A few Juggulars still running around the ring freeze, staring at the poor family who have just arrived. That’ll be Mr and Mrs Wood then. The Juggulars gather themselves and dash behind the red curtain as the mum, dad and three little kids take seats a few rows from the front and look around as if they’re as nervous as we are that no one else will show up.
But more people do come. Some more families. Parents of the performers, some kids from Jay’s class, some from Wren’s. I watch in amazement as the black curtain keeps parting to let them through.
Lou barges her way in accompanied by half the clientele of O’Brien’s pub, all of them a few pints too far gone. She’s ditched the cardigans in favour of a clinging, glittery dress that reveals her full range of tattoos, and she appears to have taught her crew an old circus song with dubious lyrics, because they’re all singing loudly:
OHHH,
The circus is coming to call,
The big top is fifty feet tall.
We’ll make you laugh,
We’ll make you gasp,
And the lion will bite off your OHHH!
The circus is coming to call…
The mothers in the row in front cover their children’s ears, but they can’t move seats because the place is filling up now as more and more people arrive.
Miss Allen! With Mr Cooper! Sinead and James and a couple of the Bond Girls, though I suppose I should stop calling them that if they’re going to start doing stuff without Kitty. A bunch of kids who got out of the children’s ward recently, and a few who are still patients accompanied by a group of nurses and a doctor. Our next-door neighbours and Chris Magee from the newsagent’s, some more teachers and a few people from our year at school, plus a lot of people I don’t know at all.
I relax a tiny bit.
We have an audience. They came. They paid money to see us.
There’s a small scream followed by an unidentified crash from somewhere backstage and suddenly my stomach tightens.
We have an audience. They came. And they paid money to see us.
I climb down the rigging and head backstage, but before I get to the curtain a familiar voice calls, “Finch!”
“Tony!”
“Hey, this looks great!” He’s left his seat to reach me but he points back to the audience and says, “I brought people. That’s my boyfriend, Mal, that’s Shirl – she’s a nurse in cardiology – and that there is…” He grins.
“Birdie!” She’s in a wheelchair, wedged between Shirl and Mal in the front row and cocooned in blankets, pale and tiny. But she’s here. She’s home.
“She was feeling good today and she slept all morning, so we got permission to bring her along, providing there are two nurses with her at all times. Speaking of which, I’d better get back to her before Mal starts talking about mandolins or something, poor girl.”
“Should’ve known she wouldn’t miss my debut in making an idiot of myself,” I say, but I’m thrilled really; at least if I completely wipe out in the ring, Birdie will be here to pick me up. As usual.
Mum’s calling me backstage and the lights are going down already. The seating’s full (and hasn’t collapsed) and I guess we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.
“I have to finish getting dressed. Tell her I’ll see her after the show, and thanks again, Tony!”
“Looking forward to it! Tell Hector good luck!”
“Oh. Yeah. Hector. Actually—”
“Never mind. Good luck!” he yells to someone over my shoulder, and I turn just in time to see Hector sprint through the backstage curtains.
We’ve used more curtains to subdivide the back half of the warehouse into cubicle-sized dressing rooms. Between the excited chatter of the performers back here and the music pounding out front, it’s pretty noisy. Hector and I have a tiny space with folding chairs, a mirror, clown outfits hanging on a hat-stand, and props littered around the floor.
“You’re here!” I dash in to find him tearing off his clothes.
“Wig! Braces! Now!” he yells. He’s on after Py, which means he has exactly six minutes to put on a costume and make-up that usually takes us twenty. I throw props at him, fasten his braces, button his buttons and jam his wig on while he paints his face. I hope he can calm down enough to remember his cues. When Dad ducks his head in and yells, “You’re on!” he runs to the stage curtain, still tying his bow tie, and I follow and peek nervously from the wings.
