Popo makes teriyaki salmon for dinner, and afterward when Mom and Dad are busy in the office, she asks me to sit with her on the couch.
“You look tired, Harley Yoshi,” she says.
“I feel tired,” I admit. “But not the kind of tired where you just need to sleep it off. I’m the kind of tired that makes your face hurt and your chest tighten and you want to cry at everything and nothing because your feelings are numb and in overdrive, all at once. I feel like I could sleep for a lifetime and I wouldn’t actually feel more awake.” I pause. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t want to be awake.”
“Have you talked to your mother about this?” she asks seriously.
“Mom doesn’t understand. Not really,” I say. “I’d rather keep this to myself.”
“But if it gets worse…,” Popo starts, and I know what she means.
If it gets worse, she wants me to tell her. She wants me to ask for help, if there ever comes a time when I need it.
“I’m okay,” I insist, which is both true and not true. I’m not okay, but not the kind that Popo or anybody else needs to worry about. “But I’ll let you know if I’m not.”
She nods. “Your mom can be stubborn sometimes. Just like you.” She laughs gently. “And maybe that’s my fault, for always pushing her to do things she didn’t want to do. Maybe she feels like she has to be stubborn, just to have control.”
I frown. “Push her to do what?”
Popo’s eyes are lost in a memory. “I never wanted your mother to join the circus. I wanted her to be a doctor. She was so good at her academics—I thought she deserved the best job she could get. We fought about it a lot, and after high school she took a job as a trapeze artist for a local circus.
“I gave her such a hard time about it. I never let up, even when I could see that she was so happy. She had just married your father then too. They had plans to join a traveling company, and maybe eventually move overseas. But then one day your mom had a bad fall. She was in the hospital when they told her that her leg was so badly broken, they weren’t sure how soon she’d be able to perform again. They also told her she was pregnant.”
“What?” My eyes are wide.
Popo’s are sunken. Tired. Apologetic. “You were okay, but I made your mom feel so guilty. I told her she was irresponsible, that she could’ve killed you. I… said a lot of things I shouldn’t have said back in those days. Things I wish so much I could take back. After that, your mom quit the circus and never performed again.”
“I didn’t know that. I didn’t know any of that,” I say.
Popo nods. “I’ve always felt like it was my fault she gave up on her dreams. And all these years later, I sometimes look at her and wonder if I kept her from being truly happy. I regret the things I said, and the way I behaved. But it’s been so many years now—years I can’t get back.” She closes her hand over mine. “I don’t want you to give up on your dreams, especially if you think they’re worth holding on to.”
“I don’t think the circus is for me,” I say quietly.
“You’re wrong,” Popo says with a smile. “From one stubborn person to another, you’re very, very wrong.” She pats my hand before leaning back in her chair. “Try talking to your parents one more time. I think this time they’ll listen.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
When I dream, I see the circus. I see rings of fire, and distorted mirrors, and extravagant costumes. I see spinning plates, and confetti, and juggling pins in every color of the rainbow. And I see the performers—the acrobats, and aerialists, and contortionists, and clowns. I see the families. I see the children. I see the sparkle in their eyes when they step out of their cars and notice the big top across the grassy field.
And I see me, in the heart of it. Always in the heart of it. Because the circus hasn’t left me.
I’m not sure it ever will.
* * *
When I wake up in the middle of the night, my memories still blurred with velvet curtains and dancing stars, I know I can’t give up on my dreams.
Simon Tarbottle hacked away at them—cut them down so there was nothing to see.
But he didn’t kill them. Because my dreams are like roots. They’re my foundation.
They give me life.
And nobody has the power to ever take that away from me.
Nobody but me.
I won’t give up on the circus.
Just like I know the circus will never give up on me.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Mom and Dad are both in the kitchen, chopping vegetables together like they’re part of some kind of couples’ cooking show. They haven’t noticed me standing in the doorway yet, so their guard is down. They don’t have to worry about tiptoeing on eggshells when their daughter with the sad, heavy heart isn’t in the room.
I don’t blame them for that part, though. I’d be relieved to get a break from me too.
Dad slices off a piece of cheese and holds it up for Mom, whose hands are busy peeling potatoes, so she eats it out of his hand and winks at him.
They’re so annoyingly cute. Like when people do photo shoots of baby animals with stuffed animals next to them. You want to roll your eyes, but you can’t because it’s just too adorable.
Popo looks up from the dining table, her glasses perched on the edge of her nose. She’s reading a new book—some crime thriller or another, which she can never seem to get enough of.
“Good morning!” Popo says with delight, even though it’s almost dinnertime. She knows I’ve spent the day sleeping.
Mom and Dad look at me, the relaxed smiles disappearing from their faces. Something tight and restrained appears instead.
“Are you hungry? We’re making lemon chicken and potato gratin. Should be ready in an hour,” Mom says.
Dad pops another piece of cheese into his mouth and goes back to slicing potatoes.
I wander toward the table and sit down across from Popo. She watches me carefully for a minute, like she’s asking if I’m okay. I nod, because sometimes other people need reassurance, even when I’m the one who feels broken. She smiles and cracks her book open again.
