“No, not the gym.” She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth like she’s scolding me. “I mean this.” She moves her finger between the two of us. “You and me, hanging out like we’re still kids, even when we’re not. Promise me that you going off to college won’t be the end of us.”
I feel sulky just thinking about school. I’d hoped an aerial workout would distract me, but I’d forgotten what it’s like in the weeks leading up to a new academic year. It’s all anyone talks about.
“It’s not like we haven’t gone to different schools before. It doesn’t mean our friendship is in jeopardy,” I point out, and the words taste sour, like an underripe lie.
Because I’m not sure what the future holds, but it can’t contain school. It just can’t.
She hums into the sunshine, oblivious to how there’s anguish and desperation creeping around in the pit of my stomach. “You say that, but you’ve never gone to college before. I have three older siblings—it’s a different world.”
A world I don’t want anything to do with.
“Not to mention you’ve always had that look in your eyes, like you were going to fly away at any moment,” she says with a grin, and I can’t tell if she’s joking or not.
I force a smile. “You don’t need to worry. We’re like Ash and Pikachu—nothing is going to break us up.”
Chloe pulls her lip up like she’s snarling. “Can we be Thelma and Louise instead?”
“Way too obvious. Besides, they have the most depressing ending ever.”
“Ash Ketchum has literally spent over two decades trying to become a Pokémon Master. That’s depressing.”
“You’re missing the entire point of his journey, but okay.”
Chloe’s laugh is all bubblegum pop. Light. Happy. Carefree. She stops in front of her car and pulls her keys out of her bag. “If you save some birthday cake, I’ll come over in the morning and we can eat it for breakfast.”
“Deal,” I say.
She waves before ducking into her car, and I walk across the parking lot to the white Toyota Yaris Mom and Dad bought right after graduation. They made it very clear it isn’t my car—it’s just on loan while I go to school because my university is in-state and they’re way too busy to chauffeur me around the city.
I wonder what will happen if I don’t show up to class. Will they take the car away? And how will I get to the gym to train? And will my parents really kick me out of the house and make me figure out a way to pay rent, and bills, and whatever else?
Sometimes I feel like there are so many strings attached to everything they do for me that it makes it impossible to break free. Because I owe them too much. I rely on them too much.
And even though I hate to admit it, not going along with their plans feels like such a deep betrayal.
I’m either making them proud or disappointing them—there are no other options when it comes to my parents.
When I’m in the car, I leave the door wide open, turn on the AC, and lean back in the seat while the air starts to circulate. Tracing my thumb along the steering wheel, I think of all the things I want to say to Mom and Dad. The things I wish I could tell them, about them holding me back, and about feeling like I have so much pressure weighing down on my chest that I can hardly breathe. I think about how much I wish they would hear me, instead of talking over me because they still think being a parent makes them automatically right.
And maybe they are right. But maybe I’m right too.
Why can’t they just give me some room to be me?
I’m already starting to get goose bumps on my right arm, so I pull the door shut and click my seat belt into place. I’m about to press the brake pedal when I glance into the rearview mirror and see Tatya near the gym doors, talking to someone I don’t know. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a tidy beard and tattoos up and down his arms.
And something about her posture—the way she keeps looking toward the parking lot like she’s hoping someone else will turn up, and the way her arms are folded in front of her like she’s putting up a barrier between them—makes me feel like she doesn’t know him either.
I yank the keys from the ignition and jump out of the car. When my foot hits the sidewalk, I use my loudest voice. “Hey, Tatya!”
When she sees me, her shoulders relax. She smiles—the kind of smile a friend gives you when you save them from being hit on by a pushy stranger.
The man’s head snaps to the side like he’s a spider sensing a vibration in his web. And that’s when I notice his eyes—one bright amber, the other mossy green. I’ve never seen eyes like that on anyone before. I mean, I know what heterochromia is because Professor Xavier talked about it in X-Men once. But seeing something so uniquely beautiful for the very first time makes me do a double take.
