Текст книги "Love is in the air"
Автор книги: A. Destiny
Соавторы: Alex R. Kahler
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 12 страниц)
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Watching Branden do his routine is just another reminder of how far out of my league he is. After the coaches confer for a few minutes about the choreography and the flying trapeze net is rigged in place, he and the other performers begin climbing the rope ladders on each side of the ring. Branden goes up and mounts a trapeze first, flipping himself upside down and latching his legs to the bar. Just watching him makes my heart soar up into my throat. Vertigo snakes its way through my chest. My palms go cold and break into a sweat.
Branden swings back and forth a few times while another guy climbs up and grabs the trapeze on the other side of the ring. Branden claps his hands and the other guy jumps out on the trapeze, swinging fast toward Branden, until he reaches his peak and lets go, doing a double flip in the air and catching Branden’s hands. My terrified heart stops during the entirety of that leap, right until the two boys’ hands clasp and it’s clear no one’s going to fall to their deaths.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Megan whispers from behind. I can practically hear the smile in her words. “So talented. So brave. I’m so lucky he asked me to the dance. I can’t wait.”
If my jaw clamped any tighter, my teeth would grind to dust. Branden switches off with another performer, completely oblivious to the two girls quietly warring it out over him less than fifty feet away.
At that moment, Riley steps in—she turns around in her seat and gives Megan a death glare.
“If you don’t shut up,” Riley whispers, “I’m going to use your eyes as juggling balls. Got it?”
Megan just laughs to herself and leans back in the bleachers. She smiles and waves, and my attention goes back to the center ring. Branden is staring right at us. He looks concerned.
Probably because Riley’s face is almost as red as her hair. I think she’s angrier than I am.
I shake my head and take a deep breath, try to force down the fight-or-flight response that—for the first time ever—seems to be geared toward fight. I don’t know how Megan manages to get under my skin so easily, but I’m more than ready to have her out of my life. I try to focus on the trapeze artists. Well, all of them except for Branden, who’s once more grabbing the trapeze and swinging across the ring. My palms are still freezing with vertigo. What made me think I could ever do that?
Maybe that’s why Branden didn’t ask you out. If only I could get Megan’s taunts out of my head. I think I’d have a greater chance of getting her to apologize—like I said, I am my own worst enemy. And that’s including Megan on the list.
The trapeze act finishes with every performer taking turns on the trapeze bars and doing insane flips, then plummeting to the net below. My pulse speeds up every single time they dismount. By the end, I’m actually a little glad it’s over; I don’t think I could handle much more adrenaline.
I don’t know what brought on the switch. I always loved watching the flying trapeze before this, always daydreamed of doing all the daring tricks and flips. Maybe it’s because I now know just how terrifying it is up there. Well, sort of. Halfway up the ladder doesn’t really count.
The trapeze group filters off to the bleachers. Branden gives one more glance my way—or maybe it’s at Megan, hard to tell and I don’t really want to know—before sitting down beside Luke. Uh-oh. I know it’s conceited to think they’re talking about me, but when they both glance over, I can’t help but think the worst. At least neither of them starts laughing and pointing.
Not that I know why they’d do that, but if this were a movie, it would be a prime moment for some embarrassing gesture, when Branden convinces Luke he picked the wrong girl.
“Nice work, everyone,” says Olga. She steps center ring, commanding everyone’s attention. “That went incredibly smoothly, especially for a first run. Now we’re going to take a ten-minute break to reset the ring for the second act. We have some snacks just outside the tent if you’d like to go stretch your legs. See you in a few.”
Then she walks over to some of the coaches.
“Come on,” Riley says as she stands. She grabs my arm and pulls me up, nearly dragging me out of the bleachers.
“You’re going to rip my arm off,” I mutter. But I don’t drag my feet. I don’t want to be sitting in those bleachers in front of Megan either.
Once we get outside, Riley heads straight to the snack table, which is covered in fresh fruit and granola bars and juice. She grabs an apple and stalks away from the crowd. I grab a granola bar and follow.
“I can’t stand her,” she says. She doesn’t take a bite of the apple; she just tosses it back and forth between her hands. I’d never seen angry juggling before. Now I have. “I hope she falls on her stupid pretty face tomorrow.”
“Jeez,” I mutter. I snatch the apple from her, mid-toss, and bite it. “I thought I was supposed to be the angry one. I mean, she did steal my guy.”
“I know. That’s part of it. But she’s just so . . . ugh!” She actually stomps her foot, her hands balled into fists. “She’s so condescending and entitled and I hate her.”
