by Gwenda Bond
Thurston switched on his wireless mic and held up my hand above our heads. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present America’s new Princess of the Air!”
I accepted the cheers, the shouted handful of questions from reporters, the smiles of my family. It was the spotlight I’d always wanted. But the walk hadn’t magically transformed me into a princess or rehabbed the Maroni name.
The bullet had missed, but our family clearly still had a target on its back.
ten
* * *
During our first few days, whether the afternoon show or the evening one, I hid behind one of the dressing curtains in the corner of the bustling backstage tent for privacy before I went out for my act. There, I checked over every inch of my costume in a full-length mirror for unwanted additions. I never found anything suspicious, though, and the performances went off without a false pirouette. No one would ever guess I was beginning to have more questions than confidence.
Fake it until you make it. Or, in this case, until I figured out whether the danger was real and who it was coming from. I’d been waiting to talk with Remy since our moment on the nylon ladder, but that was proving impossible under my dad’s watchful eye.
I was determined. Garcia or not, I wanted whatever answers Remy had to share. And maybe something else too. I couldn’t forget that weightless feeling when he’d lifted me off the last inches of wire onto the bridge platform and to safety.
So after taking my bows at our last show in Jacksonville, I decided to linger backstage in hopes of bumping into him. The open floor plan of evenly spaced makeup tables and warm-up areas, punctuated by costumer, snack, and first aid stations, was usually filled with people. The grand curtained entrance out to the center ring was given a wide berth, however, with two costumed crewmen in charge of pulling and lowering the flaps.
Other members of the crew ensured the way was clear as Mom and her horses thundered past me to make their entrance. She shot me a wink as she ran by in her bright-blue jacket and riding pants. Sam came at the back of the herd of seven, clicking encouragement. The horses loved him almost as much as Mom.
I maneuvered through backstage to the side entrance near the edge of the stands. No one would think anything of me watching Mom’s act from here. If I was lucky, Remy would turn up.
Mom was in top form as always, her adoring mares and stallion lifting their hooves high in the air to paw on command as they stood on their back feet. They lowered their bodies, raced in a circle around her. She let them make the rounds a few times, while she transferred herself from one horse to another. She stood on one’s back, only to jump in a sideways blur and end up sitting backward on another, or to spin in the saddle while the horse was in motion.
Sam waited outside the ring, ready to help if any of the horses got distracted. They rarely lost their focus on Mom, her control of them so complete that it looked easy. But I knew that any one of these powerful creatures could cause a terrible accident in the smallest slice of time, in the wrong circumstances. It was good Sam was there, in case.
The act ended with all seven horses kneeling to Mom, and her flipping onto Beauty’s back to ride them in one last circle and out of the ring. Thurston boomed his praise over the crowd’s loud applause.
I waited for a while longer, but when Dad came for me, I hadn’t seen any sign of Remy.
I dreamed a chorus line of elephants, vast and lumbering. They wore headdresses made of peacock feathers. They rose onto their hind legs as one, massive front feet swaying in a dance. And then I was in an ornate saddle on the back of one, clutching at the harness in an attempt to stay on, feathers coming apart in my fingers . . .
Just what I needed: bizarre nightmares.
We moved on to our next city, Charlotte, where our first three shows were already sold out.
My picture had been on the front page of the Sunday paper, along with my new “Princess of the Air” tag. The attitude of our fellow performers toward us remained chilly. I hadn’t managed to talk to Remy yet, and I was getting impatient. The bad dreams didn’t help.
At least I could watch him at work. I’d been taking every chance to catch the Garcia act over the last couple of days. It was incredible to watch him up there. Yes, I’d seen him practice alone more than once, but there was no substitute for seeing the real deal in front of a live audience with the ringmaster’s patter, with the lights and music going gangbusters. His charisma was undeniable.
Dad was busy preparing to go on after the Garcias, so I went to the side curtain to watch Thurston introduce them. His patter built up the excitement, and truly made their act come alive. The Garcias didn’t perform as “The Flying Garcias” exactly. No, it was way more over the top than that. Thurston boomed, “Welcome the best flyers anywhere on Planet Earth or in the heavens of Olympus—the Love Brothers and the Goddesses of Beauty, featuring the Flying Garcias!”
I listened to the swelling melody that, I knew, would fade out to drumbeats for the biggest tricks. High above, Remy and Novio were doing their partner swing, putting a little extra zip into it for the adoring audience, while Thurston’s voice told the oohing crowd, “Casanova and Romeo, timeless scoundrels, noble knights interested in slaying only the hearts of ladies . . .”
I didn’t know if their stage names were their real ones, but I suspected they were. I’d go by Novio and Remy too, if those were my choices. Regardless, there was always a gaggle of women waiting for their autographs at the end of the night.
“And their sister, the lovely goddess of love herself, Aphrodite.” Dita swung out and then up into her tight triple somersault, a spinning ball of pink and red flame, her hands extending for Novio to catch her taped wrists, her hands gripping his. Next came “the Sirens,” the twins, twirling on their swings and flirting with Romeo until he gracefully leapt from his trapeze to land on their platform.