I needn’t have worried. Hector’s air of panic and dishevelment only adds to the comedy as he ducks water balloons from the Juggulars. I don’t know how he managed to get here, or if this means I’m forgiven, but I guess we can talk about that when he comes backstage again.
But actually, Hector’s in so many acts and there’s so much to do backstage that the show’s half over before he and I find ourselves back in our dressing room together.
Our act is coming up soon. I’m putting the finishing touches to my white face, clown eyebrows and red lips (I finally agreed to the make-up) when Hector comes in and flops onto a chair, exhausted. Outside I can hear Dad running about with his clipboard, directing everyone, and Mum being ringmaster out front. Her voice booms over the speakers, “AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS, GIVE A BIG WELCOME TO THE JUGGULARS AND THEIR WEAPONS OF MASS DISRUPTION!!!!”
Everything seems to be under control and there’s nothing for us to do but wait for our cue, which shouldn’t be long; we’re on after the Juggulars.
But I’m worried. I still don’t know how angry Hector is; we haven’t talked properly since the dress rehearsal, and I don’t want our act to go as badly as that did, so I’m trying to work out the best way to fix things between us when he says, “I can’t do this.”
I stare at him. “You’re bailing on me six minutes before our act? Are you serious? I can’t go out there on my own!”
He rolls his eyes. “Not that. You know, you always assume I’m going to let you down or ditch you for someone else or disappear on you. I know today was a close call but, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m here. I’m here and I’m still your friend, even though you’ve never really given me a reason to be.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s true, but I still don’t know what to say. He doesn’t give me time to respond anyway.
“I’m not worried about the act,” he says. “But I want us to sort things out before we go on.”
“Oh.” I let out a relieved breath. “Good idea, I was thinking that too. OK, I’ll go first.” I turn my chair so I’m facing him, and say, “I’m sorry I yelled at you and I’m sort of sorry I broke into your house and yelled at your dad.”
He can’t help smiling. “Thanks, Finch, that’s big of you. But actually, you were right.”
“Really?” I try not to look astonished. I’m almost never right.
“About being brave and being honest about everything. That’s why I told my dad the truth. About Sinead. And about you. Actually, I thought it was kind of cool of you to break into my house to rescue me.”
“Your dad didn’t think it was very cool.”
“I think he’s torn between being impressed and having you reported as a danger to yourself and others. But he also said you must be a pretty good friend to go to all that trouble and he could see why I liked you.”
“Really? So he let you come tonight?”
“They’re in the audience.”
“That’s great!”
“And now I want to tell you the truth,” he says.
“Me?”
He frowns at the noise around us, shuffles his chair closer to mine and we both lean forward. He stares at the floor between his knees and rubs nervously at the back of his neck as he speaks.
“I’ve been trying to work out the best way to say this, but it’s pretty simple. You know I’m gay, don’t you, Finch? I hoped you’d already guessed that.”
I sit back. “Oh. Right. I mean, yeah.” I had not guessed that. I think. I don’t know. Mostly I just feel a sort of lurch in my
stomach, like the floor’s dropped from beneath me.
“It’s not a secret or anything; people at my old school knew.”
“Yeah? That couldn’t have been easy.”
He shrugs. “There’s always some group of dicks who think it’s any of their business. But it was a big school and there were a few gay kids, so most people were OK with it. They just picked on me for being a Star Trek fan instead.”
“Understandable. Do your parents know?”
“Yeah, I told them a couple of years ago. They were better about it than I thought they’d be. Mum was great. I think Dad will come round eventually, but he kept saying, ‘You’re too young to make any big decisions’, like I was choosing something expensive out of a catalogue. I think that’s why we moved here. He thinks gay kids only happen in big cities and TV programmes, and if I’m surrounded by normal kids, I’ll forget about it.” He rolls his eyes. “He was thrilled when he thought I was dating Sinead.”
“So why didn’t you tell anyone at school here?”