“Calm down, angry little pixie girl,” I say. I hand her the apple, making sure the bite mark is facing her. She snorts with laughter when she takes it back.
“Thanks,” she mutters. “Sorry. I should be comforting you. Do you need comforting?”
“I’m okay,” I say. It’s easier than admitting that I feel like crap.
“Liar.”
I roll my eyes and look toward the tent.
“I don’t know,” I say after a pause. It’s clear she’s not letting me off the hook. “I just feel lame, you know? Like, I should have been up there with him. Them. I meant them. I should have been performing with the rest of the trapeze group, and instead, here I am, waiting on the ground.”
“With me,” Riley states. She sounds a little angry, and not from Megan. I look to her.
“Yeah,” I say. “And I’m grateful for it.”
“Listen, I know you’re angry you aren’t doing flying trapeze with Branden. I know you feel like a failure. But you’re still doing something really cool with someone who thinks you’re really cool, and she would appreciate it if you stopped treating the act like it was a chore.”
I bite my lip. “Sorry. I do enjoy it. It’s just not what I expected when I came here.”
“That’s life,” she says. “You just gotta roll with it. If you’re meant to do flying trapeze, you will. There’s always a second chance.”
“I hope so.”
“In the meantime,” she says, looping an arm around my shoulder, “stop acting like doing a routine with me is so horrible. You’re starting to make me feel bad about teaching you in the first place.”
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. This is showbiz, and you know the first rule of showbiz.”
“Er . . .”
“Keep smiling,” she says, and drags me back toward the tent.
• • •
My hands are shaking as we wait backstage with the rest of the juggling group. Even Riley looks a little nervous—her usual grin is gone, and there’s a furrow to her brow. I wonder if she’s mentally going through our duo act or her solo routine for the grand finale—I wonder if part of her concentration is trying to figure out ways to cover my potential screwups. The area back here is tiny—just a small hall between the curtain and the back tent flap—and the heavy air is thick with anticipation.
Finally the music starts, and we burst through the curtain and into the ring.
Much like during the talent show, the moment I’m onstage, all the fear vanishes. The routine comes naturally—we dance into the middle of the ring, and Riley and I begin our complicated duo routine. Even though we’ve only practiced this a few times, the moves come out of habit, like I’ve somehow become a well-oiled circus machine. We toss and spin and catch, all perfectly in time to the upbeat music, while the rest of the jugglers do their own acts around us. I can practically feel the energy in the room amp up as the routine goes on.
When Riley and I do our final move and pose, the tent erupts into applause. We all stand there, sweating and breathing hard, soaking up the praise.
“Very nice!” Olga shouts, stepping into the ring. “That was a perfect performance. I don’t think I have any notes, do you?” She turns to our juggling coaches, who both shake their heads, huge grins on their faces. “Well then,” Olga continues, “let’s move on to the next act.”
We jugglers bow, then run back through the curtain.
“That was amazing!” I yell the moment we’re outside the tent. The air is cool and the sun is bright—everything feels alive. Suddenly my depression from before and envy over Branden and the contortionists is gone. It’s hard to feel down when pumped with this much adrenaline.
Riley runs over and wraps me in a hug. “You were amazing,” she says. “I told you that you were made for the stage.”
I step back and keep my hands on her shoulders.
“Thanks,” I say. “Thanks for believing in me.”
“Always,” she replies. Her smile is huge. “Now I just need to get you to really believe in yourself.”
I nod my head. “Working on it.” And we head back into the tent to watch the rest of the acts.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
It’s almost impossible to pay attention to the rest of the acts. The performance high is so powerful, I don’t even feel the slightest hint of anger when Megan glares at me from her seat. Branden is still sitting next to his acro group, but I do notice him glance over to me now and again. My heart flips every time, but I let it go. I’m not going to let my interest in him ruin this moment.
After the individual groups run their routines and figure out entrance and exit transitions, the entire troupe goes back onstage to block out the finale. It’s supposed to be high energy, so we are all coming out doing partner and solo bits before finishing with one large human pyramid. I’m doing some solo juggling right beside Tyler and Kevin, who are doing an abbreviated hand-to-hand routine. Performing beside them makes me feel even more talented—they’re both so good, so strong and graceful, that I feel it rub off on me just by being near. Even sharing the stage with the Twisted Triplets makes me feel a small note of pride; this finale is about sharing the playing field, everyone on the same level. It means we’re all just as good as the other performers.
I glance at Branden during the final pose. Of course, being onstage with him means trying to convince myself that we’re on the same level as well, that he’s not out of my league. You’re going to the dance with Luke, I remind myself, and bring my focus back to the choreography.
