Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(32)

And Milla’s parents perform on trapeze in Viva too.

Infini hasn’t employed children this young since it moved to Vegas. We’re all shocked.

Minors.

Minors.

Children. Dreams. I wonder if this is Marc Duval’s way of showcasing the consequence that stops me from breaking the contract. That stops Bay from even looking at me.

The threat of the no minors policy is glaring us down.

I miss the applause for Milla, and Zhen makes room for her to join the circle. She drops down by his side.

“Now for the schedule,” Geoffrey says, “you have exactly sixty days to master your acts, perform stage and costume rehearsals flawlessly. We will go live in two months. We’ve already started selling tickets, so there’s absolutely no room for complaints.”

Sixty days seems impossible. It’d be fine if these were minor tweaks to the set choreography, but he wants to trash half of what existed.

The tension is palpable. My muscles strain, and I try hard to reason with myself, to believe that I can do whatever he throws at me.

It’s fine.

I’m fine.

Geoffrey circles us like a hawk. “There are two stages inside the Masquerade and three shows. The fact that Infini has its own stage is a privilege that none of you”—he waves his finger across us—“have earned yet. Prove to me that you deserve to be on that stage.”

His motivational speech should encourage most of us, but my cousins look incited, not excited. Their arms are crossed. Glowering.

I raise my brows at my younger cousin Abram. When he catches my gaze, his angst-ridden features soften a little.

“I have a sheet for each act, describing what should be included in your routine,” Geoffrey continues. “Today, I’ll be walking around and working with each of you. You’ll practice your individual acts except for those who are in High-Risk Trampoline. You all need to work together now. It has the most choreography changes.”

I risk a glance at Baylee. Almost undetectable, fear crosses her face.

We accept a lot of changes every new season, but there are some that can completely knock you off your feet. For Bay, this has to be one of those.

(I’ll help her.)

I’m allowed to do that, at least.





Act Ten

Baylee Wright




“You want me to what?” I had to have heard Geoffrey wrong. What he’s asking—it’s out of my wheelhouse. It’s impossible. Sure, I’m equipped in basic tumbling, rhythmic gymnastics, and technical juggling, which involves instinct, balance, good hand-eye coordination, and lots of practice.

But the last time I jumped on a trampoline, I must’ve been nine or ten. All I did was a simple backflip and a toe-touch. I was the cute little kid that peopled “awed” at.

I’m not a cute little kid anymore. I can’t get away with rudimentary skills.

On top of this news, I looked at my cellphone and read the email from Marc. I haven’t seen Luka since, but I’m about to and my stomach keeps fluttering like I’m headed for a first date.

Which is so inaccurate.

I’m at work. Not a date. I wish my body would recognize that all Marc did was allow us to talk without punishment. And it feels…

There are no words.

We’ve never been given this much slack. I couldn’t even pry my hand off my mouth while reading the email, too astonished. Too consumed by the idea of him talking to me. Of me talking to him.

It’s the little things that I want. The little things that I’ll never take for granted.

So I’m nervous about Luka. I’m nervous about being a part of trampoline. First day jitters are real and at a maximum right now.

Geoffrey barely glances at me as we walk towards the back room of AE’s gym. The trampoline apparatus is too large to be set up in the main area, so it’s relegated to a quieter, more private section.

“It’s simple,” Geoffrey says like I’m wasting his time asking again. “You’re going to perform a variety of juggling tricks on the trampoline. Seven-ball backcrosses, one-handed patterns, fountains, cascades—all of that and more.”

No, he just said that I’d be doing an eight-ball, seven-up pirouette on someone else’s shoulders. What is an eight-ball, seven-up pirouette? I have eight juggling balls, at one point all seven are out of my hands, and I spin three-sixty degrees before catching the balls.

It’s hard enough doing that on the ground. Let alone a trampoline. But sitting on someone else’s shoulders? It means that they spin me. We spin together.

They control the rate in which I turn and catch. If I see something wrong with my tosses, I can’t even spin slightly left or right to correct myself and grab the balls. I have to rely on someone else.

On a Kotova.

Because High-Risk Trampoline is traditionally all-male, all-Kotova.

Eight of them, to be exact.

Luka.

Luka is one of them. I shut my eyes in a tight blink, trying not to think about him. Trying not to feel a thing.

Realizing I have nothing else to say, Geoffrey leaves my side and we enter the back room. I can’t complain to the choreographer.

I’m sure he’d just tell me the colloquial, “The circus is about making the impossible possible. So do it.”

Dimitri shuts the door behind me, and when I face the apparatus, my stomach nosedives. The monstrous trampoline is long enough that it’ll stretch across the entire stage. Hoisted fifteen feet off the ground, four poles on each corner jut upwards.