The Bonaventure Adventures

by Rachelle Delaney

Then her eyes narrowed. “A fire breather,” she repeated, her voice as flat as a contortionist in a guitar case.

  Ennui lay his head back down with a moan.

  “Fire breathing,” Seb repeated, for now he’d done it and he couldn’t go back. “It’s all the rage in…Moldova.”

  The dog sighed, as if to tell him to stop talking, for Pete’s sake.

  The directrice looked like she’d just swallowed a lemon whole. “I see. Well, Sebastian, you should know that we here at Bonaventure do not breathe fire.”

  “Good,” Seb said, relieved. “I mean, I didn’t think so. I’m sure there are, like, fire safety codes or something. That’s…why I didn’t mention it before. Or bring my equipment,” he added.

  The directrice frowned. For a long moment, she was quiet. Then she drew a deep breath and smiled again, though not nearly as wide this time. “Well, I suppose there’s not much we can do about that, is there?” She began to stroke her dog’s head again. “Tell me, how is your dorm room? Who is your roommate?”

  “Sylvain,” he answered, relieved to change the subject.

  “Sylvain…” She tapped Ennui’s head, trying to place the name. “The juggler?”

  Seb nodded.

  The directrice tsked. “Unfortunate. Let me know if you get to the point of wanting to bury him alive, and I’ll find you a new room. I usually get to that point with jugglers. But they aren’t nearly as bad as the contortionists.” She shuddered.

  “Sylvain’s great,” Seb assured her. “He’s helped me—”

  “And the room itself,” she said. “Is it too small?”

  “No, not at all,” he said, wondering how he might wrap up this meeting. “It’s perfect.”

  “It’s very small,” she told him. “And the taps leak, don’t they? They’re the bane of my existence. Last June a pipe exploded in the cafeteria. Water everywhere, raining down on the students, the cook, the food.” She shook her head, playing with Ennui’s skin folds. “A perfectly good pasta salad—ruined.”

  Seb was beginning to wonder if the directrice might be a little…unhinged. Maybe that legendary fall from the trapeze had rattled her brain?

  “Will you tell your father about your room?” she asked.

  “Of course not!” he exclaimed.

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed.

  “Wait.” Now Seb was very confused. “Do you want me to tell him?”

  “No, no.” She laughed. “I mean, unless, of course, you want to. I wouldn’t stop you, obviously. I’m not sure what he could do, but…”

  And suddenly, Seb understood. It struck him full force, like a fall from a swinging trapeze.

  Angélique Saint-Germain had invited him to Bonaventure because the school needed money.

  And as far as she knew, Dragan had money. Mountains of it. An empire, even.

  Seb flushed to the roots of his hair and cringed down to his toes. He opened his mouth, then shut it, at a complete loss for words.

  “Well, enough about that.” She smiled again. “I should let you get back to class, and you must let me get on with my next appointment. Not nearly as enjoyable as this one, unfortunately.” She leaned forward. “Bêtes noires, as we say in French. There are a few in every year, but we try to weed them out right away. There is, as I mentioned earlier, a very long wait list of deserving students, just dying to get in to Bonaventure.”

  “Right,” Seb said weakly.

  “So nice to meet you, Sebastian.” The directrice rose from her throne, set Ennui on the floor, and showed Seb to the door.

  SEB LET THE phone ring for a sixth time, knowing his father could hear it perfectly well. Dragan always kept his cell phone close by, insisting, “You never know when you might need to snap a selfie.”

  He also insisted that he needed his beauty sleep, which was likely what he was moaning about now, as it was past midnight wherever he was. Seb let it ring a seventh time, then an eighth. Finally, there was a click.

  “Hello?” said a scratchy voice—the voice of a ringmaster, post-performance.

  “Hi, Dad. Sorry to call so late.”

  “Seb.” Dragan sighed. “What have I told you about my beauty sleep?”

  “That you need it,” said Seb.

  “Exactly.” Dragan cleared his throat. “How are you? What time is it there?”

  “Dinnertime,” said Seb. And though he longed for one of the bowls of spaghetti being dished out in the cafeteria down the hall, he knew this had to come first. His brain had been spinning since he’d left the directrice’s office; it had taken all he had just to make it through his afternoon math and French classes.

