My hurt doesn’t cancel out what I did. It can’t.
Because what I did feels unforgivable.
“I don’t want to fight,” I blurt out, like I’m in such a hurry to erase the darkness coiling around my thoughts. I also don’t want Dad to hate me, even though he probably does.
“I don’t want to fight either,” Mom says with a sigh. “I miss you, Harley. And I wish you’d call me once in a while, or send me an email. I feel like we’re becoming strangers, and I hate it.”
I think about what Chloe said—about ignoring my friends when I get busy. Is that what I’ve been doing to Mom, too?
She doesn’t wait for a reply. “I’m worried about you. I’m worried this is going to be like what happened last year.”
My defenses go up like hackles on a werewolf because talking about November is too personal. And when people use it like a weapon against me? It will always feel too personal. “Why? Because I’m happy? Because I’m not calling you a million times a day, or asking for help, or complaining that things are going wrong and you were right all along?”
“It’s just—with you—these things can be a warning sign. And I missed them last time. I didn’t know what was coming.” Mom clears her throat, and I think she’s trying not to cry. “I don’t want to miss anything this time.”
I fight the burn in my face. “Happiness is not a warning sign. It doesn’t have to be. It doesn’t get to be something only other people have.”
“Of course not,” Mom says. “But sometimes you spend so much time chasing this idea of happy that you crash at the first sign of disappointment. It’s like your expectations are never realistic. You want everything to go exactly the way you’ve mapped out in your head, and when they don’t, you spiral.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I argue. “You haven’t been here. You haven’t seen how hard I’ve worked. Because things haven’t been going the way I planned—not at first. I spent weeks making popcorn, for crying out loud. The lead trapeze artist refused to train me. I stayed up until midnight almost every single night just to practice on my own where I wouldn’t get yelled at. And I didn’t give up like you and Dad said I would. I kept working, and trying, and sticking with it. And now I’ve got an audition for a chance to be in the show and—” I stop myself. I didn’t mean to tell Mom so much. I didn’t want her to know there was still a chance everything could go wrong.
I bite my lip, salt stinging my eyes.
“Just because I have mood swings doesn’t mean I can’t still live a fulfilling life,” I say.
Mom’s voice cracks. “A year ago, you told me you wanted to die. So forgive me if I’m less worried about you feeling fulfilled than you being around to live a life at all.”
Everything inside me constricts, and the pieces of my heart I thought had healed a long time ago begin to tremble.
I remember that day. It felt like I was living outside my own body, watching everything go on below me and being unable to stop it.
I don’t think I meant it. I thought I did at the time. But I think what I really wanted was to stop feeling so trapped.
Because sometimes darkness is crushing. Sometimes it’s hard to breathe, or think, or live.
I wanted the darkness to stop more than I wanted to die.
But I guess those are the only words I knew how to use. And now they’re haunting me because they’re the only words Mom remembers.
“That’s not something you need to worry about,” I say quietly. “Feeling like you want to die isn’t the same thing as planning to die. I was depressed—and I’m not anymore.”
“But I do worry. And I don’t think it’s that simple. Right before November, you were all over the place. You were barely sleeping. You were making all these big plans—plans to travel, and start a blog, and learn how to cook—it was like you were living in this bubble of chaos that only you could understand. And then it felt like the next day you were barely eating. You lived in your bed. You wouldn’t hang out with Chloe. Your room was a mess. You were angry all the time.” I can practically feel Mom shaking her head through the phone. “It’s like you were just giving up. It was like one day you had a million reasons to live, and the next day you couldn’t even think of one. So yes, I’m worried. I’m worried you’re going to crash again and I won’t be there to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am okay,” I say. “You’re not listening to me. Being depressed is just something I deal with from time to time. And okay, maybe it’s not normal for some people, but it’s normal for me. And I have it under control. I’m coping.”
“But it shouldn’t be normal—” Mom starts to say.
“It’s normal for you,” I bite back too quickly.
“What are you talking about?” Mom’s voice recoils.
“You’re just like me. You have highs and lows and nothing in between. I mean, how many times have Dad and I found you obsessively cleaning the house, or redecorating on a whim? I remember when I was little, you’d have these phases where you’d get into baking. And you wouldn’t just bake a cake, or a tray of cookies—you’d bake everything, all at once. You’d use up every single dish in the house, and Dad would come home, and you’d just laugh like you got carried away. And you’d have sad days, too. Days where you wouldn’t come out of your room. Days where you were too tired to hold a conversation. Even days when you told Dad you wanted to die.” I wait, because I know I’ve brought up something Mom doesn’t think I even remember.
Everything goes hollow between us. Sometimes silence really is louder than words.
“I never said that.” She sounds uncertain, either because she doesn’t trust my memory or she’s not sure if she can trust her own.
“You did,” I say. “You told Dad you wanted to die. You were in your room, crying, and you thought I was in the living room watching a movie. You didn’t think I heard you, but I did. And I worried about you too—worried that my mom was too sad, and that you would never stop being sad. But you did, eventually. And then you’d bake cakes and laugh and make big plans just the same way I do. And I realized that was just your normal, the way it’s mine.”
