Girl on a Wire

by Gwenda Bond

  “Thank you?” I offered. “But you really don’t want to miss anything. The other performers are just as amazing as us Maronis.”

  A few of them started toward the tent, but several lingered. The girl closest to me had one of the hearts outlined on her cheek. I touched my own and asked her, “What are those for?”

  She turned as embarrassed as the boy who thought he was in love with me. “We’re Valentines. You know, like your middle name—it’s what they’re calling us.”

  I was confused. “Who?”

  “The media.”

  I was going to have to start watching the news. Or not. Guilt gnawed at me, like it had when I was with Remy.

  “Nice meeting all of you . . . Valentines,” I said, waving.

  I booked it to Dad’s side. He was smirking, far too amused by the whole thing.

  “They call themselves Valentines. Did you know that?” I asked him.

  He burst out laughing. Disconcerted, I frowned at him, though it was rare to hear him laugh these days. “Yes, I’d heard,” he said, attempting—without success—to stop cracking up. “You should just be glad they didn’t go with your first name and call themselves Jew-els,” he said, sounding it out, and laughing even harder. “Now that would be priceless.”

  I punched his arm. “Shut up.”

  “Sam would have been proud, you know,” Dad said.

  And he was right. I knew he was, and I took heart from that. I needed a shot of confidence. Because just when I’d assumed I couldn’t get in any further over my head, I now had a fan base—and a boyfriend determined to break into the owner’s office.

  twenty-nine

  * * *

  Overnight success is a myth. I’d been working since I was too young to remember, dedicating myself to the wire. But celebrity can happen overnight. One minute very few people—considering the number of people on earth—know who you are, and then you go to bed and wake up and your name is known.

  That was what happened after Chicago. The Milwaukee Valentines were just the beginning. We encountered crowds of them in Madison—where we also received a visit from the performers at the small one-ring at Circus World Museum in nearby Baraboo, the site of Ringling Brothers’ original winter quarters—and in Eau Claire. Fan mail started coming in by the box load, and the show’s main email account was so flooded with messages that they created a special one for me: CirquePrincess@CirqueAmerican.com. Ridiculous.

  Minneapolis had delivered the biggest crowd awaiting our arrival yet. It was mid-July and all our shows were selling out in advance now. The rest of our summer was set as if the Fates themselves had woven a pattern of full audiences for every performance. My high profile must have stung the person I wanted it to, but it hadn’t lured them out into the open yet.

  I hadn’t gotten used to signing autographs and taking pictures and the existence of the Valentines, and I wasn’t sure I ever would. My newfound popularity also made it harder for me and Remy to hook up in secret with our former ease . . . as did my guilt at not telling him why my performances had become so much more thrilling.

  The fear of getting caught with the coin seeped into my bones. I felt it all the time. Meaning that my answer to that girl among that very first group of fans—that I wasn’t scared—had become an even bigger lie.

  I missed Sam, who would have helped me figure out what to do.

  None of us had forgotten what happened in Chicago. There were even some new safety restrictions, despite the fact that Thurston owned the company that insured us. He hadn’t learned that disaster could also be courted by guarding against it too much.

  No one protested my pirouetting high above the streets. It was too profitable. And I had to keep doing it, because to stop would be to give in. Surely all this would flush out the responsible party, one way or another. Eventually.

  From my vantage point on the roof, the crowd on the street below the Hennepin County Government Center in downtown Minneapolis looked wider than the Mighty Mississippi flowing not far away. The building had two tall towers with a glassed-in atrium between them that stretched over a street, an opening at the top forming an architectural H. The throng below included a line of news cameras. We’d also negotiated with a local TV station about their helicopter, giving strict instructions about how close it could get.

  The extra attention on this particular walk was undoubtedly due to the fact that Philippe Petit had reportedly walked this same site—though we’d tried and failed to find any footage of it. Still, he was a living legend who’d had his own circus ties when he started out. The Twin Towers walk and the movie made about it had turned him into a celebrity, the best-known wire walker in decades. I kept waiting for a reporter to ask him what he thought about me and for him to say something snarky in response, but so far he hadn’t.

  I wouldn’t have been surprised if he knew who Dad was. Dad was the best on the planet, but Petit was a close second. They were both artists.

  The wind blew stronger than was strictly safe for an outdoor walk, and the sky was filled with heavy gray clouds, which led to a frowning discussion between Dad, Thurston, and me on the roof just before it was time to start.

  “It will be fine,” I insisted.

  “You should use the pole,” Dad said.

  Twirling my parasol, I said, sweetly, “Not a chance. The wind’s not that bad.”

  A gust stopped the umbrella midmovement and sent it spinning the other way.

  “My point,” he said. He was about to pull the command card and order me not to proceed. I sensed it.

  Thurston didn’t like butting in when we were arguing, but he offered, “Maybe we should postpone? The weather’s supposed to be better tomorrow.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m ready. I can’t disappoint them.”

  I bolted, realizing too late that the cameras on the roof had probably caught the whole disagreement.

  Oh well.

  “Julieta!” My dad was angry, but when I turned at the head of the wire, he only threw his hands up. “You throw caution to the wind, it may blow you away.”

