by Deva Fagan
The choking, wheezing sound nearly jumps me out of my skin before I realize he's laughing. "In a manner of speaking."
"I'm not looking for a prince." Yeah, keep up the banter, I tell myself. Don't let him see how scared you are.
Nyl cocks his head, his voice smoother now. "What about a place where you belong? I can give you that. They left you alone, with so many questions and no answers. I can help you."
I slip a hand into my pocket to grip the meteorite. The weird silvery words from the poster come back to me. Strange things happening? We have answers!
"Are you from the circus?"
"No!" He recoils so violently the scarf slips free from his face. My breath catches at the sight of what's beneath: a chrome faceplate, like some sort of funky gas mask, studded with hoses that curve off over his shoulders. Threads of white smoke rise from behind his back as he draws a rustling breath.
I open my mouth, but it's a long moment before anything comes out. "What—who are you?"
"Someone who knows you can't cover lies with bright lights and sequined costumes." The bitterness in Nyl's voice crawls along my skin. "Don't trust him. That boy may glitter and enchant, but he is far more dangerous than you can imagine. You will find no answers there. Believe me, it will only end in pain."
As I back up another step, I hit the edge of my bed and stumble. The direction of Nyl's gaze shifts to my hand, raised to steady myself. And the meteorite I'm holding.
Smoke twists up from Nyl's silver mask as he growls something I can't make out. His fingers twitch, and I think I see a crackle of blue light in his palm, just for a moment. "That stone. Beatrix, did your parents give that to you? Did they tell you how dangerous it is?"
"My parents wouldn't give me something dangerous," I say fiercely.
"You must give it to me."
Nyl moves so fast I don't have time to run. His cold fingers clamp onto my shoulders, pulling me close. The mirrored lenses of his goggles reflect fragments of my face: a wing of shiny black hair, a dark, terrified eye. His breathing is as loud as a hurricane in my ears.
You have to keep it secret. You have to protect it. Can you promise to do that, Beatrix?
I struggle against his hard, cold grip, wrenching my arm up. The meteorite crunches into his monstrous face. He catches my hand before I can land another blow. Crackling blue flames lick from his fingers, biting into mine. I hiss as pain lances up my arm. The meteorite falls to the floor, skittering off under the bed.
He tries to push me away then, going after the rock. I bring my other arm up. Maybe I can get his eyes, hit a weak spot. My fingers slip across one of the tubes. I grab it and pull. It doesn't give.
Nyl roars, shaking me until my teeth rattle. I bite my tongue and taste blood. Just do it! I scream silently to myself. You promised! You need to keep it safe!
I yank on the tube again. A stream of pale smoke hisses into the air. I twist away as Nyl scrabbles at his face, croaking and gasping.
"You will regret ... your choice." He sounds like he's about to keel over. He backs away, toward the window. "One day ... you will beg us ... for help."
He turns, slipping out the window like a ghost. By the time I stick my head out to see where he's gone, there's no sign of him. How did he even get up here? My dorm is on the third floor. I slam down the window anyway, busting my fingers to close the ancient lock.
I slump onto my bed. Now that he's gone, now that it's over, I start to shake. Some maniac in a silver gas mask just broke into my dorm room and attacked me with a glowing handful of blue lightning! If there weren't a shattered hockey stick lying in the corner of the room, I'd think I was going crazy. All my life I've been afraid it was all a big joke, my folks saying I'm special and giving me the rock to keep safe. Well, I guess it's not a joke, at least not the part about keeping the rock safe.
The meteorite! I scrabble under my bed until I find it, then slump down to the floor, hugging it to my chest. Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe.
I curl into bed, trying to push down my host of fears. I can do this. I'll find answers. Things will look better tomorrow; I know it.
When I wake up the next morning, my hair is pink.
***
A girl with hair the color of cotton candy stares back from the mirror. I raise a hand to my cheek. So does she. I tug a lock of my hair forward so I can see that, yes, it really is bright pink.
At first my mind spins elaborate explanations. Maybe I got something on me yesterday in chem class that caused a weird reaction. Or Della snuck in and dyed it while I was asleep. Maybe I ate a piece of radioactive bubblegum.
