Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  After a few more words, he hangs up, and then his hand is on my shoulder. He steers me out the door.

  I glance back as we walk, caught off guard. “We’re leaving your office?” We’re already out of his office. Into the hallway.

  “Marc made a decision,” Perrot says. “I’m about to tell everyone, and you’re coming with me.”

  * * *

  One thing I’ve always had in common with Baylee Wright: neither of us prefers the spotlight. We will gladly pass the sweltering attention onto someone else.

  I stand beside Perrot in a seated crowd of over a hundred, and I’d rather be on the blue mats next to Baylee and my family. Eating popcorn and smiling at the person who’d take my place.

  Perrot canvasses the artists with a single glance. “I represent Marc today. He apologizes for not being here in person, but he’s across the country at the moment. He’s heard your concerns and your pleas, and he’s taken this matter very seriously.”

  Eyes dart to me. Like I have the answers.

  At this point, I have nothing but hope. And aren’t most battles won with just that? Hope. I smile weakly to myself and look up at Baylee.

  Her arms are loosely around her bent leg, and her uneasy gaze stays on Perrot. Until she feels me staring. Then she looks my way.

  Our chests rise at the same time, and in a crowd full of people, with eyes all on me, I mouth, I love you.

  Tears brim and she brushes them quickly. She nods repeatedly, expressing the same sentiment. She presses her forehead to her knee, trying to hide her sorrow.

  Bay thinks it’s over.

  The worst has come.

  My heart is in my throat, but I lift my gaze to the eighty-foot ceiling. I listen and wait for Marc’s decision to either capsize the lives of hundreds or make it better.

  Perrot clears his throat and reads a checklist off his phone. “I’ll begin with the easiest point of contention.” He places his hand on my shoulder. “Luka Kotova will still remain employed by Aerial Ethereal—”

  Clapping from my cousins and siblings cuts into Perrot’s speech.

  It feels too bittersweet to smile. I stuff my hands in my sweatpants, my fingers skimming wrapped peppermints and keys to nowhere.

  Perrot waits patiently for the noise to die before continuing. “The last two issues of concern are the no minors policy and the contracts signed by Baylee Wright and Luka Kotova.” He pauses and points at a young girl and boy from Viva. “Please put away the phones. No recording.”

  Secrecy has always been important to Aerial Ethereal.

  (Clearly.)

  But I understand. This world is exclusive to those allowed to enter, and there’s a whole section about “social media” conduct in everyone’s contract. No one can make YouTube videos or live-stream any kind of footage from practices, rehearsals, and definitely not performances.

  Marc would flip if any of this traveled to the press.

  As soon as the phones disappear, Perrot speaks. “Marc wants to assure the entire troupe that he values and respects the opinion of every artist. He understands your fears and concerns, and with great consideration, he has made a decision.” Perrot reads off his cell. “‘To protect the integrity and morale of the Aerial Ethereal troupe across the globe, the no minors policy will not be instated or used as a future mode of…’” he trails off at the cheering. It explodes, especially from all the kids.

  I end up smiling, but I also cage a breath.

  It’s good.

  That’s really good, and Bay’s face says the same. It’s good, but there’s a part that still hurts. We have no idea where we stand in all of this.

  “Quiet!” Dimitri yells, gesturing with his hands for everyone to sit.

  Perrot talks over the fading cheers. “And lastly, Marc has decided to dissolve the contracts—” Baylee covers her face, bowing forward with emotion, and it hits me like a tidal wave.

  We’re allowed to be together.

  Truly.

  I barely hear Perrot say the reasoning: to rectify any emotional and psychological distress inflicted upon the recipients.

  I beeline through the half-seated crowd. People spring to their feet. Hugging. Cheering louder. I aim for one person. One girl.

  The sea of people starts parting for me, knowing where I’m headed. As soon as Baylee rises to her feet, I clasp her hand and draw her to my body.

  “Come here,” I breathe.

