“Both my parents are biracial. I’m a product of two people who probably felt split between cultures themselves. But I feel like my heritage is even less mine because I’m only a quarter of everything. A quarter doesn’t feel like enough to belong to something. But then that just means I don’t belong to anything. Does that make sense?” I shake my head like my thoughts are too heavy.
Vas sets his pen down. “I’m sorry you feel like that. It must be difficult to feel like so many pieces that don’t fit together.”
“Yes!” I explode. “I just want to feel like a whole person, and not someone who is broken into fragments. And maybe that’s why I love the idea of the circus. Because I could see that—all these different people from different cultures with different skills coming together to be a family and perform. I know it isn’t real life, but it’s still a family. A family I’ve always wanted to be a part of.”
Vas lifts his shoulders. “Longing. Separation. Family. I think we could find something there to work with.”
I raise my eyebrows, worried I’m being too intense or honest or me. “It isn’t too much? I’m not too much?”
Vas looks at me like the thought had never even occurred to him. “I think it’s perfect.”
I bite the smile forming in the corner of my mouth.
We pass ideas back and forth like we’re on a tennis court, but nothing sticks. Eventually my eyelids get heavy, and I’m struggling to concentrate on what we’ve said and haven’t said, and I must be tired because I’m sure Vas has smiled at least five times in the past thirty minutes.
I ask him if we can talk more about it tomorrow, and when he says yes, it takes us both a long time to actually stand up.
Maybe I’m dreaming, but I feel like Vas doesn’t want me to leave.
Maybe I don’t want to leave either.
I float all the way to my trailer, and when my head hits the pillow, I let the dream consume me.
CHAPTER FORTY
In my sleep, I am surrounded by smoke and mirrors.
I look from side to side, seeing my face over and over again, stretching into infinity. The clouds beneath my feet expand across the floor, consuming it. The smoke licks at the air like a flame, and I hear Popo’s voice telling me a story from my childhood. A story about two stars who couldn’t bear the sight of each other.
The same, but different.
A conflict between family.
Two parts existing at once, but never together.
Smoke fills the room, and the mirrors shatter.
And then I am floating through the sky, reaching for Mom, Dad, Popo, Grandpa Cillian, even the ghost of the grandmother I never met—each family member appearing one after another. But my fingers slip through them, like they are no more physical than a reflection. I can’t hold on to them. I can’t feel them.
I am not a part of them.
And then I see a version of myself, sleeping in the starlight, holding firmly to the ropes on a static trapeze.
A girl living among the planets.
I try to pull my reflection toward me, to make us the same, to make her dreams mine. But every time I move, she moves too. We are trapped in a dance, like magnets forcing each other away.
Because we exist in two different worlds.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Vas is in the Lunch Box eating breakfast when I collapse into the seat across from him, my breath ragged because I’ve been in a hurry to find him since the minute I woke up.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice layered with concern.
“I have an idea for our act,” I say impatiently. He sets his fork down to signal that I have his full attention. “Have you ever heard of the Chinese folktale about the morning star and the evening star?”
He shakes his head.
“My popo used to tell it to me when I was a kid. It’s about two stars who were brothers—sons of the Golden King of the Heavens. One day they got in such a huge fight that they could no longer stand the sight of each other. So they take turns being in the sky, one appearing in the evening and the other in the morning.” I raise my shoulders. “It’s kind of like how I’ve always felt about my heritage. Like I can only be one thing at a time, and never all at once.”
Vas nods slowly. “Okay. So an act that represents two people wanting to be together again?”
“Maybe not wanting to be together, because that makes it sound like it’s romantic.” As soon as I say the word, my cheeks go pink because my blood is a total traitor. “It’s more about the push and pull of being unable to belong, even when you should. Like two people who should fit together, but don’t.”
“Conflict,” he says.
“Exactly,” I say.
A genuine smile spreads across his face, and I feel my heart lift. “I like it,” he says.
I smile back. “I take it we’re still on for rehearsal tonight?”
“Tonight? Try this morning.” He picks up his fork and motions to me. “You should probably eat something. You’re going to need the energy.”
I’m so excited about our new act that I hardly notice all the eyes staring at us, and how strange it must look to see me and Vas eating breakfast together and grinning like kids with a secret.
I can’t help but feel like this is the start of something wonderful.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Vas says to imagine we’re magnets. When our bodies are too far away, they’re pulled back together. But when we get too close, the feeling reverses, and we push away again.
We practice on the floor at first, holding our hands inches apart, mirroring each other’s movements.
I can’t help that my heart refuses to stay still.
Or that Vas’s woodsy scent is intoxicating.
Or that when we move the wrong way and our skin brushes against each other, I feel like I’m Tinker Bell exploding with pixie dust all over the room.
When we move to the bar, our hands grabbing arms and legs and bodies, we make sure our faces are always turned away.
