by Lindy Zart
Everything is meant to appear grand and luxurious, but I notice the tightness of the jacket on the man’s stomach when he isn’t sucking in his gut, and how his pants could be an inch longer. Slivers of light come in through slits and holes in the tent, and the material looks old and worn. The horses seem gaunt; the caged monkey appears lethargic. And the clown who walks by doesn’t look much older than sixteen, his eyes tripping to mine and away. The circus is hurting, and for anyone deigning to take a look, it shows.
“Welcome to the thirty-third year of Radley Family Circus! I am Ringmaster Radley, the owner of Radley Family Circus, and your host for this spectacular event where magic comes to life and unforgettable memories are created!” a voice booms.
A cheer rings out and countless hands applaud, tripling the volume of noise. I don’t know if I can take another hour of this. I don’t necessarily hate people; I just don’t like being around them all that much. I search the crowd for a familiar head of messy reddish-brown hair and a curvy, compact body dressed in black and red with a pink backpack.
How could she have so absolutely vanished? Part of me wants to leave—forget everything about her and our brief association. The other part, the part I wish wasn’t there, won’t let me.
“We ask that you find a seat at this time, and remain seated throughout the show—unless asked to volunteer. And now, let’s begin!” The ringmaster pauses. “First up is Henrietta and Horatio Gonzales, our brother and sister duo who astound thousands each year with their tightrope walking. They’ve been with Radley Family Circus for ten years now. Please, we ask for your silence during their performance.”
I turn in a slow circle, scanning the occupants. “Where the hell are you, Opal?” I mutter.
“Please sit down, sir. The show is starting,” a gray-haired and mustached man in black slacks and a sweat-stained white shirt tells me, motioning to an empty spot on the first row of bleachers.
The laminated nametag hung from a cord around his neck states his name as Bill and that he’s circus security. I smirk. Circus security. That sounds threatening. I glance down to see if he has a water gun in a holster at his hip.
“Sir.” He gives me a pointed look.
“Yeah. Sure. I’m sitting.” I lift my hands to show I’m complacent, and move to the nearest unoccupied spot.
The bench is hard, and I know I can expect a sore ass and back in the near future. The lady beside me enthusiastically devours a bag of popcorn in a way that would normally repel me, but because I can envision Opal doing the same, makes me want to smile. I don’t. Instead I turn my gaze to the tightrope-walking duo, and prepare to get lost in boredom.
At the sound of applause, I realize the act is done. I straighten, half-heartedly clapping as my eyes dart around in pursuit of Opal. If I don’t find her in the next ten minutes, I’m going to lose my shit.
“Next up is Obnoxious Georgie the Clown and Esther the Cartoonist Clown. Watch in amazement and hilarity as Georgie tries to trip up Esther with water balloons as she draws. If you’re chosen to be drawn, you can purchase a self-portrait for thirty dollars after the show.”
I cross my arms and let my head fall back, searching for tolerance at the peak of the tent.
To the animated cheers of the crowd, an abnormally tall and thin clown gallops to the center of the tent. He’s bald, his skin painted white with yellow stars around his eyes, and he’s dressed in too-short pants and a purple shirt. He turns in a circle and waves, reaching into a bucket hanging from his arm.
Without looking, his arm shoots out to the side and a red water balloon is airborne, smacking a short clown in a curly blond wig on the side of the head. Only her face is painted, and it’s blue with pink hearts. An oversized red dress with a zebra-printed belt is her outfit. She must be Esther the Cartoonist. Laughter erupts from the audience as she slams her hands on her hips and scowls at the giant of a clown.
I straighten, my interest caught by the small being. Something about her seems familiar.
The balloon didn’t burst, and with quick movements it’s picked up by the short clown and sent flying back at Georgie. It hits his butt and water explodes. He whirls around, the crowd bursting with hilarity as he stomps his feet and waves his arms up and down. Esther takes one look at Georgie and sprints toward the opposite end of the tent, her back facing me as she goes.
