Love Is in the Air (7 page)

T
here are six other people
trying out for flying trapeze, and there's only one other girl. A quick glance at them all confirms my worst fears: They've clearly done this before. Everyone is staring at the rig with that sort of look, like this is all routine and there's no worry they won't get in. I feel a light sheen of sweat break out on my skin. The rig is even taller up close, and the white rope net strung between the tall beams looks way too thin to actually support someone's weight. I step a little close to Branden, until our arms almost touch, and try not to faint.

There are four coaches here, and they introduce themselves as Michael, Tanya, Joe, and Marty. They're each in the green Karamazov Circus T-shirts, and they look like they work out all day, every day. I really, really should have tried some pull-ups before coming here.

“So,” says Tanya, who is apparently in charge. She has long brown hair and is maybe five feet tall. I remember meeting her last night after sign-in, when she and Leena checked to make sure we were all accounted for. “Has everyone flown before?”

There's a general nodding of heads. Then I raise my hand tentatively and speak up.

“I haven't.”

She clearly recognizes me, too, as her serious face breaks into a smile.

“Not a problem, Jennifer. Everyone's a beginner at some point. We'll just make sure you're in lines to start out with.” She addresses the rest of the group. “We'll get you warmed up with a few simple swings—everyone in lines until we know your skill level. If you want to try going into splits or planche to start out, that's fine. We mainly want to make sure you have proper form—the tricks aren't so important right now.” Then she steps up beside me. “I'll talk you through what they're doing,” she says. “Watch closely. When it's your turn to fly, I'll shout out directions while you're in the air. It's easy, trust me.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You've got this.”

I don't know if I believe her.

Michael, the burlier of the coaches, walks over to a set of ropes hanging down from a pulley system strung between the two tall trapeze points. Joe and Marty help the rest of the kids into these wide belts covered in metal loops.

Joe scurries up the tiny rope ladder toward the platform at the
top. Once he's there, Branden goes up and waits on the wooden plank—it looks so tiny from here, like it's only a few feet across. I nearly swoon, and I'm not sure if it's because I know I'm about to see Branden in action or if it's because I'm suddenly insanely worried he'll fall and break his neck. Branden's clearly not concerned, though; he stays still as Joe clips the other end of the ropes into Branden's belt loops. Right. Safety lines. Of course we'd be in safety lines.

See, Jennifer, you're perfectly safe. Nothing can go wrong.

But that's really hard to keep in mind when Branden grabs the trapeze and swings out over the net. He beats his legs back and forth, his whole body streamlined and straight and perfectly in unison with the swing of the trapeze. Tanya talks me through the entire thing, telling me about the proper body positions to get a swing going and keep it steady. She even has me try it out on the ground—she has me hold my hands over my head with my stomach tucked in and pelvis tilted up so my spine is perfectly straight, then has me bring my arms down to make a seven shape. I'm so wrapped up in trying to get the pose right that when I see Branden drop from the trapeze, I nearly scream.

He plummets to the net, face-first, hands at his sides. The net heaves when he hits, then he's propelled back up and does a flip in the air before landing again on his butt. My pulse races, proper form forgotten. But no one else is panicking, and when he lowers himself down from the edge of the net, there's a big grin on his face. Tanya chuckles when she sees my shocked expression.

“And that,” she says, “is how you get down. It's very important you don't try to land on your hands and knees—the real risk in this isn't hitting your head, but getting your fingers or toes caught in the net. That's when things snap. Michael will watch the lines so you don't go too fast.”

I suppress a shiver.

“So I just have to land face-first?”

“Yep.” She pats me on the back. “It takes a while, but you'll get used to it.”

Right.

I have a feeling that plummeting face-first toward the ground goes against every survival instinct I have. “Getting used to it” isn't exactly something I want to do. I like having survival instincts, thanks.

Branden walks over and hands me his belt. I blush as I take it and strap it onto my waist, making it tighter than is reasonably comfortable. He doesn't leave my side. There are still five others to go, and Tanya talks me through the key points of every swing—when to beat, when to assume what position, when to let go. By the time it's my turn, my heart is hammering a thousand times a second, and I'm pretty sure I won't even be able to hold on to the bar from all the sweat on my hands. But Branden smiles at me when Tanya tells me it's my turn to fly, and I try to force some confidence into my veins.

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.

I walk over to the ladder, which is actually just two long ropes
with a bunch of wooden bars strung between them. “Stable” is probably the last word I would use to describe it. I glance up at the platform. Vertigo makes my world spin. The platform is easily two stories high, if not taller, and I have to get there without being tied into safety lines. Joe motions for me to climb, and I try to imitate the way the others did it, one foot on either side of the ladder so it's like I'm climbing it sideways. The moment all my weight's on it, the ladder gives a sickening little twist.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a long, deep breath. I'm not even a foot off the ground and I'm terrified, and what's worse, everyone is watching. I can practically feel Branden's stare burning into my back. What if I screw up? What if I let go when I'm not supposed to or miss the net entirely or . . . ?

No, this is your time to shine. So get up this ladder and shine!

I force my eyes open and take another breath. It does nothing to calm my frantic pulse or ease the shake in my hands, but I manage to release my death grip on the ladder and reach up for the next rung. The ladder sways again and then stops. Tanya's there at the base, holding it relatively steady.

“This is always the hardest part,” she says quietly. “You can do this.”

I nod. I climb.

Having her steady the base makes it a little easier, but when I'm about halfway up, the ladder gives another twist and I make a huge mistake.

