by Gwenda Bond
He bounced down into the net, and I still didn’t move. I had the impulse to say something to him, though I hesitated, trying to decide whether to go with a simple hello or maybe ask if he’d ever made the quad. But then he brought his arms up and down, punching the net in frustration.
And that was my cue to leave. I turned and slipped out as quietly as I’d entered.
I couldn’t believe I’d considered speaking. My face heated as I imagined what might have unfolded if he’d spotted me watching him uninvited. One thing was for sure: if he was a Garcia, feuding with him was definitely not my first instinct. I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to get closer, and I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was his ambition. Attempting the quad was bold.
Clearly I wasn’t the only one at the Cirque who had big dreams. The two of us really might turn out to be rivals.
Somehow, the idea of a competition between us did little to help my flushed cheeks. But a worthy distraction came a moment later, when I caught sight of the big top and gasped. I thought I’d been impressed by the practice buildings. This was far beyond them.
A striped circus tent the size of a small stadium crowned the top of a rise. Its three spires created a dramatic silhouette against the darkening sky. The closest thing to it I’d ever seen was in old photographs. Later, that tent would be the backdrop for our welcome party, which the Cirque’s famous owner, Thurston Meyer, had insisted on hosting. The grandest big top in existence, and our family would enter it as the guests of honor.
Adrenaline surged through me as I flashed on what we could achieve here, of the successful future within our reach. If that boy was a Garcia, and he was attempting the quad, then I’d need to come up with a dream act of my own. I stared at the soaring circus tent, and thought of my heroine, Bird Millman, the best wire walker in history, in my not-so-humble opinion. During her heyday in the early 1900s, she’d pulled off stunts like strutting above city skylines on simple wires strung between buildings. Being here, gazing up at the spires of such a grand big top, made me seriously consider that maybe I could try something that jaw-dropping. That dangerous.
I walked forty feet up without a net all the time, and I’d trained plenty on outdoor wires. But could I envision myself out of the circus tent, hundreds of feet higher, above the real world? Even if the answer was yes, my dream act would probably be forced to remain a little closer to earth for the time being. Nervous parents, nervous owner, nervous audiences. First we had to prove that we belonged here.
But if I was certain of anything, it was that we did.
I shook my head to clear it. The idea of imitating Bird might be madness for now, but I still walked back home to change for the party grinning so hard that my cheeks ached.
two
* * *
Thurston led the way to the big top. He wore his ringmaster tux and tails, bow tie undone, face animated below a waxy crown of brown hair. The whole trip across the grounds, he had done nothing but fawn over my parents. Nan wasn’t with us, of course. She’d refused to come out.
As we approached the massive tent, electronica beat out a crazy song in welcome. Elaborate masks covered a table set up outside the entrance. Painted and sequined, beaded and glittered, they proved that leather and papier-mâché could be transformed into marvels. Butterfly wings splashed with a sparkle of colors, twisting vines that gleamed green, fox ears that curved above golden cheeks. Some were scary, colored deep red or black and sprouting horns and spikes.
“It’s a masquerade,” Thurston explained. “I had the costumers making them all night. Please, take your pick.”
Selecting one turned out to be easy. I tried the fox, but set it down for the butterfly. Wings would be a handy thing for a wire walker to have, after all, and I liked how the holes were positioned so my eyes became part of the wings’ intricate design. The soft leather of the mask hugged my cheeks, stretching up and out on either side.
My mother had found a horse, the material manipulated to mimic a long nose. She grinned at me, high blonde ponytail swishing behind her. I assumed that meant I was officially forgiven.
Thurston directed a slight frown at my father. “Emil, nothing to your taste?”
My father’s gaze roved over the table, but he made no move to choose.
Sam had managed to find the plainest black mask available, and he still looked uncomfortable wearing it. “Don’t laugh,” he said.
Which, of course, made me laugh. “It suits you. You’re like Batman. If only I could find you a cape.” I glanced around, pretending to look for one.
“ ‘Some men just want to watch the world burn,’ ” he said, in a goofy deep voice, no doubt quoting one of the action movies he loved and I’d never seen. “Without a cape.”
“Alas.”
Dad finally responded to a still-frowning Thurston. “I choose to show my face.”
“Okay,” Thurston said. He must have sensed the tension and the possibility for our deal to fall apart, because he swept a patch of the table clear and removed a set of papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. I knew what the contract said: it was a two-year commitment with Dad as headliner, Mom as primary equestrienne, and me as a bonus. “Let’s just get the signing over with and then have a party,” he said, and presented Dad with a pen.
Dad hesitated at taking it. I held my breath, suddenly afraid he’d change his mind.
Mom said, “I want to dance, Emil.”
What she was really saying: I want to be here. Sign the papers.
And so he did. Scribble, scribble. Done. He handed off the pen to Mom, and frowned toward Sam and me. I was already backing discreetly away, toward the party. Dad said, “You still have a curfew.”
“Yes, Dad.” I tugged Sam with me toward the tent flap. “Who’s the best cousin in the world?” I asked him.
“Batman?”
