Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  Maybe it’d be different if we were older.

  Stable. With less voices telling us we’re naïve and wrong.

  I don’t know. I can’t know.

  An unbearable loss compounds on my chest as I pick up my pen. And I put my hand on the contract with a thousand stipulations. It seems impossible to maintain, but with the threat of the no minors policy, I know I have to.

  I know she will too.

  We’re both not the kind of people who’d destroy other kids for our own gain. We’d choose to be miserable alone first.

  While I flip through the papers to find the signature spaces, something wet glides down my cheek. I rub my face roughly and sign my name.

  I terminate a friendship. A thousand peaceful moments. And the possibility of a happy ending.

  A few minutes later, we shuffle back into the waiting room—and right when Dimitri shuts the office door, I crouch and puke in a potted plant.

  Breathing heavy, I hang onto the wicker vase.

  Nik looks slightly relieved by the outcome, but he’s still in damage-control mode. “We need to talk about what to tell other people. They’ll ask questions about why we were called here and why you’re no longer talking to Baylee.”

  Just completely depleted, I sit on the floor. “Tell them I fucked up.”

  Nik shakes his head once. “It’s too vague. We need an explanation as to why you’re demoted.”

  Nausea roils again.

  “You and Baylee were doing cocaine,” Dimitri suddenly says, as though he’s been concocting this during the entire meeting.

  I narrow my eyes. “What?”

  “Yeah, you did coke.” Dimitri nods, really believing this is a good idea. “I caught you in the costume department snorting drugs together. You’ve been enabling one another—it’s why the company wants you to lose contact. You’ve been demoted because you broke the Wellness Policy.” He laughs. “Fucking brilliant.” Nodding to Nik, he says, “I can spread this like wildfire.”

  I don’t have to ask why he chose cocaine.

  A few of my cousins have been suspended for it. Our profession relies on our bodies, and at times, our jobs are physically painful. Even when we’re in supreme physical condition.

  Stimulants, especially cocaine, can offer a high that not only alleviates pain but makes performing…electric.

  I don’t know from experience. I’ve never tried cocaine. Mostly because I fear Nikolai’s disappointment, and I risk a lot—but I couldn’t risk using drugs.

  “Hey…” I sluggishly pick myself up. “Can you at least make it seem like it was my fault, not hers?” If anyone blasts her for this lie…

  “I’ll try.”

  Nik starts walking away, but he glances over his shoulder, ensuring that I follow. “Let’s go home.”

  He never asks if I’m okay. Maybe because it’s obvious that I’m not. I’m reaping the consequences and taking responsibility for my mistake.

  But the price I paid feels gut-wrenchingly high. And as I leave the offices, a realization hammers inside of me like steel to bone. I will always wonder if we chose wrong. If we chose right.

  I will always return to today and contemplate my one choice. I already feel it tormenting me.

  And suddenly, I think…

  I wish we weren’t given a choice at all.

  Act Four

  1 Year Ago – Las Vegas

  Luka Kotova

  Second meeting with Marc Duval.

  I’m nineteen. I’ve lost the ability to fear him. I’m not terrified of being fired. Not even nervous. In over three years, Aerial Ethereal buried me so far down the roster that I’m surprised they even remember to print my name on the program.

  I have one source of disdain in my life. Just one.

  It’s at him. At Corporate.

  Marc sips from his Aerial Ethereal mug while I sit across his desk. “If this is about what I think it is,” he says, “you can leave. You’re lucky I’m even entertaining this.” He has no name for our spontaneous meeting. I didn’t schedule one.

  He didn’t call me in to chat.

  I heard he was in the Vegas office, and I stormed assuredly through the door with four words. We need to talk.

  “It’s been three and a half years.” I sit on the edge of the chair. “We’ve obeyed every demand you made. We never texted each other. I haven’t even looked at her face.” It’s been hard. Almost impossible.

  But the last memory I have of Baylee is us…being caught behind a costume rack. And then her aunt blocking her from my view.

