I screwed up in the hallway, but at this point, I don’t really care. If Geoffrey has the power to demote me, then so be it. He demotes me. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. I live for the art and my family, and I doubt he has the authority to take either away from me.
I’m nonchalant. Calm. I drape my arm over my bent knee and everyone else pauses their stretches while Geoffrey appraises the whole cast.
My eyes flit to Bay. She keeps glancing in the direction of the locker room. Like she really wants to grab her phone to check her email.
She cares. I smile again.
She cares.
I nod to myself.
And then Geoffrey steals my attention. “There’s no time for hugs and hand-shakes. I’m not your friend. I’m here to push you to be your very best, and it’s your job to give it to an audience. Every time.”
Some artists nod, but most of us stay still and just listen.
“To start, I’ll read off the completed act list, and then we’ll briefly discuss the narrative of Infini.” He grips the clipboard, licks his finger, and flips a page. “Act list is as follows, including the participants. Listen closely for your name. Act one.”
I stare off and absorb Infini’s program:
Act 1: Dance & Floor Acrobatics (opening)
Act 2: Contortion
Act 3: Aerial Hoops
Act 4: Juggling
Act 5: Wheel of Death
(intermission)
Act 6: High-Risk Trampoline
Act 7: Clown Trio
Act 8: Aerial Straps Duo
Act 9: Hand-to-Hand Balancing
Act 10: Russian Swing (finale)
Geoffrey calls me out for four acts (1, 5, 6, and 10): the Opening Dance, Wheel of Death, High-Risk Trampoline, and Russian Swing. I expected to be a part of those. I even expected Bay to be called for Act 1 and Act 4: the opening and juggling.
What I didn’t expect—what makes zero sense—is why Baylee is called for trampoline. Act 6.
Bay’s eyes grow, mouth slowly falling. As stunned as her brother. As the rest of us. She’s only ever participated in her juggling act and the opening.
But beyond that, trampoline is notoriously an all-Kotova act.
Chatter explodes, and Geoffrey doesn’t take Marc’s approach by shushing uneasy crowds with the raise of a hand.
He literally says, “Shut the hell up.”
I can’t even be surprised at this point.
The cast quiets, and Dimitri simmers silently, his face full of hard lines. He’s a proponent of you must give respect to earn respect. Although Dimitri’s definition of “respect” doesn’t always equate to everyone else’s.
“What’d I say before?” Geoffrey takes measured steps around the inner-circle, eyeing us. “You listen and you comply. No backtalk. We’ll put on a great show if you accept these changes without falter and work your asses off.”
I catch Baylee nodding in agreement, determination narrowing her eyes. She’d do anything for Infini’s survival. I already know this.
“As of now, the narrative for Infini will not change, including stage decorations and original scores.”
Baylee lets out an audible breath, and I realize now that she must’ve been worried about the fate of the music, all composed by her mom.
“Expect new costumes. Fittings will take place much later. The atrocious choreography is more pressing.”
I can tell that several artists are biting their tongues.
“Someone stand up,” Geoffrey says, “and briefly describe Infini’s story to the newcomers.”
At first no one offers. An awkward beat passes before Zhen rises to his feet.
Clearing his threat, Zhen explains, “The audience follows a girl just as she goes to sleep. The first five acts, she travels through an imaginative nightmare that tries to seduce her. After intermission, she reaches the dreamscape. The last five acts, she celebrates the infinite realms of enchantment and revelry. Where lastly, she wakes from bed.” Zhen smiles. “The end.”
We all clap. I whistle using my fingers.
Zhen takes a bow, and right as Geoffrey is about to speak, Zhen kindly translates his previous words in Mandarin for a group of new girls.
I’ve never seen Zhen rub anyone the wrong way, but Geoffrey huffs loudly, outwardly agitated. When Zhen finishes, Geoffrey shoots him a look and snaps, “You done now?”
Zhen nods, tensed.
Geoffrey tightens his grip on his clipboard. “How many of you can’t speak English?” he asks.
