Girl on a Wire

by Gwenda Bond

  Only then did I really stop and look up through the metal bars at the wire itself. I knew it hung at exactly 170 feet, attached to the bottom lip of the tower’s top portion, instead of at the very top. That positioning offered more insulation from the wind without affecting the jaw-dropping visual that would be enjoyed by people watching from downtown. Thick braces punctuated the wire at three places, and guide wires clamped to the sides of the bridge below to keep the line stable.

  The main wire was steady, with the slightest, unavoidable sway from the gentle spring wind and the length of it. I just had to be steady too.

  “My PR team is the best in the country,” Thurston said. “You’re going up Julieta Maroni, but you’ll come down one of our biggest stars.”

  Cottonball clouds drifted in a blue, nearly windless sky, and the sun shining through the gaps in the structure traced a dappled pattern over the pavement, my arms, my face.

  “You know just what a girl wants to hear.” No use telling him I was mostly interested in how the people at the Cirque would treat the Maroni family after this. The general public was the last thing on my mind.

  I took a breath and motioned for Thurston to give me a boost. He lifted me at the waist, and I grabbed hold of the highest rung I could reach, pulling up until my feet found the bottom rung.

  While I climbed, I concentrated on trying to find the calm place inside. It was a long way up, and I listened as the front of the parade passed beneath me, felt the nylon rungs straining against my fingers. Finally I levered myself off onto the flat lip of the ledge. I shook out the stiffness in my hands, did my best to shake off tension.

  The moment of no turning back: I reached down and unclipped the edges of the ladder, letting it fall to the waiting arms below.

  Needless to say, the platform hadn’t been constructed for a picnic. It was sturdy but small, and I walked cautiously to reach my balance pole, which lay nestled inside a metal lip along the back. Dad had also left me a towel and gym chalk. I recoated my palms and the soles of my feet and dusted the bottoms of my slippers clean with the towel before I put them back on. Then I hefted the long pole carefully, letting my arms become accustomed to the weight.

  I didn’t usually use a pole. But for a walk this high, it was pretty much a requirement. This one was standard size, twenty feet long and forty pounds. That might sound too long or too heavy, but those are the things that provide the extra stability. I wasn’t Bird, able to do this with a parasol and a smile. At least not yet.

  I eased back to the edge of the platform, directly in front of the wire. The joyfully blaring horn section passed below. They nearly drowned out the shouting, which I’m sure was their intention. I caught sight of Thurston arguing with a police officer. The cop gestured angrily up to me, yelling, “You! You up there, stop!”

  There was nothing for me to do about that, except hurry.

  Still, I took a moment to mess around with my grip on the pole, shifting my palms an inch this way, an inch that, until it felt solid. Until my center of balance did too. Only then did I examine the flat horizon in front of me, the one I intended to walk into.

  The world usually seems small from high on the wire. But from that height, it seemed enormous, like it could swallow me in an instant. Maybe it was a trick of the sparkling blue river water below—I’d only ever seen solid ground underneath me. The increasing volume of the shouts below told me it was time. It was now, or not at all. Once I got out on the wire, we didn’t have to worry about cops interrupting. We didn’t have to worry that I’d turn chicken.

  One more breath, and I took my first step, letting my foot learn the feel of this wire. And then slowly, slowly, I placed my other foot in front of it. Lightly, lightly as a butterfly, I moved forward, the platform left behind. One step, and another. And another.

  Everything faded into the background except the weight of the pole, the easy sigh of the wind, the nothing scent of the air, and my feet, one in front of the other, one in front of the other, smooth and steady. There was no skyline, no tall buildings reflecting light beyond, no choppy water below. No clouds. No birds. No music. No nerves.

  There was nothing but the wire fixed to the opposite platform. One I had to reach, by going steady and smooth. Smooth and steady.

  And that’s how it went, me feeling like time had vanished, that the only thing that marked the passing seconds was my forward movement, my progress toward the other side. The walk was going exactly as planned, and the bigness of the moment surrounded me.

