Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  Brenden is bookish and intellectual. When we were being tutored, we shared the same table in a hotel conference room. At sixteen, he aced every school exam that I failed. He worked hard for his grades and his physical victories, and he saw me leaning back on my chair, listening to music. Staring out the window.

  I wonder if he looked at me and thought that I had it easy. I was a Kotova. Born into a legacy more sturdy and predictable than his life would eventually be.

  I wonder if he looked at me and thought Baylee deserved a better friend. Someone smarter. Someone less reckless and wild. Because I ran with his sister to vast unexplored places. In a city more new to me than to her.

  And even when I remembered to ask, he never wanted to come along.

  In the kitchen, Brenden meticulously spreads mustard on one slice of wheat bread while I just throw cheese down on mine.

  The air strains the longer we share company, and I feel something brewing.

  My cell vibrates on the counter. I try not to grab it too fast, but I’m also worried he’ll see the sender on the screen. Discreetly, I check the text.

  Are you okay? Usually you reply faster… – Baylee

  I text quickly: I’m talking to your brother (and yes to hanging out at the club. I’d risk more than that)

  After I send the message, I glance at Brenden. He looks at me with an unreadable expression. I set my phone on the counter and reach for the turkey, but I realize it’s in his hand. Not purposefully since he hasn’t put meat on his sandwich yet.

  But he’s still staring at me.

  (It’s nothing.)

  I believe it’s nothing.

  I try to believe, at least.

  “Something wrong?” I ask just as the main door opens.

  Zhen crests the doorway and then skids to a stop. His confused and slightly alarmed eyes dart between Brenden and me. “…is everything okay?” he asks Brenden. I hear, do you need me to stay?, beneath his words.

  “I’m fine,” Brenden says.

  Frazzled, Zhen spins on his heels and leaves through the same door. He looks back once before shutting it closed.

  I rotate my taut shoulders and hold his gaze.

  “Tell me you’re not texting my little sister,” he says, freezing my muscles. “Tell me I’m just imagining this nightmare in my head with you at the center.”

  “I’m not texting her,” I lie in one breath.

  Brenden gauges my features and then shakes his head. “I don’t trust you. I don’t think I ever trusted you.” His jaw tightens and he caps the mustard.

  “I’m not texting Baylee,” I repeat, suppressing all of my emotion. Numb—I want to be numb. I want to not fucking care, but Brenden is Baylee’s rock. He’s her world. Her brother, her heart.

  Slowly, he rotates to face me. “Show me your phone then.”

  I rest my elbow on the counter and grab my phone, but I don’t pass it to him. I open my mouth and expect to let out a million excuses—but I say, “I love her.”

  His nose flares, jaw muscle clenching. Trying just as hard to trounce uncomfortable sentiments.

  “I’m in love with Baylee,” I say again, my heart on fire.

  “I heard you,” he says flatly.

  I breathe deeply through my nose, and I rake my fingers across my damp hair. I thought it’d change something if he knew, but it only makes it worse. A rumor about “my love” for Baylee can’t spread through the troupe. It’ll somehow reach Marc Duval.

  The no minors policy will be enforced.

  We’ll probably be fired.

  So I backtrack. “Just as friends,” I clarify. “She doesn’t know either. I’ve never told her.”

  He processes this. Staring me dead in the eyes. “But you text.”

  “About work. Sometimes about Katya. It’s my sister’s birthday today—that’s what the text was about.” (I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.) Lying to Brenden feels equivalent to ripping at his relationship with his sister. I don’t want to touch it with malicious hands.

  Brenden scrutinizes me, discomfort mounting between us, and I can’t tell what he believes. He might not even be sure himself. “Katya’s turning seventeen, right?” he asks.

  And I immediately regret bringing up Katya.

  “Yeah.” I screw on the pickle jar for something to do. “She’s seventeen today.”

  Brenden nods. “You know what I remember?” He leans slightly on the counter, angled more towards me. “She’s little. Like this high.” He motions to the counter’s ledge. “Ten or eleven? We were conditioning for Infini, and Katya accidentally slid down the climbing rope. Burned her palms badly.”

