“Because I am,” I say firmly. “I wouldn’t expect you to pay me or anything while I’m training. But if I get really good, maybe you and Mom could think about letting me perform sometimes?”
“Does Tatya know you intend to replace her?” he asks seriously.
“I don’t want to replace her,” I say quickly. Defensively. I brush my palms against my pants because they’re starting to feel clammy. “But even Tatya takes time off, and you’ve always had Nina as her second. Maybe I could be Nina’s second. Like, a last-resort backup plan. For emergency situations only.” My hopefulness feels like it’s wedged in my throat—it hurts to get the words out, but it would hurt even more to swallow them back down and bury them in the pit of my stomach, where they’d fester for an eternity because some dreams refuse to die.
Dad’s face is emotionless. “How do you intend to take up a full-time apprenticeship and keep your grades up?”
I raise my shoulders like I’m trying to hold up the weight of this conversation. “I—I’ve decided not to go to college.”
Silence. A heartbeat. A twitch on the right side of Dad’s mouth.
And then all the words I don’t want to hear.
“Out of the question.”
“But—”
“This is not up for discussion.”
“I just want—”
“You’re not quitting school.”
“I’m not—”
“It’s worse than quitting—you’re giving up without trying.”
“It’s better,” I practically shout, and clamp my mouth shut when Dad narrows his eyes. I can barely hear myself over the pounding in my chest, the ringing in my ears, and Dad rejecting my dreams without even listening to me. I breathe the cold air through my nostrils and try not to cry. “I don’t want you and Mom to waste a bunch of money on a degree I don’t want. And so many acrobats retire in their thirties,” I point out. I can feel the fire in my eyes—the hunger for him to just understand. “If I don’t start training now, I might never get the chance.”
Mom speaks from the doorway like she’s been waiting to jump in for a while. “Why on earth would you trade your education for a career in acrobatics that’s only going to last you ten years?”
I turn around. Her arms are crossed against her chest, and her short bob is pushed mostly to one side. She doesn’t look Chinese like Popo or Irish like Grandpa Cillian. She just looks like her—like she’s content sitting exactly in the middle.
I don’t feel like I’m in the middle of anything. I feel like I’m on a thousand different points of a thousand-sided polygon.
I twist my mouth and find my words. “It’s not a trade—I don’t want to go to school. I don’t even like school,” I say.
“You love school! You took all those extra classes and graduated early from a magnet school with a good GPA—” Mom starts.
“Yeah, so I didn’t have to stay there for an extra year,” I interrupt. “And my grades were only good because I turned in all my homework and could fake my way through an essay. It’s not because I actually learned anything.”
Dad sighs. “That’s because you’re easily distracted. If you spent less time daydreaming and more time—”
“That’s not it!” I bark too loudly.
Mom makes a noise that sounds halfway between a growl and a “hey.” It’s a warning—a yellow light. A sign to tread carefully. She and Popo don’t always see eye-to-eye, but they do agree on one thing—children should respect their elders.
And I don’t necessarily agree completely—I mean, there’s a gray area to everything, right?—but something tells me now is not the time to argue.
I try to slow down my heart rate by thinking about balancing on the static trapeze twenty feet in the air. “I’m not good at school. Information just doesn’t sink into my brain the way it does for most people. I have to reread things a hundred times, and even then, I rarely comprehend any of it, unless there’s a movie to go along with it or some kind of visual chart. It takes me longer to learn stuff, and it’s frustrating. It makes me feel bad about myself, okay? Like I’m not good enough. And I’m a good aerialist—I can remember routines and positions and terms and everything else. It just makes sense to me, the way music makes sense to Dad or math makes sense to you.”
“Not everything is supposed to be easy. In real life, things aren’t just handed to you. And even if you do get lucky and someone gives you a break, it can be taken away from you like that.” Mom snaps her fingers like she thinks she’s proving a point. “That’s why it’s important to have a backup plan.” She looks at me seriously. “It’s hard enough to get a job these days, let alone get one without a college degree. You need an education. You need a safety net.”
I press my lips together tightly. It’s so hard not to shout when my chest feels like it’s about to burst. Not because I want to yell, but because volume control just doesn’t work when my emotions are running high.
I am losing this battle, and I don’t know what to say to change course. What can I do to change their minds? What can I say to make them understand that my dreams are worth something?
Dad shakes his head. “You always have these big ideas. When you were seven, you wanted to own a farm. When you were ten, you wanted to be a magician. When you were twelve, you wanted to move to France and run a vineyard. And it’s great to have an imagination, but you can’t make big decisions off an idea you just thought up in the night.”
“This is different. I’ve wanted to perform in Teatro della Notte since the first time I watched the show. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted to do. I didn’t just dream this up overnight—I’ve dreamed this up over a lifetime,” I say. And it’s mostly true, because I’m leaving out the part where performing with Maison du Mystère was also part of the dream.
Even though my parents are ignoring everything I’m saying, I’m pretty sure talking about my childhood obsession for a rival circus would make things exponentially worse.
