That soon.
We figured, but hearing the news gives it permanence. Validity. And pain.
“Bay?” I whisper in her ear.
She nods once as though to say I’m dealing. And she clutches my bicep around her collarbones like she doesn’t want me to let go anytime soon.
I’m not.
I’m holding on forever.
“Raise your glasses.”
Baylee and I don’t separate to reach for a cup. Champagne flutes and eggnog glasses are hoisted all around us, watery gazes set on Perrot.
And he says, “To Infini.”
“To Infini,” everyone repeats.
And so softly, Bay breathes, “To Infini.”
Act Fifty-Two
Baylee Wright
Our very last performance in Infini, the globe auditorium is packed to the brim. Every chance I can, I stand in the wings of the stage with other Infini artists, all of us watching our friends, our family lay their hearts bare for this show.
One final time.
There’s not a dry eye, and we dab the corners with tissues, careful not to rub off our makeup. For as much loss I thought I’d feel, my heart is so full right now. This show has meant the world to me, but to witness the soul-deep passion these artists have for Infini as their feet touch the stage—the grief inside this ending has given way to love.
I feel such strong love today.
Before I change into my sky-blue leo, I linger by the left wing, other artists congregated around me, watching.
I watch Luka perform Wheel of Death to hypnotic percussion and roaring horns. Sergei and Luk run on the outside of their opposite wheels, the danger escalating with the music’s pulse-stomping pace.
As the wheel rotates vertically, Sergei hangs on the lower wheel, and Luka, on the top, jumps.
He flips and twists, his feet seemingly about to land nowhere. But the wheel swishes ahead, catching Luka in perfect timing, and he reaches out devilishly to the little girl Milla on stage. She draws forward, her nightgown billowing.
Sergei lands a trick that causes the audience to gasp, and Luka whips his head to his brother, acting like he’s never noticed him before. He suddenly darts through the metal apparatus. Entering the middle space frame beam.
Then he jumps down on the same wheel as his brother.
Sergei slips into the wheel and he makes a face at Luka like you can’t catch me.
Their cat-and-mouse routine causes Milla to take a few steps backwards, but I’m entranced. I’m stuck here watching how beautiful Luka is, how much he loves the circus.
As the routine nears the end, Luka smiles at his brother, and Sergei smiles back, their hands clasp—and I have to turn away before tears cascade.
I rub my nose, and I quickly dress.
Intermission hits, and everyone tries to change fast. High-risk trampoline is next, and Luka enters, his chest and ribs jutting in and out as he catches his breath.
He wipes off his red nightmare makeup, grinning at me.
I don’t restrain my smile as I pass him brushes and a pallet of his sapphire and gold makeup. His dreamscape spandex still makes him look like a celestial god.
Time passes fast, and we hurry in our new costumes, new makeups, and it seems like before I even blink, we’re taking our cue stage left.
I rise and fall on my toes, my gold-stitched balls in my hand.
“Bay,” Luka says, dipping his head to mine. He pecks me four quick times on the lips. It’s routine after he kissed me playfully like that months ago, and that night’s performance was considered one of the best.
I may not always believe in random good fortune, but Luka keeps the superstition alive. I do it for the kisses, and for him.
“Ready, krasavitsa?” His gray twinkling eyes drink me in.
I inhale a humongous breath, and I realize that each act has been armoring me for the end, protecting me for a final goodbye. And I wholeheartedly believe this act with Luka will wrap me in indestructible metals and steels that no pain could infiltrate.
“I’m ready,” I say strongly.
And we go.
I’m dancing to my mom’s music. I am breathing in every lively cord that thrums through my veins. We are heaven and peace on this stage, and balls take flight in symmetry. Kotovas scale poles around me, their vivacious energy and chemistry at a peak.
I twirl and juggle, nearing the apparatus, and I’m lifted onto the trampoline by an angel named Luka—and we bounce.
We fly.