“Wherefore art thou, Romeo?” crooned Thurston. “With the Sirens perhaps?”
On the platform, one of the blonde twins fake-swooned into his arms. When we’d studied mythology, I hadn’t gotten the appeal of the sirens. Why couldn’t the sailors resist the empty promise of their song? I sensed rather than heard someone join me, checked over my shoulder and found Sam.
“It’s too bad we’re their ancient enemies,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because it prevents us from mocking their names to their faces.” He raised his eyebrows for effect. “Romeo and Casanova? Seriously?”
“And don’t forget Aphrodite. But we can mock them from over here.”
“That’s what I’m doing, but what about you?” he asked, mischief in his eye. “Looks more like admiring.”
I didn’t bother with an answer.
A moment later, Thurston started the lead-in patter to the quad, explaining how Romeo was about to attempt one of the circus’s most dangerous feats. Remy began to swing back and forth, back and forth, his body churning to build up power. Sam was focused on me, not the act. “Your dad told me to keep an eye on you,” he said.
The band was doing its drumroll drumroll drumroll. “Because of Remy?”
“He wants me to tell him if I see you together. Just be careful you don’t get caught. All they need is another reason to freak out. Especially Nan.”
Nan had interrogated me about my pause on the bridge, but Dad had stepped in.
“Agreed.”
I stared overhead, willing Remy to make it. But when he completed the fourth somersault, Novio’s hands slipped past Remy’s. They were heartbreakingly close to a catch. But not quite there. They hadn’t mastered the quad yet. Down, down, down Remy went into the net.
When I looked back to Sam, he was headed toward the snack table. I decided to wait through Dad’s act. The band played as he ascended to the platform, then stayed silent through his walk. The audience followed suit, at the edge of their seats, afraid to breathe.
My back warmed as someone came up behind me, taking my hand before I could turn to see who it was. A folde
d piece of paper pressed into my palm, and Remy murmured, “Take it,” into my ear.
I closed my hand around the note, intensely aware of his fingers sliding against mine. By the time I whirled around, all I could see was his back as he crossed the tent. He laughed as he raised a hand to catch the bottle of sports drink Novio tossed to him. A quick skim of the people around told me no one had noticed anything.
I put off reading the note until I was back in my room, a delicious secret for me alone. The paper was a square torn from a notebook, ragged-edged and blue-lined. Printed in black ink was:
We still need to talk. Come to our trailer during dinner tomorrow. A good spy would destroy this message.
I stuck the note under my mattress instead. And smiled. Tomorrow, there’d be answers. Tomorrow, I’d get to talk to Remy.
Another nightmare.
I was back on the wire above the bridge. I was sweating, struggling to breathe, trembling, and, finally, shaking too badly to stay on. Remy stood on the platform and watched me as first one foot slipped off into thin air, then the other. I fell, down and down, toward a net made of peacock feathers. A thousand staring black eyes.
I woke before I hit.
eleven
* * *
Goosebumps covered my exposed arms the next night as I navigated the maze of vehicles in the lot behind the big top. The cooler temperature reminded me that our current stop in North Carolina was a long way from humid Florida. Even in May, evening brought a slight chill here, and the Garcias’ home-on-wheels wasn’t anywhere near ours. But I knew right where to find it. I’d stretched my legs earlier, and paid close attention to where everyone was parked.
As I approached, I was reminded again that their RV was much nicer than ours. Newer, bigger, shinier—a reminder of the years of top engagements they’d played while we toured in obscurity. The lights were off, except for the back right window. The same side as the door, but I went for it instead.
I’d dressed casually to discourage suspicion, and now regretted it. I wanted to be wearing something that would give me a boost. An eye-catching outfit, more like a costume. But, no. This was perfect. Remy wouldn’t get the impression I’d dressed for him from this ratty-for-me look of jeans and a faded vintage blouse. I wanted us to be on as even ground as possible. That was hard when he’d essentially rescued me on the bridge, and I was coming to him for help again.
My hand clenched in a fist, and I tapped my knuckles to the window glass once, then twice. I moved my palms up and down my arms to warm them, and blew out a sigh when nothing happened. I raised my fist to the window again, about to give it one last tap, when the curtain moved and the window snicked to the side, revealing a screen.
And Remy behind it. He was silhouetted against the light inside the room, and I had to move closer to get a look at him. His jaw was shadowed with a day of not shaving. His eyes were shadowed too, but they crinkled at the corners as he spoke.
“You planning on climbing through the window? Because getting this screen out won’t be easy.”
I molded my lips into a smile. “I’d prefer the door. But make it quick. Someone could see me out here.”
“Right.” He slid the window shut and the curtain dropped back into place.
I walked over to the door. If someone did bust me, I could always claim I didn’t know whose place it was. Well, that might have worked if the side of the RV hadn’t been decorated with giant overlapping murals featuring the previous generations of Flying Garcias and the current Love Brothers and Goddess. Fake Remy grinned out, flying across a background of fake spotlights.
Why didn’t we have murals? Right. Because we’d never been able to afford them.
Remy opened the door. “Come in.”
He turned sideways, so I had to slide in past him, our bodies brushing against each other as I moved up the stairs.
