Текст книги "Love is in the air"

Автор книги: A. Destiny

Соавторы: Alex R. Kahler
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

Chapter

One

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed of being a star on the flying trapeze. Most girls grow up wanting to be a ballerina or a princess. Most of them stop dreaming once they become a teenager. Not me. Ever since my parents took me to see my first circus show, I knew that that was the life for me. Watching the aerialist flip and twirl in midair, listening to all that applause . . . I couldn’t think of anything better. Everyone in the tent was watching; everyone wanted to be them. And someday I wanted to be the one who was the source of all that admiration.

Of course, it’s hard to run away and join the circus when your parents are dead set on you going to college—probably for something practical like accounting or dentistry. It also doesn’t help when you live in the Middle of Nowhere, Missouri.

So the fact that I’m here, standing in front of a sign reading THE KARAMAZOV SISTERS’ TRAVELING CIRCUS: FIRST ANNUAL YOUTH CAMP, is a pretty big deal. I mean, the Karamazov Sisters have been coming to town every summer for as long as I can remember. But them having a circus camp? One where I could learn flying trapeze and become a star? It almost seems too good to be true.

“You owe us for the rest of your life,” my mom says. “Remember this, Jennifer, when you’re picking out our nursing home.”

I grin at her and Dad.

“I know,” I say. Neither of them really wanted me to go to camp. I think they would rather I’d have just stayed at home and played video games with my friends like I had every other spring break. But I’m fifteen. It’s time to start reaching for my dreams. And a weeklong camp doing circus is the best way to begin. I know, deep down, that this is going to be life-changing. This is the point in my story where I finally flourish. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself right up to now.

Actually being here is starting to make me worry that I might have been wrong about all that.

The camp is held on the community college campus. We stand in the parking lot in front of the main office, and it’s hard to believe that I’ve biked past here more often than I can count. The place is entirely different, and not just because there are dozens of teenagers my age walking around with their parents.

There are semitrucks parked outside the gym, and there are tents being put up. None of them are quite as big as the big top for the Karamazov show, but they’re all genuine circus tents, stripes and stars and all. My heart leaps when I see the structure they’re assembling a little farther off, out on the soccer field. It’s not complete, but I know without a doubt what it is.

“Looks like that’s where you’ll be spending all your time,” Dad says, noticing my gaze. He’s got my suitcase balanced against his leg. I didn’t pack much, since it’s only for a week. And besides, gymnastics clothes—all new, all part of my early birthday present—pack up pretty easily.

I don’t actually have words. I stare at the flying trapeze rig, a little starstruck, and nod.

I’m not left to stare long. A girl who looks like she’s a college supermodel comes up to us. She’s got long brown hair in a ponytail and impeccable makeup. Her green eyes match the T-shirt she’s wearing, and her shorts barely reach her thigh. She’s gorgeous. What’s more, I’ve seen her before; she’s one of the hoop aerialists for the show.

“Hi,” she says, stopping in front of me. She holds out her hand with a warm smile. “I’m Leena. Are you here for the camp?”

I nod as I take her hand, unable to peel my eyes from her. Just last summer I was watching this girl perform amazing stunts on a hoop dangling a dozen feet in the air. And now she’s shaking my hand! It’s like meeting a celebrity, only this star’s hands are covered in calluses, and there are a few bruises on her forearms and calves.

“Did you get attacked by a lion?” my dad asks. I shoot him the angriest look I can manage. I haven’t even gotten to introduce myself yet.

The girl raises an eyebrow, then looks to her arms and laughs.

“No, though that would make for a better story. These are just part of the gig. The battle scars of being an aerialist. Turns out hanging from a metal hoop hurts.” She laughs again. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be scaring you off. Especially not before getting your name.”

“Jennifer,” I say. “Jennifer Hayes. And these are my parents.”

Leena shakes my mom’s and dad’s hands, and I can tell from my mom’s expression that she’s not too happy about the fact that this girl is covered in bruises from being in the circus. At least she doesn’t say anything; she’s a little more tactful than Dad.

“Nice to meet you, Jennifer,” Leena says. “Is this your first time doing circus arts?”

I nod. Even though she’s at least twenty-one, there isn’t any condescension in her voice. She’s looking at me like even if I’m not currently her equal, I might be. Someday.

