I try to find something earnest in his eyes, but I can’t read him. All I see is the heaviness in his brow, and those green eyes that drink the world in but hesitate to give anything back.
“Thank you for your help. I have a million things I want to say right now, but ‘thank you’ is probably the most important,” I say, my words clipped because I’m too worried my brain will betray me and I’ll word-vomit all over him.
I need time to think. Time to process. Time to cradle my words carefully before setting them free.
He nods.
Okay, maybe a few more words won’t do any harm. “I don’t know whether you did all this because it was the only way you could compose a song, or because you genuinely meant all that stuff you said about thinking I could be great, but it doesn’t matter. Because I’m honestly just grateful for the opportunity.”
A chance to learn. It’s all I’ve wanted since I got here.
Vas opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, but instead his eyes snap toward the Lunch Box. When I look up, I realize there are a whole lot of people staring at us.
Maggie wasn’t lying about the circus loving gossip.
“Meet me in the big top in an hour?” Vas says, and I think he’s embarrassed of the attention. He starts to turn away but pauses. When he looks at me, there’s an actual gleam in his eyes. “And wear gym clothes. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Vas is sitting in the center of the ring, his body folded in half and his hands wrapped around his ankles. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off the curved lines of his lean muscles. It’s low enough at the sides that I can see the start of a tattoo on his left ribs.
God, I hope it isn’t a bunch of Chinese characters that are supposed to translate into “Live long and prosper,” or whatever tattoos people get when they think they’re being “exotic.”
My cheeks burn when I realize how long I’ve been standing here staring at his bare skin, wondering if Vas Lukov, Serious McSerious, has turned himself into a culturally appropriative human fortune cookie.
I gulp away the jitters in the pit of my stomach, clearing my throat to get his attention.
He lifts his head, slowly rolling back into a seated position. His stretches are so deliberate and careful.
Clearly this is not the first time he’s done a warm-up.
I feel silly for not realizing his secret sooner.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were a trapeze artist?” I ask, my volume way too loud.
He pushes himself up, pausing to study me. “It never came up.”
“And you didn’t think it should’ve? I mean, we could’ve used something to—well, bond over.” I twist my face, certain I’m not explaining my thoughts right.
Vas raises a brow.
I sigh. “I know you didn’t want to talk to me, but this just seems too big to not mention. Even in passing. You know—so I knew we had a common interest.” And also, I want to add, so I could’ve paid more attention to whether or not I was embarrassing myself.
I thought I was practicing in front of a musician—not someone who knew the difference between a bird’s nest and a mermaid on the bar.
Now I can’t stop thinking about all the times I fumbled, or messed up a pose, or let my foot slip.
But then again, he did tell Simon I could be “great,” so I guess there’s that….
“The trapeze isn’t an interest of mine,” he says simply. “And I never said I didn’t want to talk to you.”
“Oh, you definitely did. You said…” I clamp my mouth shut, thinking.
“That I wasn’t good at small talk,” he finishes slowly. “Which is true. I tend to close up around people I don’t know, and people sometimes mistake it as me being rude. I was… trying to be helpful.”
I’m thinking about all our interactions. Even the nonverbal ones. “So you get anxious around people.” That makes an obscene amount of sense, in hindsight.
He shrugs. “I mean, I don’t know what it’s called, exactly. Or if I’m allowed to call it anything at all. It’s just something I live with. Something I don’t feel like I need a name for to understand.” He clenches his jaw like he’s not sure if he’s said too much. “I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
“It does,” I say quickly, and he looks surprised. “I—I have these shifts in mood sometimes. Like, I’ll feel really positive and motivated and whatever else, and then I’ll just plummet. Sometimes there’s a reason, but sometimes there’s not. And I’ve spent enough hours on Google that I know what it probably is, but my parents aren’t very good about taking mental health stuff seriously. They think ‘everyone has something,’ which is sort of code for ‘I don’t believe any of this is real.’ They also are really against having anything on a permanent record, which means talking to a professional about any of this was never an option.”
“Do you want to talk to a professional?” he asks seriously.
“Not really,” I say. “I mean, I did for a little while. I had kind of a bad spell last November. Usually my lows only last a few weeks, but that time it lasted… well, a while. But I’m not sure if I wanted to talk to someone because I needed to, or because I just wanted someone to tell me that what I was feeling had a name and it was normal.”
Vas tilts his head, taking all my words in. “Do you think having a name for it would make a difference?”
“I don’t know. It kind of sucks not knowing for sure, because when I explain it to people, they just look at me like I’m making it up. But if someone has a diagnosis and medication? Then it’s ‘legitimate.’ And don’t get me wrong, those things are super important for a lot of people. But I feel like associating legitimacy with a formal diagnosis sometimes leaves people behind—people like me, whose families really frown on anything to do with therapy and meds, or people who have found their own ways of coping with it, or people who can’t afford it. It doesn’t mean they don’t still feel what they feel—they just don’t have the privilege of being told by someone with a degree what they’re allowed to call it. Shouldn’t the focus be on what we’re feeling rather than what box we can neatly fit ourselves into?” My eyes widen. “Oh my God, I’m sorry—I’m totally rambling, aren’t I? Not to mention we were talking about you, and I’m steamrolling the entire conversation.”