  I remember this, but I don’t add to the memory. I just listen.

  “Before she even thought about crying, you were there. You blew on her hands and then lifted her onto your back. You were silly enough that she started laughing, and you found the nearest first-aid kit and bandaged her palms.”

  A chill slips down my neck. I see where he’s going. I can share a story in the same vein as that one, only replacing me and my sister with Brenden and his.

  Bay was almost inconsolable when their parents passed, and Brenden was the one who made sure she had a dress for the funeral. The one who accompanied her to the doctor for checkups. The one who kept her upright when she wanted to sink low.

  I understand more than I want to.

  Baylee and Katya aren’t alike, but our relationships with our sisters are similar. Mirrored. Almost identical. He played the brother and the friend and the parent to Baylee. Just like I did to Katya.

  Just like I do.

  “How you treated your sister—that’s what I liked most about you,” Brenden tells me. “And then you screwed over mine, and I thought, fuck this guy.” He glowers and grimaces.

  I go cold.

  He nods to me. “So I want to know how you’d feel.”

  I dread the next moment. “If what?”

  “If your little sister met a guy that got her into hard drugs. That steals on the regular. He’s been to jail for theft, and he’s a stain on the company that she’s employed by—how would you feel if he came into her life and tore at her career and everything she’s worked so goddamn hard for? How would you feel then?”

  (Heartbroken. Worried. Protective.)

  My eyes burn, and I nod more than once before I say, “I’m sorry.”

  “Tell that to her.”

  “I already have.”

  He shelters his feelings. And then he faces the counter and finishes putting together his sandwich. The air is even tighter than before.

  “I would never wish ill on anyone,” Brenden tells me, “especially not Katya, but I hope you realize something.”

  I place a slice of bread on top of my sandwich and cut it in half. He waits for me to ask, and I finally do. “What?”

  “Being a Kotova doesn’t make your little sister immune to bad guys. Some prick can come into her life and completely unhinge it—and then you’ll stand there and you’ll look him in the eye.” His gaze latches onto mine. “And you’ll think, fuck this guy.”

  I feel like I’m seven billion tons of brick.

  Brenden take his sandwich to the couch, and then I stare off at the wall, his words echoing shrilly in my head.

  Stomach coiling, I grab my phone and text Bay.

  Has my sister opened her birthday present from me yet? I send, and she replies back fast.

  Not yet – Baylee

  I stare off again. My gift was a bad idea. And I’m going to take it back.

  Act Thirty

  Baylee Wright

  “I’ve fortunately and unfortunately known him since I was twelve,” I explain to the girls in my bedroom while shaking out a dry tube of mascara. We’re all in bathrobes, our hair twisted out of our faces while we get ready for the club tonight.

  I sit beside Thora on the floor, tiny mirrors propped up. One of my legs is outstretched and the other tucked beneath my ass. And I try really hard not to think about my texts
or Luka and my brother chatting right now. My phone, I’ve set aside to ignore that stress for a second.

  “Emphasis on unfortunate,” Katya agrees, seated at the desk chair.

  The last girl here, I just met about an hour ago. She’s friends with Thora, and also John Ruiz’s twenty-three-year-old cousin.

  Camila Ruiz draws the most even cat-eyeliner on Katya’s lids. Substantially more skilled at makeup than both of us. We couldn’t even do a halfway-decent smoky eye after two hours of trying.

  “Why unfortunate?” Camila asks.

  I blow a clump of mascara off my brush. “Besides the fact that Dimitri has a hundred different names for a vagina?” I say seriously.

  “And he calls tampons string peens and spirit sticks,” Katya adds.

  “He’ll also talk about his magic dick at some point.”

  Katya nods. “And if you’re above eighteen and not related to him, he’ll hit on you.” She opens an eye and looks at the short blonde beside me. “Thora knows.”

  Thora grabs a makeup wipe. “Yeah, it wasn’t…good.”

  Camila smiles and quips, “Unfortunately.”

  She’s better at banter than Thora, but I think Thora would say that most people are superior than her in that area.