When we practice, we are the evening and morning stars, refusing to look at each other for even a second.
But the rest of the time I can’t take my eyes off him.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: The time you brought me flowers
It wasn’t just one time. It was so many times. Every time you went outside, you’d come back with daisies and dandelions and sweet peas and anything else you could find. Because you always wanted me to know you were thinking about me, even when you were out playing with your friends.
I wish I’d made a bigger deal out of those flowers. I wish I hadn’t taken them for granted. I should’ve savored the moment—those moments when you were my little girl—because I don’t get that time back anymore. You’re grown up. You don’t bring me flowers anymore.
And that’s okay. I knew it wasn’t going to last forever. But maybe it could’ve lasted a little longer, if I’d told you how much it meant to me.
I miss you. It’s not fair that you won’t talk to me. Just like it’s not fair that time goes too quickly, and I can’t go back to those days and scoop you up in my arms and tell you how much I love you. Back then, you’d have listened to me.
Please talk to me. You don’t have to listen. But please talk to me.
Love, Mom
I feel brittle. Cold. Guilty.
I did a horrible thing to my parents, yet Mom is still here, trying to get me to talk to her. Trying to keep me in her life, in whatever small way she can.
She’s making an effort.
And I know it doesn’t mean she’s changed her mind about everything. It’s not like she sent an email telling me she doesn’t care about school anymore, and that it’s okay if I want to pursue a life in the circus. But she sends emails like she’s trying to remind me she loves me, even when I’ve cut her so deeply out of my life.
It wasn’t fa
ir what I did.
It’s not fair what I’m doing.
Mom is right, and I don’t know what I could possibly say to make any of this better.
Because I’ve been ignoring the people in my life I love the most. I let busy take over everything. Maybe I wanted it to take over everything. Because when I was busy, I had an excuse not to think about what I did to my parents.
How my leaving so suddenly hurt the people I care about.
Is this what Chloe meant? That I don’t think about who I’m affecting?
And Mom is still here, despite all of it, because I know she loves me as much as any mother in the world could love their child.
The tears well up quickly, pooling in the corners of my eyes until my cheeks are damp and my vision goes blurry.
And all I can think about is how I should’ve brought my mother more flowers.
I want to call her, but I don’t know how.
Savannah, Georgia October—Week 11
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I have bruises in places I never realized could bruise. My body feels stronger. Rehearsals are getting easier.
I collapse into bed every night and don’t stir until morning.
Vas is composing whenever he isn’t with me. Sometimes he composes when he is with me. And I like those moments in his trailer almost as much as I like our time in the big top. I like watching the way he taps his pen to his lips when he’s concentrating, and the way he writes in delicate, swooping cursive, like every single letter needs to be exactly right.
Sometimes he’ll be so lost in his music that his voice disappears for long stretches of time. But when he realizes how long it’s been—and he always does—he’ll look up from what he’s doing and ask me if I’m okay.
I like that part too.
We train every spare minute we can. Sometimes other people come to watch us, like Vivien, Dexi, and Jin. They seem impressed, which feels like high praise.
I have never been more exhausted in my life.
But I’ve never been happier, either.
Charleston, South Carolina November—Week 12
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I’m not late, am I?” I look past Vas at the yard, which is empty because everyone is getting ready for tonight’s performance in the big top. “I swear I just checked my phone—I thought I had another ten minutes.” Maybe exhaustion is finally catching up to me.
Vas has a strange smile on his face. Or maybe it’s just strange to me because he rarely uses it. “Congratulations—as of this moment, you’re on an extended hiatus from selling popcorn.”
I lean into the doorframe, considering his words. “Did you clear this with Simon?”
He nods. “I pointed out that you rehearse longer hours than all the other performers and still work in the concession stands four days a week. He didn’t seem bothered until I mentioned there might be labor laws involved, considering you don’t actually get paid.”
I raise a brow. “What did he say?”
“He called me a few less-than-affectionate terms and told me he’s getting sick of my demands. But you’re also off popcorn duty,” he says.
I laugh. “Well, thank you. You’re a real knight in shining armor.” My eyes narrow, recalling his choice of words. “Wait. Does this mean I’m considered a performer?” I’m buzzing at the thought.
He grins widely. “I think so. But not today—today, we’re guests.” When I frown, he takes two steps away from the door like he wants me to follow him.
We walk side by side toward the music and lights, finding ourselves in the midst of an excitable crowd flowing through the outer ring.
Vas leads me into one of the smaller purple tents, and I see an illusionist in the center of a small, round stage. She’s dressed in a black gown, with items strewn all over the set—everything black, gray, and white, like all the color has been drained from the room. One by one she transforms the objects around her—a black rose into a red one, the gray velvet of a chaise longue into an elegant pink. All around the room she brings color to her little world, the audience soaking in every bit of it with wonder. And then she twirls, and her black dress is replaced with the most incredible gown I have ever seen. It’s pink turning to blue turning to purple, with most of the fabric covered in glittery starbursts.
