This is what I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I only wish my parents could see what this means to me.
What it would mean to hold a dream in my palm, press it tight against my heart, and never let it go.
* * *
I find Tatya backstage when the show ends. She’s sitting at her dressing table, the mirror in front of her lined with big, round light bulbs and gorgeous white flowers. She spots me in the reflection and smiles, just as she removes the fake lashes from her left eye.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she says with a laugh.
I half skip toward her and fall into one of the empty chairs. “You were amazing. Like, I haven’t had chills like that since Zelda’s big reveal in Ocarina of Time.”
Tatya unpins the feathered crown from her hair and sets it on the table, patting at the stray red strands that come loose. “I hope you’ll still visit me even when you’re busy with classes. I’ll miss your weird little compliments too much if you don’t.”
I hide my grimace. She still thinks I’m going to college in a few weeks. She doesn’t know about my change of plan.
Not yet, anyway.
Tatya turns to me and purses her darkened lips. “How did you grow up so fast? What happened to the little kid that used to sit backstage reading comic books while trying to get Bobcat to teach her magic tricks?”
“Bobcat.” I place a hand over my chest. Mom hired a brother-duo of acrobats from Spain two years ago to replace Bob Catalotti when he retired. He was only thirty-one, but circus performers don’t always have a long shelf life. The wear and tear on a person’s muscles takes a toll, and more often than not, there’s someone younger and more talented waiting to take over. At least Bobcat got to make the decision for himself. “Do you still keep in touch with him?”
Tatya nods. “He opened a circus arts school for kids in Seattle. It’s doing really well.”
Even retirement sounds like a dream.
I sigh into the bunched-up yellow sleeve I have clutched in my fist. I’m always resting my head against my hands, but Popo—my grandmother on my mom’s side—once told me people break out when they touch their faces too much. Using my sleeve as a barrier feels like a decent compromise for my hard-to-break habit and Popo’s voice in my head. “I wish I’d trained as a kid. You’ve been working at this since you were six years old—I feel like I have so much catching up to do, and not enough time to do it.”
“There’s plenty of time. You’re only seventeen,” she offers, pulling out some of the makeup removal wipes from her drawer.
“Eighteen,” I correct, and I can’t hide my grin.
She smiles at me in the mirror, half of her face pinkish-white, and the other half still painted with a decorative silver-and-black mask. “I almost forgot—happy birthday!”
“Thanks,” I say, before twisting my fingers together awkwardly. This is my chance—the first move on the chessboard of my new life. A mini battle before facing off with the boss-level baddies that are my parents. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you remember when you said you could train me? If my parents said it was okay?”
She nods. “I do.”
“Well, is that offer still available?” There’s so much hope in my voice, I can hardly sit still.
Tatya’s bright blue eyes widen. “Wait, you’re not going to school? Delilah and Kenji are really going to let you take up an apprenticeship?”
I hold up a hand and rotate it in the air like I’m not entirely sure. “Maybe? I’m going to talk to them tonight. I just wanted to make sure you would still be okay with it.”
“Of course I am,” she says with a smile. Then she turns and waves a finger at me seriously. “But only if your parents say it’s okay. I can’t do anything to upset the bosses, got it?”
I nod too many times. “No, yeah, totally, of course.”
Tatya plucks one of the stray jeweled feathers from her table and sticks it in the messy topknot on my head. “Our little bird is all grown up and ready to fly.”
She goes back to removing the rest of her makeup, and I look at my reflection in the mirror. Next to Tatya, I look like a shadow. An unrealized dream.
I know my parents will never really understand, but I’m going to try to make them.
This place is home to me, and it always has been.
And if they didn’t want that to happen—if they really thought pushing me toward an education I don’t want was ever going to work—then maybe they shouldn’t have opened a freaking circus in Las Vegas.
I’m never going to change my mind, no matter how much it disappoints them. I don’t want to go to school—I want to train here, at Teatro della Notte, instead of going to university in a few weeks for a degree I have no interest in.
Mom and Dad keep telling me I need a “real education,” but university doesn’t feel real to me. This feels real. Being at the circus. Feeling like I’m my own person.
They’ll just have to understand.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
Everyone gets a birthday wish, right?
CHAPTER TWO
Dad’s in his office when I get home, which isn’t surprising because he’s always in his office. And it’s not just because he’s a workaholic—I once found him and Mom holed up in there at midnight playing video games and eating gourmet jelly beans like they were still in high school.
They’re annoyingly cute when they think nobody is watching. I mean, how many people genuinely marry their childhood sweetheart? I know it’s not realistic, being as there are over seven billion people in the world, and how could you possibly be sure the one you met at a performing arts camp when you were twelve years old was going to be the right life partner for you? But it’s still kind of adorable.
I didn’t have a childhood sweetheart—or a sweetheart at all, for that matter—but it’s nice to think it’s possible that you could fall in love once and have that be it. No more awkward dates, or messy breakups, or bad kisses—it just clicks together the first time, followed by the Disney-style happily-ever-after.
Some people don’t care about love, or life partners. And that’s great for them, but not for me.
I want the epic love story.
But only as long as it doesn’t get in the way of my dreams. I won’t give up the circus for a life partner—and anyone who would expect me to wouldn’t be the right person for me anyway.
Dad doesn’t seem to notice me when I walk into the room. He’s too busy playing a broken melody on his clarinet and jotting down notes on a piece of paper every other second.
I’m not surprised he spends so much time in here—it’s the coolest room in the house. The walls are cluttered with nerdy artwork, framed sheet music, and awards he’s won over the years. Lined up at the back wall is a collection of instruments—a flute, a violin, a guitar, a piano—and so many tech devices I don’t know the names for. There are vinyl figurines all over the office, and behind his desk is a row of all his diplomas. His bachelor’s, master’s, and doctorate—all for music.
Dad thumps his pencil against the music stand, his dark brows furrowed and his hair slicked back and parted at the side. He’s wearing a collared shirt rolled up to his elbows, a sweater-vest, and his signature khaki pants. He always looks and dresses like he’s straight out of a Fred Astaire musical, even though I can’t remember any movies from the 1930s starring a half-Japanese leading man.