Seb thought for a moment. He was having a hard enough time saving his own circus from the crimson—scrounging up money for Bonaventure wasn’t really an option. “Maybe all we can do for now is try not to get noticed,” he said. “We need to stay out of trouble.”
Frankie nodded. “Good point. We’ll have to fly under the radar.”
“We can do that,” said Banjo. “I think.”
“We’ll be stealthy, like ninjas,” Frankie said.
“We’ll blend in,” added Banjo. “Like stinkbugs.”
“Stinkbugs?” Seb repeated.
Banjo nodded. “Camouflage. They’re really good at it.”
“Stinkbugs. Okay,” said Seb. “We’ll try, anyway.” Though considering their track record thus far, it wouldn’t be easy.
AND SO THEY tried to fly under the radar, stealthy like ninjas and camouflaged like stinkbugs. Frankie took time each day to work on her French, usually with Seb’s help. And in Basic Acrobatics, she focused on clean lines and stopped questioning the point of it all (at least out loud).
Seb was still terrible at circus skills. But he practiced, every Saturday and Sunday afternoon, alongside Banjo and Frankie. He tumbled and cartwheeled, worked on his three-ball cascade, and even tried to build some muscle lifting the smallest dumbbells he could find in the gym.
He also wrote the directrice a note, saying that Dragan was very busy planning a new show but would be happy to discuss a contribution in the spring. He dropped it off at Bruno’s tiny desk and hurried away before the man could read it. He hoped very much that one of these days the only stories he’d have to make up would be for English class.
Banjo, meanwhile, began to set his alarm clock half an hour early, to give himself more time to get to Basic Acrobatics. Frankie and Seb did their best to shepherd him from one class to another, and some evenings he even studied his homemade map.
Then one day, about two weeks after that fateful morning in the costume closet, Seb and Frankie arrived at English class only to realize that Banjo was missing. Again.
“Didn’t you have lunch with him?” Frankie asked Seb.
Seb nodded. “But he had to go back to his room after.”
“And you let him go alone?” Frankie looked at him incredulously.
“I had to go to the library!” Seb protested. “And anyway, where were you?”
But Frankie didn’t answer, for she was staring at something behind Seb.
“What?” he turned around, then gasped.
Banjo had walked into the classroom. By himself. On time.
“You made it!” they cried as he bounded over gleefully.
“I know, right?” Banjo grinned. “I can’t even explain it. For some reason it just made sense today. Maybe it was the parkour—or the map,” he added quickly, nodding at Seb.
Frankie beamed like a proud parent. Seb didn’t even care whose idea had worked best in the end. All that mattered was that Banjo’s internal compass had returned, and with no time to spare, for his month-long probation was almost over.
And so October ended, and the directrice didn’t come to collect them and ship them back to Stumpville, Rome or Moldova. But they didn’t let themselves get too comfortable, for there was still an air of great unease at Bonaventure, especially among the teachers.
Under the radar they flew, through November as the temperature dropped further, and into December when the snow began to pile up on the rooftops outside. By this point, they’d all concluded that staying out of trouble was surprisingly exhausting.
“My brain hurts,” Frankie moaned one evening in mid-December as she flopped down beside Seb on a couch in the student lounge. “But look.” She tugged a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it to him.
He smoothed it out. It was a French verb test, written in Frankie’s scribbles. At the top of the page was a big red “B.”
“Frankie!” He gaped. “You passed!”
“Sure did.” She grinned. “Thanks to you.”
“Well.” Seb blushed. “It was a team effort.” And they shook hands proudly before slouching back on the couch, exhausted by their efforts.
Across the room, Banjo was talking on the phone to his parents, which he still did at least three times a week. Seb, on the other hand, barely managed a weekly call home, and when he did, his father was usually too busy to talk. This did nothing to quell Seb’s nerves. He knew Maxime was still with the Konstantinovs, and according to Stanley he could once again eat solid food. But Seb knew better than to assume that things had improved.
When Banjo finished his call, he flopped down beside his friends with a big sigh.