Her back with a pink backpack on it.
I shoot to my feet without realizing it, unconsciously walking a few steps toward her before someone yells at me to sit down. I hit the bench hard, staring in bemusement at Opal. What the hell is she doing? Why is she doing it? The questions jumble up in my brain as I watch the spectacle unfold.
She shakes a finger at someone in the crowd, her eyes continually darting to Georgie as he fumbles to retrieve another water balloon. The balloons appear to be slippery; every time he gets one, he drops it. Nodding, Opal-Esther motions to a gangly boy in the bleachers and he steps forward, looking equally worried and eager. She grabs his wrist and pulls him closer, pointing at him as if telling him to not move. He nods, silently agreeing. The female clown pats him on the head and darts toward a desk and chair, jumping over a water balloon as it heads for her legs.
Then she picks it up, and, looking at Georgie, breaks it over her own head. Water cascades down her face as she gives the taller clown a smirk. The kids love that, calling out to her with encouragement and glee. I rest my chin in my hand, hiding a smile behind my fingers.
When she reaches the desk, she sits down on the chair and pulls something from the backpack. I crane my neck and angle my head to the right, catching sight of what looks like paper. Concentration wrinkling her features, her eyes move from the clown to the boy to the paper as she draws, her legs bouncing under the table where she sits.
The tent is hushed with expectant silence, and a tendril of wonder unravels inside me. Opal is doing this. She has over a hundred people captivated. A smile lights up her face and she looks up, giving the bleachers a thumbs-up sign as she stands with the paper in hand.
“Behind you!” someone shouts, and Esther the Cartoonist spins around.
Obnoxious Georgie has a water balloon in each hand, and a wave of boos sound as he ambles closer. Esther shows him the drawing, and his head tilts to the side. She gestures over her shoulder to the boy, and with a resigned nod, Georgie steps back. Esther runs to the chocolate-toned boy and shows him the drawing. Oohs and ahs ripple through the people who can see the drawing. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a kid look quite that ecstatic at the sight of a picture, and when Opal hands him a blue ticket, the boy hugs it like it is the drawing itself.
Another person—a teenage girl with red hair and crutches—is chosen from the crowd, and similar good-natured fun ensues.
And then Opal finds me, her focus fixated on my face. I couldn’t look away if I tried. I realize as she walks toward me that she knew where I was the whole time. Her eyes glitter like gold, and she picks at the loose fabric of the dress, shrugging as our eyes meet. She offers a hand and a smile, and I take both. I know it’s impossible, but it feels like tiny shocks tremor up my fingers to my hand and up my arm, ending at my heart. Her skin is hot and damp, and when she gently tugs her hand from mine, I don’t want to let it go. I follow her to the desk, and she shakes her head when she notices, pointing to the other side of the ring.
Widening my legs, I cross my arms and stay put. I shake my head back. Chuckles and giggles sound from behind.
Opal steps closer, and when she winks at me with her blue and pink-painted face, my nerves constrict, pulse. Come alive. I take a shallow breath. Using exaggerated force, she pushes at my shoulder, making it look like she’s putting all her weight into it. Her cheek is close to my shoulder, and I unconsciously lower my head to breathe her in. Coconuts. Even now she smells like coconuts. Opal goes still for one second that lasts twenty, her breaths caught by mine.
I
’m going to kiss her, I determine with absolute certainty. Not now, but soon. Whether or not I think I should, I am.
Swallowing, she jumps back and lifts her arms toward the sky, her vexation plain to see. I have no idea what happened to Georgie, and I don’t care—until he shows up behind Opal with a finger lifted to his mouth. I grab her arm and pull her behind me, and suddenly I’m getting doused with a water balloon. Water splashes down my head and face, into my eyes, and wets the top part of my shirt. The clown’s eyes go wide, his hands clapped to his mouth as he drops to his knees before me in silent apology, and the audience loses it. I look up at them, and shrug, eliciting another round of whoops and shouts.