“I did tell Birdie, but that’s all. I’ve never lived anywhere this small before; I wanted to get to know the place before I stood up and painted a target on myself. And Dad said I should wait. He seems to think the whole thing is OK in theory, but I should keep it low-key and not make life difficult for myself. Like being singled out at school is the worst thing in the world. He even said to me one day, ‘You know, it’s fine to be gay, but you don’t have to be obvious about it. You don’t have to be camp.’ I know he’s just trying to protect me, and I thought he might be right for a while, but now I think that’s rubbish. It’s always harder pretending to be something you’re not. You know?”
Yeah. I know. But somehow I can’t get the words out.
“I guess that’s what all this fuss over you has been about,” he says. “I didn’t want to pretend or sneak around any more and he wasn’t happy about it. But it’s my decision. So this is me not pretending.” He looks at me properly for the first time since he started speaking. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
“My dad didn’t like me spending so much time with you because he thinks I’m too young to be in a relationship. With a boy anyway. I don’t know why he thinks that’s different.”
I still can’t speak.
“I’m saying I like you, Finch.”
I have to force some words out. Any words. “You do?”
He gives me a nervous smile. “Yeah. I mean, you’re annoying and you’re tactless and you have zero patience and you’re prickly as hell.” He shrugs. “But you’re also funny and kind and loyal, and you throw yourself in the way every time someone takes a shot at me, which no one’s ever done for me before, and you’re brave and different and talented and … well, honestly? Kind of hot. And you’re right about telling the truth, so… I like you and I’m not going to hide it just because you want to ignore all this.”
Dad pops his head round our curtain, yells “Thirty seconds!” and disappears again.
Hector’s still looking at me. It occurs to me that it’s just typical that the first time someone tells me they fancy me, they’re wearing a huge painted grin, a curly orange wig and funny trousers. It’s ridiculous. A snort of laughter escapes me and Hector jerks upright like he’s been slapped.
Crap. “No, Hector, I didn’t mean to laugh.”
“It’s fine, it doesn’t matter, forget it. I mean, I know I’m not James Keane or anything,” he mutters. He’s adjusting his wig, putting his red nose on and heading for the curtain door, and he doesn’t look a bit surprised, like he never expected much better from me. But we can’t go into the ring like this. I pull him back by the braces.
“Wait! Please listen! I listened to you.”
He turns but still doesn’t look at me. “OK, but be quick, we’re on in a second.” He’s right; I can hear the audience applauding the Juggulars.
“I didn’t mean to laugh, you just made me nervous.”
“All right, I can understand that.” He waits expectantly. “Is that all you want to say?”
I don’t know; he isn’t giving me time to think. And anyway, my mouth’s dry and my stomach’s starting to heave. I can hear Mum’s voice booming around the warehouse: “AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…”
“I…”
“BOYS AND GIRLS…”
“I…”
Hector shakes his head, disappointed, and walks off towards the gap in the ring-door curtain. I follow, and he disappears through it, into the ring, as Mum yells, “FRANCONIS’ MOST HILARIOUS DUO, HAZZARDOUS HECTOR AND OUR VERY OWN FINCH FRANCONIIIIII!”
About two metres short of the curtain, I stop. I stop like I’ve hit a brick wall. The sheet of red silk in front of me floods my vision like a tidal wave. A cheer from the audience twists my stomach, the bassline of the music hammers in my head, and I can’t hear, can’t think, can’t move, can’t breathe.
“Finch?” Janie is beside me. “Are you OK?”
I shake my head and put my hands on my knees, trying to control the dizziness, trying not to vomit. The colours of my costume swim before my eyes and I tug at my collar like it’s strangling me.
“You feel nauseous?”
I nod.
“Dry mouth? Palpitations?”
More nods.
She squeezes my shoulders. “It’s just stage fright; you must have had it before?”
I shake my head. Never. I’ve performed on the trapeze a million times and I’ve never felt like this. I don’t understand it; I just know I’d rather suffer anything – death, failure, the wrath of every performer at Franconis’ – than walk into that ring.
