“The choreography. You mean the boring, soulless routine that once existed before I arrived?” That’s exactly why I should’ve lied, but maybe a tiny part of me agrees with him.
“What other high-risk juggling can you do?”
I’m quiet, hands on my hips. Almost winded.
“Don’t make me examine your scars next.”
I’m afraid. He’s already one-hundred percent going to add fire to the routine. Which is fine. It’ll add the “awe” factor that might help Infini. I’m definitely okay with that.
But I can’t tell him that I can juggle machetes.
He’ll without a doubt incorporate it within the choreography, and even with blunted edges, they’re too dangerous for the kind of complex tricks I perform. I’m worried that if I tell him “I can juggle humongous-as-fuck knives” and then put my foot down, he’ll fire me and find someone who can do it.
I slowly shake my head. “Nothing else.”
“Nothing else?” He looks disbelieving.
“Why would I lie?” I say.
“Laziness.”
I stare up at the eighty-foot ceiling, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes.
“Here’s an ultimatum,” he begins. No. I feel sick again, but for a completely different reason. “If I ask the veteran staff about your various props and they list off a high-risk one—you’re fired. Or you can tell me the prop now and you’ll have a choice.”
Choices.
This one has to be less painful than Marc Duval’s choice four-and-a-half years ago.
“What choice?” I ask.
“You’ll either perform with the high-risk prop or you’ll prove to me that you don’t want to—by holding plank for three hours on this stage.”
A three-hour plank? My whole face falls, unknowing whether or not I have the strength for that.
“How badly do you want to omit the prop? How much iron-will do you have?”
Strangely, his words bolster fight in me. I nod over and over.
“No, Baylee,” Brenden calls out, his voice sharp with worry.
Only one choice lets me off the hook. There’s no way the staff won’t tell Geoffrey the truth. He may even be able to look in AE’s artist database and see my specific skills.
“I’ll ask you again,” Geoffrey says, ignoring my brother’s outburst. “What other high-risk juggling can you do?”
“Machetes.”
Geoffrey claps his hands, grinning. “That will grab an audience’s attention.”
I look back at the line and almost everyone has their palms to their head. Luka is squatting, his face in his hands.
It’s okay. I want to tell him.
Brenden can’t meet my eyes, but he looks sick to his stomach.
I focus on Geoffrey. “Where do you want me to plank? Off to the side—”
“Right here.” He points at my feet. Where I stand. Front and center. I hate being the center of attention like this, but it’s over. I can’t exactly rip the spotlight off anymore.
I lower to my forearms and use my core to hoist my body up, my toes on the ground in a push-up position. I hold this pose, my muscles already burning.
And then something happens.
Luka breaks the jagged line by walking forward. I arch my neck to see him fully, and without any hesitation, he comes in-line with me and easily lowers to a plank position. My lips part, stunned and overwhelmed.
He’s doing this with me.
Luka turns his head to meet my gaze. So much love and encouragement stares back at me.
Sweat drips down our temples and the bridge of our noses, and not long after Luka’s demonstration, Brenden leaves the line to join us. He sets his forearms on the ground, his determination pouring through me.
I love my brother so much.
One beat later, there’s a mass rush forward of Russian men.
Every single Kotova drops down to plank position. It builds an even greater fire beneath me. The last time I had all the Kotovas on my side, I was best friends with Luka. I lost all of that when we got in trouble.
I forgot how powerful their solidarity feels.
Ten minutes in, and the entire cast of Infini is holding plank. Even the clowns.
“Camaraderie!” Geoffrey shouts. “This is what I like to see! This is what I want. Give me that fighting spirit every minute, every day.”
It’s not as easy as it looks, and I only wonder if there’ll be more tests after this one. And worse: what happens if we fail?
Act Twenty-Five Luka Kotova
31 Days to Infini’s Premiere
“You can blame being late on me,” I tell Sergei, an offer I shouldn’t even consider—but I let it out almost subconsciously.
“I was going to,” Sergei says while we ride down the Masquerade’s elevator to the lobby. We were supposed to be at Retrograde, the Elvis-themed diner, about twenty minutes ago. He adds, “You’re the one who couldn’t land a triple-sault today.”
I’m not reigniting a pointless argument. Geoffrey quickened the tempo of the music for Wheel of Death—and we’re only thirty-one days away from the premiere. These little changes affect the whole routine, and I lose time for extra rotations in the air.
I feel like I can’t keep up with the music anymore, and I’ve never had that problem. Rhythm—it’s one of the few skills I actually excel at.
Sergei keeps glancing at me. Waiting for me to reply.
I unwrap a peppermint from my pocket. I already offered him one to break the ice, and he said no thanks before I could toss it to him.
I haven’t hung out with Sergei outside of work yet, and now we’re about to have a dinner with immediate family only: Sergei, Nikolai, me, Timofei, and Katya.
(It’s going to be awkward as fuck.) Our dark hair is wet from quick showers, and I half-expected Sergei to dress in sportswear like me: black Under Armour pants, a plain blue tee. Instead, he wears a Metallica T-shirt with black jeans.
Metallica. As in, the heavy metal band. I’m still shocked.
If I try to understand my twenty-eight-year-old brother, then that means I care about him—and I don’t want to care right now.
Sergei exhales a tense breath.
I frown as he wipes his clammy palms on his thighs. “You’re nervous?” (So much for not caring.) His eyes flit to me. “Yeah. I haven’t been making any ground with Timofei, but he probably told you.”
I nod. Timo still isn’t welcoming Sergei at all.
The grudge is simple and also explains my reservations with Sergei. Our history: we believed for the longest time that Nikolai was forced to take care of the three of us. Not even a year ago, we learned that when our immediate family split up, the only ones given a choice between a touring show or a resident show were the three oldest sons: Sergei, Nikolai, and Peter.
Sergei and Peter chose to travel the world with our parents.
Nikolai chose to stay with us. To become our guardian.
Their choices are loaded with emotion and feeling that none of us can separate out. Sergei decided to leave us and also let his younger brother carry a massive responsibility alone.
I think about how different my life would’ve been if Sergei chose us and New York. I wouldn’t have filled the co-parent role with Nik part of the time. I doubt I’d be the same person I am today—and isn’t that bizarre? That one person’s choice can drastically change the outcome of multiple lives.
Maybe even the foundation of who I am.
It makes me think of my decision in Marc Duval’s office. If I quit AE and gave up my family back then, Kat and Timo—they’d be affected more than I can even process. But I thought about them.
I chose them.
And look, I’m not trying to blame Sergei for how I turned out and my own issues—I wouldn’t. I just think he has a lot to prove to Timo. To Katya. To me. And I can’t lead him there.
I don’t know the path to redemption. I’ve barely even cracked the door.
“Katya has been ignoring me,” Sergei mentions, the elevator still descending. “Nikolai said to try English instead of Russian, but she won’t reply in any language.”