Harley in the Sky

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

  “Just in time for load-in,” Simon remarks.

  I look ahead and see the flutter of red fabric still lying on the ground and a mess of metal poles, scaffolding, and thick cables, all spread out like an array of puzzle pieces.

  A dozen or so men are moving around with machinery and tools, and beyond them is an entire community of trucks, buses, trailers, and motor homes.

  It’s a neighborhood on wheels, lost in the middle of the desert.

  No, I think. Not lost. My eyes drift to a sign lying on its side, a row of sleeping bulbs outlining every letter, each painted in vibrant cranberry red.

  MAISON DU MYSTÈRE

  A tiny flame bursts to life inside me.

  Simon drives around the center field where a dozen or so people are setting up the big top. “That’s the ring crew,” he says with a nod. “We call them the Lucky Thirteen. Good guys, but a few of them will almost definitely hit on you when they realize there’s a new girl around. If the phrase ‘fuck off’ isn’t already in your vocabulary, I suggest learning it now. You only need to tell them once, and they’ll get the hint, but if they don’t—you come and tell me. I don’t tolerate harassment of any kind.”

  I guess my face must have changed, because Simon raises a brow and looks at me curiously.

  “That surprising to you?” He tuts, smirking. “I might toe the line between varying legalities when it comes to business, but human nature is a different beast. We have to respect each other’s boundaries. That’s how you keep a family happy—you draw your lines, and you stick to them.”

  He parks the truck next to a massive trailer. There’s a pot of flowers outside the door, with a pinwheel stuck inside.

  “This is my trailer.” He motions toward the metal home. “I’ve got an open-door policy, but I encourage people to talk to Sasha before they come to me. He’s my right hand around here, and if you’ve got a question, nine times out of ten he can answer it for you.” He points across the lawn to another trailer, where a few chairs and a grill are set up beneath a white awning.

  Sasha must’ve heard us talking through one of the windows because the door opens and a man in his midtwenties hops down to the grass, bouncing on his toes the way so many acrobats do. Like the entire world is one big trampoline, and they’re merely waiting for the next opportunity to perform. He runs a hand through his wild blond hair, his thick muscles visible even through his shirt.

  When he speaks, he has a subtle accent that makes his words string together. “Picked up another stray?” His blue eyes dance with laughter.

  Simon motions a hand between me and Sasha. “This is Harley; Harley, this is Sasha. He was one-third of the Kosovich Brothers, until one brother had some visa issues and had to go back to the Ukraine, and the other decided to leave our family for another troupe.”

  Sasha shrugs. “But now I get a big trailer all to myself, and nobody steals my good wine.”

  “I’d prefer to still have my act,” Simon says dryly.

  “Are you a performer or crew?” Sasha asks, raising a pale eyebrow curiously.

  I look at Simon, not knowing if I fall into either category.

  Simon looks like he’s not sure either. “She’s here for a mentorship—I’ll explain later. For now, I need you to show her around, get her settled into a room. I have to check in with the ring crew.”

  Sasha nods. “You want her in the bunkhouses?”

  Simons pauses, scratching at his dark beard. He looks at me like he’s considering something, then drops his hand with a sigh. “No. Maggie will want nothing to do with her if I put her there. Give her Tessa’s old bed,” Simon says, and the way he says it makes me flinch.

  As if he’s already certain the people here might not accept me.

  Deep down, I knew the first impressions would be hard. At least half the performers here will have been training since they were children. Some of them will have been to circus school, and some of them will undoubtedly come from generations of performers, all following in their family’s footsteps.

  My experience seems elementary in comparison.

  But still, I was hoping my love of the circus would be enough to prove myself. At least until I could show everyone what I can do on a static trapeze.

  “I’m on it, boss,” Sasha says, and waves his hand at me to follow him between the row of trailers.

  Simon disappears without saying goodbye, and it’s just my duffel bag and me, painfully aware that I am severely out of place in this world.