“Nice place,” I said.
It was immaculate. Pristine granite kitchen counters, longish dining room table attached to the wall, a large flat-screen mounted from the ceiling in the living room area, and a couch covered in satiny pillows that would’ve fit right in on the set of Cleopatra. According to one of Nan’s favorite tabloids, Elizabeth Taylor’s ghost made frequent appearances. If she needed a place to recline, she’d be right at home here.
Remy was watching me with an unreadable expression. There was nothing I hated more than an unreadable expression.
“So, what do you have to tell me?” I asked.
“I want to show you something.”
“Okay,” I said.
“It’s in my room.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”
He shook his head. “I don’t. I mean . . . I’m not like that.”
“You’re telling me you’re not a Romeo?”
“Funny,” he said. “But yeah. I can’t stand guys like that.”
Who can? But I shrugged the most casual shrug I could manage. A total lie, since there was nothing casual about my being here or the way I felt when I was around him. “Good to know. Lead on.”
He angled by me, and I followed him down the tight hallway. Some family photos were hung along the short hall, which reminded me the Garcias were a family more like mine than most. Sure, they had more space than we did, but not so much more. An RV was an RV was an RV. I notched my envy down a peg.
Then we were in his room. His and Novio’s, by the looks of the twin beds opposite each other. One was unmade, its built-in headboard shelf packed with a chaotic stack of paperback books with numbers on the spines. I picked one up and saw I’d guessed right—it was a mystery series. The other bed was neatly made with military corners, and a roll of wrist tape on the nightstand was the only personal effect.
“I thought maybe you wouldn’t come,” he said.
“You knew I’d come.”
“I didn’t.” He ran a hand through his short hair, making it a little messy. The movement told me he was nervous, even though he was decent at hiding it. He gestured to the made bed. “Have a seat.”
Have a seat on his bed. Okay. I did.
There were only a few feet between us.
“This room isn’t big enough for the two of us,” I said.
He countered. “Some people would say this circus isn’t either.”
Leave it at that. “What was the first show you worked on?”
He blinked. “Big Apple, I think.”
“And straight to the Greatest after that?”
“I’m sure my mom has a scrapbook, if you want to see my baby pictures and relive my first catches. We worked all those shows, yes. But it wasn’t what you think. The performing was fine, but our training schedule sucked. It was brutal.” He paused for a second. “What you told me about learning to wire walk outside, pretending to be your hero? It sounded fun. More fun than any training we ever did when I was a kid.”
“Really?” I was fascinated by the glimpse at Garcia life. “You seem pretty close with your brother and sister.”
He nodded. “We grew up in the trenches together.”
“Come on. It couldn’t have been that bad.”
“My grandfather was our trainer until he died,” he said, as if that was enough explanation.
I sensed this was not the time to ask what that had been like. And silently thanked the universe that if my dad was a hard teacher, he was never a harsh one.
“Tell me why you came up on the bridge,” I said. “What made you notice the feather and think it was a problem?”
Remy dropped onto the unmade bed opposite me, and there we sat, so stiff we were more like marionettes than the latest generation of two circus dynasties.
He watched me closely as he spoke. “When you were up there”—he raised his hand—“you were in trouble, right?”
My dad had drilled it into me for many years: weakness was the one thing I could never show. Not to someone who was my competitor.
Remy waited.
I stood. It would be a mistake to admit anythi
ng had gone wrong. I tried to tell myself to walk away, to not mention Nan or the doubts she’d planted in my head. My plan was to walk back through the Garcia RV and out the door, never to return. But my feet were glued to the floor.
He said, “I swear I’ll never tell another soul, but I need to know. Were you in trouble?”
I knew I should leave. Everyone in my family, with the possible exception of Sam, would be telling me to make my exit right now. Instead, I sank back onto the bed. He’d already promised not to tell anyone what happened up there.
“I was in trouble,” I said. “Nan—my grandmother—has been off since we got here. She’s convinced someone is out to get us . . . with magic. Trust me, I know how it sounds. My dad believes her way of thinking is dangerous. He’d say that her doom and gloom must have affected me, and I think he’s right.” Now for the main question, the reason I was here. “But someone did plant that thing on me. Do you have any idea who?”
Remy held my gaze for a moment, and then he bent beside the unmade bed and pulled out a drawer beneath it. His white T-shirt showed off shoulders and arms as well formed as a sculpture. “I should just show you. It’ll be easier to explain that way.” Folded clothes filled the drawer to the brim.
So I was sitting on Novio’s bed, not his. I got up again, asked, “You’re going to show me your shirts?”
He ignored me, rummaging beneath the stacks of folded clothes. “Granddad passed away last year.”
“Roman Garcia. I’ve heard of him.” Legend had it, he’d been one of the best male flyers ever to work in the business.
I felt a pang of sadness for Remy that he’d already lost his grandfather. I couldn’t imagine losing Nan, but then again, I didn’t really have any other grandparents. Nan had never married, and Dad’s and his brother’s father took off before they were born and never came back. Mom’s parents had both passed away young. All I knew of them came from stories and photos. Mom had been raised by distant relations who’d come over to work with circus horses.