“Well, this is going to be an intense week. I hope you’re ready for it. You look like you’re a natural, though—nothing to worry about.” She gives me a grin. “Anyway, registration’s right inside the door. They’ll get you sorted and into your dorm. I’ll see you at the opener in an hour.”

She nods to my parents and then walks off toward another group of kids milling about as aimlessly as I probably appear to be.

“She seems nice,” my dad says when she’s out of earshot.

“Yeah,” I say. I’m still glowing. A natural? She thinks I could be a natural? “Really smooth, by the way. Thanks for trying to embarrass me.”

“I wasn’t,” he replies. “I just wanted to make sure she hadn’t been hurt, that’s all. I mean, I’m entrusting you to her care. If there’s anything bad going on behind the scenes . . .”

“I know, I know.” I pat him on the arm. “You gotta look out for your little girl.”

“You’re sure you want to do this aerial thing?” Mom asks. She keeps glancing back to Leena, no doubt wondering if there are more bruises we can’t see. “It looks . . . painful.”

“Totally sure,” I say. “Besides, she does hoop. I’m going to do flying trapeze—the only thing I have to worry about are bad calluses. Come on. Before registration closes.”

I head toward the door. They stay behind, but only for a moment. Then they’re following at my heels, the wheels of my suitcase rumbling on the pavement. The sky is clear, it’s not crazy hot outside, and I’ve just met one of my new coaches—who I’ve been watching for years. I don’t think this day could get any better if it tried.

•  •  •

Registration is quick and simple; not ten minutes later, my parents are hugging me outside the door to my dorm room, which is actually just one of the rooms in on-campus housing. There aren’t any tears shed, not like when I went to my first and only summer camp four years ago. I mean, I’m only here a week, and my house is only a few miles away. I think I can cope. Or if I’m being really honest here, I think they can cope.

“Call if you need anything,” Dad says.

“And make sure you text us when you know the time for your show. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I will,” I say. I hug them both. “Love you.”

Then, just like that, they’re gone. Vanished down the hall. And I’m sitting in my room, staring at a suitcase of leotards and shorts and sweatpants, about to start the first day of the rest of my life. I’ve done it. I’ve basically run away and joined the circus, at least for a week. I grin. No more “Jennifer Hayes, girl no one really paid attention to.” It’s time for “Jennifer Hayes, high-flying circus star” to take the stage.

The door opens again a few minutes later, when I’m putting my clothes away in one of the drawers. I glance over. The first thing I notice is fire-engine red. Then I realize the shock of red is attached to the head of a girl. I blink hard. Yep, her hair is bright red, the same color as the striped red-and-black stockings sticking out of her camo skirt.

“Hi,” she says the moment she’s in the room. “You must be my roommate. I’m Riley.”

“Jennifer,” I say. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Because I’d have remembered a girl with bright-red hair and crazy clothes. This isn’t a town where people try to stick out. I think they just save that for when they run off to college.

She shakes her head, making her puffy red hair fly. She’s got deep-brown eyes the same color as mine, and she’s roughly my same height and size. And that’s in her clunky gunmetal-gray boots, too.

“Nope,” she says, dropping her bags by the free bed. She’s carrying two bags, another slung over her shoulder. “I’m about an hour away. Near Jefferson City.”

“Lucky,” I say. “Welcome to the Middle of Nowhere. Your nightly entertainment will be an old movie theater that only plays movies already on DVD and an arcade with one working pinball machine.”

She laughs and hauls a suitcase—black with pink stars—onto her bed. “Sounds like a fun place to grow up.”

“It’s a place to grow up,” I say. “But I guess I can’t complain; we got the circus after all.”

“I know!” She slides the small duffel bag from her back; it’s incredibly lumpy and covered in bumper stickers saying everything from DON’T TEMPT DRAGONS TO SAVE THE HUMANS! “I’ve been waiting all school year for this.”

I’ve known her less than five minutes, and I can already tell she’s going to be a fun roommate. When she starts pulling juggling pins and stringless tennis rackets from her bag, my thoughts are confirmed.

“Let me guess,” I say. I flop down on my bed and watch her unpack her bag of tricks. “You’re a juggler?”

“How could you tell?” she asks. “Was it the hair?”

“Totally. Jugglers always have weird hair.”

“Goes with the territory. What about you? What’s your focus?”

“Flying trapeze,” I say. No hesitation.

“Really? Huh.”

“What?”

“It’s just that I didn’t know they had a flying trapeze school here.”