  I go still while I watch Thora rub costume makeup residue off her eyes, the silver streaks from her performance earlier tonight. She hasn’t missed a single Amour show, and I can’t believe that AE is making her perform aerial silk while she’s pregnant. It’s unfathomable to me.

  My heart hurts for Thora. Because I know what it’s like to be boxed into a contract and dark threats. It’s a terrible, powerless feeling. I can’t ask if she’s okay or reach out since she still hasn’t announced her pregnancy to the troupe.

  She also doesn’t know that Luka and I overheard the news, but I think she’s aware of my suspicion. I’ve seen her rush to our suite bathroom, her face pallid with nausea.

  “Pick a color, birthday girl.” Camila raises four tubes of lipstick to Katya. I think we can all tell Katya is debating what’s the “right” color.

  Kat studies the tubes and then Camila, who’s already finished her own makeup: bright magenta lipstick, neon-yellow eye shadow against her brown skin that’s golden in the lamplight. Camila wears striking and bold shades that most wouldn’t pick.

  “What should I choose?” Katya asks.

  “What are you wearing?” Camila wonders.

  “I don’t know yet. Can you help?” she asks me and Thora and points to our shared closet. I already have her outfit covered, but it’s a huge surprise. Thankfully Thora is in on it.

  “Definitely,” Thora says as we both stand. Keeping the birthday surprise alive, we pretend to search through the closet.

  Thora plucks out a short emerald dress of mine, and my eyes grow in horror as she displays it to Kat. “What about this?”

  I try to stifle a cringe. Don’t cringe. That dress—it’s six years old. I had sex in it. With Katya’s older brother.

  Kat tilts her head. “Is it too plain?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Really plain. You can do better.” I snatch the dress from Thora, and she mouths, what?

  Not able to tell her the full truth, I lean close and our arms touch as I whisper, “I had sex in this.”

  Thora puckers her lips like ohhh. And she returns the dress. “I won’t suggest anything else,” she whispers. “We’ll tell her to open your gift soon, and I think Luka’s too. He wrote don’t show Nik on the envelope.”

  I smile just hearing Luka’s name. I’m not sure why he texted me earlier about his gift to Kat. I think she’ll be over-the-moon when she sees it.

  Thora slides hangers from left to right. “And then her cousins should’ve picked out jewelry.”

  We’re very different—me and Thora. I see how badly she wants situations to work out in everyone’s favor, but I’ve been on the opposite side of luck too much to believe in real good fortune.

  I whisper, “You’re way too optimistic about the Kotovas.” In New York, they always purchased one large ticket item for Kat’s birthday. Usually it’s superfluous and something they can use. Like a dirt bike.

  And golf clubs.

  “Katya said the same thing,” Thora tells me. “I gave them a list though, and I wrote down which stores to visit. If they can’t follow that, then…” She scowls, an intentional scowl. Not just RBF.

  “If they screw up, it’s their fault,” I whisper, “and Katya appreciates us just being here.” But I understand wanting to give Katya more. Especially when she asks for so little.

  As slowly as I’ve crept back into Luka’s life, I’ve been sliding into Kat’s too. At night, we lie on our bunks and chat for hours about nothing and everything. Baseball and PoPhilly and fashion, my interests and hers. But there’s an underlying fear that it’ll all come crashing down.

  One day. One moment.

  That’s all it took the first time.

  “You don’t have to overthink,” Camila tells Kat, waving the lipsticks hypnotically from side-to-side. “What speaks to you?”

  Katya sighs sadly. “I don’t know.”

  “You like glitter,” Thora says. “Don’t you?”

  I nod in agreement. Katya has tons of feather boas, most coated with glitter.

  Camila rummages in a makeup pouch. “I can highlight your cheekbones with glitter.”

  Katya tucks a flyaway hair behind her ear. “Isn’t glitter juvenile?”

  “Not really, and even if people think it, so what? I was bartending yesterday and some guy said that my green lipstick looked like a Fruit Roll-Up.”

  “What’d you do?” Katya wonders.

  “I told him no free shots for you, and I applied an extra coat of lipstick in front of his face.” Camila procures a tube of silver glitter highlighter. “Look up.”