Was this was what Nyl was warning me about? Did the rock somehow cause this? I pull the meteorite from under my pillow. I frown as my fingers catch against a slight imperfection. What the—?
A thin crack runs halfway around the rock. It's barely noticeable, but that doesn't stop the guilt hammering into me. They gave me one thing to do, and I screwed it up. It must have happened when I bashed it into Nyl's face. Or maybe when I dropped it. Doesn't matter—it's still my fault.
All things considered, it's been a pretty miserable twenty-four hours. Getting kicked off the gymnastics team means my ticket out of this sorry excuse for a life is toast. I've got a crazy gas-mask-wearing stalker who can toss around blue lightning with his bare hands. And Primwell is going to flip out when she sees my hair.
Honestly, though, the pink isn't bad. It'd be cute if it weren't so freaktastic having it change color all on its own. What's next, paisley? Or worse, plaid?
That's right, Trix, I tell myself. Hold on to your sense of humor.
I dig out a scarf and tie it kerchief-style over my head. My bobbed hair is short enough that I think that'll do the trick. It's Saturday, so at least there aren't any classes. And since I've been kicked off the team, no practices, either.
I slip downstairs, hoping I don't meet anyone, especially Primwell. But the hall is empty. Just me and my pink hair, and the ringmaster's smile daring me to dream.
I study the poster. What did Nyl say? Don't trust him. That boy may glitter and enchant, but he is far more dangerous than you can imagine.
Was he talking about the ringmaster? He looks too young to be dangerous. Too young to be a ringmaster, for that matter. But there's something in his eyes, something ancient and timeless and, yeah, maybe a little scary. Again, I think of the desert sky. Are the stars dangerous?
I wonder what my parents would say.
I shift my gaze down. At the bottom of the page, the silver words still promise answers. And today's date. The school trip is tonight.
"Let's hope for some truth in advertising," I tell the poster. Because you can bet I'm not going just for the popcorn.
***
Our buses pull up in front of a giant red striped tent that rises up from a cloud of spinning spotlights. At the top sits a ringed ball, like the planet Saturn, proclaiming CIRCUS GALACTICUS! with each revolution. I've spent the entire ride scrunched down in my seat, praying Primwell doesn't decide my kerchief is a dress-code violation and discover my pink hair.
I make it off the bus safely, lagging at the rear of the group. An army of smaller stands lines the approach to the big top, decked out in stripes and neon. There's still a ton of people outside, sucking down sodas and cramming popcorn into their mouths. At least I think it's popcorn. It looks blue in this light.
I ditch the school group as they head for the ticket booth. I hustle along the midway, searching for the Hall of Mirrors. Music buzzes against my skin, matching the jittery excitement inside me. I think I see Primwell, so I duck behind a big guy in front of one of the refreshment stands. He doesn't notice; he's too busy shaking his tub of popcorn angrily at the boy inside.
"But it is popcorn," the boy is saying. He rubs a hand over his crest of bright red hair. He's got a crazy clown grin slathered over his lips and asymmetrical white diamonds on his cheeks.
The man scowls. "It's blue!"
"Doesn't it taste like popc
orn?" says the clown boy, sounding disappointed. "Anyway, that other stuff is blue. The frozen drinks. Slooshies, or whatever you call them. I figured you Earthers liked your food blue."
Earthers? That's carrying this whole space theme a little far. The boy is trying to soothe Mr. No Blue Popcorn with complimentary "slooshies" when I spot what I'm looking for: a long, low tent slung up alongside the big top. The sign on the front says HALL OF MIRRORS, under a larger neon light that blares FREAK SHOW. I guess the universe has a sense of humor.
I'm about to go for it when I see Primwell. She's patrolling the open thoroughfare between me and my answers with a searching look on her face. And I kind of doubt she's on the prowl for blue slooshies. I bounce on my toes, my stomach a churning ball of frustration.
A loudspeaker crackles. "Ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin! Please make your way to your seats, and let us take you out of this world!"
I stop bouncing, mesmerized. It's a voice that makes you want to look up into the starry night sky and spin, or to run a mile to see the first snowflakes falling over the bay. As a tide of bodies surges toward the big top, I lose sight of Primwell. I shake off my daze. It's now or never. I run for it.