“They don’t,” I say slowly. And that’s when it dawns on me: She’s already a juggler. She’s been doing this for years. Crap.

“Oh,” she says. She stops rummaging through her bag and sits on her bed, facing me. There’s barely three feet between us—I don’t know how two college kids can live in here for a full year. “Have you done classes somewhere else?”

“Nope. It’s just something I’ve always wanted to do.”

She nods. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you do know you have to try out for that department, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I saw it in the flyer. But, I dunno. I’ve always wanted to do it. It sounds stupid, but I guess I just know it’s something I’ll be good at.” I decide not to tell her that Leena said I looked like a natural—I’m starting to think maybe the girl was just being nice.

She shrugs. “Not stupid. I felt that way about juggling and learned a basic three-ball pass in five minutes.”

“I . . . honestly, I have no idea what that means.”

Her grin goes wider. Her cheeks are covered in freckles; she looks like one of those girls who’s used to smiling a lot.

“I’ll show you,” she says. She digs into her bag beside her and pulls out six multicolored juggling balls. “A three-ball pass is the basic juggling form,” she says. Then she tosses three to me.

“Oh, I don’t juggle,” I say, though now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve actually ever tried before.

“Come on,” she says. “You gotta try at least.”

My first impulse is to say, No, that’s okay, I just want to see you try. But that’s the old Jennifer. Today, right now, I’m Jennifer reinvented, and I’m not going to turn down any opportunity. I mean, how many times in my life do I have the chance to be taught juggling by a girl with fire-engine hair? I pick up the balls from where they landed on the bed and watch her.

“Okay, it goes like this. Start with two balls in one hand, one in the other. I always start with two in the right because I’m right-handed, but everyone’s different.”

I follow her lead and put two in my right hand.

“Now, you’re going to toss the one from your right hand into the air, trying make its apex just above eye level. Like this.” She tosses the ball up in a perfect arc, its peak right below her hairline, and catches it without even moving her left hand. “You try.”

I do. And much to my surprise, it’s a pretty good toss. The ball lands just beside my left hand.

“Nice,” she says. I smile. “Okay, now for the second toss. Don’t try to catch it just yet. You want to throw the ball in your left hand when the first ball is at its peak. Once you’ve done that, you’re going to throw the third ball when the second is at its peak. Got it?”

I nod. “I think so.”

She demonstrates, tossing her balls up in a steady rhythm and letting them fall on the bed. I mimic her.

“Nice,” she says again. “I think you’ve got the hang of it. Now we try it with the catch. Remember, you don’t want to have to move your hands around too much, and you definitely don’t want to throw the balls forward or back, or else you’ll be running all over the place trying to catch them. Always throw the next ball when the other has reached the apex. Rinse and repeat.”

She picks up the balls and tosses them in the air a few times, making clean catches and tosses—the balls are a blurred arc in front of her face. I lose track of how many times she tosses before she stops and looks at me.

“Your turn.”

I try.

The first few catches are a disaster—I’m so focused on catching the ball that I forget to toss the next. When I do remember, I end up throwing it at the closed window. Thankfully, the balls are just Hacky Sacks, so the window doesn’t break. I have to give Riley credit: She doesn’t laugh at all. Just watches me and gives me little pointers like, “Don’t move your torso so much” or “You’re not trying to hit the ceiling! It’s a gentle toss.”

After about five minutes, she stops watching me and goes back to unpacking. I’m hooked, though, and I don’t stop practicing. Not until I’ve managed six tosses in a row. And that takes a good ten minutes.

“Not bad,” she says. She managed to unpack everything in the time it took me to get the pass down. “You’re definitely starting to get it.” She glances at her watch. “Just in time, too. I think we’ve got the intro meeting in a few minutes. Do you have any idea where the gym is?”

I nod. “Yeah, I’ve been there a few times. My mom used to be a secretary here, and we went to a few games.”

“Funny. I wouldn’t peg you for a basketball sort of girl.”

“I’m not. Band nerd all way. But I’ll never say no to free popcorn and an excuse to watch a bunch of college boys running around.”

Her smile is huge.

“We’re going to be good friends, Jennifer,” she says. She hops off the bed and takes my elbow with hers, prom style.

“Definitely.”