There are no words to describe the feeling of being alive.
After all our work, I can stand on his shoulders. He rotates me, eight gold balls taking flight. I catch them to applause, and Luka squeezes my ankles, proud of me.
I’m so proud of us.
At the end of the act, he wraps his arm around my shoulders, kissing the top of my head, and we watch the show together.
We’re quiet. Holding onto one another. Listening. Feeling.
He’s out of my arms for Russian swing, the final act, and the joyous chorus of the finale’s score alleviates all tension. All discord. Kotovas move in celebration of what they do and who they are, and I feel the same.
Proud to be a part of this heart-rendering world.
Proud to be a Wright.
Proud to be my mom’s daughter.
Tears wet my cheeks, and I don’t worry about the makeup. I’m smiling, and just as the curtains fall to the close, someone shouts, “Last curtain call for Infini.”
Last curtain call for Infini.
This is the final goodbye.
I walk on the bright stage with the rest of the cast, and I engrain everything in my mind: the velvet curtains, all the spotlights, the floor beneath my feet, the chatter and the quick side-hugs before the curtain slowly rises to a standing ovation.
A warm arm is around my shoulders. “Luka,” I breathe.
He smiles and wipes some of my tears. “This is only the start, Bay.”
I nod over and over. Life continues after tonight, and I’m clinging to more than Luka. I have hope.
The contortionists rush forward first, with a bow and a wave. They step back, and I push Luka, his turn is up. He’s already grinning, jumping far ahead, and his arms hook around cousins. Who hook their arms around him. Together, in unison.
The audience roars, clapping harder and louder. I can’t stop smiling.
The Kotovas stand statuesque, teeming with charisma and pride, and I clap and clap. I cheer for Brenden and Zhen as they take the spotlight.
It’s my turn.
Artists let me through, and I come forward, passing the Russian swing apparatus. I juggle three balls and twirl before I bow.
I hear Luka’s loud whistle, and I grin inside-out.
Just when I think it’s the end, most of the cast shuffles back—but they push four of us to the front. To the spotlight.
Luka lightly pushes my arm, his lips stretched wide. “Go, Bay.”
I’m about to shake my head, but Brenden clasps my hand, and Dimitri suddenly takes my other. Zhen grabs Brenden’s—and I realize why we’re being honored.
We’re the only ones who stayed with Infini from beginning to end.
The original four.
So we walk forward together. Hand-in-hand. And before the curtain falls, I see the admiration and respect from my peers as they clap all around me, and I see the audience overflowing with emotion that we built.
I can’t think of a happier goodbye than this one.
* * *
“I have something bizarre to tell you,” I say to Luka, after we sneak into the Masquerade’s biggest globe auditorium. We finished performing Infini about four or five hours ago, showered and changed in comfier clothes.
We sit on the midnight-blue velveteen seats. In the very middle row of the middle section. It’s empty and peaceful, and the stage curtains are still drawn open. The last set piece, a painted soft blue sky floating into star-speckled space, still hangs as the background, omnipoten
t and breathtaking.
Luka dumps three types of candy into a bag of popcorn, already smiling.
“You’re not nervous?” I give him a serious look.
“No,” he says with a laugh. “I like bizarre things as much as you do.”
I bring my right foot to the seat, angling my body slightly towards him. “What’s bizarre,” I say, “is that when I sit here, in an empty auditorium with no one around but you”—I make a grand sweeping motion at our scenery—“it’s not quiet to me, and it’s not because I’m talking.”
Luka listens and watches intently, his smile not mocking at all.
I lean forward, my hand on his armrest. “It’s like…” I put a hand on my chest like the words are in me but I can’t articulate. “I hear music. It’s hushed, but there’s this sound that can’t be contained—and God, I am in…”
“Love,” he finishes, his gray eyes encapsulating what I feel.
I nod, tears welling. I laugh into a smile. “Love is bizarre.”
