High Wire
Melanie Jackson
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2012 Melanie Jackson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Jackson, Melanie, 1956-
High wire [electronic resource] / Melanie Jackson.
(Orca currents)
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-4598-0238-4 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0239-1 (EPUB)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents
PS8569.A265H53 2012 jC813'.6 C2012-902230-6
First published in the United States, 2012
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938159
Summary: High-wire walker Zack
has to solve a mysterious theft at the youth circus.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover photography by Dreamstime.com
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Printed and bound in Canada.
15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1
To Bart,
who catches me when I fall.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
The thin black line stretched out in front of me.
I stood on the ledge. The spotlight was fixed on me, hot, white and bright. I couldn’t see the opposite ledge. I couldn’t see the crowd below, watching to see if I’d make it across.
All I saw was that thin black line going from the spotlight into darkness. The line was all that mattered to me.
I inhaled deeply. I set my shoulders back. I flexed my arm and chest muscles. I extended my arms sideways to transfer my weight away from my chest, my center of being. The secret to high-wire walking is to place your weight at your sides. It takes a lot of practice and many falls into the safety net to get it right. By nature, people bend their weight forward when they move.
I stepped on the wire. I placed each leather-slippered foot sideways, penguin style. I curved each sole to fit the line.
The audience was dead quiet. Without realizing it, people suck in their breath during a risk act. It’s instinctive. They’re afraid of making the slightest noise. Of disturbing the walker.
They don’t get that nothing else exists when you’re on the line. It’s just you above the world. You make your deal with gravity, and you and the air are one.
I thought of Philippe Petit, the most famous wire walker in history. New York City, 1974, Petit crossed a steel cable stretched between the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, a quarter of a mile up. For forty-five minutes, he walked that wire back and forth eight times.
As I walked forward, I imagined how Petit must have felt. The sun above, the sky all around. The clean, sweet air. For the minutes it took him to cross, he’d been alone, hassle-free.
That was the appeal of high wire for me. I liked being on my own.
A couple of years ago, my folks died in a plane crash. I moved from our ranch in Alberta to Maple Ridge, near Vancouver, to live with my Aunt Ellie. My aunt wasn’t used to having a kid around. She thought I needed fussing over. I knew she meant well, but it got annoying.
Luckily, she was busy much of the time running her organic-foods store.
I hung around the community center. I’d always been into fitness, anyway. I liked pressing weights and pacing the treadmill.
I noticed there was a juggling class. I had nothing better to do, so I signed up.
The teacher, a retired circus performer named Shecky, grunted at my balance, my self-control. It took me a while to realize grunting was Shecky’s way of showing wild enthusiasm.
One day he fastened a wire, three feet off the ground, between two metal height-adjustable ladders.
If you can juggle, you can walk the line. A lot of high-wire walkers start out as jugglers. Philippe Petit did.
That got my attention. Philippe who?
Shecky grunted and loaned me a DVD about Petit’s Twin Tower walk. Shecky explained, You’ll see that he uses the same principles of balance on the wire as in juggling: weight to the sides.
At first, every time I walked the wire, Shecky danced around me, making weird faces and waving his arms. He wanted to see if he could distract me. He even did cartwheels.
But he never got to me. Huh, he grunted.
After a while he gave up and just kept raising the wire.
One day he told me Circus Sorelli, the summer youth troupe, was looking for a new wire walker. I auditioned, and I got the job.
And now, here I was, seventy-five feet above the ground, on my first night as a Circus Sorelli performer.
Someday I’d be a quarter mile up, like Philippe Petit.
Because nothing got to me. I never wavered. I had complete self-control. It was just me and the line.
The spotlight tracked me across the high wire. I heard people letting their breaths out. They realized I knew what I was doing. They sensed I was comfortable on the wire.
The spotlight crept to the opposite ledge. Five more steps and I’d be there.
This was the most dangerous part of a high-wire walk. You see the opposite ledge, your finish line. You could so easily let down your guard. You could relax and let some of your weight go forward, instead of at your sides.
And you’d fall, whissssh!, into the safety net. Into failure. Into humiliation.
Not me. I kept my bargain with gravity. I stepped onto the ledge.
The crowd roared their approval. They stood up, clapped and whistled.
I climbed down the ladder. The spotlight was already swooping down to high-beam the Circus Sorelli clowns.
One by one, the three clowns made their entrance on tiny bicycles. Their routine was to throw water-filled balloons at each other, crash into the ringside wall and do other goofy stuff.
In the shadows, crew members hurried into the ring to fold up the safety net. They moved lightning-fast.
Keeping out of their way, I walked toward change rooms behind the ring so I could switch my leather slippers for runners. I didn’t want to wear the slippers down by walking too much on ground.
