surprise—I’ve spent the last few days feeling so heavy and sluggish, I thought I was slowly sinking into the Upside Down.
But tonight, Maison du Mystère is alive.
Lights spiral up every tent, twinkling with energy. The smell of perfectly buttered popcorn weaves through the crowd. Music blares from the overhead speakers. It doesn’t sound haunted like Teatro della Notte’s infamous tune—it’s more like a whimsical puppet show, full of trills and lazy cascades and clever oboe riffs.
It’s still an hour before the curtains to the big top open, but the eager crowd is already beginning to grow, their faces beaming with euphoric joy. And how could anyone blame them? They drove through the Phoenix desert, stepped through an archway covered in lights, and crossed over into another world.
The outer ring is a city of smaller purple and red tents in varying shades, most of them big enough to fit ten people or so. Inside are magicians, illusionists, fortune-tellers, and even a ventriloquist. Guests disappear inside with mild curiosity, and when they emerge, they’re full of giddy excitement.
It’s an excitement I share with the rest of the spectators, because I’ve never experienced Maison du Mystère before; I don’t know the show intimately the way I know Teatro della Notte. I don’t know its secrets—the little enchantments that all combine to form the magic of the circus.
But knowing seems like a good first step to belonging.
A clown on a unicycle rolls past me, his brightly colored suit three sizes too big for him, and his makeup painted to make him look wildly happy. I see children giggling nearby, and a young couple twisting their fingers together and sharing a box of fresh popcorn.
I weave through the crowd like I’m invisible. Nobody suspects I live in a trailer a hundred yards away. I’m dressed in ripped black jeans and a baggy shirt that hangs off my right shoulder.
I look ordinary. And ordinary has no place in a circus.
A family emerges from one of the small tents, laughing together with wide eyes, like they’ve seen something they’ll never be able to comprehend.
I want to see it too.
As soon as my fingers graze the fabric opening, a hand clamps down on my shoulder.
Sasha’s brows are furrowed, and his white shirt is unbuttoned all the way down his chest. “What are you doing? Cast and crew are supposed to meet behind the big top,” he says.
“I—I didn’t know I was supposed to be anywhere,” I stammer, frowning. “I thought it would be good to get to know the circus.”
Sasha motions for me to follow him, seemingly concerned that someone might recognize him as a performer and ruin the illusion of the circus. Maybe that’s why he seems to be missing half his costume.
“Archie didn’t give you my message?” he asks again, trying to make sense of it. I don’t even know who he’s talking about, so I shake my head. He lets out a sigh. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. From now on, you meet with the rest of us half an hour before the gates open, got it?”
I try to hide my grin. Because if I’m meeting with everyone, it means they think I’m part of the troupe. It means they think I’m one of them—that I might even have a place here.
That I might have a place as a performer one day.
We step through the side entrance to the big top that leads into the covered foyer. The smell of corn dogs is overpowering, and I can practically feel the quake of the cotton candy machine against the dirt floor.
The last time I was in here, everything looked skeletal. Now every counter is stocked with pretzels, chips, and confectionary. The sound of the soda machine is constant. There’s even a glass case full of T-shirts, key chains, stuffed animals, and sparkly magic wands with stars on the ends that twinkle in neon colors.
“Here, put this on,” Sasha says, handing me a bright purple apron covered in yellow spots, and a jester hat complete with jingling gold bells. He nods to the oversized glass box next to me, perched on a red counter. “You’re on popcorn duty. Pia will show you how to put the new kernels in, but otherwise it’s pretty self-explanatory.”
Popcorn duty. Simon put me on popcorn duty.
Because the people here don’t look at me like someone worth taking seriously. They look at me like someone who needed an after-school job.
Do not cry, I order myself. Not now. Not when everyone is watching.