Perrot waits patiently for the noise to die before continuing. “The last two issues of concern are the no minors policy and the contracts signed by Baylee Wright and Luka Kotova.” He pauses and points at a young girl and boy from Viva. “Please put away the phones. No recording.”
Secrecy has always been important to Aerial Ethereal.
(Clearly.)
But I understand. This world is exclusive to those allowed to enter, and there’s a whole section about “social media” conduct in everyone’s contract. No one can make YouTube videos or live-stream any kind of footage from practices, rehearsals, and definitely not performances.
Marc would flip if any of this traveled to the press.
As soon as the phones disappear, Perrot speaks. “Marc wants to assure the entire troupe that he values and respects the opinion of every artist. He understands your fears and concerns, and with great consideration, he has made a decision.” Perrot reads off his cell. “‘To protect the integrity and morale of the Aerial Ethereal troupe across the globe, the no minors policy will not be instated or used as a future mode of…’” he trails off at the cheering. It explodes, especially from all the kids.
I end up smiling, but I also cage a breath.
It’s good.
That’s really good, and Bay’s face says the same. It’s good, but there’s a part that still hurts. We have no idea where we stand in all of this.
“Quiet!” Dimitri yells, gesturing with his hands for everyone to sit.
Perrot talks over the fading cheers. “And lastly, Marc has decided to dissolve the contracts—” Baylee covers her face, bowing forward with emotion, and it hits me like a tidal wave.
We’re allowed to be together.
Truly.
I barely hear Perrot say the reasoning: to rectify any emotional and psychological distress inflicted upon the recipients.
I beeline through the half-seated crowd. People spring to their feet. Hugging. Cheering louder. I aim for one person. One girl.
The sea of people starts parting for me, knowing where I’m headed. As soon as Baylee rises to her feet, I clasp her hand and draw her to my body.
“Come here,” I breathe.
She clutches the back of my neck, and I hold her face gently, her cheeks slicked with tears. Our eyes dance over one another again. And again.
I tune out all the commotion. It’s just me and her.
We sway like music plays, and her brown eyes smile before her lips do. My smile stretches wider and higher, and I dip my head down to whisper, “You know what I’m going to do, Bay?”
“What?”
“I’m going to kiss you for the first time in front of a crowd.”
Isn’t that fucking bizarre? That in all our lives, in all our time together, we’ve never kissed for other people to see. It’s been private. It’s been ours, but if we could’ve unrestrained it and let it free, we would’ve from the beginning.
Baylee’s smile overpowers her features, and my lips touch her rising grin. Our kiss pulls us together like a magnet, and I clasp the back of her head, my tongue parting her lips. Deepening the kiss—and then loud, dry clapping breaks into our reverie.
We lean back only slightly to spot the source.
Geoffrey Lesage saunters through the troupe, still clapping, and his gaze is dead-set on us.
“Congratulations,” he says loud enough for all to hear. “You got what you wanted. You won your dispute.”
Why the hell is he bitter? The no minors policy isn’t enforced, and the whole cast is intact. He got what he wanted too.
“It wasn’t a game to me,” I say easily. “It’s my life—”
“It’s my career.”
Realization pummels me. I assume that Marc didn’t appreciate his blackmail tactic or usurping his power. Geoffrey skipped rungs of the Corporate hierarchy, and I bet he was slapped on the wrist.
“You’re not our choreographer anymore?” I ask.
“Would you like that?” he snaps. “For me to leave?”
I go rigid, my hands on Bay’s shoulders, and Geoffrey stops about ten feet from me, his gaze flitting to Nikolai, who glares threateningly an arm’s length away.
Geoffrey’s focus returns to me. “Well?”
“I don’t want you to leave.” (Yes I do.) He fixes his blazer. “Then you’ll be happy to know I’m still your choreographer and dedicated to Infini’s success.”
Baylee nods, tensed. “We all want the same thing.”
“Good.” His voice is tight, and he scans the discomforted cast. “Dress rehearsal tomorrow for Infini. Don’t be late.” His scowl darkens at the two of us. “No exceptions.”
We bruised his ego.
And I worry he’s going to make us pay for it.
SPRING
Act Forty-Four Baylee Wright
Premiere of Infini
Hurriedly, I exit stage left to raucous applause, my juggling torches snuffed out and sweat beading my forehead. My ribs jut out as I catch my breath, but I can’t slow.
I have to do a quick costume change from the “nightmare” to the “dreamscape” aesthetic. And I love my current nightmare costume: a sheer skirt over a burgundy velvet leotard, turtleneck. Fiery ruby crystals are sewn in spirals across my breasts and waist.
I’m a beautiful, magical blaze of fire.
Sliding past artists backstage, the nervous-excited energy is high and it has nothing to do with boys or dating. All our hard work amounts to the moments we spend on stage together and the subsequent awed claps from the audience.
And the hope it won’t end here. It can’t end.
My mom’s music echoes so triumphantly, the drum beats and trumpets that dive into your core and make you want to move. It instantly makes me smile.
And rouses my spirits beyond anything.
Backstage, Luka sprints fast, his cue coming soon since Wheel of Death is next. He’s shirtless, his sculpted abs, arms and shoulders purposefully displayed to evoke sheer masculinity. It works too well.
My neck heats, and my gaze drops to his pants: skintight blood-red spandex. His costume leaves nothing to the imagination, not any carve of muscle or bulge. Luka is undeniably hot.
No pun intended. He’s supposed to be a devil, and the costume department even attached sparkling horns in his dark brown hair. His bold black and red makeup is scary yet attractive.
I’m scarily attracted to him.
As he races past, he grins. “You were amazing!” He turns around, walking backwards and slowing his pace. Keeping our gazes locked for as long as possible.
I press my lips together, my smile out of control. I’m about to tell him to kill it, but he says, “Fuck it.” And he runs back to me.
I shake my head, still smiling. Luka, always the risk-taker.
He carefully kisses my lips, just once. An out-of-this-world vigor floats me eighty-feet high in my brain.
It’s the most bizarre feeling ever. His eyes drink me in, and our lungs inflate. I start groaning and laughing because my face hurts.
He dips his head to whisper, “Girlfriend.” We’re together.
Boyfriend.
I’m drowning in love. I push him before he misses his cue. “Go, go.”
Luka nods and raises his brows playfully. “See you, krasavitsa.” He finally turns his back to me and bounds for stage left.
At a mirror, I ensure my hair is still secured into two high gelled buns, and while I remove my makeup and change into a sky-blue, turtleneck leo, I glance at my gold-stitched balls for the trampoline act.
I’ll talk about juggling to anyone who’ll listen, but it’s not like the Mets or Jamaican food. My love for those two has never come into question. I’m not living inside of them.
But I live inside of juggling. It’s my every day. No breaks. No time apart. Living with a passion isn’t like sitting on top of the world twenty-four-seven. I drop down constantly and stare pointedly at my juggling props, and I question if they’ve revolted against me.
Every toss feels off. Every way I move feels wrong. Like I’m all out of whack, and in one moment, I hate juggling like it’s my stubborn spouse. It’s my foe.
Then one day, my clubs float in perfect symmetry. My heart soars as high as the props I toss, and my passion blisters bright inside of me. Juggling is my love.
I remember why I do this. Why I grind through the hard parts—I do it for these blissful, world-bending moments.
For the premiere, it’s been happy. I pick up my gold-stitched balls, and I hope that I can keep it that way.
*