“I drove past the university earlier today. They must’ve had some kind of sports game going on because there was a ton of traffic near the stadium.” Mom’s still chopping, trying to sound casual. Trying to fix. “I bet that’ll be so much fun—going to games with your friends. Kenji, don’t you think that sounds fun?”
Dad’s still eating cheese. “Mm-hmm.” He gives her a thumbs-up.
A pressure returns against my chest, pushing down hard. I feel my heart rate pick up. It’s even hard to breathe.
“I know it might be too late to get a dorm room, but is that something you’d like? Not that we don’t love having you at home, but having a roommate is probably a totally different college experience,” Mom continues like everything is normal.
My ribs tighten. My throat tightens.
I feel like someone is wringing my entire body out like I’m made of cloth, squeezing me until there isn’t a drop of life left.
Mom’s talking to me, but she’s looking around the room like this conversation is for everyone. “Or what about a sorority? I mean, I think they seem like kind of a distraction, but I know there are all different kinds. I’m told it’s not just about going to parties. There are academic ones, sports ones, even music or—”
“I’m not going to school.”
The room falls silent.
Was that my voice? It felt like thunder.
It felt like power.
I keep talking. “Not full-time, anyway. And not to the school you want me to go to.”
I’m shaking everywhere, my hands clenched tightly. Mom’s eyes are startled and wide. Dad’s stopped eating cheese. Popo’s face is serene, and maybe even… proud?
“I’m sorry,” I say, and then the words rush out of me like a wave. “I know how you feel about university. And I know I’m the one who left the circus when I left Maison du Mystère,
but the truth is, the circus hasn’t left me. Even right now, when I’m hurting and I feel like it’s impossible to be happy, I know going to school full-time would be a mistake. Because I love being an aerialist. I love being on the trapeze. It makes me feel whole. And I know if I gave it up—if I traded in my dreams for a backup—I would regret it for the rest of my life.” I take a breath. “But, I know school means something to you. And I know your rules about me having to go to school to stay at home. So I’d like to propose a compromise. Community college on a part-time basis, while I continue training on the trapeze.”
Mom turns to Dad, expecting him to jump in.
I’m shocked when he doesn’t.
He lifts his shoulders. “Would it be the worst thing in the world if we let her train with Tatya? Our daughter is talented. We both saw it.”
Mom flattens her mouth, shaking her head. “I know she’s talented. I know she’s incredible.” She turns to me. “But what happens if you have another episode like this? What if you quit again and decide you’ve had enough?”
“If being an aerialist doesn’t work out, I can always take more classes. At least this way I won’t miss out on training. I’ll have a chance to do what I love,” I say. “But I know myself, and I’m not going to quit. I mean, I might’ve still been at Maison du Mystère if you and Dad hadn’t shown up. I think I just ran for the easiest exit because I was upset and things had been so bad between us. If I’d had more support from the start, maybe I wouldn’t have taken rejection so hard.”
“So it’s our fault now?” Mom gapes.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s nobody’s fault,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “I’m just saying there were other factors involved. And yeah, maybe I’ll quit a troupe again, but that doesn’t mean I have to quit on my dreams. I can still be an aerialist. I can still find a job somewhere else.”
“But what if you don’t?” Mom asks, and I wish she would put the knife down because she looks terrifying right now.
“Then I don’t,” I say simply. “But at least I tried. I don’t want to stop trying. Not ever. Not when it comes to the circus.”
Dad rests his hand on Mom’s shoulder. “I know you were always set on her going to school, but maybe we can be flexible. Maybe our dreams for our daughter can be flexible.”
She looks up at him with tears in her eyes. “Why are you saying that? Why are you making it sound like it was my fault? You wanted her to go to school too.”
“She’ll still be going to school—just in a different way than we wanted.” He eyes the cutting board. “Honey, could you maybe put the knife down when we’re talking?”
She drops it on the counter and holds her hands up. “What, now you think I’m going to stab someone too?”
Dad starts to laugh, but she cuts him a look that makes him chomp down on his lip.
Popo’s voice breaks through the arguing like a crane soaring over rough water. “I don’t think Harley is asking for permission—she’s asking for your support.”
Mom looks at her and drops her arms. I think the two of them share unspoken words before she finally opens her mouth. “Why did you give her that photograph?”
“Delilah—” Dad starts.
Mom holds up a hand, still staring at Popo. “No. I haven’t asked because I didn’t want to fight, but I want to know. Why would you show her that? Knowing everything that happened? Are you trying to hurt me? Punish me? What is it, Ma?”
Popo removes her glasses and sets them on the table. “I shouldn’t have kept you from the circus. I know that now.”
“I’m not talking about the circus,” Mom snaps, and Popo’s face rumples. “I’m talking about Harley almost dying. Isn’t that what you told me? That she almost died? That I almost murdered my own daughter?”
Popo stands, shakier than usual. “I’m sorry for what I said. It was wrong of me. And that’s why I’m trying to show you I learned from my mistakes—so you don’t make the same ones.”