  “Dad, we need to talk,” he said, sitting down on the carpet of the student lounge. It smelled like mold, but he was too tired to stand any longer. He couldn’t believe it was still his first day at Bonaventure.

  “All right.” Seb heard his father sit down on his creaky cot, and he closed his eyes to picture it. Dragan would have washed off his show makeup and swapped his red jacket and suspenders for pajamas. Possibly he’d lacquered his hair with hot oil to maximize its shine.

  “Okay,” Seb said, trying to get all his thoughts organized. “First off, I want to know why everyone here thinks our circus has tons of money. And where they got the idea that it’s an empire.”

  “Oh,” said Dragan. “Well.”

  “And second,” Seb continued, “I want to know who would have told them I’m charismatic. A charismatic superstar.”

  “Um,” said Dragan. The cot springs squeaked. “Well, that might have been me. On both counts.”

  “Dad, why?” Seb wailed, but stopped when some older students sitting on the couches looked over.

  “It was a long time ago!” Dragan protested. “I didn’t think Angélique would ever meet you!”

  “Okay.” Seb took a deep breath. “Let’s put the charismatic thing aside. Dad, everyone here thinks you’re rolling in money.”

  “Do they!” Dragan sounded pleased.

  “Yes. And it’s not a good thing. Angélique…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Angélique Saint-Germain thinks you’re going to donate money to the school.”

  “Donate money!” Dragan exclaimed. “Why would I do that?”

  “The place needs work,” said Seb. “The carpet’s moldy, the paint’s chipped, the stage needs patching. The lightbulbs are terrible—you’d hate them. And sometimes the pipes leak and ruin a perfectly good pasta salad. Anyway, the point is, she invited me here because she thinks you’re going to support this place.”

  “Well. That would be very generous of me.” Dragan sounded rather impressed with himself. “But I can’t do it, obviously. You know that.”

  “Yeah.” Seb wrapped the telephone cord around his wrist. “Okay, there’s something else too.” He drew a breath, then proceeded to tell his father about his plan to convince the directrice to let him be a circus scholar, and how it had failed royally.

  “Yeesh,” said Dragan.

  “But it gets worse,” Seb warned him. “Angélique asked me what my circus specialty was—she was positive that I had to have one. And…and I panicked. I told her…” Seb gulped. “That I breathe fire.”

  “Oh,” said Dragan. “Oh no.”

  “I know, right?” Seb sighed.

  “Oh, that is not good,” said Dragan.

  “Right but…but maybe it’s okay,” Seb said, desperate to find a bright side. “She said that students don’t breathe fire at Bonaventure. There must be fire safety codes or something. So maybe I can just get away with pretending.”

  “Maybe,” Dragan said, though he sounded doubtful. “But couldn’t you have just faked an injury?”

  “That was my backup plan,” said Seb.

  “Ah,” said his father. “Did you have an injury in mind?”

  “A fractured metatarsal.”

  “Oh, good choice.”

  They both fell silent, pondering the situation.

  “Hey, Dad, here’s a thought,” Seb ventured
after a few moments. “What if I just told her the truth about why I came here?”

  “Nope,” said Dragan. “Bad idea. The truth will only get you in trouble. They say it sets you free, but they are lying.”

  Seb scratched his head. “Okay, but—”

  “Sebastian, you cannot tell her. You promised me. Angélique must not know about our family finances.”

  “Right, but I can’t have her thinking—”

  “Angélique can think what she wants,” said Dragan. “And as for us, we might not have money, but we’re going to continue on as if we do. We’re going to write our own story, Sebastian. Fake it ’til we make it!”

  There were roughly a hundred flaws in this plan, Seb knew. But he also knew there was no convincing his father, especially when he was missing out on his beauty sleep. “Okay,” he sighed. “Tell me some news, then. How’s everyone doing?”

  Dragan seemed happy to change the subject. Aunt Tatiana, he reported, had dyed her beard black—or tried to, but it turned a putrid shade of olive. Meanwhile, Juan the contortionist had gotten himself stuck in a fish tank, which had made for a tense afternoon. Eventually, however, he’d dislocated all his limbs and emerged unscathed, though looking a little more angular than usual.

