Or maybe she really doesn’t want to risk anything concerning me. Maybe she’s in agreement with Nik. My chest caves—no.
No, I’m not ready to accept it. I clutch tightly to what may be lost already, but I’ve always been unable to release my grip. Marc Duval made me believe that a future with Bay was hopeless, but he could never convince me that she didn’t love me. That she didn’t hurt just as badly when we were torn apart.
Brenden cranes his neck towards Zhen, giving me a moment to speak to Baylee. I mouth, email.
Her face scrunches, confused.
I lick my lips and mouth better, email.
Realization washes over her features, and she begins to stand, to retrieve her phone probably, but then a new voice pulls our gazes to the left.
“Infini artists.”
(Fuck my life.)
Baylee sits back down, and my muscles constrict as the ash-blond goatee guy steps into the middle of the circle. The guy that I literally ran into. The one that chastised me.
The one that clearly disliked me.
I figure out who he has to be before he even introduces himself.
“Four of you have just met me, but to the rest,” he tells us, clipboard tucked beneath his armpit, “I’m Geoffrey Lesage. Your new choreographer. For the entire season, you will listen to me. You will respect me. All without question or backtalk. No exceptions.”
He purposefully hones in on me.
The cast definitely notices, some people whispering to each other. I bet Brenden is telling Baylee, see, don’t associate yourself with that.
I screwed up in the hallway, but at this point, I don’t really care. If Geoffrey has the power to demote me, then so be it. He demotes me. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. I live for the art and my family, and I doubt he has the authority to take either away from me.
I’m nonchalant. Calm. I drape my arm over my bent knee and everyone else pauses their stretches while Geoffrey appraises the whole cast.
My eyes flit to Bay. She keeps glancing in the direction of the locker room. Like she really wants to grab her phone to check her email.
She cares. I smile again.
She cares.
I nod to myself.
And then Geoffrey steals my attention. “There’s no time for hugs and hand-shakes. I’m not your friend. I’m here to push you to be your very best, and it’s your job to give it to an audience. Every time.”
Some artists nod, but most of us stay still and just listen.
“To start, I’ll read off the completed act list, and then we’ll briefly discuss the narrative of Infini.” He grips the clipboard, licks his finger, and flips a page. “Act list is as follows, including the participants. Listen closely for your name. Act one.”
I stare off and absorb Infini’s program:
Act 1: Dance & Floor Acrobatics (opening)
Act 2: Contortion
Act 3: Aerial Hoops
Act 4: Juggling
Act 5: Wheel of Death
(intermission)
Act 6: High-Risk Trampoline
Act 7: Clown Trio
Act 8: Aerial Straps Duo
Act 9: Hand-to-Hand Balancing
Act 10: Russian Swing (finale)
Geoffrey calls me out for four acts (1, 5, 6, and 10): the Opening Dance, Wheel of Death, High-Risk Trampoline, and Russian Swing. I expected to be a part of those. I even expected Bay to be called for Act 1 and Act 4: the opening and juggling.
What I didn’t expect—what makes zero sense—is why Baylee is called for trampoline. Act 6.
Bay’s eyes grow, mouth slowly falling. As stunned as her brother. As the rest of us. She’s only ever participated in her juggling act and the opening.
But beyond that, trampoline is notoriously an all-Kotova act.
Chatter explodes, and Geoffrey doesn’t take Marc’s approach by shushing uneasy crowds with the raise of a hand.
He literally says, “Shut the hell up.”
I can’t even be surprised at this point.
The cast quiets, and Dimitri simmers silently, his face full of hard lines. He’s a proponent of you must give respect to earn respect. Although Dimitri’s definition of “respect” doesn’t always equate to everyone else’s.
“What’d I say before?” Geoffrey takes measured steps around the inner-circle, eyeing us. “You listen and you comply. No backtalk. We’ll put on a great show if you accept these changes without falter and work your asses off.”
I catch Baylee nodding in agreement, determination narrowing her eyes. She’d do anything for Infini’s survival. I already know this.
“As of now, the narrative for Infini will not change, including stage decorations and original scores.”
Baylee lets out an audible breath, and I realize now that she must’ve been worried about the fate of the music, all composed by her mom.
“Expect new costumes. Fittings will take place much later. The atrocious choreography is more pressing.”
I can tell that several artists are biting their tongues.
“Someone stand up,” Geoffrey says, “and briefly describe Infini’s story to the newcomers.”
At first no one offers. An awkward beat passes before Zhen rises to his feet.
Clearing his threat, Zhen explains, “The audience follows a girl just as she goes to sleep. The first five acts, she travels through an imaginative nightmare that tries to seduce her. After intermission, she reaches the dreamscape. The last five acts, she celebrates the infinite realms of enchantment and revelry. Where lastly, she wakes from bed.” Zhen smiles. “The end.”
We all clap. I whistle using my fingers.
Zhen takes a bow, and right as Geoffrey is about to speak, Zhen kindly translates his previous words in Mandarin for a group of new girls.
I’ve never seen Zhen rub anyone the wrong way, but Geoffrey huffs loudly, outwardly agitated. When Zhen finishes, Geoffrey shoots him a look and snaps, “You done now?”
Zhen nods, tensed.
Geoffrey tightens his grip on his clipboard. “How many of you can’t speak English?” he asks.
Some artists mutter the question in different languages so others can understand. Besides Russian, I hear Japanese and Portuguese.
Slowly, artists begin to raise their hands. I count about fifteen out of fifty.
As I gauge Geoffrey’s reaction, I get why Dimitri called him a fart-face. His forehead crinkles, cheeks pulling upward, and his lip curls like he needs to take a really big shit.
But come on—Aerial Ethereal employs athletes and performers from all over the globe. This isn’t a new development. Language barriers are common and expected. It’s a part of our job, and our shows are better for hiring based on talent, not on whether we all know English.
Dimitri gestures towards the choreographer, and in Russian, he says, “Welcome to the circus.”
I laugh with all my cousins.
Geoffrey isn’t amused. At all. “If you speak English, keep it in English unless you have to communicate with someone who can’t understand.”
Brenden rolls his eyes and leans into Baylee to whisper, probably voicing his irritation. He’s good at speaking a lot of languages—I wouldn’t forget how smart he is.
The choreographer continues scrutinizing each one of us.
I pull my arm over my chest in a stretch, and I try to recall Geoffrey’s credentials. I looked them up once. He’s from Montreal. Maybe. I think he previously worked with a full French cast, and this has to be different for him.
Especially since AE fired most of the translators this year, deeming them “unnecessary”. Corporate tries to cut costs where they can.
(One day they’re going to chop off their own fucking foot.)
Geoffrey straightens his blazer. “As most of you know, the part of The Girl was once played by Adelia.” The Girl connects the whole story together, and she’s basically the only performer who appears in every act. Even if she’s just standing on stage left, reacting to the other acts in front of her.
Bay knew Adelia better than I did. I think she was in her thirties, and last I heard, she was transferred to Noctis, a touring show.
“This year, The Girl will be played by someone else. I’d like you all to welcome a familiar face.” Geoffrey extends his arm towards the left, and our heads turn—what?
I know her.
Even before he says her name.