We Walked the Sky

by Lisa Fiedler

  “What did you do in the circus?” Kip asked. “Besides juggle, I mean?”

  “I walked the tightrope.”

  “No shit, really? That must have been terrifying.”

  Callie shrugged, because it wasn’t, not for her. “Is surfing terrifying?”

  “Nah. Well, sometimes. Actually I bet you’d pick it up pretty fast. You must have ridiculous balancing skills. Hey, we should—”

  Just then, Jenna came bombing through the door—a whopping thirty-nine minutes late. One leg of her skinny jeans was stylishly rolled at the ankle, while the other was haphazardly tucked into her Chuck Taylor high-tops; her blond ponytail resembled not so much a hairstyle as a nuclear mushroom cloud.

  “Sorry, sorry, I know I’m late. Crazy morning. Let’s get go—” Noticing Kip, she stopped in her tracks, going from frenzied to awkward in a single beat. “Oh. Hey, Kippy.”

  “Hey, Jenz. Long time no chat.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ve been . . . ya know . . .” She trailed off, adjusting her ponytail with a tug.

  “Missed you at croquet practice the last few weeks. Everything okay?”

  “Fine. I’ve, uh, just been picking up some extra shifts at work. Which, unfortunately, didn’t stop them from firing me yesterday.”

  “You got fired?” said Callie. “From Benigno’s?”

  “No, from my CFO position at Google.” Jenna forced a smile. “Yes, Benigno’s. Which means you can forget about ever having another pizza delivered to the Sanctuary.”

  “The animal rescue place?” Kip grinned. “You live there? Wow, this just keeps getting cooler.”

  “Okay, VanDrexel,” said Jenna. “First stop, homeroom. Your last name starts with V, so that’d be Mr. Kurtz, room 127. Let’s roll.” And she swooshed back out the door.

  “Wait,” said Kip. “I feel like I owe you one, ya know, for the juggling tips. Maybe I can buy you lunch?”

  “Oh, um, thanks, but I think I’m good.” Flustered, Callie gave him a clunky wave, grabbed her backpack, and dashed into the hall, where Jenna was already in tour-guide mode. She seemed determined to cram an hour’s worth of orientation into the few remaining minutes before homeroom began.

  “So you’ve seen the library. Stay out of the periodicals section—that’s where all the drug deals go down. And that way”—she flung her arm noncommittally to the right—“is the gymnasium corridor. Self-explanatory, yes? Hey, have you got anything to eat by any chance? I didn’t have breakfast.”

  Callie handed her the apple she was still holding, which Jenna crunched loudly as she hurried on.

  “The science wing is off by itself, that way.” She jerked her thumb to the left. “It’s got orange lockers, no one knows why. The rest of the school has gray ones including the locker rooms, girls and boys, but don’t ask me how I know that because it’s a long story with a PG-13 rating and has nothing to do with our current undertaking. FYI, only science classes take place in the science wing, while all the other academic subjects pretty much peacefully coexist throughout the other three wings of the building, except AP History, which for some reason got exiled last semester to a lecture space behind the band room, maybe to underscore the historical significance of Napoléon Bonaparte? Just a theory. More likely it’s because the super smart kids don’t mind walking those extra six and a half minutes in exchange for weighted grades and college credits. Full disclosure, I’m one of the super smart kids, and it’s not bragging if it’s true.

  “Cafeteria, down that ramp. The burgers are respectable, but the quality of the salad bar operates on a sliding scale, meaning that on Monday everything’s fresh and crisp but by Friday it’s all basically inedible so don’t even attempt. The bathrooms are fair-to-partly-cloudy vis-à-vis cleanliness, but you might want to avoid the one just outside the in-school detention classroom for what I believe are obvious reasons.” Tossing the apple core into a trash can she added, “Oh, and I think you’ll find that most of the teachers here actually give a shit about their students and have a vested interest in helping us to become upstanding citizens and decent human beings. Or, at the very least quasi-literate.”

  They arrived at room 127, which Jenna indicated with a triumphant flourish. “Your homeroom, Ms. VanDrexel. Any questions?”