Chapter

Two

The gym is nothing at all like I remember from the games. The bleachers have all been folded back against the wall, making the space seem twice as big as it usually is. But that’s not what makes the room look so strange. Half the room is covered in blue tumbling mats, the other half lined with unicycles and large metal hoops bigger than I am tall. I’m assuming the people in green T-shirts with KARAMAZOV CIRCUS emblazoned on the back are the coaches; they’re the ones setting everything up, and a few are even practicing as the rest of the campers filter in and huddle by the entrance. Coaches run up and down the length of the tumbling mats, doing flips and cartwheels and other tricks I don’t have names for. One coach is on one of the big hoops—he spins around on it like a coin tossed on the ground, dancing about like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

In that moment, I’m incredibly grateful for Riley’s presence. The kids around me are all strangers. The coaches are all older and more impressive than should be humanly possible. And I suddenly have the terrible feeling that everyone in this room has been doing this for a lot longer than I have, not that that would take much. I’m probably the only one without an ounce of experience. I’m an imposter. And if not for Riley’s comforting arm in mine—and her previous encouraging compliments still ringing in my ear—I’d have turned around and called home.

I look over to the girls clustered a few feet to my left. The three of them are wearing matching blue hoodies and shorts, their blond hair pulled back in ponytails. They’re ridiculously skinny and have that sort of stature that says they practice ballet—chin up, shoulders back, feet turned out. Definitely sisters. Or if they’re not, they’re some sort of Twilight Zone anomaly.

“I don’t think they’re human,” comes a voice behind me. Riley and I turn around.

The boy standing there is a little taller than me, and he’s gorgeous. He’s wearing a loose lavender T-shirt and a beanie cap over his curly black hair. He’s tan and clearly goes to the gym. Often. But he’s not bulky like the wrestlers or football jocks at my school—he looks like a swimmer.

“Tyler,” he says, holding out his hand. I shake it. I can’t stop the blush rising in my cheeks. His smile is infectious, and he doesn’t take his brown eyes off me while we shake.

“I’m Jennifer,” I squeak.

“A pleasure,” he responds.

When Riley takes his hand and introduces herself, though, his attention shifts smoothly to her. Maybe that’s just how he looks at people—with his full attention, none of that eye sliding most people do. I can’t help but think that this somehow makes him infinitely more attractive.

“What do you think?” he asks, his voice dropped to a whisper. He nods to the blond girls. “Genetic experiments gone wrong or cyborgs?”

I snort and try to cover it with a normal laugh. It fails, obviously, but it just makes him smile. So much for being smooth around the cute new guy.

“Cyborgs,” I whisper. “Definitely.”

Riley eyes the girls warily. “I’ve heard of them. They call themselves the Twisted Triplets. They’re contortionists. They went to nationals for gymnastics last year.”

“If they’re that good, what are they doing here?” I ask.

“Heck if I know,” she replies. “They should be, like, training for the Olympics or something.”

We don’t have time to ask any more questions, because at that moment the coach from earlier, Leena, steps up to the crowd.

“Hey, everyone!” she calls out. The campers quiet down immediately. Riley takes my arm again and Tyler sidles up to my left, blocking the Twisted Triplets from view. “I’m Leena,” she continues, “and I’m the lead aerial coach for this session. All of us coaches are really excited for this week—we can’t wait to meet and train each and every one of you. But since there are a lot of you and a lot of us, we thought the best way to do introductions was to put together a little show. So, first we’re going to show you what we do, and then you can show us what you do. If you want to, of course.” She grins. “There’s no pressure, and you’ll all get your chance to shine during the show at the end of the session. So, if you all want to have a seat over there, we’ll get started!”

She guides us over to a spot along the rolled-in bleachers and we sit down in rows. Tyler’s arm is brushing mine, and Riley’s knee is against my leg. Save for the butterflies fluttering around at Tyler’s touch, it feels like we’re all old friends—the closeness seems pretty natural.

Once we’re all seated, Leena jogs over to join the coaches lined up along the opposite wall. Then she claps her hands three times in a steady beat, and the show begins with a fanfare.

Music blares through the loudspeakers as the coaches jog toward us, some of them flipping and cartwheeling as they go. I start clapping immediately along to the music, and I’m not the only one. Tyler and Riley are clapping along too, and soon all the campers are joining the beat.

