It’s Thora James.
“Myshka—” Nikolai starts to say little mouse in Russian, his husky voice tender for his girlfriend.
Thora interjects, “You said that you’d leave the choice up to me, and you’d support me no matter what—but you already know what I’m going to say, don’t you? You knew what I’d choose.”
“Yes.”
I frown, hearing the emotion in my brother’s voice.
Thora takes an audible breath. “You think I’m idealistic?”
“Brave,” he says deeply.
In a short pause, I picture her wiping tears and my brother hugging his girlfriend. As they speak more hushed, I turn my head slightly towards the curtain. Trying to hear every word.
“I decided,” Thora breathes, “that life has always been unpredictable. I came here for the slim chance to be in the circus, and what I got was the most unbelievable dream job—and you. How we react to life’s curveballs is what defines us. I can put my job on hold while I’m…” Her voice breaks, but in Thora James’ fashion, her optimism blooms in place of fear. “I might be ordinary and average, but I’m capable of anything if I just believe in myself. And I do. I can do this, Nik.”
“We,” Nik says. “The responsibility of a baby is not all on you, myshka. This is ours.”
My jaw unhinges.
Thora is pregnant.
I exchange a stunned look with Bay. Being pregnant in this profession—it’s like sustaining an injury with a year-long recovery. It means being benched for a whole season with no guarantee that you’ll land a contract for the next.
“The other thing I have to say,” Thora tells him so quietly I almost miss it, “you’re not going to like.”
I can almost feel my brother tense up.
“The higher-ups in AE, I don’t even know their names, already created a timeline and schedule for me. I didn’t meet them, but their assistants relayed the info. They said that while I’m unable to perform, aerial silk will be shelved—”
“I don’t care,” Nik says. He performs aerial silk, so he’ll be relegated to group acts only. “I wouldn’t care about that.”
“That’s not it,” Thora says. “They want me—us, to finish out March.”
My stomach drops.
Baylee looks incensed and confused, and she mouths to me, they can’t do that.
It sounds like Corporate just did.
“You’re pregnant,” Nik growls under his breath, his voice rattling in rage. “You can’t perform. It’s too dangerous.”
“They said since I’m only six-weeks, I can go until the end of March.”
I try to count in my head, but Nik already has the numbers. “It’s only March 17th, Thora. There’s two weeks left—you can’t. I know you believe you can, but this shouldn’t be on the table at all. I’m talking to Kavich.”
He’s the lead director for Amour.
“You can try,” she says softly, “but they told me that more critics were coming in March—and they need aerial silk in the program. If I don’t do this, they said that they wouldn’t pay me for the two months I’ve been in Amour. And they kind of hinted that I wouldn’t have a job to return to.”
She means threatened.
(Fuck Corporate.)
“They’re trying to take advantage of you. They have to pay you; it’s in your contact—”
Thora cuts in as he gets heated, “I know. I already called my parents. I asked them if they knew any lawyers that could read over my contract.”
Baylee gives me a look like she’s about to sneeze. She pinches her nose, and I try to bring her head to the crook of my shoulder.
She sneezes, and in Thora and Nik’s abrupt silence, the sound muffles—but not a hundred-percent.
We cage our breaths. Rigid. Staring at the curtain. They drop their voices to inaudible whispers, and their footsteps near.
Closer.
Closer.
Curtain hooks scratch the metal pole, plastic fabric whipping to the side. It’s not ours. It’s to the left of us.
Their paranoia radiates as strong as our panic.
And then they whisper and begin to retreat. Leaving the showers.
Look, I don’t feel like we dodged a bullet. We’re gripping fiercely, ragingly, onto an unconquerable mountainside—and instead of falling, I just learned that my brother is climbing nearly the same one.
Act Twenty-Eight
Luka Kotova
25 Days to Infini’s Premiere
On the indoor cobblestone walk, I pass a Masquerade gift shop—and then I skid to a stop for no apparent reason. A family of four rolls their suitcases past me to the elevators, and I turn my head, staring down the gift shop’s glass walls and door.
Pressure, like three-tons of weight, bears on my chest. I uncoil my earbuds that are wrapped around my phone and stick them in. I play “Time” by Jungle and nod my head to the beat, moving forward. Onto the casino floor.
I try to breathe. I blink a few times and switch to my Broadway playlist. I try to loosen up.
Not even a minute later, I stop again.
I look back, rubbing my lips. The weight isn’t gone. Something itches at me. Like a bug stuck in my eardrum. I need to do it.
I need to do it.
Fuck it.
I rotate and aim for the gift shop. Popping my earbuds out, I shove my phone in the pocket of my navy gym pants.
Inside the tiny gift shop, the twenty-something blonde employee flips through a magazine and welcomes an old couple behind me.
I’m invisible as I peruse racks of snacks and essentials like batteries and toothbrushes. Knowing where the security cameras are positioned, I set my back to them and act like I’m examining the ingredients of Chex Mix. I’m actually pocketing three packs of spearmint gum and orange Tic Tacs.
I’m not afraid.
I’m not even out of breath. It took me years to understand what I’m searching for, and it’s not the excitement or adrenaline rush. It’s this next part.
I turn around, and as I leave the store, I look back just once. The blonde employee smiles brightly at the old woman, and I think, I got out unscathed. Relief floods me.
Fills me.
Weight lifts off of me for this moment, and I breathe deeply.
And I smile, unwrapping and popping a piece of gum in my mouth. Ignoring the guilt.
Not many people are congesting the casino, especially for a Saturday afternoon. I saunter further through the rows of slots and velvet-topped tables. Looking for my little brother.
I spot Timo at a blackjack table in what’s considered the “party pit”—but it’s not as rowdy as it could be. As I sidle up to the empty stools, I catch Timo’s attention.
Even though he wears workout gear, he’s in full costume makeup for Amour tonight: a black streak across his gray eyes, dark shadow enhancing his cheekbones, and silver shimmer lining his features.
With his hair slicked back, he should appear menacing, but his partial smile carries more light than a person’s full-blown grin.
I nod in greeting, but I don’t sit down like him.
Timo gives me one look that says: don’t bring up Sergei.
Mine says: I won’t.
“You’ve both fallen one-too-many-times on your heads, right?” That’s John. From behind the card table, dressed in a dealer’s black tux and gold bowtie, his eyes ping from me to Timo. “It’s the only explanation. People, real life, breathing people—”
Timo grins. “Why do you always have to leave out ghosts, man?”
John cocks his head but steps over Timo’s comment, “People shouldn’t be able to communicate by eyesight like that. It’s unsettling. It’s an evolutionary malady. One step too far for humanity.”
I think this is John’s long-winded way of saying Timo and I are “creepily” close.
My brother’s smile brightens. “You think I’m evolved, John?”
“I think you’re killing humanity, and you’re killing me. As we speak.” Despite appearing surly, John never breaks my brother’s gaze.
They’re flirting. It’s obvious to me.
From other slots and tables, people watch Timofei as he radiates pure energy that’s almost indescribable. And he’s just sitting down. It lifts my chest, and I start to smile for no reason.
John is just as entranced, though he doesn’t let on as strongly as others.