Even though Mom and I have a million differences, some parts of us are the same. I wish she could see that.
If she could relate to me, she might actually understand me.
“I—I don’t even remember saying that. I really don’t.” I hear Mom shuffle, and a long pause follows. “I’m sorry if I scared you when you were little. I didn’t mean to. I guess sometimes I get so caught up in what I’m feeling that I forget who else is watching. Who else might be affected.”
I grimace. I know the feeling. “It’s okay, Mom. I just want you to see that we’re not so different. And you wouldn’t want Popo controlling your life or acting like you couldn’t function normally on your own—or like your normal isn’t good enough. Because I don’t want to have the same relationship with you that you have with Popo. I don’t want things to be awkward between us just because we don’t agree. And I have to be able to sort through what I’m feeling without you judging me. So maybe stop being so stuck on this November thing, okay? Let me move on from it.”
“Is it my fault? Did you learn this from me?” Mom asks quietly.
“I don’t know,” I admit, because it’s the truth. “Maybe. Or maybe we’re just wired the same.” I gnaw at my words like they’re toffee—hard to get through. “You and Dad never believed in talking to anyone. You know, like a therapist or whatever. You always acted like my being depressed was something I could fix with sunshine and water and exercise. And I think maybe November got so bad because I didn’t feel like anybody believed me. I didn’t feel supported. I’m not blaming you or Dad, but I’m saying it’s sometimes easier to get through the dark moments when someone is there to tell you it’s okay, and that there are options, and that everything is going to get better.”
“Is that what you want? To talk to a therapist?” Mom asks.
“No,” I say.
“Because I don’t feel like that’s what would help me right now. I know it doesn’t always look like it to you, but I’m more in control than you think I am. Maybe not of the feelings, but of how to deal with them.”
“So when you hurt people, that’s you in control? That’s you making decisions on purpose?” Mom’s words twist like a blade in my chest.
My heart starts to pound. “No,” I snap, “it’s not on purpose. And I’m not the only one who hurts people.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snaps back, because we’re too alike.
“You don’t think Dad was hurt by the things you said? All those days he spent trying to cheer you up, and talk you into coming out of your room? I’m sure that hurt him, too.” I can feel the fight building up in my chest, and I can’t stop it. I feel cornered, and when I’m cornered, I… react. “Maybe that’s why he’s a ghost—because he couldn’t deal with someone who didn’t want to get help.”
Silence.
I swallow the hard lump in my throat, regretting my words immediately.
Hurt people hurt people, right?
But maybe being hurt doesn’t make hurting okay. Maybe it’s a reason, but it’s not an excuse.
“That was mean, Harley.” Mom’s trying her best to keep her voice even. “I didn’t deserve that.”
“I’m sorry,” I say thinly, trying hard not to let her hear how sorry I really am. Maybe it’s stubbornness, or maybe I’ve been trying so hard to convince her she’s mostly wrong that I don’t know how to let her be even a little bit right. “Look, tomorrow is a really big day for me. Talking about all of this is just going to throw me off. So… can we put this on hold?”
“Fine,” Mom says.
“Okay,” I say.
I know I should tell her I’m being too hard on her, and that I didn’t mean to be cruel. I should tell her that hurting someone else is never okay, no matter what we’re feeling. I should tell her she’s not someone anyone should have to “deal with,” just like I’m not either. Because we’re both people, and people can be messy, but the most important thing is that we’re trying our best to be better than our last mistakes.
But I don’t know how to say the words. I don’t know how to give her a little bit without feeling like I’m giving her everything.
Having big discussions with Mom is a balancing act I still don’t understand.
After we hang up, I stand outside for a while with my arms wrapped around myself. The happiness I’ve felt recently is splintering. My hands feel clammy, and I squeeze them against my rib cage just to feel like I’m stable. Like I’m not going to break apart.
And then I take a deep breath, remember how important tomorrow is, and leave my worries in the bushes with the dying katydids.
I have too much work to do.
The dark clouds will have to wait.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Please stop pacing. You’re making me nervous,” Vas says, drumming his fingers along the center ring wall.
“I can’t help it.” I hold up my hands. “Look, I don’t even have any fingernails left.”
My eyes dart back to the main curtain, knowing any second Simon is going to walk through it and I’ll have to perform the best I’ve ever performed.
This is my chance.
Maybe my only chance, if everyone is right about Simon.
Vas walks toward me and places his hands on my shoulders to slow me down. It works a little too well, and I collapse into his chest.
“Hold me,” I say, imitating Princess Leia.
I can feel Vas’s silent laughter against my head. He squeezes me tight. “It’s going to be okay. You have nothing to worry about. Plus,” he adds, “I’ll be with you the entire time.”
The stairs creak, and I look up from Vas’s chest to see Simon making his way toward us. I push off of Vas like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be doing, even though there are no rules about dating in the circus.
