“You still haven’t found your…what did you call it?” Frankie asked.
“Internal compass.” Banjo shook his head mournfully. “I’m scared it’s gone forever.”
“I bet it isn’t,” Seb said, though he still didn’t really know what an internal compass was, much less how to find one that had gone missing. He turned to Frankie. “What happened to you?”
“I got a second warning too,” she said. “One more for bad behavior, and I’m back to Rome. Oh, and I have to start doing better in French class.” She shrugged and slurped her jawbreaker, as if she didn’t care.
Before Seb could ask what the directrice had said about the fire alarm fiasco, Frankie turned to him. “So what about you?”
“Well, I’m on probation,” he admitted. “I might get sent home too.”
“You?” Banjo gaped. “But you’re the superstar!”
“Except I’m not,” said Seb. “At all. I’m not a fire breather or anything else. I have zero circus skills.”
Frankie nodded, as if she’d known it all along. Banjo, however, looked shocked. “But you grew up in a circus!”
“Yeah,” said Seb. “But that doesn’t mean I’m meant to perform.” He recalled what the directrice had said about his mother. Maybe if he failed out of Bonaventure, he would try for dental school or pharmacy. Something pedestrian. “Anyway, I’ve got to practice all my skills and excel in my academic classes, or else I’m out.” He omitted the part about getting his father to support the school—he didn’t even want to think about that.
They all fell silent, sucking their jawbreakers.
“The way I see it,” Frankie said after a moment, “we only have one option.”
“For what?” asked Seb.
“Survival,” she said. “We need to work together as a team.”
“We do?” Banjo looked hopeful.
Frankie nodded. “We’re all bêtes noires, after all.” And she looked at Seb, as if daring him to deny that he was one of them.
He couldn’t. Not anymore.
“But how?” asked Banjo.
“I don’t know yet,” Frankie said, swapping her jawbreaker for a chocolate caramel. “But I know that there’s strength in numbers. We’ll come up with a plan.”
The theater door swung open again, and in tromped the stagehands and riggers, to prepare for the soiree. Seb sat back against the wall, thinking about his original Plan to Survive Circus School and what this next one might look like, with all of them drawing it up together. It reminded him of his homemade map of Eastern Europe, and all those hours he and Maxime had spent sketching it. If only he could make a map that showed the path to circus school survival, he mused.
Which gave him an interesting idea.
AFTER BREAKFAST ON Saturday morning, the bêtes noires met in the library to make Banjo a homemade map of the Bonaventure Circus School.
“Okay.” Seb spread out some paper and pencils on a table. “Let’s start by sketching each floor. Then we’ll add in the details. And these can be anything,” he added, because that’s what Maxime had told him, all those years ago. “Anything you find weird or interesting about the school. Draw it in.”
“Okay!” Banjo grabbed a pencil and got started.
Frankie, however, insisted on tackling her French homework first, so she scribbled in her notebook while the boys sketched.
“Is this where the clown classroom goes?” Banjo asked.
“It’s around the corner,” Seb told him.
“Really?” Banjo sketched it in.
“That’s too small,” Frankie observed. “Audrey’s classroom is at least twice as big. And don’t forget her office next door.”
Seb raised an eyebrow at her, then looked pointedly at a pencil.
“Not now,” she said. “Banjo, that’s not where the stairwell goes. It’s over—”
Seb picked up a pencil and held it out. She eyed it for a moment, then snatched it up.
“Let me show you,” she said, nudging them out of the way.
They drew all the hallways and classrooms, offices and dorm rooms. They drew bathrooms and stairwells and storage closets. Then they added in odd things they’d noticed, like the water fountain that spurted right in your face. And the table in the cafeteria with the crooked leg that would occasionally collapse, leaving some kid with egg salad in their lap.
“Don’t forget the choir box,” said Frankie. Seb added that to the theater.
“And the rotten sixth step,” added Banjo.
Seb drew the stair, with an arrow and a note of caution.
“And the statue in the theater that looks like Monsieur Gerard,” said Frankie.
