Chloe can’t make this better. Nobody can.
I roll to my side, trying to find a part of my pillow that isn’t soaked in tears, when a bright red corner of Popo’s photo album catches my eye.
Pushing myself up, I wipe my sleeves against my cheeks and pull the heavy book onto the bed.
Family. That’s what Popo said I was.
But my real family won’t listen to me, and my found family thinks I tried to sabotage Tatya’s career.
I break open the pages, continuing from the last picture Popo and I looked at together, hoping to find a scrap of comfort in the many faces of my grandmother.
There are pages of photos from when she was a young woman. The earliest ones were taken in Hawaii, with a backdrop of white sandy beaches and thick banana leaves. And then she’s somewhere else—somewhere with tall buildings, streets full of cars, and vintage motel signs in the background.
Grandpa Cillian makes another appearance, his bright orange hair so vivid, it’s almost as if someone turned up the contrast just on his hair. There are photos of him and Popo—some separate, most of them together—and even one of them with Taipo. And then there’s Popo at the courthouse, her hair curled to one side and covered in a tiny blue hat, with Grandpa Cillian in a brown suit wearing a nervous smile on his face.
And then there’s Popo with a pregnant belly, her hands pressed against her skin like she just can’t wait to meet whoever is in there.
After that, there are fewer and fewer photos of Popo and Grandpa Cillian. Because Mom was born, and she’s clearly dominated their lives.
With each page I turn, I watch Mom grow up little by little. I see the toys she got at Christmas, the kind of cake she had on her birthdays, the friends she hung out with, the instruments she used to play. I see a few of her at ballet class, and another at a piano recital.
And then Mom’s a teenager. There’s a picture of her with her prom date. Another one of her driving a car, maybe even for the first time. I see Mom at her high school graduation, her neck adorned with several enormous leis.
And then I turn another page, and a burst of ice rushes through me, making me feel like the entire world has stopped spinning and I’m frozen in a single moment of time.
I forget to breathe.
Mom’s hair is up in a high bun. Her smile stretches across her entire face, and she’s happier and more alive than I’ve ever seen her. She’s wearing a red leotard with a blaze of golden flames across her chest.
And she’s sitting on top of a static trapeze.
* * *
“You were an aerialist?” My voice is too heavy to hold up, so my words plummet to the earth like they’re bags of sand and rock.
Mom is still holding her purse, and Dad isn’t even finished walking through the front door. Mom’s eyes widen, but I think it has more to do with not knowing I was standing in the hallway than realizing I know the truth.
A truth she kept from me my entire life.
I don’t just feel betrayed—I feel manipulated.
She sets her purse on the table and folds her arms in front of her, her dark bob concealing part of her face like she still has more to hide. “It was a long time ago.”
Dad parks himself next to Mom like he’s ready to be her backup, and it sends a burst of rage through me. Because it confirms what I already suspected—he knew too.
I try to keep my jaw from shaking. “You both knew—you knew—and still you’ve made me feel like being an aerialist wasn’t a realistic dream. And the whole time, you knew it was your dream once too.”
“Dreams change, Harley, and if you don’t have something to fall back on? It’s hard. I don’t want that for you,” Mom says with so much tension in her face.
“How can you not see how unfair that is? This is my life. I should get the chance to make my own mistakes, or take risks, or try new things,” I say, and I see Dad take a breath, and I know he’s the sledgehammer that’s going to break apart any hint of a bridge I’m trying to build here.
“You have a lot of growing up to do if you think parents should just sit back and watch their child make the same mistakes they did. That’s not how this works. It’s not how we work,” Dad says.
I open my mouth to say something, but I guess Dad isn’t done talking because suddenly he’s pointing his finger at me, and Mom’s shoulders are curved inward like it’s his turn now, and it might be a while.
“We know how hard the circus life is. And yes, we know how magical it is too. But we also know it’s unreliable. You could tear a ligament or hurt your back, or maybe someone younger or more talented ends up replacing you. The point is, there’s very little stability in a career like this, especially one that most performers age out of before they’re even forty years old. And that’s pushing it, Harley—forty is pushing it. And then what’s your plan? Even if you manage to have a decent career until you’re out of your thirties, what are you going to do then?” Dad’s nostrils flare like he’s tired of having the same conversation.
He doesn’t see that I’m tired too.
Because I’ve heard all of this a thousand times before. The difference is that now I know what a hypocrite Mom is for living the life I want, and then telling me I can’t have it.
I don’t want to listen. I want to be heard.
“You both are suffocating me. I can’t breathe in this house. It feels like you’re pushing me further and further toward the edge of a cliff, and pretty soon I’m going to fall over and there’s no coming back. You’re trying to kill my dreams, and it feels like you’re trying to kill me.” My fists are balled tight. Inside, I’m screaming.
Dad heaves out a sigh all the way from the pit of his gut. “Why does everything have to be so extreme and dramatic with you?”