  Marc just stares at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

  I add, “No one thinks we hooked up in the past. They all think we were caught doing drugs.” And Dimitri doesn’t lie to family. Never has, and never will again. “They’re not going to draw the conclusion that we broke a rule and you offered us our jobs back…” I trail off at the heat in his eyes. “Come on.”

  “Let go of her.”

  I blink slowly, weight mounting on me. I can’t accept it yet. “I’m not asking to date Baylee. I’d like to speak to her.” I sit forward again. “Her eighteenth birthday was yesterday. I just want to wish her a happy birthday and know that you won’t enforce the no minors policy.”

  (Please.)

  Marc shakes his head. “It’s not happening. You’re not being rewarded for honoring a contract that you have to follow.”

  “Can I send her a card?” I try.

  “And what does that do? Other than open the floodgates to a friendship that you can’t have?” Marc actually rolls his eyes in exasperation. “This is exactly why I told you make certain you were sure of your choice…”

  I tune him out.

  Every day I question what I chose.

  Every day of my life I wonder what my world would look like with her in it, but without the circus. Without my family.

  I wonder. I question. And there is no answer.

  Either way, we’d lose something insurmountable. Either way, I’d be grappling with the same grief I do now.

  I catch the tail-end of his lecture as he asks, “Do you even know what you’re fighting for?”

  (Love.)

  Marc says, “I’m going to do you a favor and help you understand so you can let go.”

  (Don’t.)

  “You’re fighting for an adolescent fling from nearly four years ago.”

  I instantly shake my head.

  “No? You’re saying that you still love each other? You’re saying that after years of silence, you truly think you’re the same people you once were? That the juvenile feelings you experienced still exist in some capacity? Luka,” he says, contempt coating my name, “grow up.”

  I look away, my muscles flexed.

  “You’re holding onto an idea. She’s not in love with you anymore. Maybe she never even did—maybe you concocted it all in your head.”

  (Fuck you.)

  “She never hesitated. I gave her the choice, and she grabbed the pen ten times faster than you.”

  I don’t want to believe him. Not even if it’ll hurt less. I don’t want to believe that.

  “Look at me.”

  I force my gaze to his.

  “I’ll say this plainly, Luka. You’re in Viva. She’s in Infini. You have no reason to communicate. If you’d like to speak to her, then I’ll take this as your formal termination. In which case, the no minors policy will be instated—”

  “No,” I say immediately, resigning from this fight. I didn’t come here to tear up the contract and ruin everyone.

  I came here for one open window.

  And he slammed them all shut again.

  “I’m not quitting,” I tell him as I stand.

  “You’ll respect the contract you previously signed?” Marc asks.

  I nod, frozen inside.

  “I need more than a head-nod.”

  “I won’t talk to her.” My voice is hollow. “I won’t look at her.” And maybe, one day, I’ll forget what our lov
e felt like. And I’ll finally stop hanging on.

  “We understand each other then,” Marc says.

  I nod as stiffly as before, and then I exit, my disdain replaced with cold numbness. I realize now that I did have something to lose.

  I lost all hope.

  Act Five

  Baylee Wright

  My Aunt Lucy once said that I’m unnaturally predisposed to shitty situations. That, and I’m far too obsessed with grilled cheese, a boy who is trouble, soca music, and dancing barefoot in living rooms. Sometimes all four were tangled together—in a whacky, just right kind of way.

  Three days ago, right after the hellish moving day for all Aerial Ethereal artists, I found myself in another shitty situation.

  I thought I’d be able to pull myself out of the quicksand. I groveled to Aerial Ethereal and complained to Human Resources, all to be met with your thousand-dollar fine still stands.

  So I’ve succumbed to my shitty fate.

  Technically it wasn’t my fault. Someone stole my last cardboard box, after I already made eight trips upstairs to my new suite. Then after I ran around searching for the box, it somehow turned up in another person’s suite on the 42nd floor at midnight.

  The floor that AE were desperate to have cleaned by 5:00 p.m.