The audience is bewildered, cheering because they think this is the finale.
But the illusionist isn’t finished yet.
She spreads her arms and starts spinning again, and when all the layers of her dress pick up speed, she tugs at her hem until she’s hidden beneath the material and then—vanishes.
All that’s left is her dress on the floor.
I realize my mouth is hanging open when I catch Vas grinning at me.
The crowd is still looking at one another like they can’t figure out how she did it, when we slip back outside.
We wander into a tent with Archie and his ventriloquist dummy, who seems more human than he does, and another with a magician who spends half his act pretending he has no idea what he’s doing, only to pull off the most incredible tricks, like cutting an entire orange in half to reveal a person’s card.
And then we pay a visit to Gwen, the fortune-teller, and it’s just the three of us in the room. She asks us a few questions, staying in character even though we all clearly know one another, and then she snaps her cards against her velvet-covered table.
She gets as far as “the musician” and “the lover” and suddenly Vas is pulling me by the arm to get us out of the room as quickly as possible, with Gwen’s voice singing after us, “The cards never lie!”
And because I don’t think either of us can recover from so much embarrassment, we decide to head straight into the big top.
It’s strange seeing Pia at the popcorn machine after all the nights I spent doing the same job.
I wonder if that’s what life feels like when you make a change—like you’ve jumped ahead in time. Like your entire life just feels different.
Vas and I sit in one of the back rows. I feel giddy watching all the people pour in, their faces twinkling with a nervous, excited energy. Kids are bright-eyed and curious, stuffing cotton candy and popcorn into their mouths, their parents struggling to hold on to all the balloons and flashing toys from the souvenir stand outside, all of them waiting in delight for the show that’s about to start.
They don’t know what to expect, and sometimes I think that’s half the magic.
When the lights dim and the music begins, Simon’s voice bellows over the loudspeaker.
“Welcome, welcome, one and all, to the most wondrous circus in the world… Maison du Mystère!”
When the crowd cheers, my skin sets on fire.
The lights flash every color of the rainbow, and the clowns bound in as the opening music plays. Some of them show off their acrobatics, others their comedic timing. One is on a unicycle throwing confetti into the crowd.
Simon enters next, his top hat and suit partially decorated in black and red crystals that command the attention of the room. His arms are spread wide, and the ends of his mustache are curled up like he’s an unforgettable character from a cartoon.
Except I can’t tell if he’s a villain or a hero, and I wonder if maybe that’s the point.
But I can’t deny that he’s captivating. He has the entire audience laughing until their sides are aching, and his stage presence, the way he moves around the room like he’s half cat and half man, is truly impressive.
When he asks the audience if they’re ready for a show, every person in the room goes wild. Even me, because I feel like I’m five years old again and the circus is full of magic.
I catch Vas smiling next to me.
“What?” I mouth.
He shakes his head, still smiling.
It only makes my stomach flutter more.
We watch the contortionists, the magician, and the high-wire act. Then the clowns come back in, and Simon infuses the show with sharp humor—some of it deceptively me
ant for the adults.
And then more acrobats come in, performing difficult routines and balancing on pieces of the set that make the audience wide-eyed with nerves. Vivien comes out next and performs her knife-throwing, arrow-shooting balloon act, which has the audience on their feet by the end.
There are more clowns, more magic, more jugglers. There’s Dexi on the tightrope, with Zhìháo and Guānyǔ.
And then the Terzi Brothers perform, and there isn’t a single person in the audience who isn’t beaming from ear to ear.
Everyone takes a turn around the ring in the closing performance, to take a bow and blow kisses of gratitude toward the crowd. When the music finally ends and the ring is empty, my face muscles hurt from smiling so much.
We’re the last ones in the stands, listening in silence as all the guests make their way back to their real lives.
Back home.
And I’m lucky enough that I get to stay.
“What is it?” Vas asks in the dimly lit room, the big top still filled with a slight haze from the smoke machines and littered with popcorn and confetti.
I turn to him and try to smile. Even though I miss my parents terribly, and I feel bad about what I did to get here, I love where I am. I love this place, and these people.
I love feeling like I’m a part of something that accepts me.
Somewhere I just fit.
“I feel like I’m home,” I say.
We sit quietly, listening to the cars emptying out of the parking lot, and I know when his fingers brush against mine that it isn’t an accident.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
I scroll through all of Mom’s emails. The ones I never answered. The ones I’ve been too ashamed to answer.
I’ve been so desperate to feel like a part of the circus—a part of this new family—that it distracted me from my own.
But things are different now. I’m accepted here.
Harley in the Sky Page 18
