Then he lands on his feet, wobbling a little more than I think he’d like, but his tiny movement may be unnoticeable to an audience.
Geoffrey critiques them more than praises, and he has all the Kotovas perform a few skills again. Hopping on the available platforms. Flying at the mini-nets. Soaring up the wall. Thirty minutes tick by before I’m called on.
“Baylee, come down to the trampoline’s base.”
That means falling, but this is the fun part. I jump down, and all eight guys kill my momentum with their weight. I can’t even figure out how, but they just did it.
Focused eyes on me, Geoffrey asks, “You expressed grief over which trick?” He can’t remember because I didn’t actually vocalize my concerns yet.
“The eight-ball, seven-up pirouette. Six-ball, six-up is more manageable to start.” Just saying.
“We’ll see. For now it’s eight and seven.” Geoffrey fingers his goatee before pointing at…no. “Sergei, lift her on your shoulders. You’ll assist…”
I partially tune out the choreographer’s instruction, my eyes narrowed on Luka’s oldest brother. Sergei raises his squared head, shoulders pulled back. His whole authoritarian demeanor puts a weird taste in my mouth. He looks ready to order me around, as though I’m a prop to his act. In actuality, he’s assisting my discipline just as much as I’m assisting his.
I don’t have the heart to glance at Luka.
Those not participating position themselves on the metal frame and the platforms. I stand in the middle while Sergei approaches.
I expect him to say, tell me when I should rotate. Or call out to me with commands.
Instead, Sergei says, “I’ll lift you and begin jumping. I’ll spin after three counts.”
“That’s not how it works,” I say. “Three seconds isn’t enough time for seven balls to be airborne.”
If he hears my opinion at all, he doesn’t say.
Sergei just clasps me by the hips and hoists me on his shoulders. My body is completely rigid. Uncomfortable, for one. My legs drape down his chest, and he grips my calves and begins jumping without even the slightest pause or call-out.
I feel like I’m on a theme park ride that I didn’t ask to be a part of, and it’s made of a Russian man and hard muscle.
At least thirty-feet high, all eight balls still in my palms—I internally freak out. I don’t trust Sergei with my life, and if he drops me, I could bounce and go flying at the back wall or the metal frame of the trampoline. Which is hard enough to crack a skull.
“Any day now.” Geoffrey pressures me.
And it works. I concentrate on juggling.
Rather than simply tossing, I push the first two balls into the air so I don’t fall backwards. I work in pairs, the balls soaring in a clean arc, and then Sergei rotates just as I launch the fifth and sixth balls.
Juggling is about timing. It’s practically math, and when the timing is off, this happens.
The balls fall.
On the trampoline.
And they fling every direction thereafter.
It’s less embarrassing than it is aggravating. I want to succeed badly, but I’ve never relied this heavily on someone else. This is going to take a while.
I must wear the dejection because Geoffrey snaps, “What’s wrong?”
Catching my breath, I say, “I don’t think this partnership is going to work out.”
Sergei is not my favorite person ever, and he technically owes me a grand that he’ll never pay—but I’m not unearthing my personal life at work.
“Fine, we’ll try Dimitri.”
Sergei switches out with Dimitri, and in another breath, I’m on Dimitri’s shoulders and he tells me, “Throw my balls, Baybay.”
Ignore.
I’m not in the mood for his jokes, and ignoring them is the easiest tactic here, especially in front of a choreographer.
As soon as Dimitri jumps, I have trouble concentrating on the trick. I’m thirty-feet up again, but I keep thinking about Dimitri losing his footing and then me falling and face-planting into a mound of hard muscle or metal.
I realize fast that the problem wasn’t just Sergei.
It’s me.
During the rotation, all the balls drop. I shake my head at Geoffrey. I try the trick with Erik and Robby to only meet the same failed result.
Off Robby’s shoulders and firmly planted on the trampoline, I walk towards the metal frame, lungs ablaze. Because I know what I’m about to do.
Please let this work.
Act Eleven Baylee Wright
I ask Geoffrey, “Can I try this with Luka?” I don’t believe the outcome will change with anyone else.
Whether Marc Duval informed the choreographer about my history with Luka, I can’t tell—but Geoffrey nods. He approves.
I don’t question whether Luka will be upset at my proposal. He was the one that helped me earlier, so he should be okay with close contact at work.
I walk to the center of the trampoline, and Luka abandons his spot by the back-left pole to join me. Instantly, we lock eyes.
My lungs inflate, a thousand memories rushing towards me.
Dancing—God, we danced for long drawn-out hours. Drum beats thumped and rumbled the ground beneath our feet, and club lights swept our limbs that tangled. That touched.
We blistered in rhythm.
My head lolled back, and his strong hands found my hips. Sweat built between us, and our bodies—we fit just right.
I try to bury this image with one large breath. I have to concentrate on my job. Not the past.
Not us.
Because there is no more us. There can never be an us. Just separate lonely entities.
What am I even thinking? I didn’t keep tabs on Luka. He may not even be lonely. He may have a significant other. Like a friends-with-benefits or an actual girlfriend. I try desperately to block out these agonizing thoughts.
It shouldn’t be this painful.
He was allowed to move on. We both were ordered to. I should be traveling forward like him, not barreling into the past.
Luka comes to a stop a foot from me. Not shying away, he drinks in my features and his grays tenderly stroke my cheeks, my lips and eyes.
Touch me. I inhale.
He inhales even more powerfully.
Touch me.
His right hand instinctively rises up. Towards my cheek.
I step forward.
He steps forward. Our legs collide, and then he hesitates. I hesitate. We remember where we are. Who watches. He’s not able to touch me that way.
Luka tightens his hand in a fist before it drops to his side. His brows cinch, face pained, but I nod once in understanding. We’re working. We can’t really reconnect here.
We’re not even allowed to reconnect outside of the gym. This work relationship is what we’ve been granted. It has to be enough.
My dry eyes burn like I need to release four-and-a-half years of pent-up emotion, but my body knows it can’t.
Luka tries to smile, and then he dips his head to me. “Tell me what to do.” Work.
Work.
So I explain the jugging trick in detail, and he asks a few questions about timing and jumping. Cordial, easy enough.
After I answer, he nods and says, “Just squeeze your thighs when I need to rotate. If you want me to shift at all as I jump, dig your right heel in my chest to go right. Left to go left.”
“That’ll work.” I like this system more than Dimitri’s “call-out” method. I’m sometimes deep inside my head during routines that I forget to use my voice. Using my body should feel more natural.
Geoffrey shouts, “Any day now!”
Luka’s lip quirks, almost laughing at the absurdity. It makes me less stressed, and then he takes two balls out of my hands.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“You said six-ball, six-up was more manageable, so let’s do six.” He listened to me from earlier?
I try to restrain my smile. You haven’t changed, have you?
Do you ever think of me?
Do you even still love me?
Or am I just a heartbreaking memory?
My own lips inch up but falter. “Luka Kotova, already testing the choreographer’s limits.”
“Yeah.” Luka’s smile brightens the angelic creases of his face. “Because he’s not the juggler. You are.” At this, he chucks the two extra balls at Dimitri, who easily catches both.
Now I’m left with six. Which will make our chance of success a lot greater.