Mom takes a step closer, her face softening like she believes she can fix what’s happening to the three of us. “Honey, I know you love the circus. But I don’t want you to chase the idea of something that might not be what you think it is. I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize all the magic you fell in love with is just an illusion.” She bites her lip, hesitates. “I don’t want your love of the circus to be the very thing that ends up ruining your life.”
“No,” I say flatly. “That’s what you’re doing.”
I turn away despite Dad’s thundering new volume and Mom’s pleas for me not to leave.
I get in my car and drive.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I don’t know what makes me remember it’s there, tucked away in the glove box like it’s the One Ring calling to Gollum. But when I pull out Simon Tarbottle’s business card, its silver words glinting beneath the multitude of streetlights, my heart flutters.
It feels like all the frost and icicles Mom and Dad left in my chest come to life, turning into butterflies that pound against my rib cage, anxious to get out.
I don’t think. I dial the number.
Simon’s voice is leathery and worn. More indifferent than the show he was putting on for Tatya. “This is Simon.”
“Hi.” I blink. Am I really doing this? “This is Harley Milano. We met yesterday, outside of Teatro della Notte?”
He grunts. I think it’s an acknowledgment that he remembers. “What can I do for you?”
I gulp down the anger and hurt and yearning that’s been building in the back of my throat for days. Months. “I want to join your circus.”
I guess I really am doing this.
There’s shuffling, and I think maybe he’s sitting up. “Ah. You’re calling me for a job.”
“I know I’m not as good as your lead aerialist,” I say, trying to keep a sense of coolness to my voice that probably sounds more like vulnerability. “But I’d make a good second, especially if you let her mentor me. I’ve been training on the trapeze all my life. I pick things up quickly, and I don’t need to ask a lot of questions. I wouldn’t be a burden to anyone. In fact, you don’t even have to pay me a salary—just food and a bed. Maybe one day you’ll think I’m good en
ough to hire officially, but for now, all I really want is the chance to train. The chance to improve, with a professional who will know how to push me to the next level.”
My parents are forcing me to go to school after lying to me all my life. Tatya will never agree to train me again. And I can’t step foot inside Teatro della Notte after what I’ve done—what everyone thinks I’ve done.
I lost my family—my home—and now I’m desperate.
Simon’s voice perks up like he’s smiling on the other end of the phone. “You’re bold, kid. I like that.”
My heart quickens, hopeful.
“But I’m not in the business of doing charity work,” he says, and my stomach starts to disintegrate. “However, I do have an obvious issue with my lead aerialist, and maybe a second might put a bit of fear in her. Remind her there’s always someone waiting to take her spot.”
I start to point out that I’m not trying to take her job while she still wants it, and that I want her to train me—I want her to like me—but I bite my tongue because there’s a hint of possibility in his words.
The possibility that this might end in my favor.
I don’t want to screw it up trying to say the right thing.
“I won’t pay you a salary,” he says. “An internship, I can get behind. But the food and room? That’s going to cost you.”
Cost is a funny thing. People put so much importance on monetary value, haggling to the penny just to feel like they got a bargain.
But what about when the cost is loyalty? Trust? Morality?
People don’t bargain with morality. Sometimes they don’t even hesitate.
A good person would hesitate.
I wonder what it says about me that I don’t.
“What do you want?”
He doesn’t hesitate either. “I want the set list for Teatro della Notte’s new season. The music for the opening, the acts—even the theme that gets played in the lobby. I want all of it.”
Time goes still, and I feel like a bird frozen in flight.
Betray my parents and buy a place in Maison du Mystère as a trapeze artist. That’s his price.
“If you bring me all that, you’re in,” he says. “I’m at the Desert Garden Motel, room 104. But just so we’re clear, at six a.m. tomorrow, I’ll be getting into my truck, suitcase packed, and driving back to Arizona to meet the troupe. If you don’t show—if you’re even one minute late—the offer will no longer be on the table. You understand?”
My voice doesn’t shake. “I understand.”
* * *
I wish I could say it was hard to sneak into Dad’s office in the middle of the night.
I wish I could say it was hard to go through his filing cabinet until I found folder after folder stuffed thick with copies of the new set list.
I wish I could say it was hard to pack my duffel bag with my clothes and toiletries, and to leave a note on my bed that says I’m okay, and that I had to do it, and that I’ll call when I’m ready.
I wish I could say it was hard to close the front door to my house for what could be the last time for a long time, and to get into the taxi waiting by the curb, and to not have doubts or worries or a change of heart.
I wish I could say it was more difficult to do something so unforgivable to my parents.
But I can’t.
Because I feel like a stranger in this life. There’s nothing left for me here—just a wasteland of lies and disappointment and stolen dreams.
I can’t thrive in this place my parents have built. I won’t survive in it—not without the circus.
I had no other choice.
Running away to join Maison du Mystère was the easiest decision I’ve ever made.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The taxi pulls into the motel entrance, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires reverberating through the car. It’s velvety black outside, and the sky is lit up by the stars I so rarely get a chance to see. The motel rooms are spread across two floors, and the building is shaped like a giant square box. I spot room 104 and the massive black truck parked outside, shadowed in the early morning darkness.