“What?” The boys looked at her. “That doesn’t exist.”
“It does,” Frankie insisted. “It’s right in this corner.” She grabbed Seb’s pencil and quickly sketched a statue with a dour, pinched look on its mustachioed face—a surprisingly accurate representation of the acrobatics teacher. Banjo and Seb burst into laughter.
“You’ve got skills,” Seb commended her.
“I’ve had some practice,” Frankie said.
“Did you take art classes?” asked Banjo.
Frankie shook her head. “Self-taught,” she said.
“Like with parkour,” said Banjo.
Frankie shrugged. “Kind of.” Then she went on to sketch the other saints’ faces, each as detailed as the first.
Hours passed, and they barely noticed them. By lunchtime, they had made an enormous map of the Bonaventure Circus School.
“That should do it,” Frankie said, surveying their work. “Right, Banjo?”
“I hope so,” he said, rolling up the map. “I’ll study it a bit every day.”
Seb watched him take the map up to his room, feeling rather pleased with himself. He’d just decided to celebrate by finishing Escape from the Haunted Prison when Frankie let out a big sigh.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“French.” She grimaced at her notebook. “I’m supposed to be writing a paragraph describing my family.”
Seb sat back down. “Do you know any French?”
“Of course,” she sniffed. “Do you?”
He nodded. “Let’s see.” He took her notebook and read over the few sentences she’d written. He was fairly certain she was describing her three little brothers, but it was hard to tell—partly because her grammar was awful, and partly because the three sentences she’d written contained a half-dozen colorful swearwords and insults.
“Frankie!” he cried. “You can’t write this!”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because it’s really rude!”
“Really?” Frankie peered at the paper.
“Yes! Look, this is a bad one.” He pointed at a word he recalled Maxime using once when he dropped the hilt of a broadsword on his foot. “And whoa, where’d you learn this one?”
“From the tourists in Rome,” she replied. “That’s where I learned all my French.”
He shook his head. “Those must have been some angry tourists.”
“You have no idea,” said Frankie. “Anyway, can you help me fix it?”
Seb thought longingly about the haunted prison. But if, as Frankie said, their only chance at survival was to become a team…
He picked up a pencil again. “Okay, let’s do it.”
The day zipped by. By the end of it, Banjo had a homemade map, Frankie had pages of French homework completed, sans swear words, and Seb still hadn’t read his book. But he was oddly okay with that. There was always Sunday.
On Sunday, however, they intercepted him right after breakfast, on his way to the library.
“You’re coming with us,” Frankie told him, and she and Banjo each took hold of one of his arms.
“I am?” he said, thoroughly confused. “Where?”
“The gym,” said Frankie. “Now it’s time to work on your homework.”
“Oh, no!” Seb dug in his heels. “Guys, there’s no point. I’
ve tried to learn before. I’m just never going to be a performer.”
“Not with that attitude, you’re not,” Frankie said, pulling him down the hallway to the gymnasium, where they’d set up three layers of mats, one atop the other.
“Don’t worry.” Banjo patted his shoulder. “It’s always scarier than it looks.”
“We’re going to start at the very beginning,” said Frankie. “Not with handstands or cartwheels—that’s too advanced.”
Seb flushed. “Honestly, guys, I—”
Frankie held up a hand for silence. “We’re starting with somersaults,” she said. “And Banjo and I are going to do them with you.”
“It’ll be fun,” Banjo said. He tucked himself into a ball and demonstrated a forward roll.
“I don’t know about that.” Seb sighed. He tried to imitate Banjo’s roll, but ended up sprawled on the mat.
“Keep your head tucked,” said Frankie. “Pretend your chin is glued to your chest.”
He did as she said, and tried again. And again. And again.
“You’re getting it!” Banjo cheered, rolling beside him.
Seb knew they were just being nice, but somehow it mattered less with them all rolling around together, and no frowning teachers there to watch. Then Frankie invented a game of somersault tag, and for nearly half an hour, they tumbled after each other, shrieking and laughing.