When practice is over, I feel both exhausted and energized. I don’t think I’ve ever worked so much in my life, but I also don’t think I’ve ever felt so fulfilled by the process.
Riley and Tyler and Kevin head back toward the cafeteria immediately after. My stomach rumbles, but I need to put away some juggling equipment before heading in for the night. After all, the dance is later—there won’t be any more practice for the rest of the day. I head toward the juggling tent and store the props in one of the multiple steamer trunks.
“Hey,” comes a voice behind me. My heart stops with the slam of a trunk lid. It’s Branden.
“Hey,” I say. I stand and turn, slowly. I don’t really want to be in the same tent as him, mainly because I feel like there’s way too much left unsaid between us. And I don’t really want to start now.
“I really liked your act,” he says. His hands are shoved in the pockets of his gym shorts, and he refuses to meet my gaze. For some reason, this makes me stand up straighter. I don’t want to feel like I’m the needy one, not anymore, and I’m trying to convince myself that if I stand tall, I’ll feel tall.
“Thanks,” I reply. I don’t move toward the exit, even though I really wish I could. The warm air in here feels a little too close, a little too suffocating. “You were really good too.”
“So I hear you’re going to the dance with Luke,” he says. It’s so off topic it’s like a blow to the gut. My mind reels as I try to form a fitting response.
“Yeah, well, he asked me,” I say, trying to instill the words with meaning: You were too busy making out with Megan. I was tired of waiting for you to man up.
“Yeah,” he says. “I heard that part.”
For some reason, he sounds really hurt by it. A small piece of me wants to feel victorious. But mostly, I just feel guilty.
“I don’t know what you sound so sorry about,” I say. I don’t know where the words come from; maybe I’m just tired of being kicked around. “You’re going with Megan.”
He shrugs and mutters something under his breath.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. Then he sighs deeply and looks at me for the first time this entire interaction. “Anyway, I just . . . I just wanted to say you looked good today. You should be proud.”
“I am,” I say. “Thanks.”
“I don’t know why you’re mad at me,” he says. And yeah, I suppose my responses were biting, but I’d hoped I was hiding it better than that.
I open my mouth to explain precisely why I’m upset, but then the tent flap opens and the reason for all my anger steps in.
“Oh, there you are, Branden,” Megan says, stepping inside. My blood boils at the sight of her. She glances at me just once, giving me a look that says I’m clearly not worth any more attention than that, and focuses on Branden. By “focuses,” I mean “walks up to and grabs his arm like I’m not even in the tent.” She continues, “I was hoping I’d be able to find you before dinner. I wanted to make sure we matched at the dance tonight.”
It takes all my self-control to keep myself from screaming at them as she flaunts the fact that he chose her. I try to hold on to that bubble of happiness from before, the exhilaration of a show well done. It’s impossible, like trying to hold on to a greased juggling pin.
I don’t need to stand here and take this. But I’m also not about to give Olga or anyone else a reason to throw me out because I decked a contortionist in the face. Without saying another word, I stalk from the tent, making sure to brush into Megan just enough to shove her to the side as I leave.
• • •
I’m sitting with Riley and the boys at dinner, trying not to think about Megan and Branden and having to watch them dance tonight, when Luke steps up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. The other arm reaches around in front of me to hold out a flower. A little pink carnation. When did he have time to get me a flower? In spite of everything else warring in my head, that gesture of kindness makes me melt a little.
“What’s this for?” I ask, looking up to him. He smiles down at me, completely oblivious to the rest of the table.
“Your performance today,” he says. “I would have gotten a corsage for tonight, but turns out they’re hard to find at a gas station, so this is the best I could do. That, and I didn’t know what color dress you were going to wear.”
I take the flower gently and feel my stomach drop. Does he really like me that much? If so, I feel bad for having feelings for Branden. Once more, I try to convince myself to give this boy a chance. He’s certainly trying harder than any other boy in my life.
“I didn’t bring a dress,” I respond. I give him an awkward smile. “Sorry.”
“Oh. Well then, a really good thing I didn’t get you a corsage.”
“She has a dress,” Riley pipes up. “She’s borrowing one of mine.”
Luke’s smile widens. “Excellent. I mean, not that it matters. I’m sure you’d look great no matter what.”
Then, because once more it’s nearly impossible to hold a conversation with him, he excuses himself and walks back over to his table of acro boys. Which, I’m pleased to see, Branden is sitting at. Without Megan.
“Jeez, girl,” Tyler says, “how much clothing did you bring?”