Mom clasps her hands together. “Then you’ll still have the same dream after you finish school. But at least you’ll have a backup, too.”
It’s pointless to fight the tears falling down my cheeks. I’m not usually a crier, but confrontation with my parents always makes me feel so out of control. It’s like my face is malfunctioning.
I try to be the perfect daughter, but their idea of perfect isn’t the same as mine. And shouldn’t it be more important to be my perfect self?
Even if that means being imperfect to everyone else?
Mom reaches out her hand and pats my arm. “Not everyone has parents who can afford to send them to school. I think you need to appreciate what we’re trying to do for you.”
I spin around, part of me already prepared to bolt out of the room. “Neither of you are listening to me. I don’t want to go to school. That doesn’t make me ungrateful or unappreciative. But this is my life, and I should have a say in what direction I want it to go in. I’m eighteen—you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”
Dad stands up suddenly, and I know it means the conversation is at an end. “You’re right—you’re an adult now. And do you know what else adults do? They get jobs, and pay rent and bills, and cook their own food. If you want to stay in this house, you follow our rules—you go to school. But you don’t get to have the best of two very different worlds. You don’t get to pick and choose which privileges you want in life. That’s being an adult too.” Dad looks at me with so much sternness, but so much heart, too. And that’s the worst part—that he thinks he’s somehow doing the right thing.
Mom gives me a tired smile. “Come on, Harley. Let’s not fight about this, okay? We’ve still got presents, and birthday cake, and—”
I don’t wait around to let her finish, even though I can hear Dad shouting at me for being rude. But I can’t listen to them anymore.
Not when they won’t listen to me.
* * *
There’s a knock at my door long after the streetlam
ps turn on and the diluted stars appear in the sky—stars that can’t compete with the city lights, no matter how hard they try.
The first time I realized how truly beautiful the night sky was, I was at Mount Charleston on a camping weekend with some kids from school. I’d never seen the sky like that before—like it was filled with shattered bits of crystal. Like I was staring up at a billion tiny windows all leading to a billion new worlds nobody on Earth even had the imagination for.
That’s when I realized how small our own world is, and how minuscule I am in comparison.
But I don’t want to be small. I don’t want to be a blip in time.
I don’t want to just get through life doing the “right” thing, or the “responsible” thing.
I want to experience excitement, and beauty, and love, and every other bit of magic in the world.
Why should I have to settle for ordinary?
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I say toward the door. I don’t know who’s there, but if I had to put money on it, I’d say it’s Mom. She’s the fixer—she mends feelings the same way she mends faulty costumes.
The door opens anyway, and Mom walks in with a piece of cake and a candle in the center. She keeps one hand curved around the flame to keep it from going out.
“Happy birthday to you,” she starts to sing.
I sit up against the cushiony purple headboard of my bed. “You can’t fix this with processed sugar and artificial food coloring.”
Mom pushes out her bottom lip but makes her way toward me anyway, setting the plate of cake on my nightstand. “Won’t you at least blow out your candle before the wax melts everywhere?” That’s Mom—always trying to keep the world neat and tidy, like she thinks she can wrap everything in a bow and call it “perfection.”
I blink back at her, shake my head, and blow out the flame halfheartedly.
She waves at the smoke. “Did you remember to make a wish?”
“Is this a joke?” I cross my arms over my chest and look up at the ceiling. There are still glow-in-the-dark stars up there from when I was ten. Another change I need to make. “I don’t need a wish to make my dreams come true. I need you and Dad to stop standing in my way like you’re the Iron Fist guarding K’un-Lun.”
“Okay, well I don’t know what that is, but I’m sure it’s very important,” Mom says softly.
“It is important. Not the Iron Fist part, obviously, but the part about my dreams. Why can’t it be important to you, too?” I ask.
“Look, honey, I know you’re excited about this… this idea you have. And that’s great. But it’s not realistic,” Mom says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “Your dad is right—you get these wild notions in your head all the time, but you never think about the work that goes behind them. And we care about you and your future, and we just think you need to grow up a little. Learn what it means to stick to something even when it gets hard.”
“I can do that—just let me pick something I’m actually interested in,” I point out.
“You picked computer science,” Mom offers.
“No, you picked it,” I say. “I just went along with it because I hate disappointing you.”
“How about this—how about you go to school for a year, and if you really hate it after that, we can revisit this conversation?” Mom says.
My shoulders stiffen. “Why can’t I train for a year with Tatya, and if it doesn’t work out, then I’ll start school next year? I mean, I graduated early—this one year is basically a free pass, if you think about it.”
“Absolutely not,” Mom says. “You’re already signed up for classes—you need to give college a chance first. You’re so young—your dreams might not look the same twelve months from now, and that’s part of being a teenager.”