  Thurston was also thunderously unhappy, I could tell.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But you don’t need to worry.”

  When they started toward me, I moved smoothly forward and began. Like it had every time, the coin somehow sang to the wind, and my feet had no wrong place to land.

  The crowd loved it. All the more for the reports of a “dispute beforehand.” I had a new nickname to go with Princess of the Air. Daredevil Maroni.

  Remy texted me after the performance: Taking care?

  I’d gotten decent at reading between the abbreviated, inelegant lines. He hadn’t been a fan of my walking in those conditions either. I stared at the phone, trying to figure out what to respond, but it buzzed again before I decided. Meet me at Thurston’s office @ midnight. Tonight’s the night.

  That we were going to search for the letter, he meant. There was no way to protest without raising other questions I wouldn’t know how to answer.

  See you then, I sent back.

  thirty

  * * *

  From the side curtain that night, I watched the Garcias’ act. When the quad attempt came, the band did a drumroll, and Remy sliced through the air, gathering speed, then gathering more, putting every ounce of energy he had into it as he launched out into the spin, spin, spin, spin—

  And just missed his brother’s grasping hands coming out of it.

  I watched his tight bow, the confident-but-chagrined performer’s smile that said, “I’ll get it next time.” He would never forgive me if he found out about the coin. He’d be right not to.

  As midnight rolled around, I discovered I didn’t have the right clothes for a break-in. There was not enough black in my wardrobe, especially since I wasn’t planning on wearing my funeral dress ever again. So I showed up outside Thurston’s trailer in the closest thing I owned that I was willing to don: a deep-red dress that had a scoop back and grazed my knees. A flas
hlight beam spotlighted me, before going dark, and Remy sighed. “Why not just wear a neon sign?” he whispered, but amused.

  “Doesn’t go with my complexion.”

  “I don’t know how long we have, so we better get going.”

  I checked in front of the office trailer and confirmed that Thurston’s actual rolling home appeared deserted. “Where is he?”

  Remy waved me toward the door to the massive office, which he opened with a key.

  “How?” I asked.

  “After we’re in,” he said.

  I hurried past him, and he shut the door behind us with a soft click. He flicked on the flashlight, and prowled toward the desk. “So . . .” I prompted.

  “I had Novio invite him into the poker game he and Dad run once in a while.” Remy was already rifling through the top left drawer of the desk. He held the flashlight between his neck and shoulder.

  I walked over and took it, positioned it to illuminate the papers. “You didn’t tell him what we were doing?”

  “Don’t worry about Novio,” he said. “He’s been nice lately—even to Dita, maybe especially—after what happened.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  He shut the drawer, moved down to the next. “No, I didn’t tell him that I was meeting you or why I wanted Thurston in the game. It was just a suggestion I made that they might have fun fleecing him. He is rich, after all.” He glanced around at the proof, surrounding us.

  “Oh.” But then, “The key?”

  “That I might have lifted and had copied. Don’t worry, he doesn’t know.”

  The light dipped, and he waited for me to put it back on the papers he was paging through. Another drawer and nothing. “What am I thinking?” he murmured, to himself. “The middle. I should have started there.”

  I practically vibrated with foreboding, but I trained the light on the shallow tray when he slid it open. Nearly empty. A box of binder clips. A checkbook. And a white envelope I’d seen before.

  “If Thurston finds out, he’ll fire you, Remy. How can I not worry?”

  He picked up the letter. “How can I worry about that when you’re determined to risk your life up on the wire showing off? We have to do this now, get to the bottom of things, or you’re going to get hurt.”

  But I’m not in any danger. The scarf can’t hurt me. Nothing can.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I’m beginning to think I do. We still don’t know who’s been sabotaging your family. But you don’t seem to care about that anymore. Or about anything you used to.”

  The last line could have been about the mystery or about us. Or both. I stepped in closer, grabbing his shirt in my fist. “Remy, no. It’s not like that. I’m doing all of this for that reason.”

  “I know you,” he said. “And that ‘Remy, no’ is different from ‘Remy, you’re wrong.’”

  Remy, you’re wrong. I wanted to say the words. But what he was wrong about was me. And it stung that he was right about a few things. For example, the past week or so, I’d stopped trying so hard to find the culprit who was planting the objects. I’d been too busy using the good luck coin to put on magical shows, and signing autographs. And too busy lying to him.

  “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Jules. Now, come here. Let’s read this.” He took the letter from the envelope, slid the drawer closed, then sat in Thurston’s desk chair.

  It was almost like forgiveness when he tugged me into his lap and put his arms around me to hold the letter in front of us. I shone the flashlight down so we could read it at the same time. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he’d hear it.

  Roman had typed his reply on family stationery, a miniature of the mural on the side of their RV gracing the letterhead at the top.

  Dear Mr. Meyer,

  I read your letter with great interest. You must truly be a devoted fan, to have uncovered what it seems you have. I can confirm that the rumors that circulated then are true, and I can also tell you that if you can bring Nancy Maroni’s family back into your circus, you will have access to what I believe you are seeking.

