Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  The text isn’t from Brenden.

  Come dance with me at Hex!! I’ll be there at 1 :DD – Timo

  I wonder how many people have been texting Luka tonight.

  Luka sees the message from his little brother. “I’ll reply back later.”

  Another text.

  Ok – Brenden

  That’s better than before, at least.

  Luka stands and gestures to the bathroom, where he’s headed, but before he leaves, he says, “You can look at my messages.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I can tell you’re curious.”

  I am curious, but I’m afraid I’ll see something I won’t want to know.

  “Okay,” is all I say before he disappears. I waver but then tap into his feed of text messages from the top senders.

  Timo’s going to Hex tonight. Can you keep an eye on him? – Nik

  How do you have a fake ID and I don’t have one? :( -- Katya

  The next thread is from earlier tonight, so Luka has already replied.

  Send me a pic of your blind date – Dimitri

  No. – Luka

  She that ugly? – Dimitri

  stfu – Luka

  Someone needs to get laid. – Dimitri

  It’s normal. Nik being concerned and asking Luka for help. Katya getting older. Dimitri being crude. I like that he let me see his family-life.

  When Luka returns, I use the bathroom and then we order room service: creamy pasta, which I only eat when I don’t have practice the next day, and a bottle of whiskey.

  I curl up against him on the bed, and we spend the next couple of hours eating, drinking (a lot), laughing (even more), and watching old reruns of Princesses of Philly.

  “Wait, shh,” I say as one of the most climactic scenes of PoPhilly appears on screen. I lie against Luka’s chest, and he leans against the headboard, his arm draped over my shoulder, and we both sip our fourth—fifth or sixth glass of whiskey?

  I don’t know.

  Maybe less, maybe more. Who’s counting?

  Luka is smiling, near-laughter. Where I’m a passionate-talker drunk, he’s a happy drunk.

  On-screen, an altercation breaks out between Loren Hale’s half-brother and the youngest Calloway sister’s model boyfriend.

  Punches are thrown, and then Julian, the boyfriend, touches his swollen eye and glares at Daisy Calloway, his young teenage girlfriend. But Julian and Daisy are no longer together, for obvious reasons.

  “You’re just going to f**king stand there?!” Julian yells at her.

  “What do you want from me?” Daisy Calloway looks petrified of her own boyfriend.

  Watching the show, Luka grows more serious, his lips down-turning. “I really hope this is all staged.”

  I know what he means. I want to reach through the television and protect Daisy Calloway.

  Julian retorts, “For you to give me back months of my life that I wasted with you, you stupid c**t.”

  “Jesus,” Luka mutters like he’s never seen the episode before, but this scene is still hard to watch the tenth time. I lower the volume. And he suddenly says, “I’m terrified of my sister growing up.”

  “Technically she’s already grown up.”

  Luka looks down at me. “You know she’s been saving up her money for something—and I don’t even know what it is.”

  “Makeup,” I say.

  “What?” He scrunches his face, but smiles wide.

  I sip my whiskey and laugh off his smile. “You know makeup is really expensive.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” I kind of slur. I can’t believe I’m slurring, but then I can. “I guess it costs a lot to produce and package eye shadow and lipstick—”

  He laughs. “No, Bay, why is she spending all this money on makeup?”

  I shrug. “She’s figuring out who she is, and she wants to be more Posh-like.”

  Luka nods, comprehending it now. “I guess it’s better than what I thought.”

  “Which was?”

  “She was saving up for a plane ticket to see our parents.”

  I don’t see why that’s bad, and he must read my expression because he adds, “According to Nik, they really don’t want to see any of us since we’d have to take days off work. Be professional.”

  The way he says be professional, I have a feeling he’s mimicking his father.

  His phone suddenly chimes. Mine buzzes.

  We search in the depths of the twisted sheets and covers, and I finally find my phone the same time as him.

  Email notification.

  We both read silently.