“Me.” I shoved him inside and stopped short.
The center ring roughly contained the party’s chaos. Everything but the tracks of the rings had been removed. There were no stands erected where an imaginary crowd would watch the show, no other spotlights left on to lift the shadows. Within the moodily lit, swarming circle, about a hundred people pressed close together dancing, and some couples whirled in fancy turns. A light bird of a woman flipped into the air off a man’s shoulders and he caught her, in time to the music.
I instantly wanted to dance, but I didn’t have a partner. Sam, like all boys my age, wouldn’t. But it was crowded, and I was disguised as a butterfly, and I’d danced alone before. Doing it mixed into a crowd would be easier. Next to me, Sam was scanning for the booze table, but I headed toward the ring.
And tried not to notice the frowns that followed us, or the way people shied away as we passed. The chilly reception got harder to ignore with each step. Why?
I slowed and glanced over my shoulder. Thurston was escorting my parents into the tent, and I watched as the people gathered there reacted to their entrance, stepping aside or averting their gazes coldly. Instead of going to the dance floor, I stopped near a cluster of older men who were drinking. One of them spat into the dirt. Near me.
I nudged Sam in the ribs. “Did you see that?” My attention landed briefly on a pack of boys nearby, our age but acting older and fake tough with stolen beers in hand. And not dancing. Though they did get points for wearing masks, at least.
Sam scowled at the ground. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t.”
Within a few seconds, the boys had moved close enough that they were practically standing on top of us. They blocked my view of anything beyond. At least, until some of them split off, one striding into the crush and press of the dancers, and another two off toward the exit.
At the exact moment the music stopped, I blurted, “I don’t know what everyone’s problem is.” I might as well have shouted it. The music restarted a moment later, with a slower tempo.
“And on that note, I’m going for a beer before I have to pick a fight,” Sam said, and walked away. I hop
ed he was joking about the fighting. It was one of the reasons he’d been sent to live with us. When his parents retired from touring life, regular school hadn’t gone well for him.
A strong hand landed gently on my arm. The boy it belonged to said, “Let’s dance.” He wore a grinning devil’s mask, and the brown eyes behind it pinned my mouth shut.
But only for a moment. “I suppose,” I said, my best attempt at blasé. But I was already trying to judge by his height and the close-cropped dark hair whether this was the boy from earlier.
I wanted it to be him.
My heart picked up its rhythm at the same time the music did, as one of his arms went around my waist. His other hand clasped mine, and he tangoed us into the crowd with steps that weren’t a tango. I’d been dancing with my parents for years, and knew the difference. But I followed his lead anyway.
He had on dark jeans and a soft black T-shirt. It had short sleeves, and my hand gripped his bare arm. His warm, muscled bare arm. His hand tightened a fraction on mine, and I swallowed.
Blasé, I reminded myself.
“That was a very First of May thing to say,” he said. “Not surprising, since you are one.”
I knew my temper flared in my eyes. It was a trait that Nan always likened to a dragon, or Bette Davis. I attempted to soften, but with little success.
“You must be one,” I said, “since I’ve never heard anyone actually use that phrase.”
It was a reference to the starting date that old circuses used to observe, and what new green hires were called when they went out on the road for the first time.
“You know what it means?” he asked. “A novice, someone who doesn’t know the score.”
“Oh, I know the score.” Being annoyed would have been easier if I wasn’t also enjoying the dance at the same time. This devil wasn’t half bad. What I wanted to know was if this devil was a Garcia.
“Clearly,” and he dipped me, “you don’t.”
I gasped, and he lifted me back up. When I straightened, we were closer. Our faces were inches apart. “I haven’t been a First of May since I was seven years old.”
Dark eyes considered me. “If you weren’t, then you’d know what everyone’s problem is. It’s that you’re here.”
I bristled. “What are you talking about?”
Another boy in a suit approached us, apparently not picking up the tension, because he gave a shy smile and asked, “May I cut in?”
From the voice, I realized the person in the suit wasn’t a boy, but a girl with a pixie cut and a striking, angular face accentuated by a Phantom-style half mask. She was definitely wearing a man’s suit—black and vintage, with wide lapels—but pale pink lipstick too.
“Not now, Dita,” the boy said.
I decided I was glad for the distraction. “You certainly may cut in.”
Smoothly I removed my hand from his and offered it to the girl named Dita. She shot the boy a surprised look. He blinked like I’d shone a spotlight into his face.
I asked her quietly, “You do know how to lead?”
A grin slanted across her face. “With brothers like that? Yes.”
The boy was this girl’s brother. I didn’t understand why that was a relief. He’d called me a First of May, which was insulting enough, and I was almost certain both of them were going to have the dreaded last name Garcia.
Dita danced us away from him.
“You’re a talented dancer,” I said. I believe in giving compliments, but only when truthful. People know what they’re good at. And what they aren’t.
“Thanks. Most new people, I make them nervous,” she said. “They think I’m, well, the girls assume since I dress . . .” She looked away, though she didn’t miss a step.
“People think too much. It’s one of their main problems. The suit is gorgeous. And you saved me from your brother. He’s good with an insult.”
