Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  “Take a seat on stage,” Geoffrey tells Brenden and Zhen, and then our choreographer slips into the row in front of mine.

  He struts forward, and I dump the rest of the candy in my mouth. For some reason, this attracts him to me. I’m not even loud.

  I’m quiet.

  No one else was looking at me, but his gaze daggers my face. I chew casually, and I crane my neck over my shoulder.

  All of my older cousins and Sergei are rigid one row behind me, their grays and Dimitri’s ocean-blues pinpointed on Geoffrey.

  The choreographer saunters closer, and his overbearing presence wakes Bay. She tensely lifts her body up and rubs her eyes. Watching as he halts directly across from me, but I prefer his focus to fix on me, never her.

  Geoffrey rests his ass on the back of a chair. He has a great view of my Adidas soles.

  I spin my baseball hat backwards, nonchalant. Waiting. (Come on, Geoffrey, what do you have for me?)

  Like he’s mentioning the weather, he says, “Tell me an excruciating moment that involves your sister.”

  This again. “No,” I say simply like I’ve done before.

  Sergei interjects, “We’re not doing acting exercises, Geoffrey.”

  His gaze is still latched on me. “Luka has room to be more emotive. I’m helping him.” (Yeah, he’s not.) To me, he says, “Tell me an excruciating moment that involves your brother.”

  I shake my empty Junior Mint box. “Which one?”

  “Timofei.”

  I almost laugh, finding this whole thing ridiculous. “With Timofei, there are none.”

  “You’re lying,” Geoffrey shoots back like he had the gun cocked and loaded, ready for my response.

  My muscles constrict, but my facial features don’t change shape.

  Geoffrey stands straighter, nearing my row, his waist an inch from my soles. I bet he wants me to drop my feet to the floor. (I’m not going to.)

  “Nothing excruciating has ever happened to you?” Geoffrey asks like he already knows the answer. I blink a few times, processing. He doesn’t know.

  He can’t know.

  Artists are aware that I have an impulse to steal worthless shit. Some think it’s funny. (It’s not to me.) There are rumors that I purge after I eat; some people know it’s fact. And Geoffrey has this information from medical—what he can’t have, what he doesn’t have, is how it all started.

  Only my extended and immediate family know, plus Baylee, Thora, and John. That’s it.

  “Your sister…” he trails off, a smile appearing. “You’re glaring.”

  Baylee’s hand slips into mine.

  “We’re getting warmer,” Geoffrey says. “Let’s try this again. Tell me an excruciating story involving your sister and little brother or I’ll describe a scenario that will bring something out of you.”

  My chest elevates in a breath like I’m running in place. Not sitting. I drop my feet and let go of Baylee’s hand.

  She glares at Geoffrey. “You can’t do this to him.”

  Before he hones in on Bay like he’s tried before, I immediately stand up and sidestep, blocking her completely. I feel all of my cousins and my brother rise with me

  “Luka,” Baylee protests, springing to her feet. I’m taller, so she’s hidden from Geoffrey.

  Now I stand face-to-face with the motherfucker I loathe, a row of chairs separating us. Our eyes latched again, I cup my hands in front of me.

  And he says, “I’ll describe a scenario then.”

  “Go ahead,” I reply.

  “You were six.”

  My nose flares; I shake my head dazedly. “No.”

  “No, what? You weren’t six?” (I was.)

  The air is thin. Silent, a pin drop could be heard.

  “Your sister was three.”

  I snap, eyes ablaze—and I charge. Someone fists my shirt before I reach Geoffrey’s face. Yanking me backwards.

  He’s smiling. “Your brother was five.”

  I tear out of a cousin’s hold, or maybe it’s Sergei restraining me, my pulse beats and bleeds. “You motherfucker,” I sneer.

  Geoffrey thinks he has a piece of me. A part of me that I don’t give anyone else. He’s cradling my anger and pain.

  Just to use against me.

  “You were in the Midwest for a few months.”

  I rip out of another hand, and I storm forward, my pulse on searing ascent. I’m being dragged back again. My cousins yell in Russian for me to take a breath and stop, Luka. I’ll be fired if I hit him, but he should be fired and sucker-punched for all of this.