  We weave through a maze of motor homes and trailers until Sasha points to one with sparkly stars in the window and the smell of fresh coffee wafting through the screen door.

  “This is it,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the metal. There’s no answer.

  He fiddles with his keys—there are at least thirty of them, some of them color-coded with tape, and others wound with string—and unlocks the door.

  I follow him inside and am immediately welcomed by shades of fuchsia, teal, and violet. Everything matches, from the teapot to the rug to the throw pillows on the tiny seating nook. A bunk bed sits to the right, with another bed just above the table area. A tiny kitchenette sits on the left, and a narrow corridor leads further back to what I’m assuming is where the bathroom is. It’s definitely small—especially for three people. But I don’t care.

  This is my new home.

  Every step further into this world feels like another step closer to my goal. And it makes my heart kindle to feel so close to what I’ve always wanted. Hope feels like a bubble expanding inside me, pushing against my bones, trying to fight its way out before it bursts.

  I won’t let it burst.

  Because the more I hope, the more I see my dreams falling into place. Dreams I can reach out and brush with my fingertips.

  Dreams that are becoming reality.

  Whatever Simon was concerned about in front of Sasha doesn’t matter. It can’t. Not when I’ve come this far and I’m standing in front of the doorway that leads to the life I’ve always wanted.

  “It might seem small, but you’re lucky,” Sasha says. “Most of the newbies have to live with the crew in the bunkhouses. They’re just stacked-up beds crammed in metal containers, and their showers and toilets are all outside. At least here you’ve got hot water and a microwave.”

  “It’s perfect,” I say, and I mean it.

  He motions to the top bunk on the right. “This one is yours. Go ahead and unpack. The top bed lifts up, and there’s space under the mattress for all your things. I’m going to grab you some sheets and a towel from storage. Are you hungry?”

  I shake my head.

  He nods. “Okay, well, the Lunch Box is open twenty-four seven, as long as we’re not traveling. It’s the big double-decker bus opposite the rehearsal tent. You can’t miss it.” He disappears back onto the grass, and the door rattles shut behind him.

  Being alone makes my thoughts so much louder. Hope fighting with reality fighting with logic fighting with desperation. Too many thoughts, all colliding together until they’re tangled and messy and making my head spin.

  I’m not sure I want to untangle them, so I unzip my duffel bag and focus on organizing my new life.

  Phoenix, Arizona August—Week 1

  CHAPTER NINE

  There are twenty-seven missed calls from Mom on my phone, and at least forty text messages, which is a lot for her. She’s still stuck in that time period where phone calls were apparently “faster.” She likes immediate answers and instant results.

  So forty text messages without a response means Mom is definitely and without a doubt furious with me.

  They vary in levels of anger: Where are you?

  Call me back.

  THIS IS NOT FUNNY.

  YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE.

  ANSWER YOUR PHONE.

  I just want to know that you’re okay. You’re not in trouble. I’m just worried about you. Please call me back.

  Are you even getting these messages?
<
br />   YOU ARE SO GROUNDED.

  Running away is not the answer, and I need to know where you are, and if you’re safe. Call me back immediately.

  IMMEDIATELY.

  WHY ARE YOU NOT CALLING ME?

  They go on like that for a while, alternating between a string of all-caps rage and short paragraphs that are supposed to sound reasonable but are probably the moments Dad is standing over her shoulder directing her with what to say. Dad likes to lecture and draw out explanations like he’s at his own TED Talk. Mom blurts out her feelings without really thinking about them, and then tries to reshape them into something reasonable once all her feelings are on display.

  Sometimes I feel like that too—like a balloon with too much air, or a spring with too much tension. I need to pop—to release everything I’m feeling—which usually just sends me in the opposite direction until the same thing happens again.

  Mom and me? We have highs and lows, and nothing in the middle.

  Dad lives in the middle. I think he likes it there, because he doesn’t have to show any real emotion about anything, and he can mostly pretend he doesn’t know what’s going on with the two of us because we don’t make any sense to him.

