits of ham. “I don’t want to scare you, but this usually isn’t a good thing.”

  “Oh, it’s okay,” Seb assured him. “I requested it.”

  “You did?”

  Seb nodded. “Can you keep this book for me? I’d like to sign it out.”

  Oliver took the book. “Sure, no problem. But…” He looked left and right, then lowered his voice. “A word of advice, Seb: agree with everything she says. No matter what.”

  “I will,” Seb promised. Then he turned and jogged out of the library.

  He found the directrice’s office right where Oliver said it would be. A plaque on the door read ANGÉLIQUE SAINT-GERMAIN, DIRECTRICE in swirling gold script.

  He squared his shoulders. Even if she was a little scary, this visit would be worth it. Everything would get easier once it was over. Maybe she would give him a note to present to teachers—like a doctor’s note, excusing him from attempting all circus skills. Maybe she still had some of that nice heavy paper, smooth to the touch.

  He let himself into her office.

  The first thing he saw was the bald man from orientation. He was seated at a desk that was far too small for him—so small, in fact, that it looked like it belonged to a child. A sign atop it told Seb he was BRUNO LAMBERT, ASSISTANT À LA DIRECTRICE.

  The second thing he saw was a bench against the wall, upon which sat none other than Banjo Brady and Frankie de Luca.

  “Um, hi,” Seb said to Bruno, who was typing away on his computer, which barely fit on the desk. “I have an appointment with the directrice.”

  “She’s on a call,” Bruno said without looking up. “Take a seat with the other bêtes noires.”

  “Oh!” Seb was startled, partly because it was rude; a bête noire was a dislikeable person—a beast. Also, Bruno was lumping him in with Banjo and Frankie, and he hadn’t caused any trouble.

  “I actually requested this meeting,” Seb told him, just to clarify. But Bruno was still typing intently at his tiny desk, like a pianist pounding a concerto on a miniature piano. So Seb did as he’d been told and joined the bêtes noires on the bench.

  “Hello,” Banjo said softly when he sat down.

  “Hi,” said Seb. He nodded at Frankie, and she nodded back. Then they all sat in silence, waiting for the directrice to get off the phone.

  After a few minutes, Frankie turned to Seb. “So what are you in for?” she asked.

  Again, he was startled. “Sorry, what?”

  “What you’re in for,” Frankie repeated. “You know. I’m here because I clocked the trapeze master this morning.” She shrugged, not looking terribly remorseful.

  “And I’m here because I went missing,” said Banjo.

  “Right.” Seb looked at him. “So what happened to you?”

  “I just went outside,” Banjo said simply. “See, when the Scout first discovered me, at Logger Sports Day—”

  “Hang on.” Frankie held up a hand. “Logger Sports Day?”

  Banjo nodded. “Don’t you have that where you’re from?”

  Frankie and Seb shook their heads.

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” Banjo looked genuinely sad for them. “It’s a tradition in Stumpville—that’s the town I’m from, on the West Coast. On Logger Sports Day, we have competitions like tree climbing, ax throwing and tree felling. That kind of thing.”

  “Wow.” Seb tried to picture it, but it sounded like nothing he’d ever experienced. “And the Scout just…showed up? In Stumpville?”

  Banjo nodded. “It was a little surprising.”

  “I’ll say,” Seb said, recalling how the Scout had called his ability to find circus talent a “sixth sense.”

  “Were you competing at…Logger Sports Day?” Frankie asked. She sounded like she still didn’t believe it was a thing.

  Banjo nodded. “I was slacklining. That’s like tightrope walking, but on a loose rope close to the ground. I also highline—that’s the same thing, but high above the ground. And I trickline, which means I throw in some tricks now and then. It’s pretty fun.”

  Seb nodded, though it sounded to him like a direct route to the emergency room. “So back to this morning…”

  “Right, so when I met the Scout, he told me that Montreal would be nothing like Stumpville, which is all mountains and rainforests, but that somewhere in the middle of the city, there’s a big forest on a mountain. I thought maybe I could visit it before orientation started.”

  “So you just went by yourself?” Seb aske
d, incredulous. “Do you know Montreal at all?”

  “No,” Banjo said. “But I don’t usually get lost. I have what Lily calls an internal compass.”

  “Lily?” said Frankie.

  “Internal compass?” said Seb.

  “Lily’s my mom,” Banjo explained. “My parents like me to call them by their first names, kind of like our clown teacher. Theo and Lily aren’t into traditional hierarchical structures.”