Not one to like attention, it surprises me how much I am not bothered by this.
Opal swings me around to face her and pulls out a blank sheet of paper and a drawing pencil from her backpack. I stare back, fighting a smile as I wipe water from my eyes. When she starts drawing, I forget where we are, and what we’re doing. Lines become an outline of my face; strokes of black turn into eyebrows, a hard jaw, a fierce nose. Her hand moves fast and strong as she creates hair. It’s uncanny how much it looks like me, but better.
As I watch her, I think of my grandpa, and how much he’d enjoy seeing this. How much I wish he was here with me. How much he’d like Opal. And then I think of my dad, and how he would crush her light like it was a bug beneath his polished black shoe.
Opal stands, grinning widely as she produces an image of me that I don’t recognize, though it is obviously me. She hands me a ticket and nods for me to go, her hand lingering around mine as she whispers, “I’ll meet you out back.”
Numb with thoughts and feelings I don’t understand, I absently nod and slowly make my way outside the ring. My legs give out and I land on the bleacher, the blue ticket smashed within the palm of my hand. I open my hand and stare at the numbers on it until they blur. Someone pats me on the shoulder, telling me I did great. I nod without checking to see who it is.
An alarm sounds, and Ringmaster Radley jogs out to the center of the ring. He looks out of breath before he reaches it. He speaks into the mouthpiece of a slim microphone. “Obnoxious Georgie the Clown and Esther the Cartoonist have stolen the show, but now it’s time to take it back! Can we show some appreciation for the pair, and their fabulous volunteers?”
The noise level turns deafening, and the ringmaster asks that any ticket holders go around to the outside of the tent to pick up their drawings. Obnoxious Georgie takes Opal’s hand and the pair bows for the uproarious mob. They hop and skip toward the back of the tent where an opening to outside waits for them. Just before they pass through it, Opal pulls a water balloon out from the top of her dress and smashes it against the clown’s head, disappearing through the slit fabric to the sound of laughter.
Not waiting more than a few minutes, I go in search of Opal. The humidity in the air, coupled with the sun at the top of the sky, annihilates any chance of going without a shower later on. Opal stands near a chair with her back to me, Georgie sprawled out on the ground close by. She chugs water from a bottle before quickly tugging off the dress and blonde wig and setting them on a chair, revealing her black top and red pants.
As I approach, Obnoxious Georgie the Clown wipes a brown cloth across his brow and says, “You did great out there—better than the real Esther. But don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“My lips are sealed.” She mimics zipping her lips with an invisible key. “I hope she feels better soon.”
I hang back, wanting to see Opal in motion without her being aware. I am not above spying.
“Yeah. I guess she’s allergic to shrimp, and she didn’t know it was in the lunch we ordered out. We’re just glad you agreed to fill in.”
“You didn’t give me much choice,” she mutters, and I frown.
Georgie shrugs. “We were desperate. Sure you aren’t looking for a seasonal job?”
“I’m sure.” Opal puts her hands in the front pockets of her pants and levels her gaze on Georgie. Her pose is casual, but her voice is strained. He might not catch it, but I do. “I have to get going. How soon until I get paid?”
“Mr. Radley should be around any minute now.”
She nods, tapping a foot as she looks around. A good chunk of the people are inside the tent, but there is still a small crowd outside, and more meandering in and out of other smaller tents. I’m about to make my presence known when the boy she first drew appears with a shy smile. He’s alone, a hand fisted around crumpled money.
“Hey, you,” Opal greets, moving closer.
“H-hi,” he answers, looking down and away. He opens his hand. “I o-only have fifteen dollars. Is—is that o-okay?”
Opal looks behind him before refocusing on him. “Where are your parents?”
“My a-aunt brought me, but…she d-doesn’t have any extra m-money.”
Without responding, Opal turns, noticing me for the first time. Our eyes lock, hers full of secrets, and then she retrieves the drawn portrait. She hands it to the boy. “A gift then.”