Finally, they collapsed on the mat, too dizzy to move.
“If Basic Acrobatics were like this,” Seb had to admit, “I might actually like it.”
“You should take over teaching it, Frankie,” Banjo giggled.
Seb folded his hands behind his head and looked up at ceiling, just in time to see a flash of crimson in the directrice’s office window above. He’d been so caught up in his lesson that he’d forgotten she might be there. He could only imagine what she was thinking as she watched him tumble—if you could call it tumbling—with the bêtes noires.
Then he recalled the third condition of his probation. It was only a matter of time before she asked him about his father’s contribution to the school.
He closed his eyes and sighed, wishing Frankie and Banjo could help him with that one too. He didn’t have a clue how he would deal with it alone.
SEB CALLED HOME that evening, hoping to get Maxime’s help with the situation. But Maxime had other things on his mind. Ticket sales had been poor in Slovakia, he reported, and they didn’t expect much better in Poland, their next destination.
“Oh.” Seb gulped, putting his own worries aside to focus on the Konstantinovs. “How’s everyone feeling?”
“Not great, to be honest. We could really use some goods news around here.” He coughed. “How are things going in Montreal?”
“Oh. Well, I haven’t learned anything really useful yet,” Seb admitted. “But I’m working on it. And I think I’ve made a few friends.” It sounded odd even saying it. Seb had never made any friends outside the Konstantinovs.
“Tell me about them,” said Maxime.
“Well, there’s Banjo Brady,” Seb said, sitting down on the carpet in the common room. “He’s from a little town on the West Coast, where his parents own a tree-planting camp. Banjo grew up exploring the forest, learning the names of trees and animals, and setting up slacklines. Do you know what slacklining is, Max?”
“Like tightrope walking, but on a loose line?”
“Yeah. He’s really good at it,” said Seb. “And then there’s Frankie.”
“Where’s he from?” asked Maxime.
“Frankie’s a girl, and she’s from Rome. She does parkour.” And that, Seb realized, was about the extent of his knowledge of Frankie. Her French assignment had described her parents and three brothers, but not in great detail. What he did know for certain was that she was the kind of person who’d only talk about herself when she was good and ready, and no amount of pestering her would change that. Case in point: Murray’s nose.
Maxime coughed again.
“Are you okay, Max?” Seb asked.
“Oh sure,” Maxime said, clearing his throat. “There’s just a cold going around and I’ve got a sore throat.”
“You should take care of that,” Seb advised. A sword swallower needed a healthy throat like an acrobat needed an unfractured metatarsal. “Hot water and lemon,” he advised. “That’s always worked in the past, right?”
Maxime agreed. “Aunt Tatiana’s been trying to feed me garlic too.”
“Gross,” said Seb. “I hate it when she does that.”
Maxime laughed, then began coughing again. “I have to go, Seb. But someone else wants to talk to you.”
“Okay, nice talking to you,” Seb said.
“You too, Seb,” said Maxime. “Bon courage.”
He heard the phone being passed. Then, “Heya, kid!” said Stanley. “Hey, did you hear about the fire at the circus?”
“The fire?” Seb sat bolt upright. “No! Max didn’t tell me! What happened?”
“Oh man, it was a bad one,” said Stanley. “The heat was intense!” He paused, then burst into laughter. Seb could hear him jingling the bells on his shoes. “Get it? In tents?”
Seb sank back down, his heart still hammering. “Jeez, Stanley. Don’t do that to me.”
“Ha ha! Got you there, didn’t I?” Stanley hooted. “Aw, I miss having you around, kid.”
“Well, that makes one of us,” Seb replied gruffly. Though of course it wasn’t true. Even if the Konstantinovs were seven shades of bonkers, he still missed each one of them, every day.
“I’VE GOT A surprise for you guys today,” Oliver Grey announced in English class one afternoon the following week.
“More prepositions?” Murray groaned. The trapeze “master” had finally had his bandages removed, and he seemed to be enjoying the sound of his own voice again.