  I was doing this. I. Was. Doing. This.

  I’d reached the homestretch, a good two-thirds of the way across, when I noticed the slight tremble in my arms. It wasn’t the pole’s weight—sure, it was heavy, and I didn’t practice with it that often, but I was strong enough to hold it. There shouldn’t have been a problem.

  A rivulet of sweat ran down my forehead, dripped into my eye. I blinked at the burn, and I paused. I stopped where I was, and the tremble became all I could notice. Except the sweat. And the wild pounding of my heart.

  The wire under my feet was still stable, but I felt the opposite. Then I made a mistake. I shifted my focus away from the platform. I looked down, and everything swam for a moment, like a picture coming into and out of focus.

  It’s not like you can take a break in the middle of a high-wire walk two hundred feet above a river and not risk freaking people out. But I had to do it anyway.

  Breathing the dizziness away, I made sure my back foot was stable. I couldn’t slip. Once I was sure of it, I picked up my other foot and held it off the wire, an inch. Maybe two.

  Then I bent the leg I still stood on, dangling the foot that was already off the wire. I resisted tightening my grip on the pole as I lowered myself to a crouch. I eased my thigh onto the wire, knee bent at a slight angle, and rested there for a moment.

  My head felt woozy. There were shouts from far away, from somewhere below. My family would wonder what I was doing. This was an acceptable form of showing off on an open air walk that was going well, as long as I didn’t take too long. They wouldn’t immediately assume a problem, but they’d be worrying. I saw my mom’s face, remembered her vow to kill Dad if anything went wrong. I heard Nan’s warnings echo in my ears.

  I didn’t know what was going wrong, but something had definitely thrown me off balance. And that was the most dangerous thing that could happen, all the way up here, with no way to be rescued.

  I had to get back under control. Maybe they’d believe I was just performing if I—

  I laid back, reclining on the wire, my one leg on it, the other dangling off. The pole I kept flat on my stomach. I closed my eyes and breathed. Breathed.

  I opened them. Lazy clouds. More shouts. Sirens in the distance. I had to get up.

  Except getting up from this position, on this kind of wire, with its slight sway, well, that was harder than the lying down had been.

  That was when I heard a voice, shouting.

  It was Remy. Still far off, but nearer than the others. My curiosity was strong enough to get me back into a sitting position. I let the bar find my balance for me, and I scanned down the tower.

  Oh no. He was climbing the ladder up to the second platform. There were more police down there, and the rest of the parade was barely visible, almost across the bridge.

  I had to get up.

  Remy looked at me then. We were too far from each other to make real eye contact, but he held up a hand to me. He called out, “You’ll do this.” And he started climbing again.

  Of course I would do it. I was just taking a break. Letting the wooziness pass.

  I brought my body into a crouch and drew my dangling foot back onto the wire. Then I straightened, rising dramatically, wishing there was a way to wave or flourish. But I couldn’t risk releasing the pole with one hand to try. I needed it too much.

  The only way I could show how okay I was involved finishing this walk. So, one foot in front of another. My breathing found its rhythm again, my hea
rt no longer a flutter in my chest. I held my head high, and smiled, and I went on smoothly, but not so slow as before.

  Remy had made it to the platform, and he had the nerve to look relieved. “You’re okay,” he called out to me.

  I wanted to hit him over the head with the pole. Of course I was okay.

  Smooth and steady. Steady and smooth. Smiling, managing not to grit my teeth by willpower alone, and the platform was two feet away, then one, and then Remy’s hands darted over the pole, grabbed my waist, and lifted me onto it. For a moment, I might have been weightless. My breath came in gasps, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the close call or relief at feeling Remy’s strong arms bracing me. Pulling the pole from my grip, he put it down behind us. He clamped his hands onto my shoulders, holding on like he thought I might fall.

  It took me a moment to be able to speak. “What . . . in the name of Barnum . . . do you think you’re doing?”

