know how hard the circus life is. And yes, we know how magical it is too. But we also know it’s unreliable. You could tear a ligament or hurt your back, or maybe someone younger or more talented ends up replacing you. The point is, there’s very little stability in a career like this, especially one that most performers age out of before they’re even forty years old. And that’s pushing it, Harley—forty is pushing it. And then what’s your plan? Even if you manage to have a decent career until you’re out of your thirties, what are you going to do then?” Dad’s nostrils flare like he’s tired of having the same conversation.
He doesn’t see that I’m tired too.
Because I’ve heard all of this a thousand times before. The difference is that now I know what a hypocrite Mom is for living the life I want, and then telling me I can’t have it.
I don’t want to listen. I want to be heard.
“You both are suffocating me. I can’t breathe in this house. It feels like you’re pushing me further and further toward the edge of a cliff, and pretty soon I’m going to fall over and there’s no coming back. You’re trying to kill my dreams, and it feels like you’re trying to kill me.” My fists are balled tight. Inside, I’m screaming.
Dad heaves out a sigh all the way from the pit of his gut. “Why does everything have to be so extreme and dramatic with you?”
Mom takes a step closer, her face softening like she believes she can fix what’s happening to the three of us. “Honey, I know you love the circus. But I don’t want you to chase the idea of something that might not be what you think it is. I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize all the magic you fell in love with is just an illusion.” She bites her lip, hesitates. “I don’t want your love of the circus to be the very thing that ends up ruining your life.”
“No,” I say flatly. “That’s what you’re doing.”
I turn away despite Dad’s thundering new volume and Mom’s pleas for me not to leave.
I get in my car and drive.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I don’t know what makes me remember it’s there, tucked away in the glove box like it’s the One Ring calling to Gollum. But when I pull out Simon Tarbottle’s business card, its silver words glinting beneath the multitude of streetlights, my heart flutters.
It feels like all the frost and icicles Mom and Dad left in my chest come to life, turning into butterflies that pound against my rib cage, anxious to get out.
I don’t think. I dial the number.
Simon’s voice is leathery and worn. More indifferent than the show he was putting on for Tatya. “This is Simon.”
“Hi.” I blink. Am I really doing this? “This is Harley Milano. We met yesterday, outside of Teatro della Notte?”
He grunts. I think it’s an acknowledgment that he remembers. “What can I do for you?”
I gulp down the anger and hurt and yearning that’s been building in the back of my throat for days. Months. “I want to join your circus.”
I guess I really am doing this.
There’s shuffling, and I think maybe he’s sitting up. “Ah. You’re calling me for a job.”
“I know I’m not as good as your lead aerialist,” I say, trying to keep a sense of coolness to my voice that probably sounds more like vulnerability. “But I’d make a good second, especially if you let her mentor me. I’ve been training on the trapeze all my life. I pick things up quickly, and I don’t need to ask a lot of questions. I wouldn’t be a burden to anyone. In fact, you don’t even have to pay me a salary—just food and a bed. Maybe one day you’ll think I’m good enough to hire officially, but for now, all I really want is the chance to train. The chance to improve, with a professional who will know how to push me to the next level.”
My parents are forcing me to go to school after lying to me all my life. Tatya will never agree to train me again. And I can’t step foot inside Teatro della Notte after what I’ve done—what everyone thinks I’ve done.
I lost my family—my home—and now I’m desperate.
Simon’s voice perks up like he’s smiling on the other end of the phone. “You’re bold, kid. I like that.”