Mom crosses her arms, shaking her head angrily. “You have no right to interfere. You had your turn raising a daughter. This is my turn, and I’m doing it the way I think is best.”
Popo looks ashen. She’s probably never heard Mom speak to her like this before.
Dad tries to take Mom’s hand, but she swats him away. She’s a volcano that’s already erupted. I don’t think any of us can calm her down until she’s finished letting out the fire.
She’s yelling about all the things Popo did wrong, and all the things she’s trying to do right, and some of it is so personal and raw, I feel like I’m eavesdropping on a conversation I shouldn’t be.
But the more I watch Popo, the more Mom’s voice starts to fade in the background.
Popo looks… confused.
Scared.
And like she isn’t listening to Mom either.
“Popo?” I ask quietly. “Are you okay?”
It happens fast.
Popo makes a noise that sounds like a grunt. She grabs her left arm. Her entire face crumples in pain.
And then her frail body falls to the floor.
I’ve never heard a person sound so truly afraid until the moment Mom screams for her mother.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
We follow the ambulance to the hospital, Dad driving because Mom is choking on her tears, asking, “What have I done?” over and over again.
It feels like we’re in the waiting room for hours. Maybe we are. Dad refuses to leave Mom’s side, so I make a couple coffee runs, trying to be helpful.
Mom won’t drink anything. She won’t look at me either, and I’m terrified for Popo, but also terrified this all happened because of me.
Why did I have to bring up the circus and school? Why did I have to make everything worse?
And even though Dad is usually terrible at noticing what’s going on in front of him, he does notice me.
“This isn’t your fault,” he says when Mom is in the bathroom.
I look at him with tired eyes. “Then why did you wait until Mom was gone to tell me that?”
“Because I know your mom, and if she realizes you’re blaming yourself, it will make everything worse. She’s feeling guilty enough right now,” Dad says. “But I promise you, your mom doesn’t think it’s your fault either. Not even a little bit.”
I nod. “Do you think Popo is going to be okay?”
“God, I hope so,” Dad says, and even though the words leave him like they’re supposed to lift some of the weight off of us, it just feels like the room gets heavier.
* * *
The doctor says Popo is in recovery. She’s going to be okay.
* * *
The light coming in from the window makes Popo look pale. She’s resting in the hospital bed, her eyes closed and her hands folded on her stomach. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s attached to a monitor, it would look like she’s been prepped for a coffin.
“Are you sure she’s alive?” Dad says, because clearly we have the same lack of filter when it comes to words.
Mom swats him on the arm. “That’s not even a little bit funny.”
When she’s walking toward Popo’s bed, Dad looks at me and pinches his fingers at the air like he’s asking if maybe it was, a little bit.
I nod, and we both pack our smiles away before we get back in Mom’s vantage point.
I sit in one of the chairs—Mom and I both at Popo’s sides—and Dad’s hovering behind me.
“Hey, I bet Popo will be hungry when she wakes up. Maybe I could run out to McDonald’s and grab her some breakfast?” Dad offers.
Mom makes a face. “Kenji, she just had a heart attack. She can’t eat McDonald’s.”
“Ah. Right.” Dad hesitates. “Well, I could at least run to the store, grab her a few things she might need. Like a toothbrush, or a comb…”
“I think the hospital has that stuff,” Mom says, rubbing the side of her head tiredly.
Dad nods slowly, looking up at the ceiling
. Then he lights up. “What about her book? She’d probably love to read that when she wakes up.”
Mom opens her mouth to shut his idea down, when something makes her stop. Something Dad must be mouthing to her. But when I turn around to look, Dad’s smiling awkwardly at me.
“That would be great. Thank you,” Mom says.
Dad walks around to the other side of the bed, pecks her on the cheek, and hurries out of the room.
“Okay, what secret conversation did I miss?” I ask.
Mom smiles softly. “He thought maybe we should talk alone. Just the two of us.”
I look down at Popo, who is still sleeping.
“I’m sorry.” I swallow the knot that’s been in my throat for hours.
“You,” Mom says seriously, “have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. This was my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up.”
I look up at Mom seriously. “Don’t you think Popo would say it wasn’t your fault either?”
Mom’s eyes water, but she wipes them away quickly.
“You were telling her how you felt, which is what I was doing to you. And if you had had a heart attack instead of Popo, would you have wanted me to blame myself?” I ask.
A laugh escape’s Mom’s lips. “When did you get so smart?”
I smirk. “I’ve always been smart. That’s why I don’t need school.”
Mom narrows her eyes, and I roll mine.
“I know. Not funny.”
Mom tucks her hair behind her ears and crosses her arms. “It wasn’t all her fault, you know.”
I make a face. “I didn’t think anyone would blame Popo for her own heart attack.”
Mom shakes her head. “I mean about the circus—about why I quit.”
“Oh.” My heart thumps.
She sighs, staring at Popo for a long time, searching for the courage to say her story out loud. “It’s true Popo said a lot of harsh things to me after I almost lost you. But they were all things I had already been thinking myself. And I chose to quit not because of Popo—but because in that moment, I knew I loved something much more than I ever loved the circus.” She looks at me seriously. “You.”
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