Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  He slides forward to the edge of his seat like me. We’re closer, and he lowers his voice so no one can overhear. “Do you have to change your diet? If you’re working on controlling it, do you need to eat healthier?”

  That’s why he’s unsure if I should eat the beef patty. “No, everyone is different, but for me, my issue is more about moderation and timing…like if I overeat or if I eat too close to practices.”

  I stare at my notebook, not able to talk in detail, but I know my issue well.

  I convince myself that I’m in control by doing something Corporate would disallow—eating before practice—but then I have to purge at that point. And I become a prisoner to a different monster.

  I love candy, hamburgers, all junk food, and I always randomly order off of menus, and in my healthiest months, I still eat the same kind of food—just at healthier times and portions.

  When I’m really stressed, I will start believing that puking will make me feel better and more in control. That’s what happened this year.

  Brenden slowly nods. “And the notebook helps?”

  “Yeah, sometimes. I’m not always at a place where I need it.”

  I haven’t thrown up in three weeks, which is good. Really good, and I’d say that my compulsion to steal is down to a 4.5 rating. (Decent for me.)

  A long moment passes. It’s an awkward beat, and the more we stare at one another, I think he’s looking at me differently.

  The answer hits my head—why he’s being so cool with me. I give him a look, setting down my beef patty.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Don’t pity me,” I tell him. “I’m the same guy you disliked. I haven’t changed. I’ve been the same person.”

  He shakes his head. “I thought you were an adrenaline junkie who stole crap for the hell of it.” He heard about my childhood trauma from Geoffrey in that auditorium. He’s had a couple months to reevaluate who I am.

  I’m still Luka Kotova.

  A kleptomaniac.

  A bulimic.

  And I’m more than that. I’m a brother to five siblings. A fourth generation circus performer and a high-risk acrobat. I’m Russian-American, a proud Kotova. A dreamer and a rebel.

  “Look,” I try to explain, “it doesn’t change the fact that I steal. It’s still wrong.”

  “It changes something.”

  No. I don’t want it to. Here’s why. “When I was a kid,” I say slowly, these words edging to the forefront of my brain, “my therapist used to tell me that I need to be accountable for my actions. If I get caught stealing, I can’t just blame it on my issues. I have to take responsibility. I could’ve turned around, set the item back—I could’ve paused one moment longer, and I have to try to be better.” I capture his methodical gaze. “I don’t want it to be okay with you that I steal, is what I’m saying. Because it never was before.”

  He understands, clarity flooding his eyes.

  I wonder if Bay told him that I found a therapist in Vegas.

  I’m going once a week. It’s more expensive than I really like, but I forgot how much it helps. I can’t really put a price value on my health. So Baylee tells me.

  Brenden sits back. “Where does this leave you and me?”

  We hear commotion in the hallway, our heads turning slightly. Dimitri is inbound. He must’ve taken a piss break.

  Brenden and I acknowledge each other again. The awkwardness is literally still there. I don’t think it’ll ever leave. Maybe that’s just how the two of us are meant to be together. Awkward.

  I almost laugh. “I like how we were before. In New York, before I got caught with Bay.” We weren’t friends, but we were cool enough to play board games together. For him to share his family moments with me—I was a part of his world.

  That’s all I’d want.

  His smile gradually appears. “I did too.”

  I think we’ll be able to return to that.

  “Princess!” Dimitri calls across the lounge area. Our heads swing to the right. Camila is with her boyfriend, Craig.

  He’s a redhead. That’s all I can hone in on. Dimitri looks like a kid in a candy store, grinning from ear-to-ear as Camila’s eyes grow like a deer caught in headlights.

  Brenden says, “He has no chill.”

  I nod in agreement as we stand. I grab my beef patty and pocket my notebook. By the entrance to the ballroom, Dimitri extends his palm to Craig.

  “Dimitri,” he says, “Camila’s friend.”

  Craig reluctantly shakes. “She’s never mentioned you before.”

  “Probably because she nicknamed me.” Dimitri doesn’t say that the nickname is tiniest dick—and it’s not for the obvious reason. He’s not embarrassed. He just doesn’t want Camila to be in hot water with her boyfriend by mentioning his dick.