Vas smiles—a real, actual smile. “You don’t have to apologize. I like when you talk like this. It’s how you look on the trapeze—like you forget you’re being watched.”
I really hope my face isn’t as red as it feels.
I clear my throat awkwardly. “So… what made you become an aerialist?”
Vas leans back on his heels, trying to wrap his head around the change of topic I so expertly deployed. “I was trained in the circus at an early age; it was something my family expected me to excel in. And I did for a while. My mom and Maggie’s mom were old friends, even though Maggie’s parents lived in London. When I was eleven, I went to live with them. It was around the same time my brothers started getting into trouble. I think my mom wanted to get me away from it—give me a clean slate so I could focus everything on acrobatics. Maggie and I trained at the same school and eventually came to the States together as a duo.”
Together. I hesitate. “Were you a couple?”
“No, never,” Vas says. “I’ll always care about her, but it’s… complicated.” He says it like there’s history there—maybe even hurt—but I don’t want to pry. “She’s the kind of person I can only handle in small doses, which is why working together nearly ruined us. I quit when I realized continuing would permanently destroy our relationship. She’s the closest person to family I have left.” There’s a flash of sorrow in his eyes. “I’m not saying Maggie’s always a good person, but I do think there’s good in her.”
I can’t help but remember her words. “Maggie said we were the same. That our ambition is what pushes people away.”
Vas shakes his head. “I didn’t quit because she
was too ambitious. I quit because she didn’t care who she trampled to get where she wanted to be. There has to be honor in success, otherwise it isn’t earned—it’s taken. And I’m not sure she understood the difference.”
Part of me wants to know what happened, but the other part of me hopes he’ll never say. Because what if it’s along the same lines as what I did to my parents?
Or what if what I did was worse?
I chew my lip, hating what I’m about to say. “If you feel that way, I think you’re going to regret working with me. Because I’m not sure I understand the difference either.” I lift my shoulders. “Look what I’ve done to get here—stealing a set list from another circus, begging for Maggie’s spot less than twenty-four hours after she left. I think she might be right. I think I might be more like her than I want to admit.” I think about what I did to Mom and Dad and feel a wave of shame.
Vas doesn’t move. “I guess I’m willing to take the risk.”
I frown. “But why?”
He sighs. “Because I don’t think you’re like Maggie. I think you feel like you have to be, but I think despite wanting success, you do actually care about who you kick down the ladder on your way up. And—I don’t know—I guess I think about all the opportunities I had that I never really appreciated, and I see in you someone who would’ve killed for it. Maybe even literally.” He pauses.
I narrow my eyes. “One of your jokes?”
He smirks with only the tiniest bit of his face. “I just think you deserve a chance. Like how I wish someone would give me a chance with music.”
“Well, thank you,” I say.
He moves toward the wall and pushes a button. The static trapeze lowers, and I feel like a magnet being pulled toward it.
We spend two hours training, with Vas cemented to the floor, circling below the metal bar and instructing me on so many aspects of my style and form that I almost feel like a beginner again.
He’s firm, blunt, and as serious as ever.
But with every criticism—every suggestion on how to be better—I feel like I’m being pushed in the direction I’ve been so desperate to go in but didn’t know where to start.
When we’re finished for the day and I return to my room for a shower, my muscles are aching, there are fresh bruises on my thighs, and my legs feel like orange marmalade.
And I’m beaming from head to toe.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
When I step into the big top the next morning, Vas is sitting on the bar. He asks if I’ve ever been lifted onto the trapeze before.
I tell him I’ve never done any of this before.
He talks me through what we’re going to do, and the next thing I know, he’s hanging from his knees, his hands locked around my forearms. I do a backward roll and he swings me up until my legs are wrapped around his waist, before pushing upward against my feet until I’m high enough to pull myself onto the bar.
We practice the move, again and again, until our bodies move together like water.
Which isn’t a surprise, because every time he touches my skin, I melt.
Tallahassee, Florida October—Week 10
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Vivien and Dexi invite me out to dinner with some of the other performers, but as much as I love being a part of their group, I decline.
“My body can’t take it,” I say. “I just want to lie on the bed and not move.”
A few minutes after I close the door, a series of quick knocks sound. When I pull the door back, I see Vas’s distorted image through the screen.
He’s wearing jeans and a black shirt, with his silver dagger necklace hanging from his neck.
I push the screen open. “The rehearsal tent isn’t even set up yet. You can’t possibly be here to tell me we need to rehearse.”
“It’s a different kind of rehearsal,” he says. “We need to talk about choreography, and style. It helps to know these things before I get too invested in a song.” He nods toward his trailer. “Do you have a moment to chat?”
I follow him across the yard, acutely aware we’re about to be alone together. Where he sleeps every night. Which feels very different from being alone in a circus tent.