Gulping down air, I crouch inside the Freak Show tent, letting my eyes adjust. The only light is the weak golden glow from the glass display cases jammed in everywhere. I move farther in, checking out the labels as I go. It's some crazy stuff. CONSULT THE DRAGON ORACLE. WONDER AT THE LAST BREATH OF PASHFALLASARDOO. There's some disgusting green oil that's labeled OOZE. But no Hall of Mirrors. Probably way at the back. This place is bigger than I thought.
The gold lights near the front of the tent flicker. I duck instantly behind the nearest display, holding my breath. Was that a footstep? I retreat deeper into the tent.
I'm backing up, eyes peeled wide, when my heel crunches onto an empty popcorn tub. The breath catches in my throat as some instinct throws me down. A dark shadow whooshes over me. I come up with my fists clenched to confront my attacker. It's Nyl.
"Oh, wonderful. I needed a few more dire-yet-vague warnings." That's right, Trix, keep up the snappy lines, and maybe you'll forget how terrifyingly weird your life is.
Nyl stares at me. I realize my kerchief is gone, lost in the shuffle. "Your hair..." His shoulders droop slightly. "You should have given me the stone when I asked for it, Beatrix. I could have stopped this."
"Don't tell me my pink hair is going to destroy the universe. I mean, it's a little bright, but it's not radioactive."
"If you understood what is at stake, you would not joke."
"Okay, then enlighten me. Are you trying to tell me some space rock turned my hair pink?"
"Yes. And now you need to give it to me before it corrupts you further. I can still help you, Beatrix. We can cleanse you of the taint. You can be one of us."
"Cleanse me, huh?" I take a step back. He's trying to sound smooth, but I can hear the teeth in his words. This is about to get ugly. "How 'bout I get back to you? I'd like a second opinion, preferably from someone who isn't attacking me."
"There is no more time!"
As he makes a grab for me, I kick the legs of the nearest display. Glass crackles across the ground. A tide of oily green ooze slops out from the smashed display. Nyl sees it, but not in time to avoid it. His foot lands right in the middle of the puddle, and the next moment his legs go flying out from under him.
I run. I don't care about the Hall of Mirrors anymore. I just want out of here. Please, please, let there be an emergency exit.
I can see the rear wall. There's no way out. Only a red-curtained doorway under a big, shimmery sign that says HALL OF MIRRORS. Do I dare go in? What if I get trapped inside? Nyl's breathing rasps so loud I could swear he's right behind me. I risk a look back. Nothing.
In the distance, something clicks, and a whole row of display cases go dark. Click. Another row blinks out. Click. And another. Pretty soon it'll be pitch-black in here. He's driving me with darkness. I've got nowhere else to run. I push through the curtain.
Warped reflections goggle at me. Turning one way, I see myself impossibly thin with a head like a watermelon. Another, and I'm a potbellied string bean. There's a wiggly Trix, a short Trix, a tall Trix. The only thing they all have in common is hot-pink hair and desperate eyes.
"Okay, I'm here," I whisper to the mirrors. "Where are my answers?" I spin, searching the reflections. "Come on! There was secret writing and everything. It must have meant something. I can't just be going insane."
Nothing happens.
"There's nowhere to run, Beatrix. Stop fighting me."
I bite down hard on the scream that tries to force its way out of my throat. It sounds like he's right on the other side of that red curtain. I back away, until my shoulder blades meet the undulating coolness of the farthest mirror. Nowhere else to run.
The curtain trembles. A gray-gloved hand pushes through. My splayed fingers brush the smooth surface behind me. Then, suddenly, I'm falling backward. Right through the mirror.
CHAPTER 3
Through the Looking Glass
I STUMBLE, trying to figure out what happened. Narrow corridors twist away on either side, cluttered with boxes and bins. An oblong of dark glass fills the wall in front of me.
You dork, I tell myself. It's not a magic portal. It's some kind of secret sliding door. Judging by the jumble of sequined costumes, hoops, and bowling pins, I must be somewhere backstage, inside the big top itself maybe, since I can hear the distant beat of music. Question is, am I safe?
I lean closer to the dark glass, trying to see the room beyond, then leap back. Nyl's right on the other side of the glass, staring at me.