The man lifts his eyebrows, and I realize I’ve been staring way too hard.
I focus on Tatya. I need a lie—an excuse to get her away from him, whoever he is. “I’m glad I ran into you. I wanted to ask you some questions about the new act.” I point toward the gym doors. “Do you have a minute to talk inside?”
She hesitates before letting her face soften into understanding. “Oh. Oh, right! You’ll have to excuse me.” She gives the stranger an apologetic look. “The circus is full of secrets, as I’m sure you know.”
I force an awkward laugh. “Dad would kill me if I ruined the big surprise by blabbing about the new set list in public.”
The man tilts his head. His dark brown hair is peppered with gray and combed flat against his scalp. “You’re Kenji Milano’s daughter?”
He’s familiar with the circus. Maybe I have this all wrong. Maybe Tatya does know him.
I nod. “You know my dad?”
“Only by reputation,” he says with a short laugh before dipping his head toward Tatya. “I should go. But please call me if you change your mind.” He procures a thin black card seemingly out of nowhere. The silver letters glint beneath the sun, but the name is unmistakable.
So are the words underneath.
SIMON TARBOTTLE
MAISON DU MYSTÈRE
RINGMASTER
My heart hammers. And hammers. And hammers.
I once dreamed of running away with Maison du Mystère when I was a little girl, way before I knew how much my parents despised everything about Simon Tarbottle’s business practices.
A circus that travels all over the country—that transforms a quiet, forgotten place of the world into a theatrical extravaganza for just a few nights—was the epitome of magic to me.
Tatya hesitates before taking the card from him.
“I look forward to seeing the performance tomorrow,” Simon says with a smug grin. And then he disappears around the corner as his footsteps fade away.
“Was that—” I start, but Tatya waves her hand quickly.
“Don’t say it. If you say it out loud, it will only make it worse.” She sighs and looks around me as if to make sure nobody is coming. “Please don’t tell anyone. I swear I’m not doing anything sneaky behind your parents’ backs. He just showed up here out of nowhere. But I know what it will look like, and I don’t want the drama.”
I frown. “What did he want?”
She bites her lip. “He offered me a job. He says his aerialist keeps threatening to quit, and he wants to replace her with someone better.”
“Well, that’s quite a compliment. I mean, Maison du Mystère is the most famous traveling circus in the country,” I say.
“And also the shadiest,” Tatya points out almost accusingly. “Everyone knows Simon travels around poaching performers and stealing ideas. He gets away with it because his show is always on the move, but trust me, people in the industry hate him with a passion. Which is why I don’t want anyone to know he approached me. It’ll just upset everyone, especially with all the stress of getting ready for a new season.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promise, “but—do you want the job?”
“No!” Tatya practic
ally barks. “Not in a million years. I love it here—this is my family.” She sighs. “Will you do me a favor? Throw this away for me?” She holds out the card toward me. “If I throw it away here, someone might see it. And I don’t want it in my bag—I don’t want you thinking that I’m even for a second considering his offer.”
I shake my head quickly, sensing the genuine worry in her eyes. “That’s really not necessary. I believe you.”
Her arm doesn’t budge. “Please. It will make me feel better.”
I take the card from her and hold it in the air. “Fine, fine. I’ll burn it when I get home, okay?”
Tatya laughs. “Okay. Thank you. And thanks for coming to my rescue, too.”
When I’m back in the car, I tilt the card and watch the metallic gleam move across the words like a magical wave. And when I flip the card over, I find a phone number on the back.
I hate that the thought even crosses my mind—I hate that I’m so desperate to chase my dream that I could even imagine it—but it occurs to me that Simon Tarbottle is looking for a new aerialist, and maybe that aerialist could be me.
And then I force the horrible desire from my thoughts and shove the card into my glove box.
Hidden in the darkness, where bad ideas belong.