  She clutches the back of my neck, and I hold her face gently, her cheeks slicked with tears. Our eyes dance over one another again. And again.

  I tune out all the commotion. It’s just me and her.

  We sway like music plays, and her brown eyes smile before her lips do. My smile stretches wider and higher, and I dip my head down to whisper, “You know what I’m going to do, Bay?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to kiss you for the first time in front of a crowd.”

  Isn’t that fucking bizarre? That in all our lives, in all our time together, we’ve never kissed for other people to see. It’s been private. It’s been ours, but if we could’ve unrestrained it and let it free, we would’ve from the beginning.

  Baylee’s smile overpowers her features, and my lips touch her rising grin. Our kiss pulls us together like a magnet, and I clasp the back of her head, my tongue parting her lips. Deepening the kiss—and then loud, dry clapping breaks into our reverie.

  We lean back only slightly to spot the source.

  Geoffrey Lesage saunters through the troupe, still clapping, and his gaze is dead-set on us.

  “Congratulations,” he says loud enough for all to hear. “You got what you wanted. You won your dispute.”

  Why the hell is he bitter? The no minors policy isn’t enforced, and the whole cast is intact. He got what he wanted too.

  “It wasn’t a game to me,” I say easily. “It’s my life—”

  “It’s my career.”

  Realization pummels me. I assume that Marc didn’t appreciate his blackmail tactic or usurping his power. Geoffrey skipped rungs of the Corporate hierarchy, and I bet he was slapped on the wrist.

  “You’re not our choreographer anymore?” I ask.

  “Would you like that?” he snaps. “For me to leave?”

  I go rigid, my hands on Bay’s shoulders, and Geoffrey stops about ten feet from me, his gaze flitting to Nikolai, who glares threateningly an arm’s length away.

  Geoffrey’s focus returns to me. “Well?”

  “I don’t want you to leave.” (Yes I do.)

  He fixes his blazer. “Then you’ll be happy to know I’m still your choreographer and dedicated to Infini’s success.”

  Baylee nods, tensed. “We all want the same thing.”

  “Good.” His voice is tight, and he scans the discomforted cast. “Dress rehearsal tomorrow for Infini. Don’t be late.” His scowl darkens at the two of us. “No exceptions.”

  We bruised his ego.

  And I worry he’s going to make us pay for it.

  SPRING

  Act Forty-Four

  Baylee Wright

  Premiere of Infini

  Hurriedly, I exit stage left to raucous applause, my juggling torches snuffed out and sweat beading my forehead. My ribs jut out as I catch my breath, but I can’t slow.

  I have to do a quick costume change from the “nightmare” to the “dreamscape” aesthetic. And I love my current nightmare costume: a sheer skirt over a burgundy velvet leotard, turtleneck. Fiery ruby crystals are sewn in spirals across my breasts and waist.

  I’m a beautiful, magical blaze of fire.

  Sliding past artists backstage, the nervous-excited energy is high and it has nothing to do with boys or dating. All our hard work amounts to the moments we spend on stage together and the subsequent awed claps from the audience.

  And the hope it won’t end here. It can’t end.

  My mom’s music echoes so triumphantly, the drum beats and trumpets that dive into your core and make you want to move. It
instantly makes me smile.

  And rouses my spirits beyond anything.

  Backstage, Luka sprints fast, his cue coming soon since Wheel of Death is next. He’s shirtless, his sculpted abs, arms and shoulders purposefully displayed to evoke sheer masculinity. It works too well.

  My neck heats, and my gaze drops to his pants: skintight blood-red spandex. His costume leaves nothing to the imagination, not any carve of muscle or bulge. Luka is undeniably hot.

  No pun intended. He’s supposed to be a devil, and the costume department even attached sparkling horns in his dark brown hair. His bold black and red makeup is scary yet attractive.

  I’m scarily attracted to him.

  As he races past, he grins. “You were amazing!” He turns around, walking backwards and slowing his pace. Keeping our gazes locked for as long as possible.