  “Yes. What’s sex wax?”

  “Um . . . I think it’s a brand name for this stuff surfers rub on their boards. Not a euphemism—it goes on their actual surf boards, for traction I think.” She eyed Callie and grinned. “Shall I assume this is a Kipling Devereaux–related inquiry?”

  Callie said nothing.

  “Well?” Jenna prompted, bending down to roll her unrolled pant leg.

  “He caught me holding his Mr. Zog’s—also not a euphemism—because you were late and I was bored so I took it out of the lost-and-found and used it to juggle with.”

  “Yeah, that would make sense—well, not the juggling part, the Mr. Zog’s part. Kippy surfs before school whenever he can. He’s been doing it since elementary school. The boy’s obsessed.”

  “Was it my imagination or was it weird between you two back there?” Callie asked. Getting involved in the LSJHS social drama wasn’t exactly high on her priorities list, but the awkwardness of the interaction seemed so bizarrely out of character for Jenna she couldn’t help feeling curious.

  “It wasn’t weird,” said Jenna, brushing it off. “And you should probably go inside and get your schedule and your locker combination from Mr. Kurtz before the—”

  She was interrupted by a shrill clanging that had Callie jumping out of her skin.

  “Warning bell,” Jenna finished, grinning. “So how ’bout we meet in the lunchroom fifth period, unless you have a double-period science lab, which would take place in the . . . ?” She trailed off in an upward pitch prompting Callie to fill in the blank.

  “Orange locker wing,” Callie grumbled.

  “Very nice.” Jenna popped up from fussing with her jeans and started to walk away. “Remember, we rendezvous at lunch.”

  “That’s not really necessary.”

  “Callie, it’s lunch. So if you think having someone to sit with isn’t necessary, your circus upbringing clearly did not include adequate access to the classic John Hughes comedies of the eighties, or 10 Things I Hate About You, or—hell—any teen movie ever made starring anybody, in any decade, because if it had, you would know that eating lunch alone in a high school cafeteria is pretty much the worst possible thing that can happen to a carbon-based life-form.”

  “I’ll risk it,” Callie said coolly. “And if I change my mind, Kip offered to buy me lunch. Or maybe I’ll sit with Kristi.” She had no intention of doing either, of course, but if it would get Jenna off her back, she wasn’t above pretending she was considering alternate dining partners.

  Jenna stopped walking. “Are you talking about Kristi Baylor? You’ve only been in this building for ten minutes—”

  “Forty-nine actually. You’ve been here ten.”

  “Fine, I was late. I get it. The question is how do you even know there is a Kristi Baylor?”

  “She came into the library when Kip and I were juggling.”

  Jenna let out a hoot of laughter. “So how’d that go?”

  Horrible. “Fine. She thinks I should juggle at the Ponce de León thing.”

  Another hoot. “Yeah, I bet she does. Callie, let me put this in terms you’ll understand. Having lunch with Kristi Baylor is not something anyone should attempt without a safety net. I’m gonna have to strongly advise against.”

  “I don’t remember asking for your advice.”

  “It’s part of the ‘showing you the ropes’ job description. See, you’re the new girl in our delicate public high school ecosystem, which makes you the algae to Kristi’s red-bellied piranha.”

  “I know,” said Callie, a defensive edge creeping into her voice. “She�
�s a lot.”

  “A lot.” Jenna snorted. “Where’d ya get that?”

  “From Kip.”

  “Well, he should know since until about a month ago they were the proverbial ‘it’ couple. She actually wanted people to refer to them as ‘Kripling,’ which, I’m happy to say, never caught on for what I believe are obvious reasons. Ultimately, they broke up, because the boy does have a brain—and a soul—but my point is he’s a nice guy and he can’t help giving her the benefit of the doubt, even when she doesn’t deserve it. Whatever. Bottom line, end of the day, when the smoke clears and any other idiom you may wish to apply . . . Kristi is about Kristi. This, b-t-dubs, is still me showing you the ropes.”