  “Everyone’s okay, then?” Seb asked, and his voice caught in his throat, thinking of them all.

  “Everyone is…fine,” said Dragan. “It’s just a hard time, you know.”

  “I know,” said Seb. “I should go, Dad.”

  “Okay, Seb. But please promise me one thing: that you won’t ever attempt to breathe fire.”

  “Dad, don’t worry.”

  “It’s just that eyebrows are so important. They lend so much to a face.”

  “I know.”

  “Just try being surprised without eyebrows!”

  “Okay, Dad. I got it,” said Seb. And he wished his father goodnight, then hung up the phone.

  BY THE TIME Seb reached his first class on the second day of school, everyone had heard the news.

  “You breathe FIRE?” Camille shrieked when he emerged from the boys’ change room, steeling himself once again for Basic Acrobatics with Monsieur Gerard.

  “Why didn’t you tell us yesterday?” Murray demanded, his voice nasal under a layer of bandages. Seb couldn’t help but wish they were over his mouth.

  “Most important, why didn’t you tell me?” Sylvain asked. “We’re roommates! And I had to hear it at second breakfast this morning! From a kid in third year!” He looked wounded.

  “Oh. Um.” Seb fumbled. “Sorry. The thing is…I didn’t…”

  “Perhaps Monsieur Konstantinov didn’t tell us about his…ability,” Monsieur Gerard cut in, “because fire breathing has no place at Bonaventure.” All heads turned to him, including Seb’s. “Breathing fire,” the teacher went on, smoothing his mustache, “is part of the traditional circus, along with lion taming and bearded ladies.” He curled his lip and twitched his mustache.

  Seb was about to protest on behalf of all the Konstantinovs when he realized that the teacher was actually helping him. “That’s true,” he agreed, and all heads turned back to him. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I come from a very traditional circus, and I’ve got a lot to learn. That’s why I’m here to be a circus scholar,” he added for emphasis.

  The students seemed to accept this—even Sylvain, though he did look a little put out.

  “So how do you do it?” asked Matthieu. “How do you breathe fire?”

  “Tell us everything!” cried the unicyclist duo.

  “Oh. Well.” Seb fumbled again, wishing he’d rehearsed this the night before; he’d been so exhausted that he’d fallen asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Now he tried to recall the Konstantinov fire breather—the one who’d fallen in love with an ice dancer in Saint Petersburg. “Well, you need some pretty specific gear—”

  “That’s enough,” Monsieur Gerard snapped. “We’re not here to learn about breathing fire. We’re here to do acrobatics, and we’re already running late.” He tapped his watch. “It’s time for warm-ups. Ten laps around the gym.”

  The students took off jogging, being careful to avoid the far west side of the gym, where an older student was having a private lesson on the tightrope. She seemed to be practicing a routine, pirouetting on the wire holding a yellow umbrella while a teacher called out directions below. Seb watched as closely as he could without tripping over the other students.

  “That’s Marie-Eve,” Giselle said, striding beside him like a gazelle. “She’s in third year.”

  “She’s really good,” Seb said as Marie-Eve took a flying leap across the line, landing with barely a wobble.

  “The directrice likes her,” said Giselle. “Sometimes she even lets her perform at the Friday night soirees.”

  Seb had forgotten about the soirees, but now he recalled the Scout suggesting that the directrice might let Seb watch one night. As much as Seb wanted to see a soiree, he didn’t care to visit the directrice again. Preferably ever.

  “And students are never allowed to perform,” Camille added, catching up with them. She was skipping instead of jogging, every now and then throwing in a grand jeté, like a ballerina.

  “I wonder if anyone in our year will be asked?” said Giselle.

  “We will,” Camille declared. “Swear on it.” She held her pinkie out to Giselle, and they swore on it without breaking stride.

  “Today we’ll work on handstands,” Monsieur Gerard announced once they’d finished their laps. “It will be second nature for some of you, and others less so. But you will all work to perfect them, no matter who you are and what your specialty is.” Here he looked directly at Seb, and his mustache twitched again. “We’ll work in pairs. Make sure your partner’s lines are clean and their shoulders strong. Start with handstands against the wall, and if that’s too easy, you can move to the mat in the center of the floor.”

