Please call me.
Love, Mom
I’m happy right now, I want to write back.
But I don’t. Because I’m not sure I can handle any more lies.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next day and a half drag on and on and on. But when I step out of my trailer on Thursday evening, my heart pings up into the air like a balloon filled with helium. It’s a nice surprise—I’ve spent the last few days feeling so heavy and sluggish, I thought I was slowly sinking into the Upside Down.
But tonight, Maison du Mystère is alive.
Lights spiral up every tent, twinkling with energy. The smell of perfectly buttered popcorn weaves through the crowd. Music blares from the overhead speakers. It doesn’t sound haunted like Teatro della Notte’s infamous tune—it’s more like a whimsical puppet show, full of trills and lazy cascades and clever oboe riffs.
It’s still an hour before the curtains to the big top open, but the eager crowd is already beginning to grow, their faces beaming with euphoric joy. And how could anyone blame them? They drove through the Phoenix desert, stepped through an archway covered in lights, and crossed over into another world.
The outer ring is a city of smaller purple and red tents in varying shades, most of them big enough to fit ten people or so. Inside are magicians, illusionists, fortune-tellers, and even a ventriloquist. Guests disappear inside with mild curiosity, and when they emerge, they’re full of giddy excitement.
It’s an excitement I share with the rest of the spectators, because I’ve never experienced Maison du Mystère before; I don’t know the show intimately the way I know Teatro della Notte. I don’t know its secrets—the little enchantments that all combine to form the magic of the circus.
But knowing seems like a good first step to belonging.
A clown on a unicycle rolls past me, his brightly colored suit three sizes too big for him, and his makeup painted to make him look wildly happy. I see children giggling nearby, and a young couple twisting their fingers together and sharing a box of fresh popcorn.
I weave through the crowd like I’m invisible. Nobody suspects I live in a trailer a hundred yards away. I’m dressed in ripped black jeans and a baggy shirt that hangs off my right shoulder.
I look ordinary. And ordinary has no place in a circus.
A family emerges from one of the small tents, laughing together with wide eyes, like they’ve seen something they’ll never be able to comprehend.
I want to see it too.
As soon as my fingers graze the fabric opening, a hand clamps down on my shoulder.
Sasha’s brows are furrowed, and his white shirt is unbuttoned all the way down his chest. “What are you doing? Cast and crew are supposed to meet behind the big top,” he says.
“I—I didn’t know I was supposed to be anywhere,” I stammer, frowning. “I thought it would be good to get to know the circus.”
Sasha motions for me to follow him, seemingly concerned that someone might recognize him as a performer and ruin the illusion of the circus. Maybe that’s why he seems to be missing half his costume.
“Archie didn’t give you my message?” he asks again, trying to make sense of it. I don’t even know who he’s talking about, so I shake my head. He lets out a sigh. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. From now on, you meet with the rest of us half an hour before the gates open, got it?”
I try to hide my grin. Because if I’m meeting with everyone, it means they think I’m part of the troupe. It means they think I’m one of them—that I might even have a place here.
That I might have a place as a performer one day.
We step through the side entrance to the big top that leads into the covered foyer. The smell of corn dogs is overpowering, and I can practically feel the quake of the cotton candy machine against the dirt floor.
The last time I was in here, everything looked skeletal. Now every counter is stocked with pretzels, chips, and confectionary. The sound of the soda machine is constant. There’s even a glass case full of T-shirts, key chains, stuffed animals, and sparkly magic wands with stars on the ends that twinkle in neon colors.
“Here, put this on,” Sasha says, handing me a bright purple apron covered in yellow spots, and a jester hat complete with jingling gold bells. He nods to the oversized glass box next to me, perched on a red counter. “You’re on popcorn duty. Pia will show you how to put the new kernels in, but otherwise it’s pretty self-explanatory.”
Popcorn duty. Simon put me on popcorn duty.
Because the people here don’t look at me like someone worth taking seriously. They look at me like someone who needed an after-school job.
Do not cry, I order myself. Not now. Not when everyone is watching.
I know I wanted something to do—something that made me a part of the circus in some small way. But this? This doesn’t feel like inclusion. It feels like someone slamming a door in my face.
I slide the apron over my head and tie it quickly, facing away from Sasha so he can’t see that my heart has just splintered for the hundredth time and there are so many tiny cracks and splits that it’s only a matter of time before it explodes.
What am I going to do if my heart breaks during my first week?
I shut my eyes and wish with everything inside me that I can find a way to get through tonight without breaking down in tears.
* * *
It’s strange how one moment I’m in the middle of a traveling town of light and wonder, surrounded by strange faces and a never-ending chorus of laughter and applause, and the next moment I’m alone, the tents empty and the lights dimmed and the parking lot void of a single car.
My apron is folded in my lap, and I’m sitting on an empty bench behind the big top, the stars flickering above me and the night sky velvety black.
The crew has already been inside to sweep popcorn off the floor and collect empty bottles and candy wrappers from the stands. Now it’s just me and the echo of my empty chest.