  “Or maybe this is just you being really aggressive and pushy and out of line, and maybe I’d rather let Kristi show me the ropes.”

  Jenna shrugged. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out. Put your trust in Queen Isabella, although I really hope it turns out better for you than it did for the Emirate of Granada.”

  “I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”

  “I’m saying,” said Jenna, walking away, “if you decide to let Kristi show you the ropes, don’t be surprised when one of them has a noose at the end of it.”

  EIGHT

  New Jersey, 1965

  THE NEXT MORNING, VALERIE wakes me up with this:

  “Payday.”

  I scramble out of bed and into another borrowed ensemble, taking the time to fasten my mother’s brooch to my collar—not out of any sense of style, of course; it’s just that I’m still a little uneasy about letting it out of my sight.

  “Nice pin,” Valerie notes. “Looks expensive.”

  “Kind of,” I fib. “I wasn’t going to wear it, but—”

  When Valerie smiles, she looks like a cross between a prima ballerina and a dainty wood nymph. “If you’re worried somebody’s going to steal it, don’t be. Despite what you may have heard about ‘circus folk,’ that’s not how we operate. Everyone around here’s pretty happy with what they’ve got, even if it isn’t a whole hell of a lot.”

  It’s such a simple statement, but it shoots a pang of longing through my heart. I come from a life where the price of diamonds was nothing compared to the cost of happiness.

  “And I suppose that’s a good thing,” she muses, “since lately there’s been a lot less to go around.”

  She doesn’t elaborate, and since I’m only here temporarily, I don’t see any reason to ask her to.

  We exit the train to find everyone gathering outside the Big Top. Cornelius stands at the front of the crowd. There’s a boy on his left—his older son, Gideon, according to Val—holding a thick pile of envelopes. James is on his right, with his hands in his pockets, looking uninterested, impatient. For all I know, he’s got the governor’s niece waiting for him in his train car.

  He catches me looking at him and he throws me a wink; I’m irritated by the way it makes my stomach flip.

  When everyone has assembled, Cornelius chortles out a hearty “Good morning, my darlings, my coconspirators, my beloved children.”

  Nodding to Gideon to start handing out the pay envelopes, Cornelius goes on. “As you’re all acutely aware, we have recently come up against some . . . unexpected . . . costs.”

  Here, Gideon pauses in his distribution duties to shoot James a ferocious look, to which James responds by casually giving his brother the finger. This doesn’t seem to surprise anyone.

  The air fills with the sound of envelopes crinkling open as the circus performers check their weekly pay. Given the Ringmaster’s announcement, I expect to hear some rumblings of disappointment, but there isn’t a single grumble nor sigh of complaint. As Cornelius continues, I can’t shake the feeling I’m witnessing King Henry delivering his St. Crispin’s Day speech to the troops.

  “Take heart, my good comrades,” Cornelius urges, his voice as booming and jovial as if he’s announcing the fire-eater’s entrance into the center ring. “I have every confidence our revenue stream will steadily increase as this incomparable season progresses. For the time being, we’ll all just have to tighten our belts—or in my case, cummerbund—as we’ve done so many times before. Please do accept my heartfelt apologies for this week’s financial inconvenience, and remember, the show must go on!”

  The cast echoes his expression in a rousing chorus, like a wedding toast. Or a battle cry: “The show must go on.”

  As the crowd disperses with their meager earnings, undaunted—perhaps even inspired—to carry out their morning tasks, Gideon approaches me. Thanks to the advance Cornelius gave me yesterday, I will not be receiving a pay envelope.

  “Cornelius would like to see you in his office,” he says.

  It feels like the circus equivalent of being sent to the principal. An icy tingle ripples across the back of my neck.

  I follow Gideon toward the Ringmaster’s train car, where both Cornelius and James are standing just outside the door. I wonder fleetingly if James is waiting for me. Then I wonder why I wondered; for God’s sake, the boy taught me to shovel shit—we’re not exactly courting. Besides, it’s immediately clear from the way he’s glaring at his father that he’s barely even registered my arrival.

  “You didn’t have to say that,” James snarls at Cornelius. “About the extra costs.”