  “The box has your name on it,” they said. “Therefore, you were late on moving and incurred a fine. It doesn’t matter if your suite had been empty. You cluttered another room.”

  Cluttered. It was one neatly packed box.

  Still, the thousand-dollar fine stands.

  I cringe thinking about the depletion in my already low bank account. It’s not like artists make loads of money. Aerial Ethereal tries to justify pay cuts with “oh but you live in a Vegas hotel and casino for free. It’s worth more than your salary”—yeah, but I’d like money to eat too.

  I stand on the carpeted casino floor and wait for my brother.

  Inside the heart of the Masquerade, slots ping all around me. And even though people gamble at velvet card tables and at flashing machines, I’m alone with my sad thoughts.

  “Where are you, Brenden?” I mutter and crane my neck beyond the casino floor. I try to spy my older brother through the hoards of people. Some wheel their suitcases towards the elevators. Others meander along the Masquerade’s indoor cobblestone walkway, which leads to bars, dance clubs, gift shops, and the ginormous pool.

  Everything you could ever desire is at the Masquerade, or so the brochure says.

  I check my phone for any missed texts. My Facebook app is currently up, clicked into a closed group.

  INFINITE LOOPHOLE – TOP SECRET (cast only)

  Description: if you’re a part of this group, then you know what’s up. Narks will suffer severe consequences. Don’t be a nark.

  *pinned post* Meet up at 1842 (for all newbies, 1842 is the name of a bar in the Masquerade hotel. First floor, red disco balls line the hallway it’s on) and arrive no later than 10 p.m. IMPORTANT: do not verbally spread this event to anyone else. Not unless they’re in the same show (refer to post title).

  “Bay.”

  I jump at my nickname and turn around to my tense-faced brother. Usually he wears mirth like another layer of skin. Always friendly. Constantly smiling.

  Then he sees me upset, in any way, and he stiffens to rigid attention. Like he’s a soldier reporting for duty.

  Black hair cut short, he runs a hand over his head, and I watch as he assesses my features for answers. We tell each other almost everything, so he was the first to hear about my plan to beg Human Resources one last time tonight.

  Now he’ll be the first to hear how poorly it went.

  I open my mouth, but he speaks first.

  “No,” he groans, absorbing my dejection. “No, no. They can’t just fine you a grand for doing nothing.” Wearing a green V-neck, charcoal pants, and a spritz of cologne—which suggests a “night out” not confronting HR—he spins towards nowhere really. “I’m going to talk to these idiots.”

  “No you aren’t,” I tell him seriously.

  Slowly, he faces me again.

  I respect his great show of brotherly valor, but I’d never let Brenden sink his reputation or career. Mine is already bruised, so one more complaint from me won’t make much of a difference.

  “Baylee,” he forces my name like I’m being unreasonable.

  “Brenden,” I shoot back. I may prefer to stand in the shadows over commanding the spotlight—I’m not loud or brash and I don’t really like being the center of attention in my personal life—but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a backbone.

  “You’re my little sister,” he argues.

  I always tell him, you’re only one year older.

  He always replies, a year is plenty of time.

  I don’t have the heart for that banter. Honestly, I’m too upset about the situation, and even if I bottle most of the sorrow, it still enlarges a hollow pit inside of me.

  A cavernous hole that I have no idea how to fill.

  “So I’m your little sister,” I say, shrugging tensely. “It won’t change anything. Aerial Ethereal won’t listen to anyone but themselves. You could even have evidence, and they’d still fine me. Can we please just go?” I wave him towards the cobblestone walkway.

  Brenden lets out an incensed breath and then scans my wardrobe.

  I threw on a red cotton dress for Infini’s secret cast party. The outfit is simple like the rest of my wardrobe, and I didn’t even bother fixing my hair. Long and loose curly strands mold my oval face and splay over my A-cups.