Some artists mutter the question in different languages so others can understand. Besides Russian, I hear Japanese and Portuguese.
Slowly, artists begin to raise their hands. I count about fifteen out of fifty.
As I gauge Geoffrey’s reaction, I get why Dimitri called him a fart-face. His forehead crinkles, cheeks pulling upward, and his lip curls like he needs to take a really big shit.
But come on—Aerial Ethereal employs athletes and performers from all over the globe. This isn’t a new development. Language barriers are common and expected. It’s a part of our job, and our shows are better for hiring based on talent, not on whether we all know English.
Dimitri gestures towards the choreographer, and in Russian, he says, “Welcome to the circus.”
I laugh with all my cousins.
Geoffrey isn’t amused. At all. “If you speak English, keep it in English unless you have to communicate with someone who can’t understand.”
Brenden rolls his eyes and leans into Baylee to whisper, probably voicing his irritation. He’s good at speaking a lot of languages—I wouldn’t forget how smart he is.
The choreographer continues scrutinizing each one of us.
I pull my arm over my chest in a stretch, and I try to recall Geoffrey’s credentials. I looked them up once. He’s from Montreal. Maybe. I think he previously worked with a full French cast, and this has to be different for him.
Especially since AE fired most of the translators this year, deeming them “unnecessary”. Corporate tries to cut costs where they can.
(One day they’re going to chop off their own fucking foot.)
Geoffrey straightens his blazer. “As most of you know, the part of The Girl was once played by Adelia.” The Girl connects the whole story together, and she’s basically the only performer who appears in every act. Even if she’s just standing on stage left, reacting to the other acts in front of her.
Bay knew Adelia better than I did. I think she was in her thirties, and last I heard, she was transferred to Noctis, a touring show.
“This year, The Girl will be played by someone else. I’d like you all to welcome a familiar face.” Geoffrey extends his arm towards the left, and our heads turn—what?
I know her.
Even before he says her name.
“Milla Baiul.”
The little Ukrainian girl practically skips merrily into the center of the circle, hands cupped together. Light chestnut hair, sheet-straight, touches her waist. Milla is only eight, and she used to be a part of Viva. The show that I was in. Where Katya is now.
And Milla’s parents perform on trapeze in Viva too.
Infini hasn’t employed children this young since it moved to Vegas. We’re all shocked.
Minors.
Minors.
Children. Dreams. I wonder if this is Marc Duval’s way of showcasing the consequence that stops me from breaking the contract. That stops Bay from even looking at me.
The threat of the no minors policy is glaring us down.
I miss the applause for Milla, and Zhen makes room for her to join the circle. She drops down by his side.
“Now for the schedule,” Geoffrey says, “you have exactly sixty days to master your acts, perform stage and costume rehearsals flawlessly. We will go live in two months. We’ve already started selling tickets, so there’s absolutely no room for complaints.”
Sixty days seems impossible. It’d be fine if these were minor tweaks to
the set choreography, but he wants to trash half of what existed.
The tension is palpable. My muscles strain, and I try hard to reason with myself, to believe that I can do whatever he throws at me.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
Geoffrey circles us like a hawk. “There are two stages inside the Masquerade and three shows. The fact that Infini has its own stage is a privilege that none of you”—he waves his finger across us—“have earned yet. Prove to me that you deserve to be on that stage.”
His motivational speech should encourage most of us, but my cousins look incited, not excited. Their arms are crossed. Glowering.
I raise my brows at my younger cousin Abram. When he catches my gaze, his angst-ridden features soften a little.
“I have a sheet for each act, describing what should be included in your routine,” Geoffrey continues. “Today, I’ll be walking around and working with each of you. You’ll practice your individual acts except for those who are in High-Risk Trampoline. You all need to work together now. It has the most choreography changes.”
I risk a glance at Baylee. Almost undetectable, fear crosses her face.
We accept a lot of changes every new season, but there are some that can completely knock you off your feet. For Bay, this has to be one of those.