  I check the time stamps on Mom’s calls and messages and realize she sent them while we were driving, when I didn’t have any phone signal. I’ve just been too afraid to look at my phone since we started getting closer to civilization again.

  I type back quickly: I’m safe, but I don’t want to talk right now. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll call you when I’m ready.

  I hit send, and I’m glad Mom doesn’t have iMessage like Chloe and I do, because I won’t be able to see when she’s read it.

  A weird part of me hopes she’s already typing a response.

  The other part of me is terrified of what that response will be.

  There’s a knock at my door, and I stuff my phone clumsily into my back pocket before hurrying to open it, expecting to see Sasha.

  Instead, the face of a young woman greets me. She has bright hazel eyes, warm brown skin, and a lopsided smile that takes over the right side of her face.

  She brings her fingers to her forehead in a salute. “Vivien de Vos, reporting for duty.” Her laugh bursts out of her like a trumpet. She lets her hand fall back to her side. “You can call me Vivien or Vee, but never Viv.”

  “I’m just Harley.” The words tumble out of me too quickly. She must be the lead aerialist—the one person in this world who is finally going to help me realize my dreams. I suddenly feel like every nerve in my body is sparking with new life. “Thank you for agreeing to mentor me—you have no idea what it means to me.” I thrust my hand toward her and feel my heart thud against my chest.

  She lets out another wave of laughter before accepting my handshake. “Trust me, you wouldn’t want me to mentor your left shoe.” I must be frowning without realizing it, because she pulls her hand back and waves at me like she doesn’t want me to get too worked up. “It’s nothing against you; I’m just not who you think I am. You’re looking for the Sapphire Peacock.” She tilts her head back dramatically. “Madame Wintour! The star of Maison du Mystère!” Her laugh pours into the room like a crash of wind chimes, and when it dies down, I can’t help but smile. She talks too fast, all of her words stringing together like they’re one big sentence. “I’m not your mentor—just one of your roommates—Sasha says you’re an aerialist? I like to think of myself as a weapons specialist. Mainly of the knife-throwing variety. Dexi does the high wire—you’ll meet her at the Lunch Box. Are you hungry? I’ll walk you over.”

  I pull the door shut behind me and follow alongside her.

  When we turn the last corner, a massive double-decker bus decorated in graffiti comes into view, the smell of bacon and eggs wafting through the air. All the artwork features food in some way—a clown juggling fruit, a flyer leaping off a hamburger, a contortionist balancing on a stack of waffles. THE LUNCH BOX is painted across the side, just below an open window where I spot a cook hovering over an industrial-looking metal kitchen. A few people are standing in line at the window.

  Vivien notices me hesitating near the back of the line and shakes her head, pointing toward the doorway. “We’re eating in.”

  As soon as I step foot on the bus, I’m overwhelmed by the smells and sounds of a deep fryer, an enormous extractor fan, and the clinking of silverware and glasses. Vivien leads me up a narrow staircase and onto the top level. There’s a black-and-white-checkered path along the center aisle, with cherry-red leather booths up and down both sides of the bus.

  Most of the booths are full, which isn’t surprising. Fitting an entire diner into a bus is no easy feat. Seating is understandably limited.

  The performers and crew members emit a rumble of greetings, ranging from “Good morning, Vee” to “Who’s the new girl?” I think it’s mostly friendly curiosity, but it’s hard to tell.

  I know letting a bunch of strangers intimidate me is only going to make things harder, but I can’t help it. They’re all part of the circus. As far as I’m concerned, everyone here is the coolest.

  God, I hope they like me.

  “Look who I found,” Vivien says in a singsong voice, tucking into one of the booths and patting the seat beside her.

  I plop onto the leather cushion, meeting the dark brown eyes of the girl sitting across from us. She has pale skin, small eyes, and shiny black hair that sits in a low braid in front of her shoulder.

  “So. You’re our new roommate,” the girl says, her voice like crystal. Beautiful, but easily shattered if you’re not careful. “I’m Dexi Liu.”