“R-really?” His brown eyes enlarge as he carefully holds the picture.
“Uh, Rachel,” the clown says as he stands.
Rachel. I don’t try to hide the smirk I feel coming on.
Opal shushes him with a single look. “It’s fine.” Turning back to the boy, she shoos him. “Go on. Take your picture before I change my mind.”
“Mr. Radley—” the giant begins once the boy has left.
“Can take his percentage out of the money he owes me,” she smoothly interjects. “Will you find him, please? My ride and I need to get going.”
Georgie’s eyes follow the direction of hers, and I wave my fingers at him. His eyes narrow. “You two are together?”
I turn to Opal and tilt my head thoughtfully. “Are we together?”
Her skin flushes and she tries to smile, but it’s splintered. She looks at the clown. “Get your boss, please.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll see if he’s available.” He casts one last look our way before striding around the side of the tent.
“Do you trust them?”
Opal turns to me. “No. But I don’t trust anyone.”
“Smart,” I remark. “I definitely wouldn’t trust me.”
Smudges of blue paint linger on her cheeks. “Why’s that?”
A handful of reasons come to mind, and there all negative characterizations of me—all things my father has called me over the years. He’s not the only one. With enough time, his voice somehow morphed into mine. I hear every vile thing I am, or have ever been, with my own voice inside my head.
Killer.
Alcoholic.
Drug addict.
Suicidal.
Depressed.
Worthless.
The red-haired teenager shows up in Georgie’s absence, her gait slow and awkward with the crutches. Her appearance saves me from answering. Not that I was going to. A man with receding blond hair and glasses follows with a hand hovering near her elbow. Opal asks her about the crutches, finding out she broke a leg while playing soccer. She tells the girl she’s never played soccer before, but that it sounds rough, and the girl smiles.
What the hell kind of a childhood did Opal have? I thought mine was bad. At least I got to experience things. If she’s telling the truth, her offhand comments make it seem as if she was locked up and kept hidden away from society. Not your problem, not your concern.
Opal does the same for the girl as she did for the boy, and when Mr. Radley shows up with Georgie in tow, she announces what is owed her, minus the royalties from the drawings. I think he’s going to argue, his lined and synthetically browned face taking on a calculating edge. I step directly behind Opal and stare death at him.
He blanches, looking from me to Opal with a weak smile. “Thanks for your help in there,” he says to her
, counting out the money before passing it to her.
I pull money from my pocket and slap it into the man’s palm. “That’s for mine. Ready…Rachel?”
“You bet!” With the drawing of me in one hand, Opal threads the fingers of her free one through mine and yanks us away from the ringmaster and his clown. Her skin is roughened by calluses and has a sandpaper feel.
“Had enough of Radley Family Circus?” I murmur as she charges in the direction of the exit.
“Mmm-hmm.”
I look at her, and then down at our locked fingers, and I disentangle them. I flex my hands, trying to get the tingling feel of hers from them. “What was that all about anyway?”
“What?”
“Esther the Cartoonist,” I boom in an exaggerated imitation of the ringmaster.
“The big clown saw me drawing a picture, and his sidekick was sick. He brought me to Radley, who asked me to fill in for her. He said he’d pay me three hundred dollars cash.”
“And you were okay with it? How’d you know what to do out there?”
She twists a lock of hair around her finger, a satisfied look on her face. “Yep. The promise of money helped. And I don’t know; I just acted how I thought a clown should.”
“But you didn’t get three hundred dollars, did you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Her lips purse and she shakes her head. “No. But it doesn’t matter. Those kids will value the pictures more than I will the money I would have gotten for them.”
I swallow with difficulty. “What you did for them was nice,” I admit.
She shrugs one shoulder, looking uncomfortable. “It isn’t like I didn’t want to take their money. I did.”
“I was waiting for you to use your pinkie-death skills on the ringmaster.”
Opal’s lips curve. “I thought about it, but then I wouldn’t have gotten paid.”