  It’s why Dimitri isn’t peacocking. He’s assessing Craig like he’s learning more about Camila by meeting him. Nothing more than that.

  Camila sees me nearing. “Hey, cool brother.”

  I nod to her in reply, eating the last of my patty that’s stuffed full of beef. I can definitely imagine Bay melting in heaven when she took a bite of hers.

  Craig looks irritated. “Let’s go, Camila. I don’t want to be here all night.”

  Camila sighs lightly, and she smiles at Dimtiri. “See you Saturday.”

  “See you, princess.”

  They are really friends. Been that way since the summer.

  Brenden looks to me as we walk. “I meant to ask you. Did you ever figure out why you were put in Infini with Bay?”

  “No clue.”

  “Little Kotova,” Dimitri says as we reach the door. Craig and Camila already disappeared inside the ballroom.

  “What?”

  He cocks his head, and I figure out that he just heard Brenden.

  “Do you know why I was put in Infini?” I sway back, surprised. Has he known this whole fucking time?

  “Have you ever asked Sergei about himself? Not if he’s a titty or ass guy or likes to rub it out in bed or the shower.” Only Dimitri has to clarify that he’s not talking about body parts or sex. “His hobbies. His interests.”

  “I…” (No, I haven’t.)

  Dimitri pats my shoulder. “Start there.”

  Act Fifty-One

  Luka Kotova

  I beeline for Sergei in the ballroom, skirting past clustered groups of people and ten-foot fir trees. My brain churns through weeks, months, nearly a year with Sergei—and I still can’t comprehend why he’d have this answer that’s always eluded me and Bay.

  I round a mammoth tree, and by a dove ice sculpture, I find Timo, Sergei, and Nikolai in mid-conversation.

  “…mountain vaca, beach vaca.” Timo uses his palms as mock scales, and the beach vacation is higher.

  “I miss the Swiss Alps,” Sergei says, eggnog in hand. I skim him. He wears all black. Black slacks, black belt, black button-down, black leather bracelets—I feel like I’m missing the smallest, tiniest detail.

  “If it’s not in driving distance, it’ll cost a fortune,” Nik states.

  Timo catches sight of me. “Luka, beach or mountains for the Great Kotova Road Trip?”

  I rake a hand through my hair. “I don’t mi…” Timo is mouthing beach, beach, beach repeatedly. So I say, “Beach.” I open my mouth to cut in and ask Sergei, but Timo is like lightning. Speeding ahead and whiplashing my train of thought.

  “I second the beach.” Timo raises a palm like he’s taking an oath. “Kat will third, and now it’s three to one. Beach wins.” Timo makes a cha-ching motion.

  “What about Nik’s vote?” Sergei asks.

  “Nik’s not invited.” Timo beams as he says it.

  Nikolai rolls his eyes, but his lips curve upward.

  “It won’t stop him from tagging along,” Timo says. “You may not know this now, Serg. But you’ll come to find that Nikolai has an obsession with following me around.” Serg.

  As soon as Timo says his nickname, Sergei’s face li
ghts up. It’s taken almost the whole year, but they’re finally on good terms.

  Sometimes all it takes is time. Sometimes it takes more than that.

  Nikolai interjects, “If you told us where you were going, no one would need to follow you.”

  “Don’t let him fool you,” Timo tells our oldest brother. “His favorite game is Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego? – Timofei Kotova Edition.”

  Nikolai shakes his head, his charismatic eyes smiling, and Sergei laughs.

  I butt in, “Sergei, can I talk to you?” I motion towards the window. In the corner. Away from family, from most of the artists.

  “Yeah.” Sergei looks to Nik, who’s suddenly stone-faced, letting no emotion pass.

  Nik shakes his head once in reply. He wouldn’t know what this is about. I haven’t even told Baylee yet.

  Timo tries to capture my gaze, but I avoid. I’d rather not spin this into a huge family discussion.

  Half a minute later, Sergei and I reach the semi-private corner, and he sets his eggnog on the windowsill.

  “Will you be honest with me, please?” I start off.

  “From the start, I’m the one who said honesty is important,” he says. “I’ve been honest with you.”