(I’ll help her.)
I’m allowed to do that, at least.
Act Ten
Baylee Wright
“You want me to what?” I had to have heard Geoffrey wrong. What he’s asking—it’s out of my wheelhouse. It’s impossible. Sure, I’m equipped in basic tumbling, rhythmic gymnastics, and technical juggling, which involves instinct, balance, good hand-eye coordination, and lots of practice.
But the last time I jumped on a trampoline, I must’ve been nine or ten. All I did was a simple backflip and a toe-touch. I was the cute little kid that peopled “awed” at.
I’m not a cute little kid anymore. I can’t get away with rudimentary skills.
On top of this news, I looked at my cellphone and read the email from Marc. I haven’t seen Luka since, but I’m about to and my stomach keeps fluttering like I’m headed for a first date.
Which is so inaccurate.
I’m at work. Not a date. I wish my body would recognize that all Marc did was allow us to talk without punishment. And it feels…
There are no words.
We’ve never been given this much slack. I couldn’t even pry my hand off my mouth while reading the email, too astonished. Too consumed by the idea of him talking to me. Of me talking to him.
It’s the little things that I want. The little things that I’ll never take for granted.
So I’m nervous about Luka. I’m nervous about being a part of trampoline. First day jitters are real and at a maximum right now.
Geoffrey barely glances at me as we walk towards the back room of AE’s gym. The trampoline apparatus is too large to be set up in the main area, so it’s relegated to a quieter, more private section.
“It’s simple,” Geoffrey says like I’m wasting his time asking again. “You’re going to perform a variety of juggling tricks on the trampoline. Seven-ball backcrosses, one-handed patterns, fountains, cascades—all of that and more.”
No, he just said that I’d be doing an eight-ball, seven-up pirouette on someone else’s shoulders. What is an eight-ball, seven-up pirouette? I have eight juggling balls, at one point all seven are out of my hands, and I spin three-sixty degrees before catching the balls.
It’s hard enough doing that on the ground. Let alone a trampoline. But sitting on someone else’s shoulders? It means that they spin me. We spin together.
They control the rate in which I turn and catch. If I see something wrong with my tosses, I can’t even spin slightly left or right to correct myself and grab the balls. I have to rely on someone else.
On a Kotova.
Because High-Risk Trampoline is traditionally all-male, all-Kotova.
Eight of them, to be exact.
Luka.
Luka is one of them. I shut my eyes in a tight blink, trying not to think about him. Trying not to feel a thing.
Realizing I have nothing else to say, Geoffrey leaves my side and we enter the back room. I can’t complain to the choreographer.
I’m sure he’d just tell me the colloquial, “The circus is about making the impossible possible. So do it.”
Dimitri shuts the door behind me, and when I face the apparatus, my stomach nosedives. The monstrous trampoline is long enough that it’ll stretch across the entire stage. Hoisted fifteen feet off the ground, four poles on each corner jut upwards.
The poles scare me.
About twenty feet above the trampoline’s net, mini-trampolines are secured to the poles. Higher up, and I spot tiny black-metal platforms on those same four poles.
So one monstrous trampoline.
Four tinier trampolines.
Four pole platforms.
And a gray forty-foot back wall.
Since this act is part of the dreamscape, the back wall is usually painted periwinkle blue onstage, cotton fluff attached to resemble a sky. I remember the angelic costumes from New York: white spandex, shimmery gold detail. It made all the guys look like celestial gods.
I always thought Luka looked hot, and he was just a boy back then.
Stop thinking. About him.
I drop my sports bag off my shoulder, juggling balls and clubs inside. All of the Kotovas already begin scaling the poles to reach the trampoline. Effortlessly, they use their hands and balls of their feet to shimmy up to the taut net.
Yeah…I don’t know if I can do that. There aren’t ladders. Seriously, the only way up is by one of four poles.
Geoffrey begins giving them direction, and I hang back and rummage in my sports bag. I hear him talk about me, and my neck heats.