  He released one of my shoulders and reached behind me, messed with my hair, even as I slapped his hand away. Before he could do anything else, I straightened to my full height and folded forward into an elegant bow, in case anyone was watching. The shouts and sirens below assured me plenty of people were. I flourished, my hands happy to not be gripping the pole so tightly it felt like the bones in my fingers might break.

  I could never admit to my family how close that had been.

  Remy said, “Look,” and he held up something I didn’t recognize right away.

  It was a long feather. A black eye at the end and a fringe of bright colors along the shaft.

  A peacock feather.

  The one thing that was absolutely banned from a performer’s costume as bad luck.

  The wind kicked up, plucked it from his hand, and we watched together as it twisted along the air currents to the river, and vanished beneath the deep blue water.

  “You can thank me any time,” he said.

  nine

  * * *

  I could guess what Nan’s reaction would be if she learned about the peacock feather. I wanted to excuse its presence away, but given what she’d said about someone planting the elephant hair . . . it seemed impossible that this was a random prank.

  “It’s just a feather. Right?” I asked Remy, feeling off balance again and wanting him to steady me.

  Especially after I took the opportunity to look down. Dad stood at the bottom of the ladder with his arms crossed over his chest like a fatherly skull and crossbones.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Remy said. “I saw it on you before you went up. I was trying to get your attention.” I flashed back to the moment I’d caught his eye in the crowd, and nodded. I hadn’t realized then, but now I could imagine that, yes, he’d been trying to tell me something.

  “But it’s still just a feather.” I straightened my skirt, pulled at my sleeves. Fidgeting. My wooziness returned stronger than ever when I thought about Nan’s claim that the elephant hair had made me fall. I could have fallen much farther this time.

  “A peacock feather,” said Remy. “Don’t leave out the details.”

  “Fine,” I said, wanting to change the subject. “Did you give me that rose the other night?”

  “What? No.” He frowned. “Why did you even think of that?”

  I frowned back. “Please tell me what’s going on. Why did you come up here?”

  “I can explain,” he said. “Well, I can explain some things. Why I was worried. But I swear it wasn’t me.”

  “Julieta!” My father’s call was a command. Not a good sign. Below us, Thurston stood beside him, smiling nervously.

  I motioned to the dangling ladder. “There’s no time now. We have to get down there.”

  “I should go down first, in case—”

  I interrupted. “So you can look up my skirt the whole way down? Not happening.”

  He smiled, unexpectedly, and stepped back. That smile should be registered as a deadly weapon. He moved aside so I could reach the ladder. “You go first then. I don’t mind you enjoying the view.”

  I lowered myself onto the ladder, glad I could duck my head to prevent him from seeing me blush. He followed suit once I’d made enough progress, swinging his legs around to the opposite side so he was climbing down facing toward me. That balanced the ladder so it hardly twisted in the air.

  “Jules,” he said, when we were about halfway to the street. His tone was serious.

  “Yes?” Next rung.

  “Stop for a sec.”

  I did, reluctantly.

  He came down a few more rungs, stopping when our faces were inches apart. His hands gripped the rungs on either side of mine. “There’s more, but . . . I came up because I was afraid something was going to happen to you. I’m glad it didn’t.”

  I tried to ignore the stupid thump of my heart. He’d saved me, but he could hurt me too. The only thing that determines the success of a performance is whether the audience thinks the performer carried it off. I didn’t think anyone else would have noticed the peacock feather—besides whoever put it in my hair when I was in the crowd—but my family couldn’t know about it. Nan would tailspin. I had to find out who was doing this, and why. Yes, I’d freaked out on the wire, but I still didn’t believe it was because of magic.

  Fears are what cause falls. That’s all it was. Dad had been right. These ideas were the dangerous thing.

  “You won’t tell anyone about the feather?” I asked. “My grandmother . . . she’s not what you think, but she believes in this stuff. You said your parents and grandparents did. You understand why she can’t know?”

  Our eyes caught, held. Sun and shadow raked across his features as the nylon ladder swayed with our weight. His eyes were so brown, the pupils small in the brilliant sunlight. He didn’t answer.