“Not today,” Oliver said good-naturedly. “Though I’d be happy to give you some extra homework, Murray. Today we’re—” He stopped as the door creaked open, and in slipped Banjo.
“Sorry,” Banjo whispered.
“No problem.” Oliver gestured for him to sit down. “Everything okay?”
Banjo nodded, but his eyes told Seb everything: the homemade map wasn’t working, and Banjo was still getting lost. Now he had only two more weeks to find his internal compass before the directrice shipped him back to Stumpville.
“Don’t worry,” Seb mouthed to Banjo, though if he were Banjo, he definitely would have been worried. He glanced over at Frankie, who was mauling her pencil, eyes narrowed. Seb was getting to know this look. It meant she was scheming.
“As I was saying,” Oliver went on, “today we’re going to write stories.”
Stories! Seb spun back around to face the front. Murray groaned again.
“Stories about what?” asked Giselle.
“Anything you want,” said Oliver. “A teacher of mine once said you should write about whatever haunts you. Not necessarily something scary, but something that’s always there, at the back of your mind.” He tapped the back of his head, where his red curls looked like they hadn’t been combed in a few days. “We’ve all got something there.”
Seb didn’t even have to ponder it—he knew exactly what he was going to write about. Or rather, what he had to write about. He flipped open his notebook, uncapped his pen and began. The words came rushing like water from the drinking fountain that spurted right into your face, and Seb kept his head close to his notebook, trying to capture every one. Before he knew it, the bell was ringing and class was over.
He sat up, dazed. Oliver was telling the class that they’d resume writing the next day, but Seb knew he’d have to continue that night. Possibly by flashlight, once Sylvain was asleep.
“Hey, Seb,” Oliver said as he stood up. “Can you stay a few minutes?”
“Me?” said Seb. “Um, okay.” Had he done something wrong? he wondered. Maybe he’d checked out too many library books? Or maybe he was being sent to the directrice’s office again,
to discuss his father’s contribution to the school. He gulped.
“You looked pretty intent there,” Oliver said once everyone else had left.
“Oh.” Seb flushed. “Yeah. I guess…I had a lot to write about.”
“Do you mind if I read a bit of your story?” Oliver asked. “Feel free to say no,” he added. “I’m just curious.”
“Oh!” Seb looked down at his notebook, relieved that he wasn’t getting sent to the directrice’s office. “I guess so. It’s just a work in progress, though.”
“I’ll only read a page or two,” Oliver promised.
While his teacher read, Seb pulled out his latest library find, a novel called Mount Mystery. It looked like a good story—something about a plane crash in the Rocky Mountains. But he couldn’t stop stealing glances at Oliver, trying to read the teacher’s expression while he read Seb’s story.
He was beginning to get anxious when Oliver looked up. “This is good, Seb,” he said. “Really good.”
“Really?” Seb squeaked, then cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s just a work in—”
“Progress. I know.” Oliver smiled. “But it’s very well written. And a great idea: circus animals escaping a zoo and trying to survive in the Romanian countryside. There’s lots of potential for conflict, and that’s important in a story. Do you know how it’s going to end?”
Seb didn’t. “Realistically, they probably won’t survive in Romania,” he told his teacher. “It might not be a happy ending.”
Oliver considered this. “It would be challenging. But maybe not impossible. They each have unique skills—maybe they can help each other survive.”
“Maybe,” Seb said, though he still wasn’t sure.
“You know,” said Oliver, “I once heard a story about a couple of penguins escaping the zoo here in Montreal. I don’t think they got far, but I always thought that would make a great novel, or even a movie. Have you been to the zoo?”
Seb shook his head. “I haven’t left Bonaventure since I got here.”
Oliver’s jaw dropped. “What? You’re kidding. You haven’t gone out?”
“Nope,” said Seb.
“But it’s been almost six weeks! And you’re in Montreal, one of the greatest cities in the world—in my opinion,” he added. “How can you stand it?”
The Bonaventure Adventures Page 11