  “Why wouldn’t he say it?” snaps Gideon. “They have a right to know why their salaries are being cut. Veterinary specialists don’t come cheap, little brother. And neither does hush money.”

  “First of all, Boo needed that medication and you know it. And second of all, it wasn’t hush money.”

  “Really? What would you call being forced to pay off the Montpelier police commissioner because his daughter came home from your date with her dress inside out?”

  I immediately drop my gaze to my sneakers. I shouldn’t be hearing this.

  “What were you thinking, James?” Gideon persists. “You’re so damned impulsive. So reckless. Just like your mother.”

  I sense Cornelius stiffen, and keep my eyes low. I really shouldn’t be hearing this.

  “Couldn’t you have behaved responsibly for one night?” Gideon thunders.

  “I could have,” James fires back, “but apparently, the commissioner’s daughter couldn’t. And neither could the motorcycle-riding juvenile delinquent she ditched me for five minutes into our date. So whatever was going on with that chick’s dress had nothing to do with me.”

  This revelation brings Gideon up short, which has James looking smug.

  “Maybe next time you should be the one to squire the local girls around,” James baits. “I mean, what girl wouldn’t be thrilled at the prospect of dating the guy the newspapers keep calling VanDrexel’s assistant lion tamer—”

  Gideon cuts him off with a right hook to the jaw. The next thing I know, the two are rolling around on the ground, throwing punches.

  To my shock, Cornelius doesn’t intervene. Then after a minute of letting them get it out of their system, he bellows, “Enough,” and the brawl comes to an immediate and definitive halt. Both boys clamber to their feet, brushing the dirt from their clothes. Unfortunately, Gideon isn’t quite finished.

  “You know what it means if we’re broke, James? It means we can’t afford to send you on the ridiculous European tour you’re always blathering about. Did you ever think about that? Christ, if I had the money, I’d send you myself. It would be nice not to have to clean up your messes for a while.”

  “You’d like it if I was gone, wouldn’t you,” James retorts, rubbing his jaw. “Then maybe Dad would start paying attention to you for once.”

  Gideon makes to lunge again, but Cornelius’s hand goes to the whip at his waist and Gideon steps back. I suspect the gesture is purely symbolic, as I doubt that this man would ever resort to violence against anyone, let alone his own sons.

  Now Cornelius
turns to James. “Why didn’t you just tell us the girl went off with someone else?”

  James gives his father a wry smile. “What would have been the point? The money was gone, and Gideon had already convinced you I was to blame. Did he tell you again that I can’t be trusted? That I should have no say in the business? Be honest: how long did it take him to remind you that I’m so damned much like my mother?”

  A shadow of heartache darkens the Ringmaster’s eyes. “My boy, the fact that you are like Helen is not a flaw, but a blessing. It is precisely what makes you—”

  “The favorite,” Gideon mutters under his breath.

  “The charismatic, free-spirited, charming young man that you are,” Cornelius finishes.

  Strangely, James does not look particularly pleased with this assessment. Slicing one last look at Gideon, he turns and stomps off. A moment later, Gideon does the same.

  With a toss of his head, Cornelius turns to me, as if only just remembering he’s called me to his office. Then he flashes his Ringmaster’s smile.

  “Now then,” he says, stepping aside for me to enter the train car. “Shall we have our little talk?”

  * * *

  • • •

  The first thing I notice when I enter Cornelius’s office is that there are two open newspapers on his desk.

  One is the Boston Globe.

  My heart turns to ice. He sees that I’ve noticed.

  “I always make it a point to read the reviews of our previous shows,” he says breezily. “In my line of work, it’s important to know what sort of impression you’ve left behind.”

  I nod feebly, and he gives me a smile, all sparkle but no mirth. Then he fishes into his pocket, pulls out some change, and tosses a dime onto the open paper. “I thought perhaps you’d be interested in having a gander.”

  He makes to leave, but on his way to the door he pauses to give me the rest of the change. Then he places his hand gently on the crown of my head, like a blessing. And he’s gone.