Something must be wrong.
I motion to Vivien and Dexi that I’ll be right back and hurry away from them, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” My voice clips, not knowing what to expect.
“Oh my God, where are you? Your parents said you ran away.”
Relief floods through me. “Well, that was anticlimactic. I thought you were hurt or something.” I let out a short laugh but get no response.
She pauses for enough seconds that it feels awkward. “Did you? Run away?” Irritation muddies her tone.
My defenses go up like I’m Tony Stark transforming into Iron Man. “No,” I say almost aggressively. The combination of Vas’s weird mood, and the entire circus potentially hating me, and Mom and Dad being royally pissed, and now Chloe, too… It’s a lot. Maybe a little too much for one morning. “I’m an adult. Adults don’t run away—they move out.”
“So… you moved out? Without telling anybody?”
“I didn’t really think about it. I just had this opportunity and—”
“Without telling me?” her voice cuts in.
My shoulders relax. Shit. I should’ve said something to Chloe. I mean, she’s my best friend—we’ve told each other pretty much everything since the third grade. No wonder she’s mad.
“I promise it wasn’t on purpose. I wasn’t trying to keep a massive secret from anybody. But I got in this huge fight with my parents and—” I let out a heavy breath and look up at the sky, which is slowly turning a milky blue. “I couldn’t stay there, Chloe. They don’t understand me.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t blame them. I mean, you literally left without saying a word to anybody. You could’ve been dead, for all we knew!” She’s angry. Angrier than I think is fair.
“I left a note in my room,” I say tersely. Why is she giving me such a hard time? I know I should’ve said something, but it’s not like I planned this. It’s not like she wouldn’t have done the same thing if the roles were reversed.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
Well, nothing wrong that she knows about, anyway, because if my parents told her about the set list, she’d be throwing it in my face already. She’s the kind of person who thinks feeling morally superior makes her immune to criticism. It means she never listens when she’s wrong, but she’s always the first person to start shouting when someone else is.
“You could’ve sent me a text.” Her voice is like crumpled felt. Soft, but distorted.
“This didn’t have anything to do with you. It was about me,” I say, wanting to be firm.
“Oh, believe me, I know that,” she says, but it comes out like a sigh. Maybe she’s going to let this one go. “So where are you?”
I twist my mouth and look around at the desert landscape. “Somewhere in Arizona?”
“Is that a question? How do you not know where you are?” She pauses. “Who are you with?”
“Look, if I tell you, you have to swear you won’t tell my parents. I’ll tell them when I’m ready, but I need time to figure some things out. So this has to be between just you and me. Promise?”
“Of course I do, Harley.”
I take a deep breath. “I joined Maison du Mystère as an apprentice trapeze artist. I’m going to train here, and gain some experience, and maybe even one day perform in the big top. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’ll never get a chance like this again, and I just had to take it. I had to, because my parents don’t support me and they don’t understand what this means to me and things are just so messy at home and I can’t go back there. I can’t give up the circus. I need this like I need oxygen to breathe.”
Another long pause.
“I’m happy for you. Honestly, I am. But, I don’t know…. I think you should call your mom. She’s really worried,” Chloe says. “So was I.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure about that?” Her voice pounds into the phone like a hammer. “Because your mom said the last time you got this obsessive about something was right before November.”
November. My heart rate picks up, and I feel my fingers dig around my side. I can’t believe she’s talking to my mom about November.
She’s supposed to be my friend, not Mom’s. Since when did she start caring whether my parents are worried or not? Since when did she become so… not on my side?
Besides, it was one bad month. One bad day, really. It’s ridiculous that everyone wants to hold it over my head for the rest of my life. Like I’m not allowed to have one bad day.
“I have to go,” I say thinly. “There’s a lot of stuff to get ready for.”
“Okay.” Her voice sounds sunken.
“Remember, you promised.”
“I know. I won’t say a word.”
“Okay. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I hang up, shove the phone back into my pocket, and try to push the bubbling feelings of dread from my stomach. Dread that Mom and Dad will never forgive me, that my best friend is turning on me, and that I have no idea what I’m doing but I feel like I’m on a moving train that I really don’t want to stop.
This is my journey. Maybe someday everyone else will understand, but for now, I really don’t care.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vivien says it normally takes about twelve hours for the Lucky Thirteen to finish load-in, but that’s only if everything goes smoothly. It could take up to twenty if there are any issues at all—including bad weather, which thankfully the Arizona skies don’t seem to have in the cards.
Though the ring crew is still setting up the big top, most of them visibly sweltering beneath the afternoon sun, the rehearsal tent has already been constructed. It sits a handful of yards away from the Lunch Box, the red fabric as bright and rich as a candy apple.
Vivien and Dexi lead me inside the tent for Monday’s roll call, and my stomach twists and turns like it’s the first day of school.
The floor is lined with foam padding, but the equipment is still mostly in pieces at the back of the room. I spot a net, silk ropes, a hoop, and a mess of wires in the corner that sets my heart on fire.