Frankie and Seb exchanged a look. Banjo wasn’t one for ennui. They sat up straight.
“And how are things in Stumptown, Monsieur Brady?” Frankie asked, rolling her Rs à la Angélique Saint-Germain.
“Stumpville,” Banjo sighed, missing the joke. “It wasn’t the best year in our camp. We broke even, but not by much. So Theo and Lily can’t fly me home for the solstice like they’d wanted to.”
“That’s too bad,” said Seb. “But, um, what’s a solstice?”
“You don’t know?” Banjo looked incredulous.
Seb shook his head and looked at Frankie, who shrugged.
“It’s only the best day of the whole year!” Banjo exclaimed. “The darkest and the shortest day—the first day of winter!”
“Sounds delightful,” said Frankie. She grabbed a deck of cards from a nearby table and began shuffling them.
“It is,” said Banjo. “Theo and Lily have never been big on Christmas, so we celebrate the winter solstice instead.”
“My family’s big on Christmas,” Frankie said.
Seb looked at her in surprise; she still almost never mentioned her life back in Rome. He waited quietly for her to continue.
“When I was little,” she recalled, “all the de Lucas would get together on the vigilia, the night before Christmas, at my uncle Raphael’s house. It was big and fancy, so we’d have to wear our best clothes. My brothers and I hated that—especially Aldo, who can’t eat without spilling everything. But it was always worth it for the food. Thirteen courses.” She closed her eyes and smiled. “Of fish.”
“Thirteen?” Banjo was incredulous.
“Fish?” Seb made a face, then quickly erased it when Frankie glared at him. “Sorry. Go on.”
“The fried eel was my favorite,” she said. “But that was before everything changed. We still have a vigilia meal, but it’s just in our apartment. Which is good for Aldo, since he can spill all he wants. But I miss the eel.”
“What happened that changed everything?” Seb asked.
She shuffled the cards again, like a seasoned poker dealer. “Long story,” she said. “Anyway, I won’t be going home either this year. How about you?” she asked Seb.
“There’s no time to fly all the way to Eastern Europe,” he said, though there was, really—they had two entire weeks off. What there wasn’t, however, was money. None of the Konstantinovs had even suggested he come home for the holidays.
“Will you miss it?” Banjo asked.
Seb considered this, then nodded. “At Christmas we always park the caravans for a few days and have our own celebration. Aunt Tatiana makes giant vats of goulash and huge trays of gingerbread, and everyone performs for each other, but not their usual acts. Just in whatever way makes them happy.”
Like Frankie, he closed his eyes to picture it—the flaming juggling pins arcing into the night sky, the aerialist climbing as high on the silks as she dared, then letting herself tumble toward the ground, her expert knots catching her right before she crashed. Toward the end of the night, the acrobats would form a human Christmas tree, and someone would wrap Seb in a shiny gold silk. Then he’d get hauled up, passed hand over hand until he reached the very top—the star at the top of the tree. He always protested, since it was terrifying being that high up. But it was also electrifying—the only time of year he got to shine.
This year would be nothing like that, and he tried not to feel sad about it. At least he’d have Frankie and Banjo around, and lots of time to read. Also, he soon found out that Oliver Grey would be their supervisor.
“You don’t spend the holidays with your family?” he asked Oliver after English on one of their last days of class before the holidays.
“Nah,” said Oliver. “My family likes to go to Florida, and I think Christmas should be spent in the cold and snow.”
Seb was glad Frankie wasn’t around. She’d certainly have something to say to that.
“Speaking of holidays…” Oliver shuffled through some papers and pulled out a particularly rumpled one. “I wrote down the titles of some circus shows I think you’ll like. You can watch them all online during the break, when you’ve got some time off.”
“What kind of circus shows?” Seb asked, taking the paper.
He must have looked skeptical, because Oliver said, “Trust me, you’ll like them. They tell great stories.”
Seb looked up. “Stories? Really?” He’d given up on ever seeing such a show again.
Oliver nodded. “Let me know what you think. We can talk about them.”