  I press my lips together, my smile out of control. I’m about to tell him to kill it, but he says, “Fuck it.” And he runs back to me.

  I shake my head, still smiling. Luka, always the risk-taker.

  He carefully kisses my lips, just once. An out-of-this-world vigor floats me eighty-feet high in my brain.

  It’s the most bizarre feeling ever. His eyes drink me in, and our lungs inflate. I start groaning and laughing because my face hurts.

  He dips his head to whisper, “Girlfriend.” We’re together.

  Boyfriend.

  I’m drowning in love. I push him before he misses his cue. “Go, go.”

  Luka nods and raises his brows playfully. “See you, krasavitsa.” He finally turns his back to me and bounds for stage left.

  At a mirror, I ensure my hair is still secured into two high gelled buns, and while I remove my makeup and change into a sky-blue, turtleneck leo, I glance at my gold-stitched balls for the trampoline act.

  I’ll talk about juggling to anyone who’ll listen, but it’s not like the Mets or Jamaican food. My love for those two has never come into question. I’m not living inside of them.

  But I live inside of juggling. It’s my every day. No breaks. No time apart. Living with a passion isn’t like sitting on top of the world twenty-four-seven. I drop down constantly and stare pointedly at my juggling props, and I question if they’ve revolted against me.

  Every toss feels off. Every way I move feels wrong. Like I’m all out of whack, and in one moment, I hate juggling like it’s my stubborn spouse. It’s my foe.

  Then one day, my clubs float in perfect symmetry. My heart soars as high as the props I toss, and my passion blisters bright inside of me. Juggling is my love.

  I remember why I do this. Why I grind through the hard parts—I do it for these blissful, world-bending moments.

  For the premiere, it’s been happy. I pick up my gold-stitched balls, and I hope that I can keep it that way.

  * * *

  Curtains closed only a half hour ago, but Geoffrey calls us over and tells us to take a seat on stage. A few Masquerade employees sweep up popcorn between rows, the auditorium nearly empty.

  None of the artists have even washed off their makeup or changed out of costume yet. We were all excited and ready to celebrate the premiere. It went really well.

  Full house. Sold out, and the Russian swing finale roused the audience to their feet. I’m pessimistic about my fortune and luck, but there’s evidence saying that this was a good first show.

  I know it.

  My hand tightens in Luka’s while we sit, and I rest my chin on my knee. Brenden whispers to Zhen close by, and they shake their heads, as confused as everyone else.

  “Artists.” Geoffrey surveys all of us, his face unreadable. “How did you think that went?”

  A few people say, “Great.”

  “That’s not what a critic from the L.V. Times said.”

  I frown, and Luka squeezes my hand like, it’s okay.

  But we performed for critics yesterday, a special pre-showing. We already read the one negative review that said “lacks the spark of its original” and “it sputters out like the juggler’s torch”—that part was awful. I douse my torches at the end on purpose.

  Other critics were positive.

  “…you’ll keep dreaming long after the curtains close…”

  “…bold choices for an old staple show…”

  “…the talent breathes life & fire into the classic Aerial Ethereal reverie…”

  “…the music dominates once again…”

  Geoffrey spreads his arms. “And I happen to agree with the L.V. Times. You know why? The proof is in the numbers.”

  We haven’t heard about sales. No one in AE’s financial has shared them with us.

  I stiffen while he draws out the news.

  Geoffrey skims his goatee with three fingers. “April and May have sold out, but summer sales are shit.” He points a threatening finger. “If there are thousands of unfilled seats come June and July, you’re all in boiling water. This is a sinking ship that I’m personally bailing out, and I will push you as hard and as far as humanly possible.”

  His gaze lands on me.

  And Luka.

  “How badly do you want this show to survive?”

  So badly, but my belief in our choreographer’s “talent” vanished around the time he tried to emotionally push Luka.

  I don’t trust him, and I’m afraid of playing into Geoffrey’s hand.