  I can’t sit quietly by and let him run over me.

  I can’t.

  I can’t.

  “Your parents became friends with a few locals while you all lived there.”

  I somehow bolt out of my cousin’s grip, and I launch a right hook at Geoffrey—a strong hand clasps my wrist, stopping me.

  “Fuck you!” I yell through my teeth, veins rising in my neck. My face reddened in ire, I can hardly see straight.

  Geoffrey soaks in my raw, unfettering emotion, but he just keeps going. “They were invited to a neighborhood summer barbecue.”

  “Is this what you want?!” I scream so loudly my lungs scald inside-out—someone wraps their arms around my collar. “You want to hear me yell?!” I thrash against a muscular build. “Well, fuck you, you motherfucker.”

  “The party was unrelated to the circus or AE. Only your parents, four brothers, sister, and you went.”

  I spew threats, screaming fuck yous, my chest bursting open. Hot tears scratch my eyes, and knives stake my insides. I want Geoffrey to stop speaking, but he’s not going to stop. My anger does nothing to hurt him. It just pummels me, and I’m growing cold.

  And numb. A voice whispers in my ear, “Shhh.”

  Raging tears drip off my chin, and I breathe. And breathe, my chest rising and falling heavily. Two arms swoop underneath mine, putting me in a body-lock, and then…their large palms cover my ears.

  Protecting me.

  I blink and blink, my widened, bloodshot eyes flitting to the forearm that holds me. I see a tattoo of a lightning bolt striking a tree, and I know.

  It’s Sergei.

  My brother is the one shielding me from Geoffrey’s words.

  And I shut my eyes.

  Geoffrey is gone. I can’t hear him. I can’t see him.

  Quiet tranquility pours through me. At ease. Calm.

  Peace.

  My past is still mine to give. Mine to share. I breathe and breathe, in control. I feel more in control, and that’s what it is: a state of mind.

  In this moment, I can reach my past. I can touch it myself.

  Geoffrey isn’t prying into me. He didn’t rip it out. I can cradle it within my own assured hands.

  I can remember. I remember being a kid. Being led upstairs with Timo and Kat to a game room. The kind with a pool table, foosball. The person who led us—it was the teenage son of the host. Barbecue neighborhood party, normal people. In a normal place.

  What happened wasn’t normal. He took off his clothes—it’s blurry.

  I don’t know.

  I remember being naked. We were all naked. Confused. So fucking confused.

  I was just a kid.

  Later, we had to be told by adults that he touched himself, forced us to undress and to watch. But these memories sit repressed in my head. Trauma that I can’t fully reach, but it affects me—and Timo. Katya remembers nothing. Timo and I, we obsessively fixate on things but in different ways, craving control, and I can’t shut if off.

  I’ll never be able to, but some days, many more days than most people can imagine, I feel empowered. I break free, and I hold onto those. I’m holding onto this moment.

  Where I can think about it. Breathe deeply. Touch the past and not drop to my knees.

  I’m okay.

  I promise this time.

  WINTER

  Act Fifty

  Luka Kotova

 
Aerial Ethereal’s end of the year holiday party is my absolute favorite of all Corporate events. It surpasses the promo pool parties by a million leagues.

  The Masquerade’s grand ballroom is decked out in garland, snowflakes, twinkling lights, about ten different fir trees, and a row of country flags, representing the homelands of AE artists. And everyone brings a dish, either cooked or store-bought, the buffet table overflowing with homemade recipes, passed down from generation to generation.

  And the music.

  It’s holiday music; and look, I like anything with a good beat.

  I dance with Bay, our heads nodding, silly shoulder-pumping while we hold holiday-patterned disposable plates. We’re off in a corner, doing our own thing by a popcorn-garland tree, and I catch her free hand and twirl her in a circle.

  Her smile instantly grows, and mine stretches higher. Last year, I didn’t have Baylee. I was just dancing by myself for a while.

  This is a thousand times less boring, but this particular year is also laced with gravity. Her smile fades quickly, probably remembering what I do.