Long strips of fabric unroll from the ceiling, and a few girls and guys start climbing. Below them, five coaches are doing some crazy sort of acrobatics; they run toward and up one another, flipping and tossing themselves and their partners up and around in dizzying flips and crazy handstands. The people on the aerial fabric pose in backbends and drop into death-defying rolls as two guys pull out the large metal hoops along the wall and begin rolling around each other like coins in a dance that makes me wonder if they’ll crash. It’s chaos in its coolest form. People are juggling and flipping and doing handstands and dropping from the ceiling and then, after only a few minutes, they all do one final trick and line up, facing us. They give a bow and call out their names: “I’m Brad and I teach Cyr wheel!” “I’m Tori and I teach acrobatics!”

They all sound a little winded, but not nearly as bad as I would have been.

I’m only a little disappointed that there wasn’t any flying trapeze, but I guess I can’t expect them to set that up in the gym. A few of the coaches call out that they teach flying trap, but I think I saw them doing acrobatics on the ground. Clearly, they expect everyone to do a little bit of everything. I’m just hoping I can do even one thing that impressive.

One of the coaches steps forward. She looks a little older than the others, but she’s still built like a super gymnast and could probably outrun anyone in my school. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, and if I remember right, she was one of the aerialists. I don’t recognize her until she speaks—Olga Karamazov looks a lot different without all the stage makeup. I actually think she looks better without it.

“Greetings, campers!” she says. Her voice is laced with a thick Russian accent, but years under the American big top have washed some of it away. “And welcome to the first annual Karamazov Circus Camp. I know you’re all as excited as we are for this week; the days will be long and the work will be hard, but together we will create an amazing show and even more amazing memories. My name is Olga Karamazov, and my sister and I created this company ten years ago. Sadly, she is down in Florida training, but I am delighted to be working with such a fantastic group of coaches to teach you all. I can assure you that each member has been handpicked not only for their skills, but for their character. Although proper technique and safe training are our top priorities, we want to ensure that you have fun while performing! After this afternoon’s presentation, we will do a small series of team-building exercises so you can learn even more about one another. Then, tomorrow, you’ll have your auditions. I’m sure all of you have ideas of what you’d like to train in, and I want to let you know that we will do our best to give you your first choice. Coaches aren’t just looking for skill and aptitude, they’re looking for a willingness to learn. So if you’re new to this, don’t worry. Remember, fun is the name of the game—this is a circus, after all!”

She flashes a big smile. It’s hard to calm the nerves doing backflips in my stomach, though. I’ve been daydreaming about trying out on the flying trapeze for months—heck, for years—but now that it’s here, I’m kind of terrified. Suddenly the idea of being that high up makes my head reel with vertigo.

“Speaking of fun, I think it’s time for you to take the stage! You’re welcome to come up and show off a few tricks or a routine if you have one. Our coaches will be watching and spotting from the sidelines, but please—no tricks you aren’t entirely comfortable with. We don’t want any injuries before the training even begins!”

At that, all the coaches save for Leena walk to the sides of the auditorium. Olga asks us to come up one by one—“But again, only if you want!”—and tell our name and a bit about ourselves, including what we’re planning on auditioning for and how long we’ve been doing circus arts.

In that moment, I promise myself that I will not, under any circumstances, go up there. I mean, what would I do? Try to juggle? Do a cartwheel?

I’m not at all surprised that the Twisted Triplets are the first to stand. They stride to the center of the auditorium and position themselves on the panel mat. When they face us, they’re so poised, I feel like I’m watching a professional show—even if they are just wearing hoodies and shorts. One of them sets an MP3 player and speakers down. Of course they have a routine prepared. And of course they always carry the equipment to show it off.

Even though I haven’t even spoken to them yet, I don’t like these girls. And I’m about 80 percent certain it’s not out of jealousy, either.

“We’re the Twisted Triplets,” the shortest blond-haired girl says. Oddly enough, she has a really thick Southern accent. Something about her appearance made me think she’d be Ukrainian or something exotic like that. She could be my neighbor, for all I know. “We’ve each been trained in contortion and rhythmic gymnastics since we were three. We’re hoping your coaches will be able to teach us something new, ’cause we’re getting bored of our old routine. Which is what we’re going to show y’all now.”

She nods to her other sisters, and the tallest one, who looks older, hits play on the MP3 player, then runs to line up with the rest—they are definitely not triplets, by the way. Seconds later the gym is flooded with bass and synths as some strange mashup of techno and pop music bursts through the room. But the music is nothing compared to what starts happening onstage.

“Are they . . . stripping?” Tyler whispers incredulously in my ear.