I think about Maggie, dangling from the bar. I think of Dexi dancing across the high wire. I think of Vivien earning gasps and cheers from the entire room with each pop of a balloon. And I think of me, refilling cartons of popcorn and forcing smiles at strangers who feel more a part of the circus than I do.
I hate that I’m so bitter, but I don’t know how else to feel.
What else do I do?
I wipe my fingers across my cheeks, not even realizing the tears have started to fall. Something pings inside my chest. A fragment of stubbornness, maybe. And I decide right this very moment that I don’t want to waste any more time crying.
I came here to train, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Even if it can’t be on the static trapeze.
I slip into the big top from the hidden back entrance. It’s eerily quiet and a bit unnerving, with all the empty chairs, the dim lighting, and the flicker of metal from the equipment hidden at the height of the tent.
Nobody trains here but Maggie—Maggie, and now me. Because nobody will bother me here, and I won’t be taking up anybody’s time. I’ll come here every night if I have to, when everyone else is at the Lunch Box or in their rooms or out drinking in the local town.
I’ll be here, practicing handstands and leaps and splits and bends. I’ll make myself stronger, and more flexible, and more accurate. I’ll make sure I’m in the best shape I can be in, so that the next time I’m on that bar, it won’t feel like I’ve gone backward.
I step into the center of the ring, turning in slow circles as I imagine the crowd around me. I can almost picture them—smiling, pointing, waving like I’m a princess in some mystical city. I don’t love the circus because of the admiration, but the magic in their eyes? The glow that emits from their hearts when they watch a performance they’re utterly captivated by?
It’s like breathing clean air for the first time. I will always want it. I will always need it.
And I picture my parents, too, sitting in the stands, looking at me
like they’re finally proud of me. Mom’s bright smile. Dad’s stern brow softening.
At least it’s something I can daydream about. If I don’t think too hard, I can almost pretend it’s a real memory.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but are you going to be here long?”
His voice makes me leap out of my skin, and when I spin around, I clamp my mouth shut, very aware that Vas has seen me smiling at an imaginary crowd like a total dork.
He’s holding his violin in one hand, his bow in the other. “It’s just that I always come here after the show, to practice.” He looks up at the ceiling, his expression blank. “I like the acoustics.”
“I didn’t see you,” I mumble awkwardly. “I… thought I could practice in here so I wouldn’t be bothering anyone. But it’s fine—I’ll try the rehearsal tent.” I start to turn.
His voice comes out gruff. “You’ll be waiting a while to get a spot. Rehearsals go until eleven, even on show nights.”
I hesitate, not knowing what to say, and not wanting him to think I’m as weak as I feel.
He casts his eyes around the room, assessing. “Look, I don’t need the whole ring to rehearse. I can stay on one side, and you can practice on the other.”
Thump goes my heart. “You wouldn’t mind me being here?”
He shrugs, like it might only be a mild inconvenience, but one he can put up with. “I’m not generally good at small talk, so as long as that isn’t a problem…”
No interacting. Just practicing.
I’ll freaking take it.
“It won’t be a problem,” I blurt out quickly. I think it startles him, because his eyes widen. “From now on, I’m basically the flying carpet out of Aladdin. I won’t make a sound.”
His expression is still tense, like there’s something he’s trying to figure out. But whatever it is must not be very important, because he pulls his eyes away from me and presses his violin to his chin. A moment passes, and he’s sliding his bow along the strings, lost in his own world.
I stretch across the floor and disappear into my own world too.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Chloe texts me in the morning: I don’t want us to be fighting. Can we please not be fighting?
I stare at the screen for a beat too long because it takes me a while to realize why she thinks we’re not talking. And then I remember we haven’t spoken since Monday, and we hung up on less than happy terms.
Avoiding Chloe wasn’t intentional; I just forgot the conversation even happened.
Maybe Chloe doesn’t need to know that part.
I don’t want to fight either, I write back.
She starts typing right away. Oh thank God. I felt like we were going to break up or something. It was the literal worst. More typing. And I’m sorry if it seemed like I was yelling at you before. I was just surprised. I thought you’d tell me something as major as running away with a circus. You know, before your parents did.
I chew my lip. Okay, well I’m sorry too. But I swear it wasn’t on purpose. And we’re DEFINITELY not going to break up. I’m like the Hulk to your Bruce Banner. You’re stuck with me!
Chloe: Haha. Okay. So we’re good?
Me: Resuming Best Friend Mode in 3… 2… 1…
Chloe: You’re SUCH a nerd.
Me: We literally became friends over Pokémon cards. Nerd culture is our legacy.
Chloe: True. I miss you. It’s not the same here without you. But hey, maybe you’ll be back in Vegas at some point and I can watch you perform!
I decide not to tell her about the popcorn. That would be uh-mazing.
The three little dots appear, then vanish. It takes almost two minutes for her to start typing again. I’m happy you’re happy.
I don’t want to lie, so I send a thumbs-up emoji and hope it’s enough.
She doesn’t write back, so I guess it is.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Load-out begins as soon as Sunday’s matinee performance ends. The small tents come down first, and when the Lucky Thirteen begin dismantling the big top, the motor homes start to pull away, one at a time.
