“We also do not advocate underage sex. This isn’t high school. This is a professional company that has high standards of care and compliance.” Marc places his palm on the manila folder. “As I said, this is a termination contract.”
And then I watch him procure a second manila folder from his drawer.
He sets it beside the termination papers. When his authoritative eyes meet mine, I see something else in them. Caution.
Trepidation.
Like this next part—the second folder—is completely out of the ordinary.
“For how many times I’ve sat here and fired teenager after teenager, we’ve never offered a choice to any of them,” he says. “But I gave Baylee a choice to remain in Aerial Ethereal. And now I’m giving you the same one.”
Why? I don’t even have to ask. He’s already there, telling me.
“Her discipline is unique. It’s harder to find a juggler of her skill-level than to find an aerialist of yours.”
I nod, agreeing. (Don’t fire her. Keep her. Please.) She deserves to be happy and safe. I just wish I could’ve given her that.
“We’re also respecting the memory of Joyce Wright. Baylee’s mother was an incredibly talented asset to Aerial Ethereal, and her contributions to Infini…” He pauses and collects himself before saying, “Her music is still heard.”
I nod again. Trying not to get choked up. Bay’s parents passed away around the beginning of Infini, and Joyce composed the score of the show.
“Why offer you a choice?” he asks what’s on my mind. “You’re a Kotova.”
(Of course.)
“The chemistry and trust your family have on stage is irreplaceable.”
I begin to relax, but then the dark look in his eye—it says don’t be happy. I’m still being punished. Someway. Somehow.
He’s going to skewer me.
“Here’s your choice,” he says and pushes forward the left manila folder. “You sign the termination contract, and you will be fired from Aerial Ethereal like every minor before you.”
I watch him push the right folder towards me.
“Or you can sign this contract. In order for you to remain employed by Aerial Ethereal, we need to bury this incident so far down that no one will ever unearth it. Because if anyone finds out we gave preferential treatment, it will ruin this company. We’ll have forty-eight lawsuits thrown in our faces, accusing us of wrongful termination from years past because we didn’t fire you for the same offense. Are you following me?”
It makes sense. “Yeah.” I sit up more, thinking that this is going my way.
Marc taps the manila folder. “By signing this contract, you’re stating that you will have no further verbal or physical contact with Baylee Wright.” What?
Blood drains out of my head.
“Also, with your greatest effort, you will not look in her direction or utter her name.”
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I’m not even allowed to look at Baylee?
“Make no mistake, this”—he pats the manila folder—“is a gift to you. We’re giving you a chance to remain with Aerial Ethereal, but if you violate this new contract by reigniting anything with Baylee—a relationship, a friendship, a hand-shake, a glance—I will not only fire you but the company will be forced to go one step further.”
What’s further than being fired?
“To protect ourselves from liability and damages, we will have to enact a company-wide policy for hiring. AE will only employ artists over the age of eighteen. It’s a no minors policy. This action will be swift and immediate and will cause the termination of every artist seventeen and under.”
I rock backwards, his words sucker-punching me.
Dimitri’s jaw tightens, and he shares an increasingly dark look with Nikolai. We’re all attached to minors in this company. Our cousins. Our siblings. Our family. It’s not just about me anymore. My little brother, Timofei.
My little sister, Katya.
Not to mention the hundreds of other minors in touring shows. They could all be fired. All out of work. If I sign and then violate this contract, I’ll ruin them.
“If you’re even considering running into her arms, hugging her,” Marc says, “do not sign this contract.” He keeps his hand on the folder.
What about when we’re legal adults? Can I hug her then? I want to ask, but my throat is swollen shut.
Nik asks, “But he’ll remain in the company if he complies with the conditions of the contract?”
“He’ll still be employed by Aerial Ethereal, but as far as Infini goes, he’ll be cut from the opening sequence.”
Because Baylee is in it.
“However, he’ll still participate in high-risk wall/trampoline and Russian swing.” He looks up. “This does not leave the room, but AE is currently in negotiations for a deal at a Vegas hotel and casino. Maybe you’ve heard of the place?”
We glance at one another, guarded and wary.
“The Masquerade,” Marc clarifies. “The hotel has been building a performance gym and two globe auditoriums. In a couple years or so, Infini will be transferred to Vegas, and Viva and Amour will fill the second auditorium. In that time, we’ll ask Luka to switch to either one. You’ll stay with your family, but the show-separation between you and Baylee will make it easier to abide by the contract.”
Marc says he’ll “ask me” to switch to Viva or Amour—but he means he’ll tell me. He fabricates an illusion of control, but I feel the strings he attaches to my arms and legs. And I feel him pulling.
It’s why I have trouble smiling and beaming at the “gift” he’s offering me. I want to be grateful because I fucked up and here’s a handout no one’s been given before. But it’s hard when I feel like he can cradle my fist and slam my knuckles at my own face. Breaking my bones.
“Since your on stage time is shortened, you’ll have a pay cut,” Marc says.
I don’t care about the money.
“And these”—Marc slides over two new folders to Dimitri and Nikolai—“are non-disclosure agreements. You both will not speak a word about Baylee and Luka’s relationship. Not to your friends. Not to your family. Not whispered beneath your breath. The only people who know about this incident are the four of us here, plus Baylee Wright, her aunt, and lastly, two trusted colleagues of mine that’ll keep an eye on Luka and Baylee in the gyms.” Vince has to be one of them. “As far as we’re concerned, this never happened.”
He’s erasing my entire relationship. As though my feelings for Bay never existed.
I stare haunted at the two folders still in Marc’s possession. He pushes them even closer to me. Until they sit right in front of my face.
Marc never peels his eyes off me. “You can call a lawyer to meet you here, but neither contract will change. Not a single line.”
Everyone waits for me to speak or move.
For the first time, I edge forward. “The rule I broke…” I pause, the air tensing. “It’s exclusive for minors. Adults in Aerial Ethereal can have relationships with other members of the company.”
Marc nods. “We encourage adult relationships. Chemistry off stage can translate to chemistry on stage, but minors are different. They’re not leads in shows, and we’re nurturing professional careers and a safe environment. We have to protect children while they’re employed by us.”
The same question bangs against my brain. What about when we’re legal adults? Can I talk to her then?
Marc sees. He knows where I’m headed, and he interjects before I ask outright. “The contract states that when you’re both over eighteen, the established agreement will still hold.”
I freeze. “I don’t understand…why?” My stomach overturns on itself.
Marc stares at me like I’m a fragile kid.
Has he broken me already?
Am I in pieces right now?
“Because you’re not taking advantage of this opportunity. We’re offering you a chance to stay in the world’s most renowned acrobatic circus, and you’re not going to backhand us in three years because you’re suddenly of age.”
I’m numb.
“We’re asking for a full commitment. Not indecisive, in-a-few-years-I’ll-be-with-her impermanence. You sign this contract, and you’re promising AE that you’ll keep this a life-long secret. Our favoritism could potentially cost us millions of dollars. Are you following? Have I lost you?”