My feet clomp heavily on the street, and I grip the box of stolen sheet music tightly to my stomach. I vaguely hear the taxi drive off behind me; I’m too busy staring at the metal beast in front of me. It’s not like I haven’t seen a truck before, but this feels so different. It’s like a sleeping monster—the kind you run into when you’re playing an MMORPG. The kind you are under no circumstances ever supposed to face alone.
God, I hope I know what I’m doing.
I take a breath of imaginary courage and walk across the pebbled road. I’ve only just set the box down and lifted my fist to knock on the motel door when Simon Tarbottle pulls the door open, the end of a cigarette still wedged in his fingers and the remnants of a smoke cloud floating away behind him.
My face recoils when the smell of vanilla and cloves fills my nostrils.
Simon grins through his beard, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray perched on the table next to him. “Filthy habit, I know. That’s why I only smoke when there’s a full moon.” He lifts his chin to the sky, and when I look up, I don’t know how I missed something so quietly beautiful.
I can’t help but think of all the other things I’ve never noticed. All the stuff I’ve never experienced. And I know I’m doing a horrible thing, but maybe there’s beauty in it too.
Because I’m finally and truly chasing my dreams.
For me, this is a fresh start.
I bring my eyes back to Simon and cross my arms over my chest to fight the dawn chill. “I brought what you asked for,” I say.
He nods. “I gathered you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.” He extends his hand expectantly.
I pause, adjusting the bag hanging from my shoulder, before bending down to retrieve the box at my feet.
There’s no going back now.
I thrust the container of sheet music in front of me, letting him grab hold of everything that will inevitably break my parents’ trust in me forever. Before I let go, I say, “I have one request.”
His peculiar eyes flash with mischief. I get the overwhelming feeling he’s not usually the type to grant requests, but his smile doesn’t fade. “What would that be?”
“I don’t want anyone to know who I am. Who my parents are.” I burn my stare into his, because this part can’t be negotiable. I don’t want to be treated any differently. I want to earn this, the way everyone else has.
It’s the only way I’ll know whether I truly belong.
He raises a brow. “If anyone finds out, it won’t be from me.” I let go of the box, and he shifts it onto the nearby table, looking quickly through the pages of music Dad worked so hard on. The music he worked so hard to keep secret.
I press my lips together and dig my heels into the concrete.
When he’s satisfied, he straightens like he’s getting back into character. “Simon Tarbottle. It’s a pleasure to officially meet you.”
I shake his hand, feeling my insides twist like cotton candy being spun around a stick. “Harley. And… thank you for this opportunity.”
He chuckles like I’ve said something amusing, before motioning over his shoulder. “I’ll just grab my suitcase.”
It feels like my skin is crawling with a billion tiny bugs. Big, ugly green ones. Representatives of my betrayal.
I try to ignore them.
Simon doesn’t say a word until we’re outside the city limits, the backdrop of Las Vegas hotels shrinking fast behind us.
“I’m guessing you’ve never run away from home before,” he says. He’s not smoking anymore, but I can still smell ash and vanilla.
“I’m not running away.” My voice clips. “I’m an adult—this is me moving out.”
His laugh is coarse. “Whatever you say, kid.”
We don’t speak for another whole hour.
“You been to Arizona before?” he asks, his fingers covered in silver rings that
make a hypnotic clicking noise against the steering wheel every time he taps them in time with the music.
“No,” I say, soaking in the red and yellow desert that seems to stretch for an eternity. It’s so empty here. Lifeless.
I feel like there’s a kind of poetry in me leaving a place so vacant and dead, but I’m finding it hard to be excited. I’m too aware of what I’ve done—too aware that Mom and Dad are going to notice I’m gone any minute now and my phone is going to explode with angry texts.
Not that I’ll get them. We haven’t had a bar of signal for miles.
“I left home when I was sixteen,” he says suddenly, his chin jutted forward like he’s recalling a fond memory. He glances over at me, his amber eye like a hawk’s. “It’s scary at first, like you’re in a dark tunnel and you know there’s a monster watching you, and you’re just hoping to get the hell out of there before it decides it’s hungry. But you get out, eventually, and you’ll see you’re all right after all.”
I pin my eyes to the horizon. I’m not scared of a monster—I’m worried I’m the monster.
I’m worried my parents will never speak to me again.
But if I had stayed, my life never would have been my own. Leaving was my only option.
And I’m angry at them for that. Maybe even as angry as they’ll be at me.
“My parents aren’t bad people.” I feel like it needs to be said. “But I needed to leave. Not because of them, but because of me.”
“Well, lucky you. My parents were assholes,” Simon says, erupting with laughter. He goes back to drumming his fingers to the beat of the music. “But Maison du Mystère is family. And now we’re your family too.”
* * *
We stop for gas once, and again for burgers at some random diner outside of the Mojave Desert. After another couple hours on the road, Simon pulls off the freeway. The truck rumbles onward for a handful of miles, and eventually we enter a large clearing that’s part desert, part abandoned parking lot. An outlet mall looms in the distance.
Harley in the Sky Page 5
