The Bonaventure Adventures

by Rachelle Delaney

  He’d just resolved to make a break for it, to sprint back up to his dorm and fake a sudden flu, when the door opened a third time, and in swept the directrice herself. Ennui trudged along behind her, looking like he was being kept from his breakfast.

  The class gasped.

  “What’s she doing here?” Giselle whispered.

  “I’m wearing my worst leotard!” Camille moaned.

  “Angélique.” Monsieur Gerard stepped forward, smoothing his mustache. “What an honor.” He air-kissed her on each cheek.

  “I know it is,” she agreed. “I so rarely grace a class with my presence. Especially not a first-year class,” she added, flashing the students a blinding smile. “But today is a special occasion—a surprise for one of our students!”

  Please no, Seb begged her silently.

  But she turned her smile directly on him, like the beam of a searchlight. “I thought about warning you, Sebastian. But then I remembered that you’re a Konstantinov. And a Konstantinov is always ready to perform!”

  Nooooo! he screamed silently.

  “He’s going to perform?” asked Sylvain. “But he’s—”

  “A fire breather!” Angélique Saint-Germain finished. “Exactly. And he’s going to show us all his skills.”

  The students gasped again.

  “You are?” said Camille.

  “Cool!” Sylvain shouted.

  “Here?” asked one of the unicyclists. “Aren’t there fire codes?”

  “Don’t worry,” the Scout assured her. “I’ve dabbled in firefighting.”

  The students murmured excitedly—all except Frankie, who was staring at Seb, eyes wide and full of concern.

  “All right then.” Monsieur Gerard shook his head, resigned. “Sit down, everyone. Hopefully this won’t take long, and we can get back to perfecting our cartwheels.”

  “We’ve gathered everything you need, Sebastian.” Angélique Saint-Germain gestured to the crate. “So I suppose I’ll just turn it over to you. Show us what it is you do best.” She gave him a long look, and Seb understood that this was a test—that after four weeks of watching him, she rightfully didn’t believe he had any circus skills at all.

  “Um.” He looked at the students now seated in front of him, then at the teachers standing close behind. “Well.” He had no idea what to do.

  Slowly, he walked over to the crate and peered inside. Just as he’d feared, it was all there, everything he needed to breathe fire, except the disconcerting lack of fear.

  “Well,” he said again. “Um.”

  He closed his eyes and pictured the Konstantinov fire breather in action, swishing his mouth with lighter fluid, spitting it out between his teeth and onto a torch, turning a tiny flame into a great plume of fire.

  For a moment, he wondered, Can I actually do this?

  Eyebrows, Sebastian, warned his father’s voice in his head. They lend so much to a face.

  He looked back at his audience. The students were waiting patiently. Monsieur Gerard was smoothing his mustache over and over. Angélique Saint-Germain was watching Seb in a way that reminded him of the Konstantinov lion before dinnertime. Ennui lay at her feet, incapable of caring any less.

  He noticed Frankie slip off to the girls’ change room, likely not wanting to witness the impending disaster. He couldn’t blame her.

  He turned back to the crate, picked up a torch, then uncapped one of the bottles. The smell made him gag. Who in their right mind would put fuel in their mouth?

  Could he?

  Could he?

  He dropped the torch back into the crate. There was no way. He was beaten.

  “What’s wrong, Sebastian?” the directrice asked.

  “I can’t do it,” he said quietly.

  “And why is that?” Angélique Saint-Germain asked, a note of triumph in her voice.

  Seb turned to face his classmates, his teachers, the directrice and her nasty little bulldog. “I’m not a fire breather,” he told them.

  The class gasped again.

  “Wait, what?” said Murray.

  “So what you’re telling us is that you lied,” the directrice snapped.

  “Now, Angélique.” The Scout stepped forward.

  “Don’t Angélique me,” she told him. “I told you this would happen. Didn’t I say all along that—”

  But they didn’t get to find out what she’d said all along. For at that moment, a new sound sliced through the air, drowning out all the students’ murmurs and the directrice’s shouts.