  But he’s our boss, and as long as Antoine Perrot says to listen to Geoffrey, we can’t disobey him.

  Act Forty-Five

  Baylee Wright

  In the crowded physical therapy room, I plop down in an ice bath, the metal tub uncomfortable and cold.

  I feel like a monster truck ran over me. We perform for Infini twice a day, five times a week, and on our two days off, we’re still in the gym for twelve hours, per Geoffrey’s high-stress demands. With no guarantees that Infini will be renewed for another year.

  Marc usually sends out congratulatory emails after a show’s first month. We received none.

  I could sink beneath the ice, but I try to remember we have time, still. I shiver from the cold bath.

  My mom’s music isn’t lost yet.

  I hold onto a glimmer of hope. Just a glimmer.

  It helps.

  Then I peer at Luka’s tattooed leg. He stands close by, skillfully putting on Kinesio tape across his bicep.

  When Luka notices me staring, he hikes his leg over the tub, foot on the edge. I have a complete view of his designs now, and he smiles while he bites off tape from the spool.

  The way he’s looking at me, I feel like he’s remembering earlier this morning. We had deep sex on his bed. The kind that filled me to the brim and vibrated my limbs as I came.

  Dimitri wasn’t in the room, thank God.

  But it’s been hours, and the fullness stays between my legs. It’s a good soreness. I feel like Luka is still completely and utterly inside of me.

  I smooth my lips, the ice bath tempering my heat. “What’s this one?” I skim a design on his shin with my finger.

  Luka tilts his head. “A skyline…” He sounds unsure.

  My teeth start to chatter. “You don’t know.” I try to give him a serious look, but he keeps smiling and my teeth keep clanking. “Stopiznotfunny.” I slur, groan, and slump over the tub.

  We have a date tonight watching the Mets vs. Cubs—I smile at the floor dizzily.

  This is why I’ve blocked out the date. I feel like a love-struck fool.

  Luka retracts his leg and crouches beside me, a full-on grin. “You always said it was ‘cool’ that I got random tattoos at the spur of the moment.”

  I whisper, “Because I was with you.” I bite down to stop the teeth-chatter.

  Luka’s eyes twinkle. “Those are my favorite tattoos, by the way. The ones where you were with me. I remember all of them.”

  “Mmmhmm.” I’m trying not to smile.

  Luka pockets his tape and then snatches a cotton towel. I stand and step out of the tub, water dripping down my spandex s
horts and sports bra. I walk straight into his embrace, and he wraps me up in the towel and his arms.

  Hugs from Luka Kotova are the best of all time.

  So tight and comforting, they deserve trophies and medals. This particular hug pulls me firm against his chest, even with my arms tucked to my A-cups.

  “I’m getting you wet,” I say.

  He dips his head and whispers, “Not as wet as you’re going to be tonight.” He starts murmuring all the things he plans to do to me, and my cheeks start heating, my breath shallow.

  I try not to smile when he mentions his cock filling me deep again. Then he presses his lips to my head. He’s dirty and then so sweet.

  “Kiss! Kiss!”

  We flinch slightly at Robby’s incoming presence. Luka’s cousin snickers as he walks past and waves us to go on, kiss.

  Other artists on med beds and in ice baths watch us curiously. I freeze, and Luka feels me tense up in his arms.

  So it’s not the first time all the attention has veered onto our relationship. This happens at least twice a day. I shouldn’t be put-off; I’m a people-watcher, I understand the allure.

  The problem is that people fought for us. I feel like we have to show we’re the best couple in Aerial Ethereal. The pressure is already high at work. Now this.

  It’s a lot to live up to.

  “Kiss! Kiss!” Robby claps to the word. “Kiss!”

  Luka ignores him easily and digests my reaction. I’m not annoyed at Robby; I’m just thinking. I eye a couple young girls who whisper by a medicine cabinet.

  Luka must see my mind reeling. “We don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Bay.”

  I nod. It’s really nice hearing that from the guy I’m with. So I inhale and try to relax more.