Seb left the classroom clutching the list. It wouldn’t be Christmas with the Konstantinovs, but maybe it would be okay. Especially with Oliver and the bêtes noires around.
Then an idea popped to mind, and he turned and hurried back.
“Hey, Oliver, would you be able to take us out over the holidays?” he asked. “To explore Montreal again?”
“Oh.” Oliver hesitated. “I’d like to, Seb, but I’ll have to check this time.” He glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “My ‘act now, apologize later’ motto didn’t go over so well back in October.”
“You got in trouble?” Seb exclaimed. “Really? I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Oliver told him. “It’s just that things are tense here these days.”
“Yeah.” Seb remembered the directrice’s plan to cut jobs. She hadn’t done it yet, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t. “Well, don’t worry about taking us out again.”
“It’s a good idea, though,” said Oliver. “And you definitely deserve it, being cooped up here for so long. Also, Montreal is amazing at Christmastime. We could go see some lights, maybe the ice sculptures…” Oliver stroked his beard, liberating a few crumbs. “Let me see what I can do. Even our directrice has to have some holiday spirit, right?”
Seb wasn’t so sure about this, but he nodded.
“Any idea when you’d like to go?” asked Oliver.
“Well,” said Seb, “when is the solstice?”
POSSIBLY THE DIRECTRICE really did have some holiday spirit, but more likely the Scout worked his usual magic. Either way, Seb, Frankie and Banjo left Bonaventure for the second time on the shortest and darkest day of the year. Oliver had found them all warm coats that more or less fit, for which Seb was grateful. Frankie was wearing so many layers, he wasn’t sure how she could even move, but she went gamely along, picking her way through the snowbanks, as eager as anyone to escape.
Banjo was the most excited. “It almost never snows in Stumpville!” he declared, staring up at the massive flakes hurtling down from a plum-colored sky. “And when it does, it always melts right away.” He tried to catch a snowflake on his tongue, but it landed in his eye instead.
“It’s perfect for snowballs.” Seb formed one in his mitten and tossed it at Frankie. Within moments, an all-out battle ensued.
Once they were all suitably snow-covered, Oliver led them through the streets of Old Montreal to a square strung with thousands of white lights. There was a choir singing carols and people selling steaming cider and roasted chestnuts. And in the middle of the square stood a series of sculptures—a tree, a bear, a giant star—all made of ice and illuminated by blue and purple lights.
“This was the best idea,” Banjo whispered to Seb, who nodded, pleased.
Eventually, they agreed it was time for chocolat chaud, and Oliver led them to a café packed with people chatting merrily at tables around a fireplace.
“Oh, hey,” said Oliver. “I see a few friends over there. I’m going to say hello. You don’t mind sitting by yourselves, do you?”
Of course they didn’t—sitting by themselves in a café in Montreal felt very grown-up. Oliver gave them some coins for their drinks, then bounced over to see his friends.
They bought big, steaming mugs of chocolat chaud and claimed a spot near the fireplace. Frankie settled into a red armchair, peeling off her scarves and hat for the first time in over a month. Seb and Banjo sank onto a couch opposite her.
“So.” Seb sipped his chocolat. “How should we celebrate the solstice, Banjo?”
“Well.” Banjo wiped a dab of whipped cream off his nose. “At home, we light lots of candles. And we make a big meal, with tofu trifle for dessert, and eat by the fire. Sometimes Theo and Lily invite friends, but usually it’s just the three of us, and John and Yoko, of course.” He thought for a moment. “And we tell stories. Theo always tells the one about how he met Lily, even though we all know it by heart.”
It didn’t sound like the most riveting story, but Seb encouraged him to tell it anyway. The solstice seemed like a time to be generous.
“Okay.” Banjo licked his lips. “First, you should know that in Stumpville, there are two kinds of people. There are tree planters, and there are loggers. And they don’t usually get along. It’s always been like that.” He paused a moment. “So, it was the beginning of summer, maybe thirteen years ago. And Theo had just arrived in Stumpville for his first season of planting. He didn’t have an internal compass yet, since he’d never been to the coast. And he ended up wandering away from his team and getting lost in the forest.