His arm slides on top of mine. “You want to hear something bizarre?” He tosses a piece of popcorn in his mouth.
“What?”
“I figured that out way before you.”
My smile matches his. “Not bizarre at all,” I say as his fingers lace mine. “I can believe that easily.”
Luka reaches down and finds my Infini souvenir tote bag. After the final performance, there was a wrap party, and we were all given mementos to remember the show. We have time to kill before we learn where our futures are headed.
Sergei said he’d text us by 3:00 a.m. with details. He’s calling his friend, Marc Duval’s son, and seeing if he’s heard any rumors about where we’ll all end up.
I sit up straighter and stare at the glittering gold Infini logo on the sapphire-blue bag.
“Spectacular!” Luka reads off the back of the tote. “Splendid!” He pops a green Skittle in his mouth. “Only two words. They could’ve used your thesaurus, Bay.”
“No one’s taking my thesaurus,” I say, digging through the contents of the bag. “The doodles are invaluable to me.”
He grins, his arm stretching over my shoulders. He watches me pull out a blue T-shirt, stationary, a hardbound program, and I pause when I reach the DVD.
I know it’s footage of Infini from New York. They filmed during the first year, and the dreamy and whimsical cover is the other artist who used to play The Girl. Before Milla.
My eyes drift to Luka, and I sweep his angelic yet chiseled face, dangerous like a nightmare but enthralling like a dream. “You should’ve been the poster,” I say what I’m thinking.
Luka laughs.
“I’m serious.” I start smiling again, my face hurting. “Stop. It’s true. You evoke Infini.”
He’s staring straight into me. I think my overly passionate emphasis hooks him. “I already believe you,” he says, “and I don’t even know what that means exactly.” He offers me the popcorn, and I grab a handful. He nods to the DVD case. “You weren’t in any extras, were you?”
“No. You weren’t either, right?” I remember they were trying to limit the number of children shown on the DVD. I flip the case over, the extras listed out like a day in the life of an artist and before the show.
“No, but Nik had a five-minute extra about his workout regime.”
“I remember that. Dimitri had a fit when they chose Nikoali instead of him.” We smile at the memory.
Luka adds, “Then Dimitri stood in the back of the shot while they were filming Nik.” We burst into laughter because Dimitri took that time to flex in each camera frame like he was posing for Sports Illustrated.
And it’s all caught on tape.
Our laughter slowly fades when my finger skims the credits on the DVD case.
Next to Composer is Joyce Wright.
I won’t dance to her music on stage anymore. Audiences won’t hear all the melodies she strung together, and it hurts. It will hurt for a while, but Marc was wrong.
I was wrong.
My mom’s memory doesn’t end here. She lives on inside of so many people. She has touched thousands on and off this stage, and not even this bag of mementos or this DVD can encapsulate all of my mom.
Quietly, I say, “I thought she’d disappear or vanish if Infini ended, but I still feel her presence. As long as I remember her, I don’t think she’ll ever leave me.” A hot tear rolls down my cheek, and I wipe it away.
Luka draws me to his chest where it’s safe and warm, and just as we hug, our phones buzz, a text from Sergei.
This is it.
We wait to look, our eyes dancing over each other, and he whispers, “You’re not scared.”
“No,” I say, thinking about how we’re together. We’ve been together, and wherever we go from here I’m certain that won’t change. “I’m hopeful. You?”
He nods strongly. “The exact same.”
We inhale together, and then on the count of three, we check our phones. “One. Two,” we say in unison. “Three.”
The text thread includes all of the Kotovas, my brother, Zhen, and several Infini cast members.
I’m only sharing the rumors I’m 100% sure are fact. If you don’t see your name, there’s still some indecision. First what I know: Aerial Ethereal has been developing a new show for the past six months. The name is a little straightforward, but they’re trying new things, and the concept is really fresh. Most of you will like it: celebration of 4 seasons. In the summer, the sets and costumes reflect the summer. The fall, it reflects the fall, etc.