Simon Tarbottle stands in the middle of the room, and the rest of the troupe circles around him before settling onto the floor. The sound of electric drills and metal hammering onto metal is too loud to avoid, but Simon doesn’t seem fazed, his mismatched eyes darting around the room as he hands out this week’s schedules.
My eyes scan the list. Rehearsal times for every act, show times for Thursday through Sunday, group workout sessions on Mondays and Wednesdays… It’s everything. Everything I’m finally a part of.
I can’t stop grinning. My very first schedule.
I’m so happy, I could explode.
That is, until Maggie walks into the room, her face void of the excitement that is bursting through my body. Vas and Jin are right behind her, and it occurs to me that they might all be friends. My mind zooms into reverse, retracing words I said earlier, digging up every part of the conversation I had with Jin, and hoping desperately I didn’t say something that could make Maggie hate me even more than she already does.
Dexi called her a spoiled brat. Will I be guilty by association if Jin tattles?
I press my lips together, reminding myself I already have plenty to worry about without imagining fake scenarios in my head. I’m on edge. No, scratch that—I’m literally dangling over the edge.
She doesn’t look at me—not even when she walks right in front of me to find an open space in the crowd.
“Welcome to Arizona, everyone,” Simon says with a wide smile and his arms spread.
Everyone claps with mock enthusiasm, most of us still looking tired from the traveling.
“As you can see, the Lucky Thirteen were kind enough to get us some shade this morning. Now we just need the coffee machine up and running, and we’ll be ready to rock and roll.” A few people laugh, and Simon dives into a speech I get the feeling he says at every new venue
. He talks about rehearsal times and costume checks, and he even reminds everyone about proper protection from the Arizona sun.
I’m trying to soak in every bit of it. The way everyone looks at one another like they’re family—some brothers and sisters, others very distant cousins a few times removed, but family all the same.
I hope they’ll look at me like that one day too. Because this place—the circus—it’s home to people who’ve never quite fit in anywhere else. It’s home to people who feel different. It’s home to people who see that magic doesn’t strictly exist in fairy tales.
When I look around, I know the magic is dormant in the rehearsal tent, where everyone is wearing gym clothes with their noses buried in the paper schedules. Right now, it’s more classroom than circus.
But the heart of the circus remains. The work ethic and drive and knowledge that every single person is here to do a job. Every single one of them brings their own unique spin to a show that’s going to transform this barren bit of landscape into something wonderful. All of them deserving of a place here because they are some of the most talented performers in their field.
Everyone except me, who is here because of a horrible betrayal.
I bury those thoughts down, down, down into a pile of imaginary dirt, and wonder instead how long it will take before they accept me as one of them.
If they’ll ever accept me at all.
Simon’s eyes scan the crowd, the green mossier and the amber more golden, until landing on me. “And last but not least, I’m sure you’ve all noticed our troupe has grown by one. If you haven’t already, please say a warm and friendly hello to Harley. She’s going to be shadowing Maggie, learning all the tricks of the trade.”
Shadowing. That’s what he’s calling it now. Like I’m a ghost and not a mentee.
Not family.
I barely hear the rumble of greetings meant for me. I’m biting the inside of my cheek, hoping my face won’t give away the horrible disappointment swarming through me.
Immediately following the meeting, Sasha takes Simon’s place in the center of the room and instructs everyone into a group warm-up. I take a place near Vivien and Dexi and try to convince myself that people are definitely not looking at me and whispering about what I did to get here.
Even though deep down I know they are.
Dexi swings her shiny black braid over her shoulder and stretches her arms toward her toes, grabbing hold of her ankles like it’s nothing. Vivien does the same beside her. I always thought I was flexible, but in comparison to everyone else? I’m practically a giraffe, impossible to bend.
When Sasha switches positions, we all copy him, stretching left and then right, and combining yoga poses with push-ups and mountain climbers.
Maggie never once looks at me, and I hate the way it rattles me. Like I’m someone who should be rattled.
I need her to like me. I need them all to like me.
I want to belong here more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
A ridiculous burst of courage overrides the worry in my head, and I walk a few yards away to where Maggie is—her leg bent forward in a deep lunge—and stop beside her.
“Hey—” I start, hoping to forge some kind of connection. Something beyond irritation, at least. I want to assure her I won’t get in the way, that I just want to learn what she knows, and maybe one day have a chance at being truly great at the static trapeze.
But Maggie snatches her water bottle off the mat and moves back to the place I came from, between Vivien and Dexi, like she’s making a statement, avoiding me completely.
My face flushes with embarrassment, but at least the people around me have the decency to pretend they didn’t see anything.
I fall into a lunge, hoping I can magically blend in and no one will see how it’s taking literally everything inside me to fight the hot tears from pouring down my face.
Vas is beside me the entire time, and I know he must hear me sniffling, but he doesn’t say a word.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I spend most of the evening in the trailer, declining when Vivien and Dexi invite me to dinner. I’m too nauseous to eat—too angry at myself for being silly enough to think this would be easy, and at Maggie for not even giving me a chance, and at my parents for making it so this was my only option to begin with.