  I blink quickly, thinking. How did he get Geoffrey to return the tempo of our act’s music to the original? That has always bugged me. And what Dimitri just said…

  “Luka,” Sergei says. “Just ask me outright. I’ll answer.”

  Is it me? I haven’t asked him anything personal. Not one thing. I’ve empathized with him, but I never reached out and reconnected with my brother. Not beyond work.

  Sergei twists his bracelets, anxious. “You realize I’m not Nikolai? I’m not going to assume what you’re thinking by reading your body language.” Yeah, Nik is really good at that.

  I stuff my hands in my slack’s pockets, and my fingers touch a pack of Skittles. “Do you know why Marc Duval would risk putting me in Infini with Baylee?”

  Sergei’s expression morphs from somewhat worried to amused.

  I raise my shoulders. “I’m missing the joke here, dude.”

  He rests his elbow on the windowsill. “I tried texting, emailing—talking with you at the start of the show. You could’ve had this answer back then. It’s funny.” He tilts his head from side to side, reconsidering that word. “In a sad way.”

  (That’s my life. Funny but sad.) “Yeah, well…” I run my fingers through my hair and gesture to him. “I’m asking now, and it’s not like we were ever close when our family was together.”

  Sergei nods, knowing that age separated us. Growing up, he was like the untouchable brother to me. The oldest, the strongest, the fittest—I made him into this humongous, godly figure. Intimidating, more so than Nik, who’s already hard to confront at times.

  Timo could reach anyone, anything, but not me—I just hung back. It’s why I can’t recall that many memories with just Sergei and me. I don’t know if any exist before Infini.

  “I was told,” Sergei explains, “that Wheel of Death needed to return to Infini. Marc believed that removing that act was the reason Infini’s sales were down.”

  I don’t ask why the act was removed in the first place. When Timo joined the cast of Amour, they had to erase Wheel of Death off Infini’s program. It was his discipline before it ever became mine.

  “There are only a few Kotovas who’ve mastered the discipline.” Sergei is one of them. “I didn’t ask to join Infini. I was told to.” He pauses. “But I did ask who my partner would be.”

  “Who was it?” I just know—it couldn’t have been me.

  “A cousin I’d never met.” His gaze drifts to the window, Vegas lit up in an array of neon colors tonight and every night.

  “Why me then?”

  Why am I standing in front of Sergei and not a no-named cousin?

  “I wanted to be paired with a brother.” His softened gaze meets mine. “And not just any brother. I wanted to be paired with you.”

  I let out a laugh. “You’re joking.” When I see that he’s not, I say, “Peter would’ve been better. Nik, Timo. If they were available—”

  “I would’ve still chosen you,” he emphasizes. “For some reason or another, we were never in a single act together growing up. I was never able to perform side-by-side on a stage with you, Luka. I’ve worked closely with Timo, with Nik, with Peter—but not you. And my best memories are coaching my brothers.”

  Coaching. Because he’s the oldest. The know-it-all.

  He has been coaching me.

  Bettering me, enhancing my skills at this discipline from the jumpstart.

  My carriage elevates in a big breath, but I can’t wrap my head around another loose thread. “How could you ever ask for me and get me? Corporate listens to money and these strict contracts, not us. Not what we want.”

  “I told Marc over coffee that if Wheel of Death seemed that important for Infini, I needed to be in it, and that I wouldn’t go if you weren’t my partner.”

  I rock back. “You gave Marc Duval an ultimatum?”

  “It wasn’t that harsh.” He laughs. “We were talking about everything. Music, movies, family, and when the topic of Infini and contract renewals came up, it was casual…” He laughs harder, probably at my befuddled expression.

  My brows must be knit together.

  “Luka.” Sergei smiles wide. “I’m friends with Marc Duval. Every time we cross paths, we grab coffees, lunch, always dinner. We don’t usually talk business, but when we do, it’s laidback. He respects my opinion, and I respect his. In some ways, he’s always seen me as a voice for the artists, and my relationship with Marc occasionally gives me sway with the staff.”

  “What…” The. Hell. It’s hard for me to believe.