  You must not trust her. I did, and it is my single greatest regret. You see, the old magic she has is not solely her own. She stole my luck, in the form of a coin that had been passed down within my family for generations. She still has it. Of that I’m quite certain.

  I am old, sick, and it is of no use to me. But I would have it back for my family. My legacy must continue. I will ensure that they sign on to your effort, and we should discuss this further in person. However, my one condition is that if what she took from me can be recovered, you return it to my family. They will stay in your circus, and so you will benefit. They will do as I say.

  Yours,

  Roman

  We were both quiet for a moment. Remy, no doubt taking in the content of the letter. Me, waiting for the ax to drop.

  “That must be what’s in the photo of him and my grandmother,” Remy said. “This coin. Don’t you think?”

  I swallowed, throat dry. “Yes.”

  “Jules, what’s wrong?” He nudged me, shifting me to face him. He gave me a long, searching look. And then he shook his head. “You have it, don’t you? How long?”

  I could lie. I should lie. I’d promised Nan.

  “For how long?” he asked again.

  If I could have reached over and touched my fingers to his pulse, it would be racing. The energy in him, always barely contained, was greater than ever.

  “She gave it to me right before my walk in Chicago. After Sam’s accident.”

  “After she accused my mother of being behind it all.”

  “She told me after we left your place. She took it from your grandfather that summer, before she fled the circus. Look, it’s complicated. I didn’t want to lie. She told me I had to.”

  “You, who always do exactly what you’re told. You had no choice but to lie to me. That’s what you want me to believe?” The force of his arguments unleashed all that energy, and focused it on me. “You want me to believe that your grandmother stole a magic coin from my grandfather. That the magic is real? Jules, you are risking your life.”

  “Remy . . .”

  “I can’t do this. It doesn’t matter how I feel about you. I can’t be with someone who lies to me. I won’t. I won’t let you turn us into them. I won’t be your fool. You are not invulnerable, no matter what your grandmother has convinced you.”

  I felt a tear slip down my cheek, and I swiped it away. I had to fix this. There had to be some way to apologize. “I screwed up, I know that I—”

  Remy made a scoffing noise, an angry one, and so I almost missed the sound of the door opening. We both froze as feet sounded on the stairs, their owner humming as he climbed them. Thurston.

  Jamming the letter back into the drawer, Remy dropped the flashlight between us. We needed a cover for being here . . . and this might be my last chance to kiss him. Before he could say anything, I clutched his shirt and pulled him toward me, winding one hand into his short hair. I kissed him hard, and he kissed me back. I moaned against his lips without meaning to. His hand glided along my bare spine, tracing the low dip along the back of my dress. His other hand tangled in my skirt. I wanted to pretend that we were alone, that everything was all right between us.

  The light flipped on.

  “What’s going on here?” Thurston demanded.

  I would have gone on kissing Remy, if it would’ve made a difference, changed his mind. But he stopped. I squinted at the bright overhead glare.

  “Oh,” Remy said. “Uh, hi, boss.”

  “Jules, is that you?” Thurston said. “With Remy?”

  The shock of seeing us together seemed to have him nearing a heart attack. Remy gave me a little push, and I got to my feet.

  “Sorry, Thurston,” Remy said, with a shrug. “We needed a place, and I knew you were at poker night. It was just a hookup. Nothing serious.”

&
nbsp; That hurt like a punch.

  “How did you get in?” Thurston asked, blinking.

  “Picked the lock,” Remy said. “You really should get a better one.”

  Thurston looked around, and apparently seeing nothing disturbed, decided to let us go. “Fine. But your parents would not be thrilled about this, I’m guessing.”

  “All part of the appeal,” Remy said, wearing a smile that was not like any I’d ever seen on him. Like he was that cocky jerk he’d promised he could never be. Thurston clearly bought it, though, and I had to admit, Remy was convincing. He went on, “Forbidden fruit is the sweetest. And I do like a bad apple.”

  I winced, and started for the door. I turned to Thurston. “Please don’t tell my dad.”

  “Don’t worry,” Thurston said. “But, Jules, you should associate with boys who value you. And, Remy, you owe her an apology. I expected more from you.”

  “Sorry,” Remy said, acid.

  I walked slower than slow once I got outside, creeping along the quiet grounds, giving him every opportunity to catch up to me. To finish our conversation and see if I could undo the damage. But he didn’t come after me. I wasn’t even surprised.

  Remy Garcia had broken up with me, and he knew all my secrets.

  thirty-one

  * * *

  The next morning I lay in bed—still in my dress, still in the midst of a personal pity party—and listened to Mom leave to check on her horses and Dad head out for a walk. I heard Nan making coffee in the kitchen. No one bothered to force me up.

  The weather was gray, rainy, and we were leaving for a long, eleven-hour haul to Cleveland that afternoon. We had been lucky all summer—only two or so rain dates. The thunderstorm matched my mood. That letter had implied that Thurston knew lots about the Garcia and Maroni feud from the Garcia perspective, but it didn’t mean he’d acted on anything except hiring us. Still, I would have to be more careful around him until I was sure. At least the way he’d walked in on Remy and me, I had a good excuse for avoiding him.