My heartbeat throbs in my ears, the only part of me that isn't frozen, for a long, long moment. Nyl lifts a hand toward the glass. I get the impression he's trying to touch it. Then he clenches his fist, swinging it down to his side.
Can he even see me? I force one arm to move, waving it in front of the mirror. Now that I think about it, this stuff looks a lot like that one-sided glass you see in cop shows.
No reaction. Nyl stands there, staring. Then he turns and stalks out of the room. I don't breathe until the red curtains swing closed behind him. I back away from the mirror door. There's no way I'm going out that way. Besides, the poster promised me answers, and I'm not leaving until I've got some. There's got to be someone here who knows something. The music seems louder to the left, so I head that way.
As I pass the heaps of boxes, I squint at them. The labels are in another language, some crazy alphabet I don't even recognize. But it's that same silvery paint as on the poster. I reach out to touch the letters, only to snatch my hand back. The gibberish is gone, replaced by a perfectly recognizable word: FRAGILE.
Whoa. I try another. HIGHLY DANGEROUS. I back away, and not only because of the warning. This is freaking me out almost as much as the stalker in the gas mask who wants to "cleanse" me. Maybe it's some kind of optical illusion. I keep going, but I make a point of checking all the boxes as I pass by. Who knows? Maybe one of them will be labeled ANSWERS.
The music is louder, so I must be getting somewhere. I've just found a large barrel to be used IN CASE OF WEEVIX INFESTATION when I hear voices. I can't make them out at first, but as I get closer the words grow clear, like I'm tuning in to the station. I skulk behind a tower of hatboxes labeled PROPERTY OF THE GRAND WAZEER OF DENEB-5, listening.
"I said I would take care of it! Don't worry. No one will find out," says a girl's voice. "I have to go. I'm on next, and they'll miss me if I'm not back soon." A buzz of static crackles, then winks out.
I scope things out over the topmost hatbox. After Nyl, I'm not taking chances. Thankfully, this girl seems relatively normal, or as normal as a person can be wearing a skintight sparkling body suit. She doesn't look very menacing, slumped against the wall with her head in her hands. I think she's crying.
I step out, clearing my throat. "Um. Hi. I'm sorry, but I'm sort of lost back here, an
d I was wondering—"
The girl whips around, her long black braid lashing the air, trailing red sparks. "Intruder!"
"Hey, I didn't mean to! I'm trying to get out."
"Too late for that, spy. What did you hear? Who are you working for?"
"Nobody!" I back up, closer to the hatboxes. "What, you think I'm some sort of Ringling Brothers secret agent? Look, if you don't want random people showing up backstage, you shouldn't put hidden doors in your Hall of Mirrors."
The girl stares at me. She shakes her head, setting fire to the crimson fiber optics again. "That's impossible. You're an Earther."
There's that word again. "Fine. I guess I'm not finding any answers here. I'll keep looking." I turn back the way I came.
I've gone three steps when something whooshes overhead. The girl lands lightly in front of me, blocking the way. I stare. That was one amazing leap, even for an acrobat.
Sparkles crosses her arms. "No, you're coming with me. You've got questions to answer, Earth Girl."
"I don't know anything! That's why I'm here. You guys said you had answers!"
The girl's eyes narrow. When she jumps this time, I'm ready for her. I scoop one of the hatboxes off the pile and hurl it at the figure flying toward me.
Sparkles tries to twist out of the way, too late. The hatbox explodes on impact with her nose, filling the air with brilliant blue-green feathers. The girl crashes onto the floor. I spin around and hightail it down the corridor.
Each footfall jabs my fury into the ground, propelling me forward. I can't believe I was such a moron! All I've learned about my true self is that I'm angry as a hornet's nest and probably going insane. Nyl was right. That poster was one big lie wrapped up in a pretty package.
I check over my shoulder. Sparkles is chasing me. What's she going to do, turn me over to security? Send me back to Primwell? No way. I put on a burst of speed, skidding around a corner and right smack into someone.
All I see is a pair of eyes that glitter like my memory of the desert sky. Then we collapse in a tangle of elbows and flashy clothing. I struggle to get free. My feet connect solidly with something.