  The whole cast of Infini has been on edge ever since we received an email. It said Perrot would announce the show’s fate at this holiday party. He’ll tell us if our contracts will be renewed for another year or if this is the end.

  If the worst happens, I know it’s the close to one chapter of our lives, but I worry Bay will feel like it’s the end of the entire book.

  Our dance slows with a song switch and Bay’s approaching aunt. She flew in from New York for the weekend, and Baylee finally met her baby cousin last night. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her aunt. Not since she’s been in town, and definitely not before that.

  Even though she supported my relationship with Baylee the second time around, I want to make a better impression.

  Baylee wears a funny look.

  “What?”

  “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

  I nod and wipe my lips with a flimsy napkin, my plate half-filled.

  “She’ll be nice to you,” Bay has to whisper as Lucy nears.

  Her aunt slows to a stop, sipping a cup of eggnog. “I love the dress.” She appraises Bay’s simple red sweater-dress. “You didn’t find anything CC?”

  “Calloway Couture looks best on Posh Spices,” Baylee says.

  Lucy wears a white-knit dress, the collar high. “CC looks great on every woman, every girl.” She steals a Polish sweet off Bay’s plate. “As the niece of the brand & marketing exec, you should write this down.”

  “I’ll remember this,” Baylee says seriously. “No more journaling for me.”

  Her list is completed and done, but we’re not over. We’re still going strong. I slide my arm around her shoulders, and Bay rests her weight against my side.

  Lucy dusts crumbs off her lips. “How have you been, Luka?” It should be a light phrase, but she wears deeper concern than a stranger would. Lucy knows everything that happened a couple months ago.

  I start nodding. “Better. A lot better.”

  Geoffrey Lesage was fired.

  That day inside the auditorium—while he began unearthing my past about me and Kat and Timo for the whole Infini cast to hear—Dimitri called Nikolai to come help me.

  Nik was halfway across the hotel, too far from the auditorium to reach me in enough time, so he told Dimitri, “Film him.”

  Without Geoffrey knowing, Dimitri slyly took out his cellphone and recorded the choreographer harassing me. Nik sent the footage to Corporate. Geoffrey was fired within two hours.

  A significant weight has lifted off the cast, off Bay and me since then. Bay said it was like the Mets won the World Series, and I said, “Or the Knicks winning the NBA Finals.”

  “Or Infini surviving,” she added more solemnly, and I hugged her, kissed her, hoped that it’d turn into reality.

  (We’ll see.)

  “That’s good to hear,” Lucy says. “Anything new?”

  I smile. “I’m pretty boring.”

  “That’s so false,” Bay tells me.

  I can’t help but laugh at how she says this like it’s written in the stars. “You’re the most exciting part of my life, Bay.”

  “Aw,” Lucy says.

  “That’s not true,” Baylee says pointedly and looks to Lucy. “He did a backflip off a casino machine with Timo and was chased by security for a full hour.”

  (Yeah, that happened this morning.) I also called Baylee in my hiding spot. That was one of my favorite parts, but the thought drifts off.

  Lucy holds my gaze, and I wonder if she thinks I’m too rebellious for her niece. And then she says, “I just had a realization.”

  “What?” I ask.

  Her eyes ping between us. “Baylee smiles the most when she’s around you.”

  Baylee doesn’t restrain her next smile, lips pulled high.

  I grin down at her, and she shrugs like it’s fact.

  I shrug back the same way.

  Lucy gets a phone call, and I hear the words explosive poop and diapers before she leaves to help her husband.

  “You’re lucky she didn’t ask you about babies,” Bay says seriously.

  “Why’d that be bad?” I bite into a pizzelle, a flat waffle-shaped Italian cookie.

  “I don’t know. We never discuss that far into the future.” She shrugs slowly. “I guess we never thought there’d be a future…but I’m not suggesting or assuming anything.”

  She’s nervous.

  Bay.

  “Come here,” I whisper to my beautiful girlfriend, drawing her close again. And again. Her arm is around my waist while mine hooks around her shoulders.