CHAPTER FOUR
Harley! Can you get the door? It’s probably your grandpap,” Mom shouts from somewhere in the kitchen.
I close the lid on my laptop—and the unfinished document listing all the reasons I need my parents to support me—and make my way downstairs.
The next half hour is a blur of hugging one family member after another. Grandpap arrives first, like Mom guessed, but Aunt Adeline, Uncle Henry, and my three very loud cousins turn up before I’ve even closed the door.
Aunty Michiko and her new boyfriend follow soon after, and then Aunty Ayako, Uncle Jesse, my older cousin Matty; his girlfriend, Taylor; and their toddler, Isabella. Popo rings the doorbell last, and I’m really not surprised—she likes to make an entrance.
“Happy birthday, Harley Yoshi.” Popo coos like I’m still a little kid. She’s the only one who ever uses my middle name—which is a family name and doesn’t exclusively belong to a Nintendo character. Having to point out to people over the years that I was named after my late grandmother and not a famous green dinosaur has been the bane of my childhood.
My middle name is also pretty much the only part of me that reflects my Japanese heritage, even if it is a quarter of my blood.
I’m a quarter Chinese, too, but I have no name to show for it. Even Popo’s first name is Jane, so sometimes it feels like there’s this dormant part of me I’ve never had a chance to learn about. It doesn’t fully make sense—belonging to these different cultures, but not really belonging.
You know those refillable soda machines at fast-food places? When I was a kid, I used to add a little bit of everything in—7UP, Dr Pepper, Pepsi, raspberry iced tea—whatever they had, I’d mix it all in. But when it was all mixed together, it wasn’t really 7UP anymore, or Dr Pepper, or Pepsi, or raspberry iced tea. It was everything, and nothing.
It was something new that didn’t have a name.
I feel like that sometimes—like something without any history. Like I don’t quite fit in.
An Italian last name, a Japanese middle name, a splatter of freckles across my nose that Mom insists are from her Irish father’s side of the family. And a Chinese grandmother whose face I’ve searched a million times for little bits of me that I was never able to find.
I’m American, but that only explains my passport. It doesn’t explain all the other pieces of me that aren’t easily labeled.
Not to mention how Chloe calling herself American and me calling myself American get very different looks from people. Sometimes it feels like if I call myself American, people will only ever follow up with, “But what are you really?”
But if I lead the conversation? If I tell them everything I am? If I point out all the pieces of my heritage to explain why I have my name, and my face, and my culture? Then people tell me I don’t get to be all these other things—I only get to be American. Like the rest of me is suddenly erased. Like my heritage isn’t important. Like all the pieces that should mean something don’t mean anything at all.
And in all honesty, I’m really tired of other people thinking they have any authority whatsoever on what I’m allowed to call myself.
Popo gives me a gentle hug and hands me a red party bag stuffed with yellow tissue paper. She has the happiest eyes of anyone I know, even though her mouth rarely breaks into a smile. The weight of the bag surprises me because it’s too heavy to be clothes.
And Popo has never bought me anything that wasn’t clothes.
Popo loops her arm around mine and leads me into the kitchen to join everyone else, so my curiosity has to take a back seat.
Bunches of blue and yellow balloons are positioned around the room, and glittery silver streamers and stars dangle from the walls. With the exception of my youngest cousins, who’ve already found a comfortable spot in front of the television, most of my family members are hovering over Mom’s Brie and honey appetizer, and the rest are digging through the beer cooler.
Mom shoves a cheese-covered cracker in her mouth and hurries across the kitchen to check the oven. The moment I set Popo’s gift on the counter, Mom’s head lifts back up like a deer sensing danger.
“Not on the counter, please. I just wiped it down,” she says with gentle-scolding eyes.
I really want to point out that this is probably the best time to put objects on the counter, being as it’s clean, but I keep my words stuffed in my brain where they belong. I still want to believe there’s a chance I can change her mind about school, and arguing with her over silly things will only hurt my cause.