Mum dashes backstage. “Finch! What are you doing? Hector’s out there on his own!”
I just shake my purple wig at her, wordless, blank. She could be speaking Dutch, for all it means to me. My whole skull throbs and I can’t tell if it’s the music or the blood pounding in my ears.
“He’s a little nervous,” Janie says. The crowd laughs and I know Hector must be out there improvising to fill the time, terrified, waiting for me to rescue him. And I would if I could. I would climb skyscrapers to rescue him. But I can’t do this.
He’s all wrong about me; I’m not brave enough.
Janie leans down and speaks calmly and quietly in my ear. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Finch,” she says. “No one is going to make you go out there and it’s not the end of the world if you don’t. But you should know that it’s never as scary as you think it will be. It might be great or it might be awful, but I guarantee it won’t be as bad as how you’ll feel if you let Hector down.”
I don’t feel any better, but I know she’s right. I look up at her and nod.
She leads me towards the curtain.
The next six minutes are a blur. It’s no wonder Mr Hazzard thought we were spending a lot of time together; we’ve rehearsed so much, I don’t even need to think about what I’m doing. Instead I watch Hector. My nerves vanish the second he flashes his big, relieved clown grin at me. My body loosens and my smile lights up to match my make-up, as if the Finch cowering behind the curtain was someone else altogether. I can feel the laughter of the crowd coming at me like waves, bearing me up, making me buoyant. The spotlights lift me and Hector out of the darkness, like we’re the only people in the world, but when I peer through them, I can see the audience. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to an audience. There’s Birdie clapping and cheering, Sinead laughing, Mr and Mrs Hazzard smiling in amazement at their son, who seems to be carrying the whole audience along with him on a tide of clown weirdness. Carrying me too. Our movements are like a domino chain, one triggering the next as we react to each other, setting each other up and filling in each other’s punchlines; and I know neither of us would be half as good, half as funny, half as brave, alone.
But he has been alone. All this time. I think about him growing up in the city; no brothers or sisters, no friends at school, no one
to talk to. Moving to a new town, working out who to trust. I think about how brave he must have had to be. Prancing about in a clown suit must seem like nothing. And suddenly I’m flattered that, even though he could do this on his own if he wanted to, he wants to be partners with me.
If I haven’t already ruined it, that is. He’s such a good performer, I have no idea if the clown grin he’s giving me is real or fake, but like everyone else here, I choose to believe in it wholeheartedly for the next six minutes.
We’ll worry about later, later.
In no time, it seems, Hector’s galloping out of the ring with me on his back, waving my hat at the kids, and Mum’s running on to introduce the Tuesday Acrobats. Behind the curtain I jump off him and the two of us jog back to our dressing cubicle, panting and laughing so hard we have to pull the red noses off to breathe. It feels like the first time we performed for the kids at the hospital, except this time it’s me having the adrenaline rush.
“You were brilliant, Hector!”
“I knew we could do it!”
“That was freaking incredible!”
I can still feel the energy surging through me. Six minutes isn’t enough. I want to go back, I want more. I could do it, I could do anything. I’ve never felt this exhilarated after a trapeze act. Trapeze is nowhere near as scary and nowhere near as exciting.
We’re laughing and giggling, and I’m starting to think I might have to run back out there just to vent some of this energy. I can’t just sit down, take my make-up off and go home. Not yet.
“Hector?” I pant. “I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?” He looks nervous but holds my gaze.
“If you can be brave, I can too. I haven’t wanted to admit this, even to myself, because I didn’t want to be any more different than I already am. But I think it’s time to face it.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. I’m ready now.” I take a breath and stare at the ground, as if I can’t look him in the eye, but when I raise my head again, I’m wearing my red nose and a deeply serious expression. “Hector, I think … I’m a clown.”
Flying Tips for Flightless Birds Page 23