  I nod to her. “Later in life. Like thirties, I can picture us in the circus, and we’ll wake up each morning and dance with our kids in our kitchen.”

  Tears well in her brown eyes.

  I mention Trivial Pursuit after dinner, and she puts a palm to my chest. My eyes burn, but this is one of the best paternal memories I have. And it’s not even my dad.

  “I’ll lose on purpose, every time,” I tell her. “Though, knowing your genes, our kids will be really intelligent. The Kotova part…” I wince through my teeth. “Sorry about that.”

  She smiles a shaky, tearful smile. “You’re smart, Luka.” Then she wipes at the corners of her eyes; no tears have fallen, but I feel her swelling emotion. She stares off for a second, thinking.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s weird talking about years into the future when in ten minutes, Infini could be cancelled and I might be out of the circus.”

  “Baylee the Realist is on the rise,” I tease.

  (Don’t doubt my love for the realism inside of her.) I love every part of Bay.

  She gives me a look. “It’s true.”

  “Sort of, partially. Maybe not at all.” I smile.

  “Luka the Dreamer is on the rise,” she says pointedly, starting to smile off of my smile—but we’re both distracted as Nikolai’s lengthy stride aims for us.

  He looks antsy.

  “Yeah?” I ask him.

  “Erik said you know Katya’s porter.”

  I easily spot Kat from across the ballroom. She reads a paranormal paperback with Thora, both on velveteen stools.

  I look back at Nik. “The porter that dropped her?”

  “That one.” His gaze darkens. (Yeah, he’s not my favorite dude either.)

  “I talked to him once in passing.”

  I remember I said try to stay focused.

  Katya asked for a show transfer about a month ago because she doesn’t trust that porter. Since she’s already in AE’s artist database, HR will direct her to a show that has an open slot. Then she would have to audition for the director, etc.

  Problem is, she’s a minor and Nik is her guardian, leaving her with only two real possibilities.

  1.) our parents could agree to look after her, and she’d go on tour with Noctis. (I’m praying that’s not happening.)

  2.) she’d be tran
sferred to Infini, which is…unstable at the moment.

  She can’t join Amour; it’s too risqué, no minors allowed. It’s more plausible she’ll stay in Viva.

  Nikolai clutches his phone in a tight fist. “Auditions are open for Somnio. I thought you could try to convince him to attend.”

  I nod, understanding. If he leaves on his own accord, then Kat will have a new partner. “I’ll see what I can do.” I barely hear him say thank you, my attention on Bay who stares at the carpet, deep in thought. A cookie is frozen between her fingers.

  If Infini is cancelled, it’s possible I could be shifted back to Viva and return to my old job as Kat’s porter. And I don’t know where that’d leave Bay.

  * * *

  I’m outside the Masquerade’s ballroom. Sitting in the semi-quiet lounge area, I hunch forward on the edge of a leather chair. Before I forget, I take a moment to jot everything I ate in a tiny spiral notebook.

  “Hey, man.”

  I look up at Brenden and nod in greeting, but it’s not like we’ve talked without Bay present. We haven’t since that long, awkward time ago we made sandwiches.

  Brenden motions to the adjacent leather chair. “Can I sit?”

  “Yeah.” A pianist must be playing somewhere on this hotel level, music echoing towards us.

  His eyes ping from my notebook to a paper plate in his own hands. “I don’t know if you’re allowed, but Bay said to give this to you. She’s in a long conversation with our aunt about PoPhilly.” He stretches forward and hands me the plate. “She said to tell you it’s not an ‘air patty’—and the meat quality is a solid A.”

  My lips stretch. “It’s from a restaurant in New York?” Bay had been trying to convince Lucy to freeze a box of beef patties and bring them on the plane.

  “Yep.”

  My lips fall as I remember the first part of what he said. “Why wouldn’t I be allowed to eat it?”

  “Sorry,” he immediately apologizes, being considerate of my feelings.

  And I think of Bay. How important Brenden is in her life, and while I don’t like getting deep with a lot of people, I think I should make a better effort with him.

  “You can ask, dude,” I say. “It’s okay.”