My shoulders stiffen. “Why can’t I train for a year with Tatya, and if it doesn’t work out, then I’ll start school next year? I mean, I graduated early—this one year is basically a free pass, if you think about it.”
“Absolutely not,” Mom says. “You’re already signed up for classes—you need to give college a chance first. You’re so young—your dreams might not look the same twelve months from now, and that’s part of being a teenager.”
“I’m not going to change my mind.” I bunch my sleeves in my fists and wrap my arms around my knees. “I feel like I’m just moving through life in spaces where I don’t ever feel like I really belong. But the circus—being on the trapeze—that feels real to me. It makes me feel real.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Mom brushes the hair from my eyes. “You’re real to me, you know.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I say stiffly. I feel like I’m suffocating beneath the weight of Mom and Dad’s expectations. I feel like they’re flicking my dreams away like they don’t mean anything at all. “I’m tired. I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“Okay.” Mom gets up to leave but stops halfway and glances back toward my nightstand. “Are you going to eat the cake, or should I take the plate back downstairs? I don’t want the ants to come up here.”
Cake and ants. That’s what she’s worried about. Not the fact that I’m sitting in bed and my chest feels like it’s going to explode and I feel like all the color is being sucked out of the room.
There’s frustration and anger and irritation running through my veins, and if I were a dragon, I would literally set this entire room on fire. “I don’t want any cake,” I manage to say.
She takes the plate and closes the door, and I stare at the streetlights until they go blurry.
CHAPTER THREE
Teatro della Notte’s gym is tucked away behind the big top. The building feels so mechanical and practical in comparison to the main stage, with the ceiling resembling the inside of a warehouse.
Chloe, who’s been my best friend since the third grade, looks over her hands gingerly and makes a face. “My skin is blistered and I’ve done, like, half of a pull-up.” She holds her palms up.
I’m balanced on a large hoop that hangs six feet above the ground, attempting to do a one-handed candlestick. Chloe doesn’t care at all about acrobatics, but she’s usually happy to tag along and be my spotter. Though, I use the word “spotter” lightly—I’m not sure Chloe has the upper-body strength to ever save me from breaking my neck. She’s slender, and clothes always look good on her, but that’s not necessarily synonymous with strength.
I have curves—maybe a few more than most acrobats—but I’m also really proud of how long I can stay on an aerial hoop without getting tired.
“You get used to it after a while. You build up calluses,” I say, grabbing the bottom of the hoop and doing a forward roll until my toes are just above the floor. I let myself drop and hold my hand up to Chloe. “See?”
She pokes a finger against my palm and winces. “That’s disgusting. Your skin literally feels like a tortoiseshell.”
The amount of interests we have in common has definitely dwindled over the years, but maybe that’s also a sign of a good friendship—that we can be different and still care about each other.
“Oh, crap,” I say suddenly, catching my reflection in the wall of mirrors opposite the trampolines. I look down and find a tear in my leggings that’s at least twice the size of a quarter. “This is the second pair I’ve ripped this month.”
I’m lucky in a million and one ways for having parents with a solid income and minimal pressure when it comes to food, bills, and presents at Christmas. But Dad always wanted me to know the value of money, which meant no allowance, and Mom wanted me to have all my time to focus on school, which meant no part-time job. Basically, all my funding for leggings and sports bras arrives in birthday cards every August or comes from the occasional odd job my parents are willing to give me.
And even though my annual family birthday dinners are usually filled with awkward microaggressions between four different parts of my family tree that otherwise never interact with each other, I’m grateful I’ll at least be able to buy some better-quality gym attire.
Chloe lifts her curly blond hair off her neck and sighs toward the air-conditioning. “I feel like it’s a million degrees in here. Want to get Pink Drinks at Starbucks?”
I pretend I’m distracted by the hole in my pants. If I have to choose between fancy five-dollar drinks and new leggings, I will always, always choose the latter.
Chloe wouldn’t understand. We have different priorities.
“I have to get home,” I say eventually, grabbing my oversized Star Wars T-shirt off the floor and pulling it over my flimsy tank top and sports bra. “My mom needs help setting up for dinner.”
“Dun dun dun,” Chloe sings in a deep voice, which makes me laugh. We might not be on the same wavelength when it comes to money, but she’s my best friend for a reason. We get each other, even if we don’t always agree. And I think that matters more sometimes—loving someone even if you both have different ideas of perfect. Because everyone has a different idea of what’s good and bad. Perfect is overrated—it’s our flaws that make us human.
I don’t want to be perfect. I want to be vulnerable and messy and free and wild. I want to experience all the crooked edges in the world, and make mistakes, and grow from them. I want twisty roads and dark corners and big, wide bends.
And I know my parents won’t ever agree, but I wish they could at least see my version of the world as a possibility.
I force the thoughts from my head and smile at my friend. “As long as nobody brings up anything to do with politics in front of my grandpap, the dinner will be fine,” I say, walking beside her toward the exit. Grandpap has strong opinions, and one of those opinions is that having opinions means he’s entitled to share them.
The warm blast of the Las Vegas sun hits me when I push the metal door open. Everywhere has air-conditioning in Vegas, so the first few steps back into the heat always feel good.
But then you reach the furnace that is somehow your car, burn yourself on the seat belt, and remember why you loathe the long summers times infinity.
Chloe shoves a pair of exaggerated cat-eyed sunglasses onto her face and turns to me seriously. Except it’s hard to take her seriously when she looks like a villain out of an old James Bond movie. “Promise me we’ll still do this after school starts.”
I scrunch my face in surprise. “What, come to the gym?” Chloe cares about physical fitness as much as I care about AP Calculus.
“No, not the gym.” She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth like she’s scolding me. “I mean this.” She moves her finger between the two of us. “You and me, hanging out like we’re still kids, even when we’re not. Promise me that you going off to college won’t be the end of us.”
I feel sulky just thinking about school. I’d hoped an aerial workout would distract me, but I’d forgotten what it’s like in the weeks leading up to a new academic year. It’s all anyone talks about.