I look down.

Two things go through my head in the very same instant.
The first is that I'm really high up, and the net, although directly beneath me, is so hard to see it looks like it isn't there. The second is that every single person around the rig is watching me. Waiting for me to mess up. Or fall. Or worse.

I freeze.

It's like my hands fill with concrete. I can't release my grip, can't force myself up another step. A breeze blows past, making the ladder sway a small amount, but it feels like being caught in a tornado. Once more, I squeeze my eyes shut. This time, though, I can't get the image of the ground from my head, nor can I push down the nausea rising in my throat. I'm going to vomit. I'm going to vomit halfway up a rope ladder, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. With my luck, I'll probably get it on Branden.

“You're almost there,” Joe calls from up top. His voice seems so far away. I know he's not, I know it's only a few more climbs, but I also know I can't do it. I just can't. I'm going to fail at this like I've failed at dating and everything else. “Just a few more climbs and you're okay.”

I shake my head.

No, I'm not okay. This is so far from okay it hurts. Branden is watching along with the rest of the camp and this is my first day and everyone is going to know that I'm a coward. But it's worse than that—much worse. I'll never be a trapeze star. All those years of hoping and dreaming have boiled down to this one moment. And I can't even climb the ladder.

All those hopes and dreams were for nothing.

I want the whole rig to fall into a hole and swallow me up. That doesn't happen, of course. No, it's worse than that: My grip starts to slip.

My hands shake and the sweat gets worse and I'm going to fall. I'm going to miss the net and fall to my death, and I'll forever be known as the girl who died trying to climb a rope ladder.

“Just come down,” Tanya calls. I huddle closer to the ladder. My grip slips another millimeter. I can't come down. I can't move. I can't.

“Come on, Jennifer,” she says. “You got this. Just come down and you can try again later on. You're totally okay.”

I don't move. Not until I hear another voice. A voice I really, really wish wasn't nearby right now.

“You can do it, Jenn,” Branden says. His words cut me to the bone.

In that moment, I want to be anywhere but there. Not even on the ladder—no, I mean I don't want to be at the camp. I don't want to be anywhere near the circus or all these people who know I was too scared to climb a ladder.

Maybe that's what forces me to move my hand, that desire to run away. But something fills me, and with one shaky movement after another, I make my way down the ladder, slowly but surely, keeping my eyes shut the entire time. Someone's hand is on my back when I get closer to the ground. Then my feet touch grass.

I open my eyes to see Tanya standing there, a comforting smile on her face, her hand still on my back, keeping me steady.
And beside her is Branden. He isn't smiling. He looks concerned.

“See?” Tanya begins.

Whatever she is about to say is lost to me, though. I can't stay there. I can't listen. Before she finishes her sentence, I run off, straight toward the dorm, and I don't stop for anyone. Especially not for Branden.

Chapter
Eight

I
'm pretty certain I'll never
step outside of this dorm room again. I'll wait until the camp is over, and then my mom and dad can come get me and drag me out, maybe with a blanket over my head so no one can see it's me. I huddle on my bed, back against the wall and the sheets tangled around me, and I wait. If I got out my phone now, could my parents be here before the rest of the troupe knows and I'm the laughingstock of the camp? The only plus side to this debacle is that I don't know anyone here from town. When break is over, I'll go back to being miserable little Jennifer Hayes, and no one will know that I failed so hard.

It's better if I don't think of how I'll answer my friends' questions:
How was it? Are you doing it again? Are you gonna run away to the circus now?

I'm not good at lying, but after this I think I might have to learn.

There's a knock at the door a few minutes later, and I wonder if it's my parents, alerted that I'm a failure at circus and they need to take me home. It's definitely not Riley—she'd just barge in.

For some reason, I don't move from the bed or call out. The knock doesn't come again, so I figure they've moved on. But then the door opens, slowly, and Leena says my name.

“Yeah?” I respond. I pull the blankets tighter around me. Not that I'm cold—I'm still sweating from adrenaline—but I want to hide as much of me as I can.

Leena steps in. Her brown hair is in a braid, and she has ­cosmic-swirl leggings underneath her shorts. I wonder if they pulled her away from coaching the aerial hoop. I wonder if that means the whole company knows by now.

“Hey,” she says. She says it in that voice grown-ups use, like they're talking to a caged animal or someone very stupid. “Are you okay? I heard what happened.”

“I'm fine,” I lie.
See, Jennifer? Not so hard after all.

Sadly, Leena doesn't take the bait. She steps into the room and closes the door quietly behind her.

“Let me guess,” she says, leaning against Riley's desk. “Vertigo, right?”

I don't say anything.

“Ugh, that's why I hate flying trapeze.” She sighs. “You know, I've been doing this circus thing for ten years now and was a
gymnast for ten years before that. And not once have I flown on a flying trapeze.”

“Really?” I ask in spite of myself.

“Yeah,” she says. She shrugs. “What can I say? I hate heights.”

I can't help but laugh. “But you perform, like, every day. In the air.”

“It's different,” she says. “When I'm on the hoop,
I'm
in control. I'm not being swung about, and I don't dismount by landing on my face. Personally, I think they're crazy. But I guess we all are.”

I don't say anything when she quiets down. After a few moments, she continues.

“When I first tried out for lyra, I was horrible. I'd done gymnastics for years, like I said, but the hoop was a whole different beast. I still remember, I was with the rest of my gymnastics team—we were doing a weekend intensive for fun. I was the first one to go up and try it out. And I managed to fall flat on my face.”