  Kat lifts her face higher. “Would you’ve done that, Baylee?” She’s always remembering that I exist in the room when, to most people, I just fade into the background.

  “I’m not that outspoken to strangers unless I’ve had about three shots.” I shrug. “I probably would’ve just glared, taken my drink, and walked away.”

  Thora leans on the closet door frame. “I think I would’ve stumbled over my words and then waited for the awkward reply.”

  Katya ponders this.

  I hope she sees that she doesn’t have to be Camila or any of the Calloway sisters. Or me or Thora. She can just be Katya Kotova. Whoever that girl ends up being, I’m glad I’m here to witness. I really don’t want to miss that too.

  I pretend to examine a new romper that Katya bought. “Where do you bartend?” I ask Camila.

  “The Red Death. I’ll be there tonight. Can’t pass up the tips if I’m hanging around there anyway. Plus I can dole out more free drinks.” She bites the end of her makeup brush and bobby-pins Katya’s flyaways.

  “How haven’t you met Dimitri?” I ask since the Kotovas flock The Red Death every Saturday night. Dimitri was only initially brought up because Thora asked about my forearm burn. It turned into an explanation about Dimitri tossing me clubs. The burn wasn’t his fault, but he also accidentally singed his neck lighting my prop on fire this morning.

  Camila releases the brush from between her teeth. “I generally try to stay away from Kotovas because half of them are shitty tippers—no offense,” she says to Katya.

  She laughs. “I bet it’s Abram. He’s so cheap. He won’t ever pay for cab fares.”

  This is really true.

  “Could be,” Camila says. “I don’t know their names. What does he look like?”

  Katya tries to describe him, and I put the romper back on the hook. Thora mouths, where are the gifts? I gesture with my head to a drawer, and Thora casually approaches the dresser.

  “The only Kotova guy I really know is Timo,” Camila says, “and that’s mostly because he’s been crashing at my cuz’s apartment.”

  “He’s trying to avoid Sergei,” Katya tells us. “It�
��s kind of complicated.” She says this sort of tensely and morosely, like she can’t explain more. None of us delve into the subject, but Thora and I know bad blood exists.

  I abandon the closet, a heaviness inside my body that I can’t kick. It lingers quietly and silently. Even when I don’t mention it.

  There’s no source, but lying on the floor or bed and sinking seems too nice right now. I hope music will lift my spirits so I fiddle with Katya’s digital stereo on her desk, right beside her makeup spread.

  “Who’s your favorite?” Camila asks me.

  “Favorite Kotova guy?” I follow her train of thought and click into a soca playlist Katya created. A Nori Amada song floods the bedroom, the tempo upbeat and lively. I smile more.

  “Yep. Which guy?”

  And my smile flat-lines, eyes growing as I contemplate no great answer. Katya frowns deeply at me, Camila brushing highlighter on her cheekbones.

  “It’s apparent. Right?” Katya asks me.

  It is. I just don’t know if I’m allowed to spread this news. Katya is the best secret-keeper, but she has no idea why Luka and I are so private about our mere friendship.

  My shoulders bind. “Yeah.” I have to say his name. “It’s Luka.”

  It’s always been Luka.

  “Luka,” Camila muses. “I think John has mentioned him. What does he look like?”

  I rub my lips together, thinking before I speak. “Tall-ish. Not Nikolai’s height, but tall for an acrobat. Dark hair that’s between short and long, and the Kotova gray eyes.” I pause. “Pale, clean-shaven.” I look faraway, picturing Luka standing at Two Kings. Waiting for me to near. “His features are frozen between youth and maturity, and he’s so welcoming. That one frame at the end of Titanic, where Leonardo DiCaprio extends a hand to Kate Winslet—that’s Luka. Charming and kind inside silence.” I begin to smile. “He’s the one sitting on the armrest of a couch, trying to make you smile when you’re sad.”

  I’m lost in my head, and when I break from this warm reverie, I realize all three girls are staring knowingly at me.

  I straighten up. “We used to be really good friends.”

  “Best friends,” Katya clarifies. “Luk always called you his best.” She nods at me like I deserve that title, but it hurts to think that we can’t even be called friends now.