“You’ll be assisting Baylee with an eight-ball, seven-up pirouette, among other tricks. One ball falls, and the entire act will be ruined. You must work closely together…” he trails off. “Baylee, get up there.”
Great.
I gather my red-and-orange stitched balls, four gripped in each hand, and I approach the apparatus. On the trampoline’s taut surface, all eight of the Kotovas stand in a line.
Confident. Intimidating. Gray eyes radiating with charisma—I forget how magnetic they are together, side-by-side.
Even if I haven’t spoken one-on-one to all of them, I know who they are. Dimitri and his two younger brothers: Anton and Robby. Then there’s Luka and Sergei.
Plus twenty-five-year-old twins Matvei and Erik, and their younger brother Abram.
Don’t look at Luka.
Don’t look at Luka.
It’s easier concentrating on work if I avoid, but it also heightens something inside of me. Tension? Nerves? All of the above?
“Dimitri,” I call out the tallest and largest Kotova. “Catch.” Easily, I throw each ball to Dimitri, and he collects them for me.
I sprint to the front-left metal pole, encased in a rubber material. I grip it and try to use my bicep and quad strength to scale this thing. Six feet up, I slip and slide down.
Ouch.
The rubber burns my palms, and I wipe my hands roughly on my thighs.
“Baylee.”
My stomach backflips at Luka’s voice. I turn my head, just as he lies down and reaches over the metal frame of the trampoline. He extends two hands for me to grab hold.
I’m trying to restrain my emotion, but it barrels forward. Flooding me full. Luka’s compassion softens his eyes, and he gestures me forward with both hands like, it’s okay.
I nod as though saying: I read the email.
His nose flares a little, smothering his own sentiments, too.
I dazedly walk towards Luka Kotova. Like I’m the girl in Infini’s dreamscape. Dimitri isn’t yanking him away from me, and Geoffrey—I glance once at the choreographer. Impatient, he taps his foot repeatedly and points at Luka, telling me to hurry
into his arms.
It reinforces the unbelievable notion—that this is allowed.
We’re allowed to touch.
I blink, suppressing water that tries to well.
This is allowed.
It rattles my bones. I blow out a short breath, and Luka nods at me the closer I approach. I hate being the one that keeps everyone waiting. I hate being the one who consumes all the extra attention. A weird pit wedges between my ribs, so I pick up my pace.
I stand beneath Luka Kotova. Half his torso off the trampoline to grab me.
And despite all that we’ve been through—despite aching to just look at him, to take five-trillion years to absorb every detail of his features—there’s no hesitation between us now. No pause or reluctance.
I jump as high as I can jump, and Luka seizes my wrists. Easily, he lifts me up, his muscles flexing. Biceps supremely sculpted, even more so than I recall from our past.
Wow.
He’s older. I see how much older again.
I see how much time I missed.
My feet gracefully meet the trampoline, and his hands stay still on my wrists, warming me. Skin-to-skin. We breathe deeply. Inhaling raw breath.
I feverishly soak in his chiseled, charming features, afraid that this is the only time I have with him.
Afraid it’ll all be taken away again.
He’s beautiful. Inside. Outside. All of him.
His eyes dance across my face, as though he’s remembering a thousand moments together. As though he’s protecting this new memory from harm. From destruction and erasure. Luka licks his lips and then tries to draw me closer, towards his firm chest.
Dimitri grasps the back of his shirt and tugs him away from me. We’re physically separated in probably a snap-second, even if it seemed longer.
I try to shake out my feelings, still dazed as Dimitri passes me the juggling balls.
Geoffrey points at the apparatus as he speaks. “For now, let’s have Baylee sit on the back-left platform before we add her in.”
How the hell do I get on the back-left platform? I think and then realize, I jump.
The Kotovas let me tackle this on my own and stand on the metal edge while loosely gripping the poles. With a big breath, I swallow my fear and begin to jump.
Infini Page 10