  “You don’t believe it could really have hurt me?” I pressed.

  “I don’t know, but I know it shouldn’t have been there. We need to talk,” he said. “But I won’t tell.”

  “Then I will say it. Thank you.” I went back to making my way down. Hands gripping nylon, then lowering feet to next rung, repeat. At the bottom, I jumped to the pavement. Dad caught my waist. When he let go, he put a hand on my arm. Like he needed convincing I’d made it.

  Remy leapt off and landed next to us. Dad gave me a narrow stare that made me want to flinch or curl up into a ball. Then he turned it on Remy. I still couldn’t believe Remy had climbed up onto the platform during my walk—no matter what his reasoning. More, I couldn’t believe I was grateful. I had been in trouble.

  To his credit, Remy accepted Dad’s regard without cringing or fleeing. He said, “Sorry. I was afraid”—he paused, shrugged in my direction, and I was afraid of what he’d say—“that she was about to go down in flames. And if that was going to happen, I wanted the credit to go to a Garcia.”

  In flames. Wanted the credit. Reminding Dad he was a Garcia. He was pretending he’d tried to wreck my performance, or maybe take credit if it was going poorly already, by interrupting. My dad bought every word. The rest of the Cirque would too.

  “You could have caused her injury,” my dad said, a murderous glint as he stepped toward Remy.

  But I put a hand on Dad’s arm to stop him. “No, he couldn’t have. I was fine.”

  “Oh well,” Remy said.

  But he was smart enough not to linger. Maintaining the cocky façade, he sauntered away past Thurston and a couple of cops. And two men in fancy suits who were talking to the cops at warp speed, waving documents.

  Dad was more skeptical of the explanation than I expected. “Have you been . . . fraternizing with that boy?”

  I scrambled to reassure him. “Oh no—we’re not . . . No. Is that what you thought?”

  He didn’t answer, only became more intent. “You are to stay away from that boy.” He gave my arm a shake, hand firm. He meant it. “Promise me. You will stay away from that boy. The Garcias can’t be trusted. Not by us.”

  Nothing less than total and convincing agree
ment would satisfy him. But I didn’t want to flat-out lie to my father either.

  “Dad, please. You saw. He almost ruined my walk. And enjoyed it.”

  He released my arm, satisfied. “You’re okay?”

  I wanted to sit down. I wanted to find out what Remy knew about all these superstitions floating around. Did he have answers about the rose landing at my feet, the feather in my hair? I gifted Dad with my best worry-free smile and said, “Never been better. The truth is, being on solid ground feels nice for once.”

  He looked only half convinced.

  The lawyers stopped talking, and one of them held out a hand to the cop to shake. The cop’s partner was talking on a cell phone, serious and deflated. Thurston left them and came over to us.

  “Welcome back to earth,” he said.

  “Am I going to jail?” I asked. “I’m really not dressed for it.”

  “You’d be amazed what you can make happen by offering the mayor’s office a few truckloads of new computers for local schools and a commencement speech by one of America’s leading entrepreneurs—especially in an election year. I believe our friends are about to have it confirmed that our permit was to do whatever we felt like on that bridge.”

  “I want to be a billionaire when I grow up,” I said.

  Thurston laughed. We watched as the cop with the phone hung up and nodded sullenly at the lawyers. I could see them resist high-fiving each other. One of the cops said, “Free to go.”

  “Your public awaits,” Thurston said.

  The crowd gathered at the end of the bridge was large and only growing when we reached it. The circus parade had been entertaining them with tricks while they waited for us, but quiet spread among performers and townies alike at our arrival. Beauty’s head stuck up over the crowd, and Mom waved to me from her saddle, her smile tight, but no less real for that. Nan stood beside the horse, patting its nose absently while she paid close attention to something in front of her.

  Make that someone. I followed her line of focus to Remy, standing with his family. Novio and their mother were both scowling at him. Remy didn’t wave to me or even look up. By all appearances, he didn’t even notice I was there.