  It was the sound of the Bonaventure fire alarm.

  BY TEN O’CLOCK that morning, the bêtes noires were lined up, once again, on the bench outside the directrice’s office. This time, Banjo was in for being late to class fourteen times in the first month of school, Seb for pretending to be a fire breather to avoid practicing circus skills, and Frankie for pulling the fire alarm in an attempt to save Seb from setting his face on fire.

  “I still can’t believe you did that,” Seb murmured as they waited for the directrice to call them into her office.

  “You were about to put lighter fluid in your mouth,” said Frankie. “Even my littlest brother, Pio, knows not to do that. And you should see some of the stuff he puts in his mouth.”

  “You might have died,” Banjo agreed.

  Over at his too-small desk, Bruno paused in his typing. “You still might,” he pointed out, with a nod toward the directrice’s door. “You all might, actually.” Then he resumed his typing.

  “Thanks,” Seb told him. “That’s helpful.”

  He turned back to Frankie. “Anyway, you should blame me,” he told her. “If the directrice wants to send you back to Rome for pulling the fire alarm, blame me.”

  Frankie leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. “I intend to.”

  The phone on Bruno’s desk rang, and he snatched it up. “Oui, Madame,” he said, then hung up. “Sebastian Konstantinov,” he announced. “Once again, you are first in line.” He sounded rather amused.

  The directrice, however, was not.

  “I am not amused, Sebastian,” she told him as he slunk across her office, past the grand piano and the bust of her head. Ennui lay on a velvet cushion beside her desk, snoring like an elephant with a sinus infection.

  “I’m sorry,” Seb began, perching on the stool across from her throne.

  “I am not amused,” she repeated, louder this time. “But neither am I surprised. Clearly, lying runs in the family. This fiasco has Konstantinov written all over it.”

  “Oh, no, I—” Seb began to protest.

  “You are your father’s son,” Madame Saint-Germain went on. “Except for one thing. You, Sebastian, are not a circus performer.”

  Somehow, no matter how often he’d heard it, it never hurt any less. He looked down at his sneakers. “I know.”

  “So I suppose you take after your mother.”

  His head snapped back up. “My mother? You know her?”

  “Not really,” she replied. “I never met her. In fact, I never even received a wedding invitation, despite all those years your father and I trained together.” She sniffed. “Well, I knew it wouldn’t last. She wasn’t a circus person. I don’t know why Dragan thought that was a good match.”

  “Wait, so what happened?” Seb asked, momentarily forgetting the fire-breathing fiasco. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Don’t you?” Angélique Saint-Germain raised an eyebrow.

  He shook his head.

  “Well, I can’t remember.” She stood up from her throne and went over to Ennui’s cushion. The dog growled when she picked him up, but she hauled him back to the throne to sit in her lap. “I believe she just went back to her old life, to become a pharmacist or an insurance agent—something pedestrian.” The directrice shrugged. “But back to the point, Sebastian. The point is, you lied to me.”

  “Right but—” Seb wasn’t finished asking about his mother.

  “You lied to everyone,” she went on
. “And I won’t have that. We here at the Bonaventure Circus School are like a family. We share in the school’s successes and wallow together in its failures. And families are bonded by trust. Tell me, Sebastian.” She leaned forward over Ennui. “Do you want to be part of this family?”

  “Yes!” he cried, though not because he really wanted another family. Bonaventure was still his only chance to save the Konstantinovs. “I really do.”

  She sighed, and Ennui echoed it. “You are putting me in a very hard place here, Sebastian. What you did was dishonest. Deceitful. Fraudulent, even. I have every reason to send you home to…” She waved her hand vaguely. “Wherever the Konstantinovs are these days.”

  “Slovakia, I think,” said Seb.

  She grimaced. “But I will not do that.”

  “You won’t?”