Simon must have seen us, but he doesn’t say a word.
Either he really doesn’t care, or gossip is not something he involves himself with.
“All right, you two.” He sits in the front row, arms draped casually over the seats next to him. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Vas looks at one of the technicians at the back, who nods beside a wall of controls.
When it was just the two of us training, Vas would lift me onto the trapeze. But we need to show Simon how it would look to the audience, with all the lighting and mechanics.
We need to show him every drop of magic we have to make this work.
I close my eyes and breathe.
The music starts, and Vas and I stand at opposite ends of the room. We walk backward toward the lowered trapeze, like mirror images of each other, stopping before our bodies touch. We reach up, our grips tight on the bar, and it lifts us into the air.
I can feel Vas behind me, moving when I move in the opposite direction. I pull myself up slowly, legs pointed out to the side, holding the pose while the music builds. I take a seat on the bar, grabbing the ropes and rotating like a dancer in a music box, frozen and strong, and then my feet are on top of Vas’s, his body hanging below mine like a reflection in the water.
We are opposites, performing bird’s nests and meat hooks and splits on the ropes. And then our bodies become tangled, our faces straining to move away from each other. We hold each other’s weight, balance on each other’s limbs, swing each other from one move to the next, all the while feeling the fight of not belonging screaming through our movements.
Vas’s music fills the room, and I become so lost in the beautiful danger that is our act that I hardly feel like I’m in my body at all.
But I move when I’m supposed to. Feel Vas’s skin when I’m supposed to.
I do everything right.
We hold our last pose as the music finishes.
There’s a whisper of silence, and then Simon is on his feet, clapping with enthusiasm.
I’m sure I must be dreaming.
“I was not expecting that,” Simon says with a hearty laugh. “When you said she was good, I thought you were being polite.” He hops over the short wall and reaches us just as we push ourselves off the lowered trapeze. “It was magnificent.”
I’m too afraid to smile.
Vas is breathing heavily beside me, his hands on his hips and his neck glistening with sweat. I’m not the only one with their dreams riding on Simon’s decision.
Simon nods toward Vas. “And the music was excellent. Beautifully done, my friend.” He looks hungry-eyed at the trapeze, his gaze following the lights like he’s imagining a bigger picture. “Yes. Yes, I think this will do nicely.”
“You mean we get to perform?” I blurt out.
Vas looks almost confused, like this is all too easy. I am too afraid to hope, but too hopeful to doubt.
I squeeze my hands together, desperately waiting for his answer.
Simon smiles and throws his hands up. “I love it. It’s perfect. I want you two ready to close the show starting next Thursday.”
“What?” Vas asks with a gaping mouth.
“Oh my God,” I say at the same time.
“No point waiting for January when you both clearly have an act that’s ready to go.” Simon claps us both on the shoulders and winks. “Well done, you two.” And then he’s turning for the door and calling over his shoulder, “I’ll ask Betty about getting you both costumes made. Make sure you stop by there before lunch to get your measurements taken.”
And then he’s gone, and even though I know there are techies in the back who helped with the trapeze controls and the safety net, I only see Vas.
“Oh my God,” I repeat. “Did… Did that really happen?”
Vas’s laugh starts off nervous and restrained, but when he runs his hand through his hair, it turns euphoric. “We’re closing the show. Simon is letting us close the show.”
“Why do you look so surprised? I thought you said we ha
d nothing to worry about?” I raise a brow, my face wild with joy.
“I only said that to make you feel better,” he says. “I never in a million years thought it would go that smoothly. I thought he’d demand changes, or tell me the music wasn’t good enough, or… I don’t know. Something.” And then he turns to me with starry eyes. “It’s because you’re magic when you’re up there. That’s why he said yes. I bet he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes.
“It’s true,” he insists. “And the audience won’t be able to take their eyes off you either.”
My heart flutters, he smiles, and then I’m in his arms again and we’re giggling with our noses pushed together, stealing kisses beneath the spotlights.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The rest of the cast insists on taking us out to dinner. The Terzi Brothers seem almost relieved to have their old slot back. Vivien just seems excited I’m officially part of the show. And Dexi keeps mentioning what a huge deal it is that Simon is going with a plan he didn’t come up with himself.
She tells me it means I’m the real deal.
I don’t know about that, because I don’t feel real.
I feel like a girl with an Infinity Stone for a heart, and any moment I’m going to split in two, again and again, until there’s a billion of me, because this is too much happiness for just one person.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Vas drives the two of us back to camp on his bike. When I slide off the seat and pull the helmet over my head, I realize I haven’t stopped smiling since this morning.
When Vas pulls his own helmet off, it looks like he might be thinking the same.
“I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight,” I say with a laugh. “I’m way too excited about Thursday.”
Vas pulls off his gloves, his eyes going serious.
“What?” I frown.
When he looks up, his cheeks are pink with awkward embarrassment. “I was going to offer to make you a hot drink, to help you sleep, but I realized it might seem like I’m just trying to get you alone in my trailer.”
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