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.