  “No. Or rather, not yet. I will, however, put you on probation. And that means your continued presence at Bonaventure depends on three things.” She held up her hand to count on her crimson fingernails. “One: you must practice your skills. Every day. Even the ones you are terrible at. Especially those.”

  Seb gulped. “Okay.”

  “Two: you must excel in your academic classes. And by that I mean straight As.”

  He nodded. “Got it.”

  “And three: you must contribute to the Bonaventure Circus School.”

  “Contribute,” he repeated, unsure what she meant.

  “Contribute.”

  “Like…tidying up the common room?”

  “That is not what I mean,” she told him.

  “I see,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  She looked like she wanted to stuff him into a guitar case. “Sebastian,” she said. “As you can see, Bonaventure is in a bad way. And it will get worse if we do not find a champion. A patron. A philanthropist, even.”

  “Oh.” Seb realized what she meant.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “But here’s the thing—”

  “Good,” said Angélique Saint-Germain. “Then I will leave you to decide how to proceed.” She waved toward the door. “You may go now.”

  Seb didn’t move. More than anything, he wanted to tell her the truth: that the Konstantinovs were deeply in the crimson, and Dragan was the furthest thing from a philanthropist.

  The truth will not set you free, his father’s voice warned. They say it will, but they are lying.

  But telling lies is worse! he argued silently. Didn’t you see what happened this morning? I almost put lighter fluid in my mouth!

  “Look,” he said to the directrice. “There’s something you should know.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Ennui lifted his head and gave Seb a look that seemed to say, “You’re really going to do this?”

  Was he? Seb paused to envision the outcome of telling the truth. She’d probably have him on a plane to Slovakia by the end of the day, probably on his father’s dime. And his father didn’t even have a dime.

  And that would effectively ruin his chances of saving the Konstantinov Family Circus. He’d be right back where he started.

  “Sebastian,” said the directrice, “I do not have all day. What is it that I need to know?”

  “Um, that I’ll try,” he said. “To do what you said.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now please send in the next one on your way out.”

  “Okay.” He stood up, then paused. “Sorry, which one?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Good point. Let’s have the de Luca delinquent. Honestly, the fire alarm? What was she think—” Suddenly her eyes widened. “Oh!” she said. “She did it…for you!”

  “Um,” Seb said, unsure whether agreeing would get Frankie in more trouble. “Maybe…?”

  “She did.” The directrice nodded. “Sebastian, a word of advice: stay away from those bêtes noires. You’re better than them. If only a little.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  “Send me Frankie de Luca,” she commanded, and he did as he was told.

  WHEN SEB REJOINED his classmates, he kept his head low and tried to ignore their stares. Not in the mood for conversation, he spent lunchtime in the library, reading Escape from the Haunted Prison. It was, as Oliver had promised, a great story. But it did nothing to improve his mood.

  Fortunately, his afternoon classes were math, science and English, none of which required him to talk. He noted that Frankie and Banjo were similarly quiet when they returned to class as well. But at least they too had survived their second trip to the directrice’s office without getting shipped home. For now, anyway.

  After school, when the students began streaming for the front door and the waiting cars, Seb headed straight to his room. But when he opened the door to Room Number 5, he came face-to-face with Sylvain.

  “Oh. Um. Hi,” Seb said.

  “Hey, Super—” Sylvain began, then stopped himself. For of course, he couldn’t say that anymore.

  Seb blushed. Sylvain shrugged and began stuffing dirty laundry into a bag to bring home.

  Seb darted over to his bed, grabbed his copy of Escape from the Haunted Prison, then turned to hurry back out again. But when he reached the door, he stopped; it didn’t seem right to not talk to Sylvain. He was, after all, one of the nicest people Seb had met. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “For lying.”

  Sylvain took a whiff of a sock, gagged a bit, then shoved it in his bag. “It’s okay,” he said.

  “Is it?” asked Seb.

  “Well, it’s kind of weird,” Sylvain admitted, looking up from his laundry. “So you’re not a performer at all?”

  “Nope,” Seb said. “I have no skills.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nada.”