  “I see,” said Seb, though he didn’t really. Frankie raised an eyebrow.

  “And an internal compass keeps you from getting lost,” Banjo went on. “At least it did back home. Anyway, I didn’t know that we’re not allowed outside by ourselves without permission here. I’ve never had to ask permission.” He sighed.

  “Huh.” Frankie considered his story for a moment, then turned back to Seb. “You didn’t answer me. What are you in for?”

  “Nothing, actually,” Seb told her. “I asked to meet with the directrice.”

  “You what?” she exclaimed.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Banjo’s eyes were wide.

  The phone on Bruno’s desk rang, and he picked it up. “Oui, Madame,” he said, then set it back down. “She’s ready for you,” he said.

  “Which one of us?” asked Frankie.

  “You,” Bruno pointed at Seb.

  “Oh, but…” Seb looked at Frankie and Banjo. “They’ve been here longer than—”

  “You’re first,” Bruno told him. “And trust me, you don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  UPON ENTERING Angélique Saint-Germain’s office, Seb had to pause to let his eyes adjust to the low light. What was it with Bonaventure and shoddy lightbulbs? he wondered. Dragan would have been horrified. In the Konstantinov Family Circus, there was always enough money for the kind of bulbs that nicely illuminated one’s pores, even if it meant the performers had to breakfast on stale popcorn now and then.

  Something growled at Seb’s feet.

  “Oh!” He jumped at the sight of a large, brown bulldog. “Hi, there.” He crouched and offered the dog his hand to smell, but it only heaved itself up off the floor and stomped off.

  Seb watched it trudge across the room to an enormous desk, behind which sat Angélique Saint-Germain.

  “Oh!” Seb jumped again. “Hi! I didn’t see you there. Sorry.”

  “Sebastian Konstantinov,” said the directrice. “Do come in and sit down.”

  Her deep, clear voice sounded welcoming enough, but Seb hurried over all the same, taking in the room as he crossed it. On one wall, a massive picture window looked down on the school gymnasium, in which three older students were currently wheeling around on one unicycle. This meant the directrice could watch classes from above—Seb made a mental note of it.

  He hustled on, past a grand piano that, judging by the layer of dust on it, hadn’t been played in years. An ivory bust atop it looked suspiciously like the directrice, but Seb didn’t stop to inspect it. He didn’t want to keep her waiting.

  Her desk was a marvel in itself, made of rich, red wood and roughly the size of a small whale. Angélique Saint-Germain looked even more petite than usual seated behind it on what looked like a throne lined with purple velvet.

  “Sit, please.” She gestured to a small metal stool opposite the desk. Seb did as he was told, and she took a moment to look him over, from the tips of his hurricane hair to the toes of his sneakers. He thought he saw the corners of her mouth droop, but she smoothed it into a smile.

  “Well,” she said. “Here you are. You’ve arrived.”

  Seb agreed that he had.

  The wall behind the desk was covered with framed photos and newspaper clippings that seemed to tell the story of her career. In one photo, a younger, long-haired Angélique was accepting a trophy nearly as tall as she was. Another photo showed her shaking hands with a woman wearing a crown. And in another…Seb squinted. Yes, there she was with the actor who’d played James Bond. The one with the accent, just as Dragan had said.

  He looked back at her and caught her watching him again. “That’s pretty impressive.” He pointed at the wall.

  “What, that?” She glanced up as if she’d never noticed it before. “Oh, that’s nothing. Just a few mementos.” She beckoned for the bulldog. “This is Ennui,” she said, hauling the beast up off the floor.

  “Ennui?” Seb had to laugh. Maxime had taught him that word years ago: it was the feeling of being unimpressed and bored with life. Basically, the perfect name for the grumpy bulldog.

  The directrice, however, did not laugh. In fact, she looked rather insulted. “Henri,” she repeated, as if he were half deaf.

  “Oh. Sorry,” Seb said quickly. “I heard wrong.” Inwardly, he maintained that Ennui was more fitting.

  The directrice cleared her throat. “Well. I’m so glad you came. And you even requested a meeting with me! No one ever does that. What a novelty!” She laughed, and her teeth glinted, despite the low light. Seb had a vision of them glowing in the dark, like the teeth of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. He tried not to shiver.