“They’re like a house of cards,” Dexi says from the driver’s seat. Our trailer is already hooked up to the back of the truck, and we’re waiting on our cue that it’s our turn to go. “There’s an order to how everything fits—if you start moving stuff around too early, the entire system collapses.”
Vivien yawns from the passenger seat, stretching her arms behind her head until I hear a crack in her shoulder. “Was that as loud to you as it was to me?”
Dexi snorts, and I try to feign laughter. My heart feels tired. I wish there were an easier way to explain that—an easier way to fix it. But I feel like I’m wading through peanut butter. Everything I do feels like a struggle.
I want to work hard. I want to do more. More than serving popcorn and lurking in the back of Maggie’s rehearsals and doing handstands in the big top late at night.
I need to massively readjust my expectations. I know that. But sometimes it’s difficult when my heart still feels so set on an idea. I guess it’s hard for me to wrap my head around a change of plans.
One of the crew members waves us forward, and then we’re on the road, headed to our next tour stop with our home trailing behind us.
It feels like it’s been months since I first got into the truck with Simon, but it’s only been six days.
Six days doesn’t seem like enough time to make such a big change. I once spent six days building the perfect house on The Sims, which seems excessive in hindsight, but at the time it only felt like a few hours.
Time is funny like that. When you’re content, it goes by in a blink. But when you’re unsettled? In those moments, time feels eternal.
I settle into the back seat, watching the scenery shift and wondering how many more car rides it will be before I can say I’ve been on a static trapeze again.
I know my need to feel joy doesn’t always make sense to other people. Happiness is common. It’s a feeling most people don’t think twice about, because they feel it so often, they take it for granted.
I’m different. Sometimes it feels like I’m forever chasing a high. It feels like I’m trying to replicate a feeling of bliss—a feeling that’s hard for me to hold on to.
I know I’m sad more often than not. I know maybe that’s part of who I am.
But the other part of me? The part that doesn’t accept that that’s all I am? It feels like I’m constantly running in the opposite direction. The opposite of sad. And all the while, sad is trying to pull me back down.
I feel the darkness creeping through me, so I quickly wave away the clouds in my head, making space for something else. Anything else.
And I guess it works, because my ears start to perk up every time a motorbike passes us on the freeway, my eyes peering through the window to see if it’s Vas. It’s a bit like when you’re waiting for a package, and every time a car drives by, you’re hoping it’s the delivery person.
Not that I’m hoping to see Vas, exactly. But he’s watched me train alone for the last few nights, and as far as I know, he hasn’t told anybody how sad and pathetic I am. In some obscure way, it’s almost like we’re sharing a secret.
I’m sure Vas doesn’t see it that way, but then again, who’s asking him? Definitely not me. I am as silent as a clam when we’re around each other, just like I promised.
We reach a new city around midnight, and even though I’m exhausted and ready to collapse into bed, I can’t help but picture the big top in my head. I think of all the hours I’ve missed out on, unable to train because the Lucky Thirteen won’t start putting the tent together until tomorrow morning.
I fall asleep dreaming of me in the big top, balancing on the static trapeze to the sound of Vas’s violin.
Albuquerque, New Mexico August—Week 2
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I’m alone in the trailer, doing planks and push-ups to pass the time until Vivien and Dexi come to get me for din
ner, when I notice all the photographs tucked beneath the top bunk where I sleep. They’re stuck between the metal bars, facing down toward Vivien’s mattress. Pictures of her family and her friends, and one of her with her parents.
Vivien’s mom looks almost identical to her—just a little older, and a little darker. But they have the same nose, a heart-shaped face, and eyebrows even a movie star would envy.
Her dad looks like Chris Hemsworth. Like, exactly. He’s basically Thor with short hair.
And when I look at their smiling faces, it makes me want to smile too. But the pang in my chest holds me back.
I wonder if my parents and I will ever smile like that again.
When my phone buzzes, I’m convinced some otherworldly force has sent me a message from Mom and it’s a sign everything is going to be okay between us.
But it’s a text from Chloe.
I have a best friend emergency and I need your help!
I text back: Please tell me you didn’t try to bleach your own hair again. I can still taste the fumes in the back of my mouth from last time.
Chloe: Haha, funny. NO. I met a boy!
Me: And the emergency is he has a girlfriend/he’s in prison but innocent/you met him on the internet and he says you’ve inherited a million dollars from a long-lost relative?
Chloe: STOP MAKING JOKES THIS IS SERIOUS.
Me: Okay, sorry, I’m listening.
Chloe: His name is Jack, and he goes to A-TECH. You know, the computer geek school? Anyway, we’ve hung out a few times with friends, and the other day he asked me to come to this play he’s in—he does theater too—but his entire family is going to be there, and it seems kind of soon to be meeting the whole family, and at first I thought that seemed weird, but then I wondered if maybe he…
Her texts come in fragments, parts of the story at a time, like she’s giving me a chance to soak in the information, but I’m distracted by the voices outside my window.
I push myself off the floor, leaving my phone behind, and I do my best to be inconspicuous when I peer through the glass.
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