“Did you see the show concept?” Luka asks right as I digest the details.
“Yeah, it sounds like it’ll get people to return to the show all year.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” He’s excited.
I hope they need a juggler. Luka clasps my hand and kisses my palm while we read the rest.
Also, the new show has late-night viewings. The name they gave the show is meant to reflect this.
It’s called Midnight.
Midnight.
Here’s the cast of Midnight that I’m 100% sure of:
Erik Kotova
Robby Kotova
Anton Kotova
Abram Kotova
Sergei Kotova
Sergei typed his last name out with an a. It’s so subtle, but he must identify as Kotova more now than when he first arrived in Vegas.
The list of Kotovas goes on and on and on, but four names jump out at me.
Luka Kotova
Dimitri Kotova
Timofei Kotova (pay raise + major lead)
Katya Kotova
“Luka.” My head whips to him, and he looks overwhelmed, hand to his mouth. He hasn’t been in a show with both Timo and Katya since New York.
“Keep reading, Bay,” he urges.
So I do, and my heart stops.
Zhen Li
Brenden Wright
Baylee Wright
I’m in the circus. I’m with my family. His family. No one is splitting up. Not this time, and the fact breathes something powerful inside of me.
As I look up, Luka stands and hurdles over a row of chairs. He walks backwards, his gaze nothing but inviting. “Follow me, krasavitsa.”
I’m already on my feet. I’m already hurdling the same rows at a blood-pumping speed. We’re smiling, and he reaches the stage before me, hoisting himself swiftly and effortlessly. He slides on the surface but he leans down.
And Luka outstretches his hand to me.
I grab hold.
He lifts me in one movement, and I’m against his chest, my palms on his face as he spins round and round in a dizzying circle with me in his arms. His smile magnetizing my smile—and I hear music.
And I think, I have lived partially. Halfly. Incompletely.
To be whole, I did not know until my bones thundered and bellowed for more.
I am whole and happy.
And this is more.
Epilogue
One Month Later
>
Luka Kotova
“Jump!”
I jump straight up with over a hundred other artists. All of us in a huge casual circle, the middle empty. We wear workout clothes for a troupe warm-up. Morning light crests the windows of the performance gym, and the air is loose and free as we all bounce in unison.
“Hands up!” someone else calls out.
Arms raise as we jump, and Nik slips into the open center, claiming the attention. He may be my uptight older brother, but performing, he’s as smooth and graceful as water.
He dances, his feet and body in harmony, and his eyes glimmer at Thora who jumps on the outskirts with the rest of us.
She’s scowling, but her RBF begins receding at the sight of her boyfriend. She signed a two-year contract for Amour, but Nik and Thora will most likely be in aerial silk for much longer than that. The Masquerade signed paperwork to keep Amour in the hotel for twelve years.
“Pat!”
We drop to our feet and pat our thighs. The soft drumming noise reverberates off the eighty-foot ceilings.
Nik extends his arms and points at two people. Not wavering, Sergei and Dimitri slide on either side of him, and they mimic Nik’s dance to the tee. Watching the three of them together, I can almost picture them as teenagers. Not as many responsibilities, daring Sergei to streak, ribbing on Dimitri for everything, and fighting over Nikolai.
Then again, they still do all of that shit, and they’re in their late twenties.
“Timofei,” Serg calls.
Timo bounces in front of all three men, and his aura literally outshines them. He backflips, slides his feet out and then together, twirls and finishes with an aerial. Everyone is smiling.
“Clap!”
We all clap to a new beat.
Older guys slipping back to the outskirts, they leave Timo alone in the center. My little brother is now the highest paid Aerial Ethereal artist. He’s carrying the weight of Midnight, his time spent on stage tripling some of us, but if anyone thrives best inside a spotlight, it’s Timofei Kotova.
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