And even though I’m prone to assuming people hate me for the million things I probably did wrong without realizing it, this time being ignored definitely feels intentional.
I dig my phone out of my pocket, thinking now would be a good time to distract myself by catching up on all the Instagram posts I’m sure I’ve missed lately, but the notification from Mom makes my chest go hollow.
It’s an email.
To: FlightOfTheRedPandagmail
From: Delilah.Milanoteatrodellanotte
Subject: The time I ruined your blanket
We had this beautiful blanket made for you with your name stitched in the corner right before you were born. I thought it would be the kind of thing you’d fall in love with as a newborn and fall in love with again when you were all grown up. Like a memory blanket.
Except those first days were such a blur, and I had baby brain pretty bad. I accidentally put your blanket in the dryer—it was wool, so when it came out, it was practically a burp cloth. I was so upset because I felt like I ruined something that was supposed to be special for you.
I know you think I do that often, and on purpose, but I don’t mean to.
I love you. I want the best for you. And I hope you’ll call me soon.
Love, Mom
I have to read the email three times because my eyes get too blurry by the halfway point.
It would be so easy to think this was the moment where we’d change—that we’d find a moment of clarity and finally and totally understand each other. But we’ve been here before, and it won’t happen. Not like this.
Because even in Mom’s nostalgia, she still thinks she’s right. She still thinks wanting the best for me means she knows what’s best for me.
And then there’s the whole stealing their set list, which she clearly doesn’t know about yet….
Whatever is happening between me and my parents right now is not going to be fixed with an email about a shrunken blanket. We need time. Specifically, time apart.
I did the right thing by leaving, and I’ll tell myself this for as long as it takes to start believing it. Because I need it to be true. I need being here to mean something.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and return to my oatmeal.
When I’m finished eating, I set my dish on the counter in front of a sign that reads: BE THE BUSBOY YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD.
Outside, I hesitate in front of the dining bus, not really knowing where to go or what to do or how to make myself feel better. And because the circus really is the only thing that makes me happy, my eyes drift across the yard toward the now fully constructed big top.
It’s patterned in chunky stripes, deep cranberry and velvety violet, with wires upon wires trailing along every seam and stretched out over the empty parking lot—lights that probably won’t turn on until the first show on Thursday night. And while Teatro della Notte’s big top has a vintage carnival feel about it, Maison du Mystère’s is more dark whimsy and twisted fairy tales.
For one, the massive tent has four distinct points, like spires on a castle. It’s surrounded by a fenced-in outer ring, where there’s room for the acrobats and magicians to perform for guests before the real show starts. Because at Maison du Mystère, the circus doesn’t begin when the curtain opens—it begins the moment you pass through the gates.
And then I hear a noise. The scrape of a violin echoes from far away. A single note calling out to the sky. I’m drawn to it, the way I was drawn to the circus lights as a little girl. The instrument breaks into a sad melody, like a ghost wandering aimlessly through an eternal forest.
A ghost with no name. A ghost with no face.
A ghost with no family.
I tuck my arms around myself, fighting the emotions I don’t have the energy to sort through, and walk closer to the big top.
It’s enormous in every direction. The first opening spills out into a foyer, where mechanical beasts slumber, soon to be filled with popcorn and peanuts and cotton candy. There’s a glass counter waiting to be stocked with chocolate bars and licorice, and a soda machine perched in the back. I follow the red carpet to the next opening, where the violin grows louder, drawing me closer like I’m a fish on a hook.