“Popo is still spoiling you, I see.” Dad eyes the gift bag as I pick it back up and set it on a table in the hallway instead.
“Grandmothers are supposed to spoil their grandchildren,” Popo retorts from around the corner. When I’m back in the kitchen, her head is tilted to the side and she’s staring at Mom. “You look tired. Do you have a cold?”
Mom sighs the way I do when Mom overanalyzes everything about me. Maybe it’s a mother-daughter thing.
“No, Ma, I’m fine,” she says. “I hope you’re hungry. I made pumpkin ravioli.”
Popo walks past her and presses her cheek to Mom’s in a weird almost-hug. They’ve never been good at showing emotion with each other, even though they show so much to everyone else.
Twisting her mouth, Popo says, “You should’ve asked me to cook. I could’ve made chicken stir-fry.”
“Harley likes ravioli,” Mom says calmly. She pulls a tray of garlic bread out of the oven. “So does the rest of the family.” She means Grandpap, mostly, because he’s the only one who turns up his nose when anyone cooks anything that isn’t his own idea of “American.” We’re expected to treat Italian food like it’s totally ordinary, but if Mom ever served up ramen or Spam fried rice, it would be treated like it was something unusual. Something exotic.
I wonder sometimes if Grandpap defaulted to his own ways when Grandma died. Dad says he can’t remember very much of her since he was so young when she passed away, but since he and his siblings all have Japanese first names, she must’ve been trying to teach them something about their heritage.
But then she got sick, and since her family still lives in Japan, Grandpap pretty much raised three kids all on his own.
I think that’s why Dad feels more tethered to his Italian side than his Japanese side.
Both my parents are biracial, so family gatherings have always been—as Popo calls it—chop suey. Mixed.
And it’s not that everyone doesn’t get along, because they do. On the surface, anyway. But sometimes it feels like there’s another layer that doesn’t quite fit right—like four different colors that won’t blend. And maybe that’s fine for my grandparents, who don’t necessarily have to blend, but it’s
different for me. Because I’m parts of all of them.
And I wish I could feel like I was all four parts at once, instead of different parts at different times.
For the record, this is one of the reasons I hate Halloween. People get understandably upset about people dressing up like they belong in another culture, but honestly? I’ve felt like that my whole life. Like I’m pretending. Like I’m wearing a costume from someone else’s background. Like I have no real claim to all the different pieces of my family’s heritage.
Mom motions for everyone to sit down at the table, and there’s so much talking over the entire meal that I start to get a headache.
Grandpap keeps telling stories about his time in the army. Popo gushes about how tall I’m getting—even though I stopped at five foot four sometime during freshman year and haven’t grown a millimeter since. My cousins won’t stop fighting over the Nintendo 3DS they have hidden under the table. Aunty Michiko keeps trying to ask me about school, but Isabella is sitting next to her and crying about not being able to fling pieces of ravioli onto the floor, so it’s too hard to hear.
At some point Uncle Jesse makes the mistake of talking about politics, which sets Grandpap off into Ultra Nightmare mode. They spend the next thirty minutes in a heated debate about everything from taxes to gun control to paternity leave. Grandpap insists Italians are “passionate speakers,” but it really just sounds like he’s yelling from across the table.
After everyone’s had a piece of cake, Mom ushers them all into the living room to relax while I help her and Dad clear the table. Popo lingers in her chair, sipping a glass of water. Her movements are always so delicate and careful. I think it’s because she spent so many years as a dancer.
“Well, I’m officially exhausted,” Mom says, tucking her hair behind her right ear. She chopped most of it off at the beginning of the summer, and it’s still too short to tie up. She nudges me away from the kitchen sink. “Come on, it’s your birthday. Go sit with the family—your dad and I can wash the dishes after everyone goes home.”
“Technically my birthday was yesterday,” I say, but I move aside anyway.
Harley in the Sky Page 3