“I think so,” I say. Because as one, the girls start sashaying around and undoing the zippers of their hoodies. I almost close my eyes out of embarrassment for them, but then I catch the sparkle of unitards underneath. In one quick swish, they peel out of their hoodies to reveal spangled pink spandex. From the corner of my eye I can see Leena, who’s watching the girls like she might stop them at any moment. Like the rest of us, I don’t think she quite believes what she’s seeing.

Thankfully, after the introduction, the awkwardness shifts into something that looks a little more like an award-winning gymnastics routine. Two of the sisters do back walkovers and pause in handstands, flattening their backs until they were parallel to the ground. The shortest then steps on the backs of her sisters, reaches down, and does a handstand on their necks, balancing between them like the Eiffel Tower. No one applauds. Not because it isn’t good, but because it’s just so . . . unexpected.

I don’t have any idea how long their routine is, but after a few minutes they do some complicated backbend-headstand thing. They pose and the music stops. A beat of silence follows their dismount and bow. Then the coaches start to clap, and the rest of us join in with only a slight hesitation. The sisters have fixed, plastic grins on their faces, and their chests heave a bit with exertion.

Leena steps forward, still clapping, though she’s having a hard time keeping that confused/concerned look off her face.

“That was . . . very entertaining,” she says. It sounds like a question. “It’s clear you’ve practiced that one quite a bit; I’m sure our coaches are going to have a great time working with you.” I don’t miss the glance she casts back to two of the coaches in the corner—one a burly man and one a short old woman—and their shared expression of disbelief.

The triplets leave the stage, grabbing their speakers as they go, and Leena calls for the next performer.

A few different campers go up. One girl does stunt-bike-style tricks on a unicycle. A boy juggles a half-dozen bowler hats. Then Tyler stands up and grabs a wooden chair from along the wall, dragging it toward the center of the room.

“I think he likes you,” Riley whispers when Tyler’s out of earshot.

“I think you’re crazy,” I reply. Because I saw how he was watching the boy doing flips and break-dance moves: the exact same way that I was. I’m pretty certain Tyler plays for the other team.

Tyler sets the chair down and stands on top of it, right before grasping the edge of the chair. Seconds later, he folds up into a perfect handstand. He twists and turns and poses, even doing some tricks on one hand. When he finally stands upright, the room explodes into applause. A lot of people release breath they didn’t realize they were holding. I’m definitely one of them.

“That was amazing,” I tell him when he sits back down. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his face, but he’s beaming in spite of—or because of—the exertion.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’ve been training for a long time. Normally I do them on special chairs stacked on top of each other. My current limit is eight high, but I’m shooting for ten by the end of camp.”

I can only stare at him. The idea of doing handstands on the back of eight chairs makes my heart hammer with fear. Crap. If the idea of a few stacked chairs makes me cringe, how the heck am I going to be able to climb the trapeze ladder? I force myself to take deep, calming breaths. I tell myself it will all be okay—I’m going to be a trapeze star. I know it. Otherwise, why am I here in the first place?

“Wow,” Riley whispers. I glance over, thinking maybe she’s talking about what Tyler just said about the chairs. But no, she’s staring at the boy who’s walking to the center of the mat.

“I’m Branden,” he tells the group. “I’ve been training in flying trapeze for about three years, but I also do some ground work. So I figured I’d show what I’ve been working on, if I can borrow a Cyr wheel?”

I melt the moment I look at him. He’s got short brown hair spiked up at the front and is wearing plaid shorts and a tank top. His biceps are probably the size of my neck. Like Tyler, though, he looks built for a purpose, rather than just muscular to show off.

And he does flying trapeze, which means we’ll be working together.

“I think I’m in love,” I whisper, not really meaning to say it aloud. Tyler snorts with barely contained laughter.

One of the burly coaches I saw spinning around in the large steel hoops steps forward, rolling a hoop—I’m guessing that’s a Cyr wheel—beside him. Branden thanks him and takes the wheel in his hands, rolls it back and forth a few times like he’s testing its weight or diameter or something. Then, without even pausing to collect himself, he spins on his heel and brings the hoop with him, hopping onto the bottom rung and twisting like a penny.

Branden rotates fast and slow, alternating between the two with a dancer’s grace. At one point, he lifts both legs up in the air and spins like Superman from the top of the hoop, the entire thing flashing silver under the lights of the gym. That’s the only big trick—a few spins later, he stops with a slight stumble and grins. The camp applauds with the same enthusiasm as they did for Tyler’s routine.