“That’s your act, Freedman? Your mommy and daddy bribe the ringmaster?”
It was the third clown, Cubby Donnell, who was waiting in the shadows for his cue.
I shared a trailer with Cubby. From day one, he’d been giving me a hard time. I was so busy practicing and working out that I’d pretty much ignored him. Till now.
He probably didn’t know about my folks being dead. It didn’t matter. This time he’d got to me.
I wheeled round and glared into his painted face. I grabbed his floppy collar. “Maybe yo
u’d like to try being up in the air too,” I invited.
Twisting the collar, I lifted Cubby off the ground.
In the spotlight, the second clown smashed his tiny bike into a tub of yellow paint. He dived headfirst into the tub. The crowd screamed with laughter.
This was Cubby’s cue to bike into the ring. I didn’t let go. I’d been feeling good about the standing O, and he’d tried to wreck that.
He thrashed around, but I kept my grip on his collar. I smiled into his neon red grin.
“What’s your problem with me, Cub?”
The spotlight beamed, empty, into the ring. Cubby was supposed to be there. The crowd murmured. People knew something was wrong.
Cubby was sweating through his clown makeup. “Lemme go. I’m sorry for hassling you…Zen.”
Zen was the nickname I had at Circus Sorelli for being so calm on the wire.
I dropped Cubby. He staggered sideways. He was too stunned to climb on his bike. Instead, holding it by the handle-bars, he stumbled into the spotlight.
The crowd thought this weaving-around entrance was part of Cubby’s act, and applauded.
I didn’t know what Cubby’s problem was.
As he biked around the edge of the spotlight, he passed close to me and hissed, “I’m not through with you, Freedman. Not by a long shot.”
Chapter Two
I pushed through the black curtain. Usually the next performers were lined up behind it. They did stretching exercises or watched the ring act on closed-circuit TV.
This time they stood in a huddle. At the sight of me, they stepped aside. One of the gymnasts, Whitney Boothroyd, was holding a bundle of blankets.
“Hey, Zack,” Whitney greeted me. Her dark eyes shone. “Congratulations. Your aunt dropped off a present. Someone to keep you company, she said.”
Whimpering came from the blankets.
Oh no, I thought.
Aunt Ellie had been saying she wished we had more family. More relatives to keep me company.
I could only gape at the bundle, which was struggling inside the blanket. I couldn’t believe it. Aunt Ellie had gone and adopted a baby. I thought that was crazy for a woman in her mid-fifties.
“Don’t you want to hold him?” Whitney urged.
“No,” I said. “He’s got to be returned.” Vague images of bundling the kid into a courier package flashed through my mind.
Okay, I might have to rethink the method of transportation. But there was no way I wanted a baby brother.
I realized the bundle wasn’t a baby when it stopped whimpering and started barking.
The dog poked its face out of the blanket and looked around.
“Sooo cute!” Whitney cooed.
“Are you kidding?” I said distastefully. The pooch’s face was a bunch of flabby rolls. His mouth was turned down like he was sulking. His body was too small for his head.
On my parents’ ranch, I’d had a border collie named Thelma. She was strong and energetic, able to run for miles. Thelma lived with another rancher now. I missed her a lot.
That’s what busybody Aunt Ellie had been thinking. She would replace Thelma…with this little yapper. Why couldn’t she leave me alone?
“He’s a French bulldog cross,” Whitney was saying. “Some terrier in him, I’m guessing. Just adorable.”
The kids laughed at my sour expression.
Somebody asked, “Hey, Zack. What’s his name?”
I shook my head. “I dunno.” I didn’t want to name the thing. Giving it a name might make me responsible for him.
“He’s just some pooch,” I said.
“Hi, Pooch,” Whitney crooned.
The ringmaster and circus owner, Mr. Sorelli, stomped into the room, his black eyebrows smashed into a scowl. This was more or less his permanent expression. He wore a glittery red ducktail-type jacket with matching jodhpurs and a top hat.
He shouted, “What’s going on? The idea is to stay quiet during other performers’ acts. The audience out there can hear you, right up to the top bleacher.”
They’d be able to hear Sorelli too. But no one had the nerve to point that out.
“Zack’s aunt gave him this little sweetie,” Whitney said. She was planting kisses on Pooch’s ugly face. I wondered if her eyesight was bad.
She handed the dog to me. The clown act was finishing, and she was on next.
The ringmaster switched his baleful gaze to me. His bullet-like eyes narrowed. “This is a circus, not a zoo, Zachary. Get rid of the mongrel. Now.”
I took Pooch into the guys’ dressing room. I opened my gym bag and changed shoes.
Pooch stuck his head in the gym bag and sniffed around. When he emerged, he was holding one of my leather slippers in his teeth.