  “Huh.” Sylvain contemplated this as he knotted the top of his laundry bag. “So you were unmasked.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Like in clown class,” Sylvain explained. “Audrey’s always talking about how people need to take off the masks they wear every day in order to find their inner clowns. You, my friend, were unmasked.”

  “I guess so,” Seb said. It sounded about right, though it certainly hadn’t brought him any closer to finding his inner clown.

  “Yes.” Sylvain nodded wisely. Then he paused again. “So…why are you here then? I mean, no offense, but how did you get into Bonaventure without any skills?”

  Seb blushed.

  “Oh,” said Sylvain. “Your dad, right?”

  Seb couldn’t deny it.

  “Right.” Sylvain frowned at his laundry bag, and Seb could tell he thought this unfair. Sylvain had friends on the Bonaventure wait list, after all—friends deserving of the place Seb had been granted. He picked up his book, ready to leave again.

  “Do you even want to be here?” Sylvain asked.

  “Of course!” said Seb. “I was the one who decided to come, without my dad even knowing. I really want to be here. And I want to stay.”

  Sylvain considered this for a moment, and Seb could tell he didn’t really understand. But Seb couldn’t explain any more without giving away the Konstantinov family secrets. He stayed quiet.

  “Well, I guess that’s good,” Sylvain said eventually. He lifted his bag of laundry up and placed it atop his head. “Now, most important, what was it like?”

  “What was what like?”

  “Going to her office. Was it as scary as they say?”

  Seb considered this. “I’d say it was worse.”

  Sylvain gave a low whistle. “Glad you survived. Here.” With his laundry balanced on top of his head, he opened his drawer, pulled out his bag of candy and tossed it to Seb. “I left you some jawbreakers this time. They’re my favorite.”

  Seb had never felt so grateful. “Thank you,” he told his roommate.

  “Have a good weekend,” Sylvain said, and he teetered out of the room, leaving Seb with a half-eaten bag of candy that felt like a great gift.

&nbs
p; As soon as the last student had left, he took the candy and his book and headed for the choir box. Inside the theater, he tiptoed up the stairs and settled in, wondering if Frankie would join him. On the one hand, he wanted very badly to know what had happened to her in the directrice’s office. On the other hand, though, it was a relief to be alone.

  He tried to read Escape from the Haunted Prison, but his mind kept wandering, so he put it aside, closed his eyes and did what he now did whenever he was having a particularly bad day, or simply needed an escape. He returned to the story of the animals escaping the Bucharest Zoo.

  But he hadn’t even gotten past the part where the monkey picked the locks to spring the animals free when he heard the theater door open and someone tiptoe in.

  Frankie. He sat up and moved over, making room for her ridiculously long legs.

  “This way.”

  Seb sat upright. It was Frankie all right, but who was with her?

  “Watch that sixth step. It’s pretty rotten.”

  Before Seb could ask what the heck she was doing, Frankie appeared at the top of the stairs, with Banjo Brady beside her.

  “Oh,” said Seb.

  “I brought Banjo,” Frankie announced, though this was quite clear.

  “Hi,” Banjo said nervously. “Am I allowed up here?”

  Seb sighed. Though he didn’t particularly want to share his hiding space with yet another person, he couldn’t very well say no to Banjo. “Sure,” he said, moving over to make room for three.

  “Thanks,” said Banjo, tucking himself into a corner. “I heard that Marie-Eve from third year is performing tonight, and I’d love to see her tightrope routine. The Scout thinks I should take up the tightrope. Well, if I get to stay,” he added.

  “So what happened today?” Seb asked.

  Frankie held up a hand. “Candy first. Then we debrief.”

  “Bossy,” Seb muttered, but he pulled out the candy bag anyway.

  “I got my second warning,” Banjo explained once they each had a jawbreaker the size of a juggling ball. “She said she’ll give me one month to stop being late to class. If I can’t do it, she’ll ship me back to Stumpville.”