  “I was so pleased when your father finally agreed to send you,” she went on. “I’d been suggesting it for ages. We’re old friends, you know.”

  Seb nodded and tried to relax, though it was difficult on such a small, hard stool.

  “How is Dragan these days?” asked Madame Saint-Germain. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen him—fifteen years at least. I imagine he still has all his hair.”

  “All of it,” Seb confirmed.

  Angélique Saint-Germain threw back her head and laughed, and Seb joined in, though he wasn’t sure why it was funny. “And the Konstantinov Family Circus is prosperous as always? I hear it’s making scads of money. Mountains of it. An empire, even.”

  “Oh. Um…where did you hear that?” Seb asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

  “The circus world is very small,” the directrice said, stroking the skin folds on Ennui’s meaty neck. The dog grumbled. “You know, I always knew your father would be a great success. It didn’t surprise me when he founded his own company—he’s always been a ringmaster at heart.” The directrice leaned forward and looked at Seb squarely. “And what about you, Sebastian? Do you like Bonaventure? The building needs work, I know. It’s an old pile of stones, constantly crumbling.”

  “Oh, no,” Seb said quickly. “It’s a beautiful place. Especially the theater.”

  “No.” The directrice shook her head. “It’s falling apart.”

  Seb remembered Oliver’s advice. “I…guess it is,” he said.

  “Did you…” She lowered her voice, though there was no one around to hear her but Ennui, and he clearly couldn’t care less. “Did you tell your father?”

  “About what?” Seb asked.

  “About the state of the school.”

  “Oh!” Seb started. “Of course not. I haven’t talked to him at all yet. Not that I would have told him anyway. I think it’s…a great place,” he said, then he straightened on his stool. “Madame Saint-Germain, there’s something I wanted to—”

  “Oh.” The directrice looked disappointed. “Yes, of course you haven’t spoken with him yet. He’s a busy man, isn’t he?” She drummed her crimson fingernails on Ennui’s head. The dog glowered.

  “I was so heartened to hear that we were acquiring a new student with such innate talent, such skill,” she said.

  Seb leaned forward. “Actually, that’s what I came to—”

  “We have some fairly talented students at Bonaventure,” she went on. “But having a Konstantinov here is a real win.” She flashed him another glow-in-the-dark smile.

  “Right. About that,” said Seb. “What I’d like to do this year—what my dad thought would be best—is concentrate on being a circus scholar.”

  Angélique Saint-Germain looked puzzled. “A what?”

  “A scholar,” he repeated. “I want to study the modern circus. I’m sure you know that the Konstantinov Family
Circus is…” He tried to recall her exact words in that last letter. “Too traditional. It’s not keeping up with the times.”

  “True,” she agreed. “That’s what I’ve been telling your father for ages.”

  “Right,” he said, encouraged. “So I have a lot of studying to do. A lot of observing,” he added. “And I’m especially interested in the stories.”

  “Stories?” She cocked her head to one side, as if he’d told her he was especially interested in starting a school cricket team.

  “You know, circus shows that tell stories, that aren’t just about showing off skills and—”

  “Yes, yes, that’s one kind of show,” she said, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. “Stories are fine—there’s a time and a place for them. But what you of all people must understand is that circus shows would not exist were it not for exceptionally talented performers—performers who have spent tens of thousands of hours perfecting their skills. Our mission at Bonaventure is to shape the minds and bodies of young stars who will captivate audiences worldwide. And to do so, they must completely master a specific skill.” She paused again to study Seb. “Tell me, Sebastian, what is your skill?”

  “Well, I’m a kind of a circus scholar—”

  “Yes, I heard you.” She waved this away too. “But what is it you do? What is your circus specialty?”

  “Oh.” Seb squirmed. He pictured his Plan to Survive Circus School, but it was no use. A fractured metatarsal wouldn’t help him now, and it was far too late to hide.

  “You do have a specialty, don’t you?” the directrice asked.

  “Um,” said Seb. “Well.” Could he make one up? he wondered, thinking fast. Could it be something she’d never in a million years ask him to demonstrate?

  Ennui looked up from Angélique Saint-Germain’s lap and gave Seb a long, hard stare. It was almost more unsettling than the directrice’s glow-in-the-dark teeth. Later, when pondering why on earth he’d done what he did next, Seb blamed it all on the bulldog.

  “I’m…I’m a fire breather!” he blurted.

  The directrice looked stunned—as stunned as Seb himself felt. Afire breather?