I’m abnormally agreeable when it comes to work. I don’t roll my eyes. I don’t sigh heavily or pull passive aggressive bullshit. I just do my job and I leave.
Since Sergei has been performing on the Wheel of Death for the past ten years—and it’s a fairly new discipline for me—he has more experience. So he has to order me around, and I put up with his know-it-all attitude and constant reminder that “if you’re not concentrating, you’re going to get hurt. And that’s on you.”
(Thanks for the tip.)
Sergei blocks me from walking. “Seven practices in, I give you instructions and you only reply okay.”
“And?” That’s not me being personal.
“And if I were anyone else, you’d be more vocal. I’m tired of the one-word responses.”
I almost feel bad for him. “Yeah, no.” I shake my head and adjust my grip on my gym bag. “I don’t do the whole let’s-chat-about-every-little-thought-we’ve-ever-had bit.”
Sergei crosses his arms, disbelieving.
“You don’t know me, dude.” Something raw enflames at the cold fact. “You could be Nik or Dimitri and I’d respond the same way at practice.” He’s asking me to be someone else, and I’m not playing that game to appease him or anyone.
He gets me.
Whether he likes me or not, I couldn’t care less.
“I’d appreciate more enthusiasm then.”
Off his harsh expression, I can tell that he’s testing me. Silently, he’s saying, if this isn’t personal, then you’ll be happy like you would be with anyone else.
I force a genuine-looking smile and push past him. I don’t turn back.
Not even as he yells at me in Russian, and I don’t care to listen. He’s already ruined the allure of an apparatus for me.
Before he showed up, I was honestly excited about Wheel of Death. The forty-foot apparatus is one of the biggest in Aerial Ethereal. Two large hoops are connected together by a space frame beam, and with momentum, the structure rotates like a pendulum.
During the act, I run on the inside of a hoop, sometimes on the outside, while Sergei stays in sync with me on the other.
I first saw the Wheel of Death when I was about four or five, and I always thought it resembled two humongous hamster wheels. Men sprinted in the hoops, and once they started doing flips inside and outside, the wheel growing in speed, I thought it looked awesome. And later, dangerous.
Years went by and Sergei was chosen for the act. At one point, so was Timo, and I never thought I’d get the chance.
Of course, once I finally do, I’m paired with the only artist in the company that I literally can’t stand. His voice is like balling up aluminum foil next to my eardrum. If I could, I’d tune him out every practice.
Barely five feet down the hallway, I run into commotion that looks more fun than hanging around Sergei.
Artists linger outside the glass door of a Corporate office. Show posters hang on the plastered walls, and the artists press up against them, spying into the glass.
No one stands in direct view of the office.
I sidle next to Dimitri from the right side, and he cranes his neck towards the door.
“What’s up?” I ask him, but he’s too consumed by the drama. Laughter is caught in about fourteen throats.
I’m curious.
And unafraid.
It makes for a bad combination. I step in front of the glass door on impulse. Now in direct view of…Geoffrey Lesage. I eye him while he fixates on the new items at his desk.
He picks up a leather ball gag and glares at a neon-pink dildo. My lips pull upward at the blonde blowup sex doll sitting on his office chair.
Dimitri grins and whispers, “And here I was about to call today miserable. Little did I know we’d be given such a precious gift.”
I laugh as Geoffrey drops the ball gag and snags a piece of paper from a cardboard box. The big bold letters read: RELAX.
“Priceless,” Brenden says into a bright smile.
I just notice Baylee’s brother pressed to the wall beneath a Celeste poster. Zhen and Baylee are huddled with him, all three unable to contain their laughter.
I can’t stop watching Baylee.
Cheeks big and dimpling, eyes lit up, she laughs through her body. Arms shaking, limbs quaking. She always used to do this thing in a laughing fit—she’d cover her face with two hands, not because she wanted it to stop. Because it was so overwhelming.
Because the emotion was almost too personal for anyone to see.
On stage, she’ll give her all, but real life isn’t a performance. She doesn’t have to be an open book to everyone. Just like I don’t.
I wait for her hands to fly upwards.
“Shit, he’s coming!” someone shouts and rips into the moment.
It’s a mad dash.
People zip back into the gym, sprinting through sets of blue double doors, and just as I turn, I hear Geoffrey.
“Don’t move! You seven!”
Slowly, I rotate to meet his flushed face, cross. Full of indignation. He waves an accusatory finger at the seven of us closest to the office. “Names. Each of you. Now.”
He met us ten days ago, and I know he memorized our names. He’s just dramatic.
His pinched glare lands on me first. (Let’s just say he’s not shocked that I’m here.) “Luka Kotova,” I announce easily.
“Dimitri Kotova,” my older cousin says, still grinning. Unable to mask his joy.
Geoffrey jabs a finger towards another artist.
“Baylee Wright.”
My stomach drops, and her brown eyes flit to me, cautious. Features tight. In the past few years, I’ve been in trouble with Corporate a lot (for stealing), but not with her attached. This’ll be the first time since we signed our contracts, and I have no idea what to expect.
Maybe they won’t even bat an eye. Maybe they’re opening the door to our prison cells.
Maybe they’re waiting for us to walk through, just to slug us in the face.
I do something I probably shouldn’t.
I nod to her like it’s okay. I’m here for you. I wish I could hug her. I wish I could just hold her hand. Something.
Anything.
“Brenden Wright.” He shifts warily as he says his name.
“Zhen Li.”
This—the blow-up doll, ball gag, dildo joke—it’s not something those two would ever construct. Zhen and Brenden are like the unofficial welcoming committee of Aerial Ethereal. Corporate has even sent them on luxury trips, just to convince patrons to shill out thousands of dollars to AE.
I don’t pull my gaze off Baylee, and she lifts hers to the ceiling, collarbones jutted out like she’s caging a pained breath.
I adjust my gym bag which feels like a million pounds now.
“Sergei Kotov.”
My head swerves to my older brother, but he’s only the sixth person in the hallway. The seventh is blocked by Geoffrey’s wiry body.
He sidesteps and my face falls further.
No.
“Thora James.”
Muscular shoulders and a short stature, Nik’s twenty-two-year-old girlfriend stands at five-foot-two, her dirty-blonde hair wet from a shower. She’s dressed down in a baggy Ohio State shirt, a college that she dropped out of to pursue her aerialist dreams.
It’s not like she was given a job at AE for talent alone. She worked hard, and as a lead in Amour, she doesn’t need to get in any kind of trouble.
Thora looks around uneasily, stapled papers in hand. “I’m not really sure what’s going on. I was just stopping by to drop off some forms…” Her almost black eyes dart around the hallway. “I mean, I can come back later…” She starts stepping backwards.
“Don’t,” Geoffrey snaps, finger aimed at her forehead.
Thora tries to freeze, but papers fall out of her hand, and nervously, she trips over her own feet to collect them.
Dimitri laughs, but it dies as Geoffrey verbally scolds him. I don’t listen.
I bend down and help Thora collect her forms. I barely glance at the papers, but I do catch the word Wellness Policy. The forms must be normal and routine.
“Thanks,” she whispers to me. We stand up at the same time.
Geoffrey addresses us. “Congratulations, the seven of you will be signed up for a sexual harassment seminar tonight. You’ll be emailed the location and time. It’s mandatory, so don’t even contemplate skipping.” Storming back into his office, he slams the door.