  Seb looked to Sylvain, but his roommate had already paired up with Matthieu. Camille and Giselle were a pair, of course—not that Seb would have wanted to practice handstands with either of them.

  “Partner?” someone asked, and he turned to see Frankie, who had somehow sneaked up on him without his noticing. He hesitated, but she was already walking off to the wall. Apparently, he had a partner. He hurried to catch up.

  “I’ll go first,” Frankie when they reach the wall. And without a moment’s hesitation, she lunged forward, placed her hands on the floor and kicked her legs up to meet the wall. She stood there for a few moments, looking cool and unruffled even upside down.

  “So?” she said.

  “Um, looks good,” said Seb. She made it look so easy.

  “Except you’re leaning to the left,” Monsieur Gerard pointed out as he passed by. “Straighten that shoulder, Frankie. This is acrobatics, not clown class.”

  “Harsh,” Seb whispered once the teacher had moved on. But Frankie didn’t seem to care. After a few more moments upside down, she let her feet drop down to the ground and popped back up.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  “Right. So I’m really bad at this,” he warned her, for there was no point in pretending. “I haven’t tried handstands in years. And it didn’t go well last time.”

  “Because you’re a fire breather, not an acrobat,” she said, with just a hint of a smirk.

  Could Frankie see right through him? he wondered. How was that possible?

  “Come on, just try it.” She pointed at the wall. “I’ll help.”

  “Okay.” He tried to recall what she done, hoping maybe it was as easy as she made it seem. Or that in the few years since his last attempt, he’d somehow magically acquired the ability to stand upside down.

  He licked his lips, then placed his hands on the ground and kicked up his right foot, hoping it would float up to touch the wall, followed effortlessly by his left. Just as Frankie had done.

  Unsurprisingly, it did not. Instead, his foot slammed back onto the gymnasiu
m floor. He kicked again, and again it clattered back down.

  Though the blood was now rushing to his head, he tried one last time, but it was no use. He righted himself, hot with shame, and turned around slowly.

  Frankie’s eyes were wide. “Wow,” she said. “You are really bad!” She sounded almost impressed.

  “I told you,” he grumbled.

  “Okay, look,” she said. “Here’s how you learn.” She got down on her hands and knees, facing away from the wall, and began to climb backwards up it. “Do this until your shoulders get a bit stronger.”

  Seb tried again, her way. It was a bit more doable, but it still hurt. Eventually, he collapsed on the mat, arms aching.

  “Just keep working at it,” she advised, flipping back up into a handstand, but without the wall to support her.

  “Thanks,” he said, and because she looked rather peaceful like that, and not nearly as intimidating as usual, he asked, “So how did it go yesterday with the directrice?”

  “Well, I’m still alive, so that’s a win.” Frankie stood on one hand, then the other. “I got a warning, so I’m on probation. Two more warnings and I lose my place to one of the many deserving wait-listed students who are just dying to get into Bonaventure.” Even upside down, Frankie’s imitation of the directrice was spot on. Seb laughed, then looked around to make sure Monsieur Gerard wasn’t listening.

  But the teacher was busy reprimanding Banjo Brady, who had just slipped in, late again.

  “He got a warning too,” Frankie said, flipping over onto her feet. “He’s not allowed outside ever. And he has to start getting to class on time. Or else.”

  They watched Banjo hurry off to the change room. Then Frankie said, “We’re going to be the only ones here on the weekends, you know.”

  “Huh?” Seb turned back to her.

  “You’re going to stay here on weekends, right?”

  He nodded.

  “I heard that most kids don’t,” said Frankie. “They go home if they live close by, or they stay with host families. But you, Banjo and I will be staying here. The bêtes noires,” she added.

  “I’m not a—” he began. But he stopped, for Frankie was smirking again, and he had no desire to argue with her. Instead, he turned to watch Marie-Eve, the third-year tightrope walker, who had just sunk into the splits on top of the line. High above her, he noticed, there was a large window, and in it stood the directrice, holding the meaty Ennui in her arms and watching the scene below.