  Date: February 28th

  Subject: MANDATORY PRACTICE TOMORROW

  From: GeoffreyLesage, Choreographer

  Bcc: Baylee Wright, and other undisclosed recipients

  Infini Artists:

  I was not impressed by your clear lack of motivation today. No more lunch breaks. You don’t have tomorrow off. In fact, there are no free days from here on out. Be on Infini’s stage at 5 a.m. sharp tomorrow.

  No exceptions.

  Geoffrey Lesage

  Infini Choreographer

  geoffreylesage@mailme.com

  Holy shit.

  It’s already 3 a.m.

  We have practice in two hours.

  “Fuck,” Luka curses. Fuck feels like an understatement. I’m drunk. I ate heavy food, and chances are, more than half of Infini’s cast is completely and totally wasted.

  Act Twenty-Four

  Baylee Wright

  46 Days to Infini’s Premiere

  “What the hell was that shit-show?” Geoffrey nearly yells, shutting off the opening score to Infini before it plays through.

  Dripping in sweat, 47 hung-over artists—including me—are scattered across the stage of a beautiful globe auditorium dedicated to Infini.

  We’ve performed the opening dance and acrobatic sequence fifteen times already. I also have to juggle eight clubs, so I’m desperately trying not to drop one. My head pounds like a jackhammer lives inside my eardrums. I breathe deeply through my nose, and sweat continuously slides down my temples.

  Everyone looks just as awful.

  Most of the Kotovas are crouched with hands on their heads to keep from puking. Across the stage from me, Luka kneels and concentrates on one spot of the floor.

  Beside me, Brenden shuts his eyes from the glaring lights and sways close to Zhen, who wears dark Ray Ban sunglasses for the same reason my brother won’t open his eyes.

  I already told Brenden that I was drinking whiskey alone in my room, which spiked his worry, but at least he didn’t think I was with Luka.

  Geoffrey scrutinizes us from the midnight-blue velveteen seats down below. This auditorium is identical to the one Amour and Viva share except for the color of the chairs (theirs are red) and the max occupancy.

  Their auditorium is intimate and small.

  Infini’s is grandiose and way too big. We have double the amount of seats that we need to fill. Which means double the pressure.

  Brenden opens one eye to look at the trio of women sitting comfortably in the front row. He sways towards me and whispers, “I wish I were a clown.”

  They’re exempt from Geoffrey’s commands because they’re not on stage during the opening number.

  I whisper back, “You’re not funny enough to be a clown.”

  Zhen laughs beneath his breath.

  Brenden nudges me, his lips rising. I nudge back. He forgave me for being standoffish about an hour into practice. Nothing mends tiny spats faster than shared misery.

  “Again,” Geoffrey emphasizes. “This time try to look less dead in the eyes.” I’m surprised he hasn’t found a whistle yet.

  We all sluggishly move in the wings, hidden from view while Milla, the little Ukrainian girl, remains center-stage. She’s the first person the audience sees, and as my mom’s score starts playing, I inhale deeply and nod my head, listening for my cue.

  I’m next.
<
br />   The second person on stage is me. I walk and juggle all eight clubs around Milla.

  “Look alive!” Geoffrey shouts.

  I try to emote, but nausea brews viciously. I perform various tricks, catching and tossing clubs high and fast. It’s more subconscious. Like typing on a computer or driving. So I don’t have to think a lot, but I’m leaning backwards more than I like.

  Honestly, as soon as Luka, Robby, and Abram do full twisting triple layouts in sync onto the stage, followed by so many Kotovas—it’s all a blur around me. Ordered chaos. Handstands on top of another person’s shoulders. Acrobatic floor work. Dancing to the rhythmic drum beat.

  Everyone claps twice.

  I spin three-sixty. My stomach hates me. I catch a club. Toss. Catch.

  Clap. Clap.

  I spin again and join the dance sequence while juggling. Brenden slips on the sweaty stage but catches himself.

  Clap. Clap.

  I’m going to throw up.

  Anton bumps into Sergei on accident, and the music screeches to a halt. We all skid to a stop too, and I lose control of a club. It clatters on the stage, the noise echoing and basically broadcasting my failure. Thank you for that.