  I’m not exactly slender like a contortionist or ballerina, but I’m not muscular and stalky like a typical gymnast either. I have wide hips like my Aunt Lucy and a flat chest like my mom. As a juggler, I have more leeway in how I look than other artists. I’m lucky in the sense that I only need to be fit and in shape.

  Brenden shakes his head at my dress. “That thing is ancient.”

  “What? No it’s not.” I touch the short hem. “I bought it…two years ago, four years…” I stretch my mind. “Oh.” I had this dress when I was fourteen, at least.

  “Yeah. Oh.” He’s not amused. “You should buy new clothes. If you’re worried about money—”

  “It’s not that,” I interject but then go quiet.

  It’s hard to part with things that still have a place in my life. If I’m not being forced to say goodbye to this dress and it still fits, then why wouldn’t I just keep wearing it?

  I touch the fabric, and I remember a moment with a boy I’m not supposed to name. I wore this dress when we were together, traipsing around Brooklyn on a brisk, fall day.

  I try not to picture the moment. I try not to visualize him at all.

  I can’t start walking down a road that has an eighty-foot drop-off into a rocky ravine. There’s only danger at the end of his name. At the end of us.

  I have to remember this. Constantly.

  Before Brenden offers to pay for a shopping spree or cover half of my fine, I speak up.

  “I’m nineteen,” I remind him, “and if I need a new dress, I can always buy it on my own.” I also add, “Aunt Lucy sends me new clothes almost every month, so you really don’t have to worry.”

  Our aunt is a brand & marketing executive for a major NYC and Philadelphia-based fashion company. She’s at the very top of her career, but it wasn’t always that way. When my parents died, a lot changed for my mom’s little sister Lucy. At thirty, she paused her goals, moved to Vegas for us, and took her new role in our lives very seriously.

  I love her more than she may even know.

  Brenden stares at me for a long moment. Maybe he feels our past inside my words. Quietly, he says, “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  “It’s dead in here,” I say to Brenden.

  We step inside 1842, a bar that resembles an old timey speakeasy: dark-green velvet booths, wooden high-top tables, and mood lighting thanks to gothic chandeliers.

  It’s almost com
pletely empty. A bored bartender scrubs the already-shined counter.

  Brenden smiles. “Pessimist.”

  “I’m just calling it how I see it.”

  He lifts up my wristwatch to my face. “We’re also ten minutes early. Do you see that too?”

  I shove his side, playfully enough that my lips start to rise with his. “You’re annoying.”

  “You’re more annoying,” he teases and then nods towards the array of high-top tables.

  I spot a very familiar person in the nearly-empty bar.

  Zhen Li places little card holders on each table. The note reads: infinite loophole. I’m not surprised that Zhen, my brother’s aerial straps partner, created the private Facebook group. Besides it being a very Zhen thing to do, I was there when it happened.

  After two bottles of wine and wild theories about who our co-workers might be, Zhen whipped out his phone and concocted the bizarre plan.

  And I like bizarre things.

  So of course, I helped where I could. I spread the news about the Facebook group to two artists who we were sure would be shifted to Infini, and hopefully they told others about the secret party.

  Zhen notices us and flashes a dazzling smile. He was born and raised in Beijing and started touring with Aerial Ethereal at fourteen. Now twenty-six, he has a lean build and dreamy, picturesque features that melt most of the females in AE. Sunglasses are perched on his head and push back his thick black hair.

  Zhen jokes, “What do you think of the turnout?” His accent inflects his words.

  “Horrible,” I say seriously.

  He smiles wider and then greets Brenden with a hand-grab and hug-pat. “About thirty-five joined the group,” Zhen tells us.

  My brows jump. “Almost half the cast?” I was expecting about ten people out of a cast of fifty. Maybe I am too pessimistic, but I’ve lost a lot in the span of seven years and met way more roadblocks than passageways.

  Zhen tilts his head. “No hope.”

  Brenden chimes in, “Hopeless.” Also tilting his head at me.

  I take a seat on a stool while Zhen says something in Mandarin that probably means some form of no hope and Brenden mimics him perfectly.