Riley smiles and pops a carrot stick into her mouth and responds around her crunching. “A girl must always be prepared.” Then she glances at me. “Clearly, this is yet another skill I must verse you in. At least now I know I’ll see you outside camp.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“Because you still need a lot of work before you can call yourself a lady.”
I just giggle and shake my head; it’s hard to take her seriously when she still has half a carrot crunching in her mouth. If I’m taking lessons from her, it will be years before I can consider myself proper.
• • •
There’s not much time to prepare for the dance after dinner, so Riley and I finish eating early and head to the dorm immediately. She forces me to take a shower before she does, convinced that it will take me extra time to make myself presentable. Which is probably the truth, seeing as she’s going to be the one dressing me. And doing my hair. And my makeup.
If I make it to the dance without looking like a clown or having purple streaks in my hair, it will be a small miracle.
She’s already laid a few dress options on my bed by the time I’ve stepped out of the shower. I reiterate Tyler’s earlier question when I see the three choices: “How much clothing did you bring?”
“Barely enough,” she says, sounding sad. She hops off the bed with her towel in hand. “Try them on while I’m in the shower. I expect you to be ready for hair and makeup by the time I’m out. Unless you choose poorly. Then it’s back to the drawing board.”
She pats me on the shoulder and bounces into the bathroom.
The dresses she picked out are definitely Riley. There’s just enough of a clash in colors and patterns to edge on gaudy, but she has a keen enough fashion sense that they actually, miraculously, work.
Option one is a slinky lime-green sundress, paired with a leopard-print belt and a sheer yellow shawl. She even set a pair of giant plastic bauble earrings beside it—they look like pink grapes.
Option two is a long pink-and-purple plaid skirt with a white blouse and a purple jacket that looks like a short ringmaster coat. She’s paired it with a studded pink belt and a necklace made of thick silver squares.
Finally there’s a relatively plain cream-colored sundress with a delicate blue embroidered hem. It would have been the sanest of the options, but she’s paired it with a rainbow-tie-dye shawl and multicolored plastic bangles. It’s the only option that has shoes to go with it. Apparently, if I’m to wear this, I have to also wear her pink, marker-covered, knee-high sneakers.
I decide to try on the green sundress first. I’m lucky Riley is my size—the dress just barely fits, but it doesn’t really mesh well with my skin tone. As I stare at the ensemble in the mirror, I can’t help but wonder how in the world she manages to pull this off without looking like a Christmas advertisement. The green with her red hair would be a color clash waiting to explode.
The cream dress is next, mainly because I think my eyes need a rest from all that intense color, and the plaid dress just screams disaster to my relatively conservative fashion sense. But looking in the mirror, fully decked out, I can’t help but think it’s almost a little too plain. I thought I would have settled on this one, but it doesn’t scream “Jennifer, Juggling Circus Star.” It just whispers “Jennifer, Still Too Scared to Take Chances.”
So, almost a little regretfully, I slink out of the cream dress and try on the pattern explosion of option two.
Of course, that’s the moment Riley gets out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her and another around her wild hair.
“That one,” she says, casting me the briefest glance. “Definitely that one.”
“You didn’t even see the others,” I say.
“Don’t need to. You look too daring in that to even try the others on. Besides, I think you’d look good with a little punky pink eye shadow.” The grin she gives me is kind of frightening. “Oh yes, I’m going to have a lot of fun painting your face.”
“You scare me sometimes,” I respond, giving myself another once-over in the mirror. I hate to admit it, but she has a point. I do look pretty daring in this. Seeing as this is my last night, I want to make an impression.
I work on my hair while she dries off and gets into her own outfit—it’s a long black skirt with red carnation trim, along with a white blouse and red ringmaster coat that matches my own.
“Twinsies!” she shouts when she puts it on. We stand in the mirror together and admire ourselves. Our bright red and pink and purple clash like none other, but we do sort of match, and it looks pretty darn good. I’d never really wondered what a circus-themed dance would be like, but we definitely look the part.
She quickly throws some product in her hair and poufs it out into jaunty spikes, then expertly applies her own eyeliner and red and black eye shadow. When she’s done, she looks like a punked-out pinup model, complete with bright strawberry lips and fake eyelashes. I didn’t even try to do my own makeup while she got herself ready. I just watched her work and tried to remember what she did, in case I ever got the desire to try it myself.
“Okay,” she says after twenty minutes of primping. “Your turn.”
She brandishes her eyeliner brush like a weapon and gives me a devious grin. “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit.”
She kneels in front of me and brings the brush an inch from my eyelid. “Wait,” she muses, “I thought that sounded wrong. This won’t hurt me a bit. Yeah, that’s right.”
Then, with a giggle, she sets to work.