  I feel too many eyes on me.

  “Bucket!” Dimitri shouts from stage right. Grabbing a tin pail, he slides it across the stage. It reaches his little brother, Anton, who immediately vomits into it.

  Collective, nauseated groans ring out. I have to squat and set down my clubs. My hand is on my mouth. Don’t gag.

  Don’t gag.

  I risk a glance at Luka, the length of the stage separating us again. He watches me, breathing as heavily as all the Kotovas, mostly from their athletic performance.

  Don’t gag.

  Erik joins Anton, retching in a second bucket.

  I gag.

  Luka’s eyes grow in concern.

  Swallow. I swallow puke in my throat, and my brother crouches beside me, a hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t think about it,” Brenden coaches in a whisper.

  It’d be easier if I didn’t hear a chorus of vomiting. I keep my hand firmly planted to my mouth, and Geoffrey climbs onto the stage. We all tense as he struts around us and surveys our clearly hung-over state.

  “Embarrassing,” he says with a curled lip, wearing a black blazer on top of an ‘90s concert tee. Giving away his age. “Am I wasting my time? Do you not even care about your own jobs? Really, what am I doing here?”

  Many noses flare, suppressing irritation. No one back-talks, knowing AE hierarchy, and I bite down, also submerging more nausea.

  Infini’s fate means everything to me, but we had no time to prepare for this practice. I don’t want to believe that today’s fuck-ups will jeopardize the future of the show.

  While Geoffrey pauses, six more artists retreat to buckets and backstage. Puking.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Geoffrey says, shaking his head. “Again.”

  We can’t.

  No one moves.

  “Did you not hear me?” Geoffrey asks, his wild enraged eyes perusing us.

  Zhen speaks for the cast, our unofficial captain. “Essential artists in the dance sequence are currently indisposed.” It’s the nice way of saying their heads are in puke buckets.

  I wait for Geoffrey to call off practice, but I’m expecting too much.

  “You’ll improvise,” he says. “That’s what you do when someone falls ill, is it not?”

  “Yes, but we never lose this many cast members at once.”

  “There’s a first for everything. Again!”

  We reluctantly stand and restart the opening. I gather my clubs. I try so hard to stifle nausea that my eyes burn and well. Once more, it’s all a blur.

  I’m on stage juggling. Everyone performs around me.

  Clap. Clap.

  I spin too slowly, and a club nearly crashes down on my head. I dodge just in time, the club striking the floor, and I run to the side of the stage. Finding an already-filled puke bucket, I vomit up brown whiskey and pasta.

  The music cuts off for the umpteenth time.

  “Get it all out,” Geoffrey hollers at hopefully more than just me. “When you’re done purging your apathy, line up.”

  I wish I listened to Luka and threw up before practice, but I didn’t want to encourage bulimia, which he has always struggled with. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s gone through phases of fighting against it and letting it control him.

  Until this morning, I had no idea where he was mentally in the spectrum of combatting and giving in.

  But he stuck his middle finger down his throat without any hesitation.

  I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, pausing for a moment, and I rotate slightly to see the jagged line of artists who are currently “composed” enough to stand.

  Drenched in sweat, Luka, Dimitri, Sergei, Zhen, Brenden, amongst others line up—and a lot more kneel off to the side, sick.

  My brother and Luka watch me, their heads turned while everyone else stares at the velveteen seats. And then they acknowledge each other with weird grimaces. I don’t have the energy to care about their clashing feelings right now, but Luka needs to stand down if we’re going to keep our hook-ups secret.

  Thankfully, Luka backs off, tearing his gaze away from me.

  I rise to my feet, hunched over. Hand on my hip. I make sure I don’t have a second wave before I join the line. I avoid the middle and slip into the right side, hoping to hide from Geoffrey.

  A good chunk of the cast is still missing, and the choreographer paces the length of our uneven line. He eyes each one of us up and down.

  “You.” Geoffrey stops and points.

