“Again,” Geoffrey emphasizes. “This time try to look less dead in the eyes.” I’m surprised he hasn’t found a whistle yet.
We all sluggishly move in the wings, hidden from view while Milla, the little Ukrainian girl, remains center-stage. She’s the first person the audience sees, and as my mom’s score starts playing, I inhale deeply and nod my head, listening for my cue.
I’m next.
The second person on stage is me. I walk and juggle all eight clubs around Milla.
“Look alive!” Geoffrey shouts.
I try to emote, but nausea brews viciously. I perform various tricks, catching and tossing clubs high and fast. It’s more subconscious. Like typing on a computer or driving. So I don’t have to think a lot, but I’m leaning backwards more than I like.
Honestly, as soon as Luka, Robby, and Abram do full twisting triple layouts in sync onto the stage, followed by so many Kotovas—it’s all a blur around me. Ordered chaos. Handstands on top of another person’s shoulders. Acrobatic floor work. Dancing to the rhythmic drum beat.
Everyone claps twice.
I spin three-sixty. My stomach hates me. I catch a club. Toss. Catch.
Clap. Clap.
I spin again and join the dance sequence while juggling. Brenden slips on the sweaty stage but catches himself.
Clap. Clap.
I’m going to throw up.
Anton bumps into Sergei on accident, and the music screeches to a halt. We all skid to a stop too, and I lose control of a club. It clatters on the stage, the noise echoing and basically broadcasting my failure. Thank you for that.
I feel too many eyes on me.
“Bucket!” Dimitri shouts from stage right. Grabbing a tin pail, he slides it across the stage. It reaches his little brother, Anton, who immediately vomits into it.
Collective, nauseated groans ring out. I have to squat and set down my clubs. My hand is on my mouth. Don’t gag.
Don’t gag.
I risk a glance at Luka, the length of the stage separating us again. He watches me, breathing as heavily as all the Kotovas, mostly from their athletic performance.
Don’t gag.
Erik joins Anton, retching in a second bucket.
I gag.
Luka’s eyes grow in concern.
Swallow. I swallow puke in my throat, and my brother crouches beside me, a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t think about it,” Brenden coaches in a whisper.
It’d be easier if I didn’t hear a chorus of vomiting. I keep my hand firmly planted to my mouth, and Geoffrey climbs onto the stage. We all tense as he struts around us and surveys our clearly hung-over state.
“Embarrassing,” he says with a curled lip, wearing a black blazer on top of an ‘90s concert tee. Giving away his age. “Am I wasting my time? Do you not even care about your own jobs? Really, what am I doing here?”
Many noses flare, suppressing irritation. No one back-talks, knowing AE hierarchy, and I bite down, also submerging more nausea.
Infini’s fate means everything to me, but we had no time to prepare for this practice. I don’t want to believe that today’s fuck-ups will jeopardize the future of the show.
While Geoffrey pauses, six more artists retreat to buckets and backstage. Puking.
“For Christ’s sake,” Geoffrey says, shaking his head. “Again.”
We can’t.
No one moves.
“Did you not hear me?” Geoffrey asks, his wild enraged eyes perusing us.
Zhen speaks for the cast, our unofficial captain. “Essential artists in the dance sequence are currently indisposed.” It’s the nice way of saying their heads are in puke buckets.
I wait for Geoffrey to call off practice, but I’m expecting too much.
“You’ll improvise,” he says. “That’s what you do when someone falls ill, is it not?”
“Yes, but we never lose this many cast members at once.”
“There’s a first for everything. Again!”
We reluctantly stand and restart the opening. I gather my clubs. I try so hard to stifle nausea that my eyes burn and well. Once more, it’s all a blur.
I’m on stage juggling. Everyone performs around me.
Clap. Clap.
I spin too slowly, and a club nearly crashes down on my head. I dodge just in time, the club striking the floor, and I run to the side of the stage. Finding an already-filled puke bucket, I vomit up brown whiskey and pasta.
The music cuts off for the umpteenth time.
“Get it all out,” Geoffrey hollers at hopefully more than just me. “When you’re done purging your apathy, line up.”
I wish I listened to Luka and threw up before practice, but I didn’t want to encourage bulimia, which he has always struggled with. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s gone through phases of fighting against it and letting it control him.
Until this morning, I had no idea where he was mentally in the spectrum of combatting and giving in.
But he stuck his middle finger down his throat without any hesitation.
I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, pausing for a moment, and I rotate slightly to see the jagged line of artists who are currently “composed” enough to stand.
Drenched in sweat, Luka, Dimitri, Sergei, Zhen, Brenden, amongst others line up—and a lot more kneel off to the side, sick.
My brother and Luka watch me, their heads turned while everyone else stares at the velveteen seats. And then they acknowledge each other with weird grimaces. I don’t have the energy to care about their clashing feelings right now, but Luka needs to stand down if we’re going to keep our hook-ups secret.
Thankfully, Luka backs off, tearing his gaze away from me.
I rise to my feet, hunched over. Hand on my hip. I make sure I don’t have a second wave before I join the line. I avoid the middle and slip into the right side, hoping to hide from Geoffrey.
A good chunk of the cast is still missing, and the choreographer paces the length of our uneven line. He eyes each one of us up and down.
“You.” Geoffrey stops and points.
I go rigid.
For some unearthly reason, he picks me out of the line and gestures for me to approach him.
I near the choreographer.
“Can you roll up your sleeves?” he asks me.
This is strange. “Yeah?”
“Do it.”
I roll up the sleeves of my black Adidas shirt, and he inspects my arms. I glance back at Brenden, and he mouths, what the fuck, at me. I shake my head once, just as confused.
I’ve never seen the Kotovas so on edge either. Half of them are whispering, probably in Russian.
Geoffrey tries to peer at my shoulder blades, but I can’t exactly roll the fabric off that part of my body. “Are you wearing a sports bra?”
“You’re not allowed to ask that,” Dimitri, of all people, interjects.
There’s an audible inhale from many of us.
“I would know,” Dimitri adds, “I attended a sexual harassment seminar.”
There’s a collective laugh, but the noise sputters out at Geoffrey’s glower. “If I want to hear from you, Dimitri, I’ll call on you. Otherwise, shut up.”
I wince at that exchange.
Dimitri grimaces and forces a fuck you smile—but he remains quiet.
Geoffrey faces me, waiting for a response.
“I am wearing a sports bra,” I confirm.
“Take off your shirt.”
Whoa.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Luka stepping forward, but Dimitri yanks him forcefully back. My brother similarly tries to intervene, but Zhen is speaking to him.
We all have to choose our battles, and this feels insignificant since I don’t mind taking off my shirt. I’ve worked out in just a sports bra before, but if I felt uncomfortable, it’d be a different story. Because I’d definitely refuse his request.
I pull my sopping shirt off my head, and he examines my back, nodding to himself.
“I thought I saw old burn marks on your arms and shoulders yesterday but I wasn’t sure. Now I am.” Geoffrey motions for me to put my shirt back on. I tug it over my head as he says, “No one mentioned that you’ve juggled fire before.”
Great. I see the interest in his eye. “I stopped juggling fire when I was fourteen.”
“Why?”
I’m scared to say the truth. I know what his response will be. “It no longer fit the choreography.”