  “Harley,” I say with a nervous smile.

  “Did Vivien tell you the housemate rules?” Dexi asks, but then doesn’t wait for an answer. “If you put something in the fridge that doesn’t have a name on it, it’s fair game. The shower schedule is on the door and is nonnegotiable. No spraying perfume indoors.” She pauses, motioning to Vivien. “Vee has allergies.”

  Vivien mouths, “It’s true.”

  “And if you have a problem with another roommate, don’t let it fester. You say something, and we’ll hash it out. This is too small of a space to be harboring bad feelings, and people will never know they’re annoying you until you tell them. Communication is key.” Dexi blinks at me.

  I nod like my neck is made of Jell-O. “Okay. Got it.”

  She looks at Vivien, then back to me, with one of her brows raised curiously. “What’s your Hogwarts house?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply. And then more quickly, “I’ve taken the test before, but sometimes I get Hufflepuff, and sometimes I get Slytherin.”

  Vivien makes an oohing noise. “Loyal but ambitious. I ship it, even though snakes are the worst.” She shudders dramatically, her nearly black hair swaying back and forth.

  Dexi’s mouth curls into a smile. “There is no shame in Slytherin.”

  Vivien makes a face. “Says Dexi Liu-strange.” And then, brightening, she adds, “Hey, look, we’re bonding already!”

  The click of heeled footsteps draws near, and a young woman with pale lavender hair appears at the top of the stairs. She’s dressed like she was plucked out of the 1950s, with oversized curls, bright red lips, and a short playsuit covered in pink flamingos and ice-cream cones.

  Everyone looks up at her as she makes her way down the center of the diner, one hand clutching her phone and the other flattening her collar. Even though there’s youth in her face, she doesn’t carry herself like someone who might be just out of high school. She’s too… professional.

  Vivien leans forward so her words carry past me. “Hey, Maggie,” she starts, and I get the feeling there’s a particular way to approach her. “This is Harley. I don’t know if Simon told you, but—”

  “He told me,” Maggie cuts in like a blade. And not a big, chunky sword—she’s more precise than that, like the needle of an assassin that reveals itself only when it intends to do the most harm. Her luminous gra
y eyes snap toward me, making my heart quicken.

  Maggie. I remember what Simon said—about her wanting nothing to do with me if I was holed up in the bunkhouses. Suddenly it all clicks together.

  She must be the lead aerialist.

  I start to stand, to tell her it’s nice to meet her, and to assure her I’m willing to work hard.

  But she holds a finger up to stop me, pursing her lips. “Don’t bother.”

  I freeze, slowly sinking back into the booth. Heat floods my face, and even though I’m here with Vivien and Dexi, I feel thoroughly alone.

  “I don’t know what arrangement you made with Simon behind my back, but it’s not happening. I hardly have the time as it is—certainly not enough of it to willingly mentor my own replacement.” Maggie doesn’t blink.

  Every word is laced with poison, and my entire body is an open wound.

  Shrinking into myself, I try to fight the powerful urge to burst into tears right this very second. “I’m not here to replace you. It’s just an internship.”

  “This isn’t a school.” Her voice is black ice in total and utter darkness.

  At first I’m only vaguely aware the room has gone quiet, but then I hear the sound of my pulse reverberating through my eardrums. Apart from the sizzling of the fryer below us, it’s the only sound in the room.

  Every single person here is looking at me.

  Because I am the thing that doesn’t belong.

  The rumble of an engine grows outside the Lunch Box. A black motorbike winds around the disassembled rehearsal tent, the rider’s face hidden beneath a dark helmet, before zipping between a row of motor homes and toward the back of the camp.

  Maggie doesn’t glance out the window, but a smile creeps onto her face as the sound of the engine fades. She looks down at Vivien and flutters her lashes. “If you want to surprise someone with your new roommate, why don’t you go find Vas? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled—especially when he finds out Simon somehow conjured the entire winter set list from Teatro della Notte this morning.” She turns to me flatly. “When did you arrive again?”