  I go rigid.

  For some unearthly reason, he picks me out of the line and gestures for me to approach him.

  I near the choreographer.

  “Can you roll up your sleeves?” he asks me.

  This is strange. “Yeah?”

  “Do it.”

  I roll up the sleeves of my black Adidas shirt, and he inspects my arms. I glance back at Brenden, and he mouths, what the fuck, at me. I shake my head once, just as confused.

  I’ve never seen the Kotovas so on edge either. Half of them are whispering, probably in Russian.

  Geoffrey tries to peer at my shoulder blades, but I can’t exactly roll the fabric off that part of my body. “Are you wearing a sports bra?”

  “You’re not allowed to ask that,” Dimitri, of all people, interjects.

  There’s an audible inhale from many of us.

  “I would know,” Dimitri adds, “I attended a sexual harassment seminar.”

  There’s a collective laugh, but the noise sputters out at Geoffrey’s glower. “If I want to hear from you, Dimitri, I’ll call on you. Otherwise, shut up.”

  I wince at that exchange.

  Dimitri grimaces and forces a fuck you smile—but he remains quiet.

  Geoffrey faces me, waiting for a response.

  “I am wearing a sports bra,” I confirm.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  Whoa.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Luka stepping forward, but Dimitri yanks him forcefully back. My brother similarly tries to intervene, but Zhen is speaking to him.

  We all have to choose our battles, and this feels insignificant since I don’t mind taking off my shirt. I’ve worked out in just a sports bra before, but if I felt uncomfortable, it’d be a different story. Because I’d definitely refuse his request.

  I pull my sopping shirt off my head, and he examines my back, nodding to himself.

  “I thought I saw old burn marks on your arms and shoulders yesterday but I wasn’t sure. Now I am.” Geoffrey motions for me to put my shirt back on. I tug it over my head as he says, “No one mentioned that you’ve juggled fire before.”

  Great. I see the interest in his eye. “I stopped juggling fire when I was fourteen.”

  “Why?”

  I’m scared to say the truth. I know wh
at his response will be. “It no longer fit the choreography.”

  “The choreography. You mean the boring, soulless routine that once existed before I arrived?” That’s exactly why I should’ve lied, but maybe a tiny part of me agrees with him.

  “What other high-risk juggling can you do?”

  I’m quiet, hands on my hips. Almost winded.

  “Don’t make me examine your scars next.”

  I’m afraid. He’s already one-hundred percent going to add fire to the routine. Which is fine. It’ll add the “awe” factor that might help Infini. I’m definitely okay with that.

  But I can’t tell him that I can juggle machetes.

  He’ll without a doubt incorporate it within the choreography, and even with blunted edges, they’re too dangerous for the kind of complex tricks I perform. I’m worried that if I tell him “I can juggle humongous-as-fuck knives” and then put my foot down, he’ll fire me and find someone who can do it.

  I slowly shake my head. “Nothing else.”

  “Nothing else?” He looks disbelieving.

  “Why would I lie?” I say.

  “Laziness.”

  I stare up at the eighty-foot ceiling, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Here’s an ultimatum,” he begins. No. I feel sick again, but for a completely different reason. “If I ask the veteran staff about your various props and they list off a high-risk one—you’re fired. Or you can tell me the prop now and you’ll have a choice.”

  Choices.

  This one has to be less painful than Marc Duval’s choice four-and-a-half years ago.

  “What choice?” I ask.

  “You’ll either perform with the high-risk prop or you’ll prove to me that you don’t want to—by holding plank for three hours on this stage.”

  A three-hour plank? My whole face falls, unknowing whether or not I have the strength for that.

  “How badly do you want to omit the prop? How much iron-will do you have?”

  Strangely, his words bolster fight in me. I nod over and over.

  “No, Baylee,” Brenden calls out, his voice sharp with worry.

  Only one choice lets me off the hook. There’s no way the staff won’t tell Geoffrey the truth. He may even be able to look in AE’s artist database and see my specific skills.