  Which is why he steps nearer and says, “I’m best friends with Christian Duval, his son. We were in a band together. Wherever the circus went, the band followed.”

  A band.

  None of this should be shocking. Dimitri told me to ask Sergei about his hobbies. A fucking band. And I’ve always known nepotism exists. Playing favorites, preferential treatment—it’s all real. It’s why Baylee and I were even given a chance to stay in the circus after we were caught. And apparently it’s why I went to Infini.

  It hits me now that he’s the reason I got the chance to look at Baylee Wright again.

  To say her name out loud.

  To hold her hand.

  If I didn’t return to Infini, Bay and I would’ve never taken the risks. I’d still be in Viva. Trying not to think about a girl that I was helplessly, wholeheartedly, infinitely in love with.

  His decisions changed my life.

  Again.

  But this time, he actually led me to the wish-upon-a-star, blow-out-all-your-birthday-candles kind of happiness.

  “Thank you,” I say, my emotion encapsulating the two words.

  Sergei nods like he feels them.

  I replay his answers, my lips rising, and I ask, “So what kind of band was it?”

  Sergei picks up his eggnog. “Metal. A cross between Disturbed and Celtic Frost.” He gestures to his chest. “Stryke Manner.”

  My lips pull high. “Your band name was Stryke Manner.”

  “It’s cool,” he says as though it can’t be rivaled.

  I laugh. “You played guitar?”

  “Drums.” Sergei drinks a swig of eggnog. “I could teach you. You’d be good. Your rhythm is…” He falls quiet as the holiday music dies down.

  Antoine Perrot stands on an apple box, microphone to his lips. “Is this working?” His voice booms. “There we go.”

  He’s going to make an announcement about Infini, and the only thought I have in my head is: find Baylee.

  I tell Sergei why I’m leaving, and then I weave through frozen bodies that face and listen to Perrot. Everyone may as well be a marble statute, and I’m the only one moving.

  Perrot thanks everyone for attending and then starts recalling his mem
ories being the Director of Infini while in Vegas. He’s being too sentimental, and Baylee will draw a conclusion from that. No doubt.

  Find Baylee.

  I pick up my pace, dodging a group of my cousins. I dip beneath a low-hanging string of garland.

  “The press release will reach the entire Aerial Ethereal troupe tomorrow, but I wanted to tell the cast before and in person. For your hard work and the difficult year, you all deserve that.”

  I find her.

  She stands tensed by the dessert bar and three-foot chocolate fountain. I come up behind Bay, and she instantly sinks her back against my chest.

  I snake one of my arms around her collarbones, my other across her abdomen. I hold her tight, and her ribs expand in a breath.

  We sway back-and-forth some, and I watch her wide-eyed, concentrated gaze on Perrot.

  Perrot sighs heavily. “There’s just no other way to say this. Creative and financial teams have come to the conclusion that no matter how much effort our artists give, there is no saving Infini.”

  Baylee goes completely still in my arms. Like an arrow struck her heart, and as I stand behind her, against her—it impales me too. I can practically feel her grief and pain fist her lungs.

  And there’s nothing I can do but hold Bay.

  “To garner more tickets, we need a completely new show narrative, a new name—and at that point, it’s no longer Infini. It’s something else.”

  No one whispers. No one moves.

  We just listen.

  Perrot adjusts his clammy grip on the microphone. “To the cast of Infini, you gave your all. I speak on behalf of the company when I say, you made us proud.”

  People are starting to cry.

  Baylee wipes beneath her eyes with a trembling hand, and I fight emotion.

  Perrot’s gaze glasses. “This is the end of the line for me.” There must not be a role for him in the company. Show director positions are scarce. “I wish that I could promise the entire cast a job. I’d hire you all.” He laughs weakly, but the humor doesn’t catch on with his audience.

  I feel Bay’s heart pounding hard.

  “But there are no job guarantees,” Perrot says. “Come January, you’ll learn if Aerial Ethereal has a place for you. Something else may be in the works, but my advice is to audition for open-slots in Somnio. It’s on a European tour, and you should take advantage of every opportunity while you still can.” He pauses. “So it’s with great sadness and honor that I announce New Year’s Eve as Infini’s last show.”