Vas and Jin’s trailer smells like soap and leather. It’s meticulous in a way that reminds me of Dad’s office. Everything has a home. An order. And even though there’re only two of them in here, Vas has a keyboard and a bunch of recording equipment in the corner that take up a decent amount of floor space.
One of the beds is covered in satin gray sheets with purple and yellow throw pillows, fairy lights, and a smaller blanket with the famous neon Andy Warhol images of Marilyn Monroe.
The other bed is plain navy blue.
“Which one is yours?” I ask.
Vas looks at me for a moment, studying me to figure out if I’m being serious or not. Against everything his broody nature is probably telling him, he relaxes his face. “Very funny.”
I smirk, watching him grab a notebook and pen out of a nearby drawer. We sit at the table, and Vas finds a fresh page and starts jotting down the beginnings of an outline.
“I was thinking we should do something that ties our act in with everyone else’s, which means matching a similar sound to the—um—acquired set list.” Vas pauses. “I’m assuming you’ve listened to it before?”
I close my fingers together under the table. “Not really, no.”
Vas taps his pen against the table, thinking. “Okay. Well, to me it was kind of a darker version of ‘It’s a Small World.’ ”
I frown. “Like the Disney ride?”
“Yeah. All the songs have this quirky, marionette-puppet vibe to them, but each one feels like it has its own culture. It felt like the composer was showing the differences of the world, and how we’re all strung together, and part of something bigger.” Vas runs his hands through his hair. “At least, that’s the way I interpreted it.”
My mind flashes to Dad in his office, always working. I think about all those times I felt so different and alone, like I was a puzzle piece in the wrong box.
Like I had a family that wanted me to fit in more than I did, but parents who were so used to not fitting in that they forgot how hard it was.
And to know Dad wrote music that represents some of the things I’ve always struggled with?
It feels like a message.
A message I wish he had tried to give me a long time ago, before I started to believe he had nothing to say.
“Do you want to hear some of it?” Vas asks, reaching for his laptop.
“No,” I practically bark, which makes him recoil in alarm. “Sorry. I just… don’t really need to hear it right now, that’s all.” Hearing what I’ve taken from Dad will only make things worse. I’d rather pretend for a little while longer that I won’t have to one day face the consequences of doing something so unforgivable.
Vas straightens himself again, staring at the paper like he’s willing his ideas to be realized right in front of him. “The reason Maggie is so good is because her passion comes through every performance.” He looks up at me, his eyes locking onto mine. “I know you have passion too, but I think whatever we come up with should speak to you the most. More than me. You want the audience to be drawn to you the way you are to the circus. We need to hone in on what that is. Give you a chance to perform from your heart.”
My heart. Do I really know what’s in there anymore?
Things are so messy now. I’ve destroyed relationships and broken trust and I still don’t feel sorry enough to want to make it better.
Because deep down, I’m still angry Mom and Dad didn’t care. About the circus, about my choices, about my hurt. They kept brushing me away, and if you neglect something long enough, eventually it’s not going to come back.
I needed my parents, and they weren’t there for me.
Apologizing now would feel like I’m saying what they did is okay, when it isn’t.
“My heart is conflicted.” I laugh. “I do
n’t think that’s going to make for a very good act.”
Vas frowns. “Conflicted about the circus?”
“Oh my God, no!” I shake my head fervently. I might be stubborn and have too many regrets, but my love for this life hasn’t changed even a little bit.
If anything, it’s grown.
I try a different approach. “Conflicted about who I am, I guess. Am I good or bad? A part of something or a part of nothing? Ambitious or selfish?”
Vas is watching me so carefully. There’s something about his stoic patience that makes me feel like I’m allowed to talk for hours if I want to.
“I guess I’ve always felt like there are parts of me that don’t really make sense together. Like, I’m either extremely happy or extremely sad. I’m either super motivated, or I feel hopeless.” I pinch the material of my leggings, organizing my words. “And sometimes I feel white or Asian, but never both at the same time. And I know I am both. But my family has always felt so separate. They look at one another like they know one thing is not like the other, which makes me feel like an oddity. Like a person who lost all her culture when her grandparents met. And I hate that, because I see how important culture is to my grandma. But it’s like I don’t have any right to it.”
“Everyone has a right to their family,” Vas says simply.
“I know it should be that way, but I don’t know if it is.” I pause. “Asian people call me ‘too white’ and laugh at me for not knowing enough about Chinese and Japanese culture. And white people only ever see me as Asian. They see me as exotic—someone too different to be their version of ‘all-American.’ Not to mention how broad the whole Asian category is. Do you know how many countries that covers? How many cultures? But ‘Asian’ is just lumped together, like people can’t be bothered to learn the differences. Which is also frustrating because, like, people who identify as East Asian or Southeast Asian or South Asian want to be understood for their differences, but then when someone is biracial, it’s suddenly like, ‘No, you don’t get to claim all the things that you are because you’re not Asian enough.’
Harley in the Sky Page 17