I was mad, but I knew to pry the slipper away from him slowly. You can make a dog let go of anything if he thinks you don’t want it. My border collie had been that way.
Any similarity between Thelma and Pooch ended there. I viewed Pooch’s ugly face and squat body. Thelma had sure been better-looking.
I carried Pooch out back of the big top. I set him down. He promptly took a dump.
“Why me?” I asked him.
By now it was dark outside, but I decided I’d better do the good-citizen thing. The way my luck was going, Sorelli would step splat into Pooch’s poop. I scooped his business into a bag and shoved the whole thing into the nearest trash bin.
Pooch’s trusting brown eyes watched me.
“Don’t get any ideas. Tomorrow I’m taking you back to Aunt Ellie. I’m stuck with you tonight.”
He wagged his tail.
I walked Pooch to my trailer. All the circus performers and crew lived onsite. The crew had set up the big top in Vancouver’s Vanier Park near Kits Beach. The huge tent would be a red-and-white-striped city landmark until Labour Day. Concession and souvenir stands crammed the field in front of the big tent. The trailers were parked behind it.
Pooch trotted along close to me like we were old pals. Dumb dog didn’t know he wasn’t wanted.
I figured he’d need some water by now. We didn’t have a bowl in the trailer, so I rinsed out the toothbrush glass and filled it up with water. Pooch stuck his snout into the glass. He glugged the water back.
At least he wasn’t fussy.
I got out my cell phone. I needed to talk to Aunt Ellie. I would explain that Circus Sorelli couldn’t have any animals. Not so much as a pet goldfish. The ringmaster had told me this during orientation.
He’d also said that fewer and fewer circuses these days featured animals. It wasn’t so much that elephants and lions were dangerous. They could be trained.
People were the danger. There were hundreds of horror stories about animals being mistreated, like getting whipped or jammed into too-small cages. In the United Kingdom, they’ve passed a law banning animal acts in circuses.
I wanted to let Aunt Ellie know all this, so her feelings wouldn’t be hurt.
And so she would butt out. I had to get Pooch back to Aunt Ellie. Let her deal with him.
But I never got a chance to phone her. Instead I found a text message: I adopted the pup from the pound. A replacement for Thelma! BTW, I’m off to the Okanagan on business. See you next week.
She was out of town.
And Sorelli wanted Pooch gone now.
I covered my face with my hands and let out an agonized groan. Thanks a lot, Aunt Ellie.
What was I going to do?
Chapter Three
“Something wrong, Zen?”
Cubby strolled into the trailer. He’d toweled some of his makeup off, but a white sheen remained. It made him look ghostly or badly in need of a blood transfusion.
I didn’t have time to reply. Pooch bared his teeth and growled at him.
Cubby jumped.
The dog advanced. Cubby backed away, frightened.
I laughed. It was funny to see this little yapper taking on a tall guy like Cubby.
I picked Pooch up. “Pooch, Cubby,�
�� I introduced them. “Pooch is just visiting. I’ll take him for a walk. That should settle him down.”
As I walked out, I got a foul look from Cubby. I guessed I shouldn’t have laughed. I hadn’t improved relations between us any.
Intermission had started. I had time to walk Pooch around the circus grounds.
Pooch ran in circles around me. This was his way of urging me to get a move on.
On the other side of the big top, a giant billboard of Sorelli looked down on us. This smiling cartoon ringmaster raised his top hat beside big red letters: Circus Sorelli—The Be Happy Place!
It was a cheerful summer landmark for the city.
It was all in your point of view, of course. For us performers, the huge sign meant the ringmaster was always watching us.
I scratched Pooch behind his ears.
Pooch gave a pleased woof !
Once we got outside the big top, Pooch trotted calmly along beside me. I bought a burger from the concession stand. I broke it up into pieces, and set it on the ground on a paper plate. Pooch gobbled it up.
People hurried past, seeking out their own snacks or buying souvenirs, like Circus Sorelli Ts or red-sequined ringmaster jackets.
I breathed in the salt-tangy air. Mixed up in it was the baked-vanilla aroma of cotton candy from another concession stand. I always thought it was weird how cotton candy smelled better than it tasted.
Once Pooch finished the burger, we walked around some more. People were gabbing excitedly about the acts they’d seen.
A couple of boys were talking about me. “Didja see how slick the wire guy was?”
They were looking at a huge placard with photos of all the performers.
“What’s his name? Let’s find him.” They squinted at the photos.
I waited to hear them say Zack Freedman. Maybe one day I’d be blasé about getting recognized. For now I was a First of May. Circus folk called new performers First of Mays because circuses traditionally open on May 1.
“Yeah, there he is! Jacob Donnell.”
Huh? I stepped over to peer at the placard.
Sure enough, under the words High-Wire Performer was a photo of Cubby.
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