“I’m not going to change my mind.” I bunch my sleeves in my fists and wrap my arms around my knees. “I feel like I’m just moving through life in spaces where I don’t ever feel like I really belong. But the circus—being on the trapeze—that feels real to me. It makes me feel real.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Mom brushes the hair from my eyes. “You’re real to me, you know.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I say stiffly. I feel like I’m suffocating beneath the weight of Mom and Dad’s expectations. I feel like they’re flicking my dreams away like they don’t mean anything at all. “I’m tired. I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“Okay.” Mom gets up to leave but stops halfway and glances back toward my nightstand. “Are you going to eat the cake, or should I take the plate back downstairs? I don’t want the ants to come up here.”
Cake and ants. That’s what she’s worried about. Not the fact that I’m sitting in bed and my chest feels like it’s going to explode and I feel like all the color is being sucked out of the room.
There’s frustration and anger and irritation running through my veins, and if I were a dragon, I would literally set this entire room on fire. “I don’t want any cake,” I manage to say.
She takes the plate and closes the door, and I stare at the streetlights until they go blurry.
CHAPTER THREE
Teatro della Notte’s gym is tucked away behind the big top. The building feels so mechanical and practical in comparison to the main stage, with the ceiling resembling the inside of a warehouse.
Chloe, who’s been my best friend since the third grade, looks over her hands gingerly and makes a face. “My skin is blistered and I’ve done, like, half of a pull-up.” She holds her palms up.
I’m balanced on a large hoop that hangs six feet above the ground, attempting to do a one-handed candlestick. Chloe doesn’t care at all about acrobatics, but she’s usually happy to tag along and be my spotter. Though, I use the word “spotter” lightly—I’m not sure Chloe has the upper-body strength to ever save me from breaking my neck. She’s slender, and clothes always look good on her, but that’s not necessarily synonymous with strength.
I have curves—maybe a few more than most acrobats—but I’m also really proud of how long I can stay on an aerial hoop without getting tired.
“You get used to it after a while. You build up calluses,” I say, grabbing the bottom of the hoop and doing a forward roll until my toes are just above the floor. I let myself drop and hold my hand up to Chloe. “See?”
She pokes a finger against my palm and winces. “That’s disgusting. Your skin literally feels like a tortoiseshell.”
The amount of interests we have in common has definitely dwindled over the years, but maybe that’s also a sign of a good friendship—that we can be different and still care about each other.
“Oh, crap,” I say suddenly, catching my reflection in the wall of mirrors opposite the trampolines. I look down and find a tear in my leggings that’s at least twice the size of a quarter. “This is the second pair I’ve ripped this month.”
I’m lucky in a million and one ways for having parents with a solid income and minimal pressure when it comes to food, bills, and presents at Christmas. But Dad always wanted me to know the value of money, which meant no allowance, and Mom wanted me to have all my time to focus on school, which meant no part-time job. Basically, all my funding for leggings and sports bras arrives in birthday cards every August or comes from the occasional odd job my parents are willing to give me.
And even though my annual family birthday dinners are usually filled with awkward microaggressions between four different parts of my family tree that otherwise never interact with each other, I’m grateful I’ll at least be able to buy some better-quality gym attire.
Chloe lifts her curly blond hair off her neck and sighs toward the air-conditioning. “I feel like it’s a million degrees in here. Want to get Pink Drinks at Starbucks?”
I pretend I’m distracted by the hole in my pants. If I have to choose between fancy five-dollar drinks and new leggings, I will always, always choose the latter.
Chloe wouldn’t understand. We have different prioriti
es.
“I have to get home,” I say eventually, grabbing my oversized Star Wars T-shirt off the floor and pulling it over my flimsy tank top and sports bra. “My mom needs help setting up for dinner.”
“Dun dun dun,” Chloe sings in a deep voice, which makes me laugh. We might not be on the same wavelength when it comes to money, but she’s my best friend for a reason. We get each other, even if we don’t always agree. And I think that matters more sometimes—loving someone even if you both have different ideas of perfect. Because everyone has a different idea of what’s good and bad. Perfect is overrated—it’s our flaws that make us human.
I don’t want to be perfect. I want to be vulnerable and messy and free and wild. I want to experience all the crooked edges in the world, and make mistakes, and grow from them. I want twisty roads and dark corners and big, wide bends.
And I know my parents won’t ever agree, but I wish they could at least see my version of the world as a possibility.
I force the thoughts from my head and smile at my friend. “As long as nobody brings up anything to do with politics in front of my grandpap, the dinner will be fine,” I say, walking beside her toward the exit. Grandpap has strong opinions, and one of those opinions is that having opinions means he’s entitled to share them.
The warm blast of the Las Vegas sun hits me when I push the metal door open. Everywhere has air-conditioning in Vegas, so the first few steps back into the heat always feel good.
But then you reach the furnace that is somehow your car, burn yourself on the seat belt, and remember why you loathe the long summers times infinity.
Chloe shoves a pair of exaggerated cat-eyed sunglasses onto her face and turns to me seriously. Except it’s hard to take her seriously when she looks like a villain out of an old James Bond movie. “Promise me we’ll still do this after school starts.”
I scrunch my face in surprise. “What, come to the gym?” Chloe cares about physical fitness as much as I care about AP Calculus.
Harley in the Sky Page 2