“He’d been walking for over an hour when he found himself in a clear-cut—that’s a place where all the trees have been chopped down. He was about to turn back when he saw a big black bear lumbering toward him.”
“Whoa,” Seb breathed. The only bears he’d ever seen were the dancing variety.
“He didn’t know what to do,” Banjo went on. “He couldn’t remember if you were supposed to play dead or climb a tree when you met a bear, so he figured he’d just pick one. And he was about to throw himself in the dirt when he heard a rustling behind him, then felt a hand on his shoulder. And he looked back and saw a woman with a chain saw.”
Frankie and Seb gasped.
“She was a logger, and not one bit afraid. She waved her chain saw at the bear and told it to go back where it came from. And you know what? The bear turned right around and left.”
“It didn’t!” cried Frankie.
“Did,” said Banjo. “The woman had grown up on the coast and knew all about bears. So she was about to teach Theo what to do next time he met one. But then she got a good look at him, and he looked at her. And that was it—my parents fell in love, right there in the clear-cut.”
“But they were from two different camps,” Frankie pointed out.
Banjo nodded. “But their chakras were aligned, so it all worked out.”
“What does that mean?” asked Seb.
“True love,” Banjo said simply.
Seb had to admit, it was a good story, though if he were telling it, he would have drawn out the scene with the bear. He decided to write it all down later, when he got back to his room.
“Your turn,” Banjo told him. “Tell us a story about the circus.”
Seb considered several before settling on one about the time a pair of rabbits went missing, only to be found two days later sleeping in Aunt Tatiana’s bed, nesting in her beard.
But he’d only just started it when he had to stop. For there was something else he wanted to tell, very badly. And solstice seemed like a time to be honest with people you could trust.
“This isn’t a story exactly,” he said. “Well, I guess it is. But…” He took a breath and proceeded to tell them the truth about the Konstantino
v Family Circus, and how he’d come to Bonaventure in hopes of saving it.
“That’s why I can’t get sent home,” he finished. “They’re counting on me.”
“Wow,” Banjo said, looking a little dazed. “And the directrice still expects your dad to donate to the school?”
Seb nodded.
“But he’s in the crimson,” said Frankie.
“Exactly. And if she finds out, that’ll be it for me.”
“We won’t tell,” Banjo promised.
“Thanks,” said Seb, feeling suddenly lighter. “I would have told you sooner, but—”
“It’s a family secret,” Frankie finished. “The kind of thing you keep to yourself.” She paused. “Or maybe tell two people you really trust.”
Seb looked at her expectantly, wondering if now she would too.
For a few moments, she stayed quiet, sipping her chocolat chaud. Then she kicked off her boots and pulled her feet up onto the armchair. “So, it was the night of Cousin Luigi’s wedding,” she began. “And I was about nine years old.”
Cousin Luigi, it turned out, was the son of Frankie’s uncle Raphael, brother to her father, Rocco. Raphael was the one who’d hosted the Christmas parties in his enormous mansion, which he’d built with the fortune he’d earned selling Italy’s most sought-after soup.
“Soup?” Seb interrupted, just to be sure he’d heard correctly.
“Minestrone,” Frankie specified. “The most delicious minestrone in all of Italy.”
Up until that fateful night, all the de Lucas had shared evenly in the soup spoils, for Raphael was a generous man. Frankie’s family spent summers in Croatia and could send Frankie and her brothers to a pricey private school. But at Luigi’s wedding, just as the guests were digging into their tiramisu, it was revealed that another one of Rocco’s brothers had leaked the secret soup recipe to a rival company.
Tempers flared, insults volleyed and a pistol emerged from a suit jacket. Fortunately, Uncle Raphael had terrible aim, and the traitor lost only his left ear for the crime. Unfortunately, Raphael decided then and there to cut his entire family off from his minestrone millions. And Frankie’s parents were suddenly left scrambling for money.
The Bonaventure Adventures Page 14