“Really? Usually my other brother’s the problem there.” She changed her grip as the music shifted again, to a faster beat. A salsa?
We picked up our pace to match it. I scanned the crowd for her brother, who was easy to spot in his devil mask. He sat in a chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. I waved, and sent him a falsely bright smile.
“Why’d you just get here? Are you one of the iron-jaw cousins?” Dita asked.
Now was the time to find out my answer. “Late arrival. What’s your act?”
“We’re the flyers.”
So she and her brother were definitely part of the Garcia clan. “Wow,” I said. “My grandmother was a flyer.”
Dita seesawed us between couples. “What’s her name?”
I took a breath. Then, “Nancy Maroni. Have you heard of her?”
Dita stumbled forward, stomping my left foot. I grimaced at the pain. Apparently not everything Nan had said was mumbo jumbo.
“S-sorry,” she stammered, but she sounded like she wanted to run away.
The boy materialized again. “Everything all right here?”
Dita nodded, but there was strain on her face. “Did you know who she was?”
The boy shrugged. “Of course. That’s why I was dancing with her.”
Releasing the light grip she still had on one of my arms, Dita pasted on the worst fake smile I’d ever seen. She wouldn’t be getting any compliments on that. “This is awkward,” she said.
“No kidding. I’m Jules,” I said, slowly. “Jules Maroni. And you must be . . .”
“Remy Garcia,” the boy said. “You should know you’re only here because Thurston’s an outsider. He doesn’t understand that nobody wants to work with the Maronis.”
On the wire, the best walkers have an invisible line that extends the spine up into the sky and down into the earth. Their posture is beyond straight, almost a miracle. Suspended between earth and sky, they always seem like they should float away, but instead they become steadier and more controlled. I wasn’t as good as my father yet, but I tried to find that line. I drew myself up, too subtly for them to see, but not too subtly for them to notice.
Behind the mask, Remy’s eyes narrowed. Dita elbowed him, and pointed. “Rem,” she said. “Trouble.”
“What?” His lips had curled into a smile that made him sinister with the devil mask’s black leather hugging the curves of his cheeks. If I hadn’t seen him attempt the quadruple somersault with my own eyes, I’d never have pegged him as a flyer. He was all muscle, and didn’t have the right quality about him. Most flyers—including Dita and Nan—moved in a way that was effortlessly weightless, even when their feet were on the ground.
I turned to see what Dita was pointing at. Across the ring, I spotted my parents sitting on a raised platform, chatting away with Thurston. Mom was glowing, but Dad was scanning the crowd. He rose to his feet.
“Novio,” Remy said.
His sister responded, “Master of the obvious.”
Remy rushed past me, Dita following, and I chased after them. The crowd parted for us. My eyes flicked to the dais, and I saw that my father was off it and into the crush. Only a few people continued to dance. Everyone else had grown quiet. Mom was on her feet and frowning, but stayed where she was. Thurston leaned back in his seat.
A moment later, I reached the edge of an instant clearing, the kind that always forms for a fight. A lean, compact older boy in a black leather jacket was circling Sam. I’d never seen such a fierce look on Sam’s face before.
“Say one more thing. I dare you,” Sam said, his hands balled into fists.
Oh no.
The boy—it had to be the famous Novio—wore no mask, and the hard set of his features made me question whether he’d ever had a happy day in his life. I kicked myself for wondering whether he and his brother looked anything alike.
“What’s going on here?” Remy asked, approaching the two of them.
His hands were upturned and flat, but I didn’t buy him as peacemaker. I stepped in. “Yes, I’d love to know too. Because it seems like you’re ruining our
party.”
If there was any talking still going on in the crowd, it stopped then. Yes, I said it. Our party. The music had vanished.
Novio approached me, and I hoped that would give Sam time to calm down. “I can see why my brother was dancing with you, even if you are a Maroni.”
My father wasn’t far, because I heard him shout, “Let me through, imbecile!”
I could defuse this before he got involved. I could. This wasn’t how I wanted our first night at the Cirque to go. I hadn’t wanted any of Nan’s feud nonsense to be real, and here it was already causing problems. I refused to let ancient history ruin things.
“I’m a good dancer, I know,” I said, laying on the charm.
Novio came in closer to me. I held my invisible line, refused to flinch from him. He said, “You’re pretty for a thieving dog.”
Odd choice of comparison, but, “Woof,” I said.
Novio almost smiled. His cheek jerked, and a hand landed on his shoulder. I expected it to be Remy, pulling his brother away, and felt a wave of gratitude. Thurston wouldn’t like the fighting, and it was better for everyone when owners were happy. I said, loudly, “Sam, let’s go. This party’s dead.”
But, of course, the hand belonged to Sam. His fist landed dead center on Novio’s square jaw.
I stood, more or less in shock, as Sam and Novio laid into each other, locked in a close scuffle like some sort of perverse hug. Until a devil mask appeared in front of me, blocking my view.
Remy placed his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to walk backward away from the fight. I peered over his shoulder. “Let me go. Sam!”