I’m mad at nobody and everybody all at once.
I force my eyes closed, hoping that sleep will help dull the horrible sensations rumbling around in the pit of my stomach. But after hours and hours of tossing and turning on the thin foam mattress, briefly falling asleep only to be woken up again because my body won’t settle, my brain is basically mush and lead.
Parting the window curtains beside me, I see desert mountains stretched across the horizon, and a dusky lavender sky that suggests it’s probably too early to be waking up.
Still, I haven’t eaten a real meal since yesterday’s lunch. And the hunger pangs in my stomach are definitely not helping to keep my mind at peace.
With my best attempt at being light-footed, I manage to get myself off the top bunk without waking Vivien, who sleeps wearing an eye mask decorated in a pair of sparkly cartoon eyes, which is honestly terrifying. Dexi doesn’t stir either, though being on the other side of the room probably helps.
Slipping on my shoes, I step outside and keep my hand firm on the screen door to keep it from rattling shut.
The air is dry, and I can smell charcoal and burnt wood nearby from an evening barbecue. It isn’t far to the Lunch Box, which has a scattering of tables and chairs in front of the awning. I spot a few of the Lucky Thirteen on the top deck, plus one of the clowns and a tiny girl with oversized clear glasses who I’m pretty sure is a performer’s daughter, though I’m not sure whose.
The night cook sets his beefy hands on the counter and leans his neck forward so he can see me through the wide-open window, reminding me of a cartoon vulture. “There’s no table service at night, so you have to order from the window,” he says, clearly recognizing that I’m new. “What can I get you?”
My eyes dart upward to the chalkboards hung above the window. The specials menu has already been wiped clean, which is a shame because Vivien told me the borscht was heavy, and I’m practically ready to gnaw off my own arm. But there are other chalkboards—the standard ones that never change—with plenty of options for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I ask for the maple-syrup-and-banana oatmeal because it sounds like it’ll be equal parts filling and fast.
The cook busies himself in the back, and a short while later he sets a generous bowl of oatmeal on the counter before pointing me in the direction of the silverware and napkins. I grab what I need and climb the narrow spiral staircase, packing myself away into the closest empty booth.
I eat in complete silence, the warmth filling my stomach but never quite reaching the outside of my body. My skin feels cold everywhere, the chills forever running up and down my limbs. And I shouldn’t be cold—it’s August in Arizona, for crying out loud—but my mind is so preoccupied with other things that maybe it’s stopped caring what it says on the calendar.
I catch the girl with glasses watching me, but when I look at her, she turns away. The clown and crew members ignore me completely.
And even though I’m prone to assuming people hate me for the million things I probably did wrong without realizing it, this time being ignored definitely feels intentional.
I dig my phone out of my pocket, thinking now would be a good time to distract myself by catching up on all the Instagram posts I’m sure I’ve missed lately, but the notification from Mom makes my chest go hollow.
It’s an email.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: The time I ruined your blanket
We had this beautiful blanket made for you with your name stitched in the corner right before you were born. I thought it would be the kind of thing you’d fall in love with as a new
born and fall in love with again when you were all grown up. Like a memory blanket.
Except those first days were such a blur, and I had baby brain pretty bad. I accidentally put your blanket in the dryer—it was wool, so when it came out, it was practically a burp cloth. I was so upset because I felt like I ruined something that was supposed to be special for you.
I know you think I do that often, and on purpose, but I don’t mean to.
I love you. I want the best for you. And I hope you’ll call me soon.
Love, Mom
I have to read the email three times because my eyes get too blurry by the halfway point.
It would be so easy to think this was the moment where we’d change—that we’d find a moment of clarity and finally and totally understand each other. But we’ve been here before, and it won’t happen. Not like this.
Because even in Mom’s nostalgia, she still thinks she’s right. She still thinks wanting the best for me means she knows what’s best for me.
And then there’s the whole stealing their set list, which she clearly doesn’t know about yet….
Whatever is happening between me and my parents right now is not going to be fixed with an email about a shrunken blanket. We need time. Specifically, time apart.
I did the right thing by leaving, and I’ll tell myself this for as long as it takes to start believing it. Because I need it to be true. I need being here to mean something.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and return to my oatmeal.
When I’m finished eating, I set my dish on the counter in front of a sign that reads: BE THE BUSBOY YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD.
Outside, I hesitate in front of the dining bus, not really knowing where to go or what to do or how to make myself feel better. And because the circus really is the only thing that makes me happy, my eyes drift across the yard toward the now fully constructed big top.
It’s patterned in chunky stripes, deep cranberry and velvety violet, with wires upon wires trailing along every seam and stretched out over the empty parking lot—lights that probably won’t turn on until the first show on Thursday night. And while Teatro della Notte’s big top has a vintage carnival feel about it, Maison du Mystère’s is more dark whimsy and twisted fairy tales.
Harley in the Sky Page 8
