Act Nine
Luka Kotova
The gym is crammed, and it’s not a typical gymnastics gymnasium. In the middle, Amour artists practice on a giant, intricate metal cube, teeterboard placed precariously beneath.
Timo effortlessly sprints across the metal rung that looks like adult jungle-gym bars. With a magnetic grin that ropes my gaze, he drops straight down.
And he grabs hold of a lower rung before hoisting his body into a handstand.
As I pass, it takes me a while to tear my attention off my brother. Other artists definitely have that issue, too. Staring. Gawking.
Wondering how the hell Timofei Kotova is so enthralling.
I pass another aerial apparatus. Scarlet silk is attached to the eighty-foot ceiling, and Nikolai clutches the fabric. His much shorter girlfriend already slices through the air, the silk intricately wound around her ankle.
Over in the far left, a trapeze is set up for Viva artists, mesh net secured underneath, and then I spot Kat towards one of the walls.
The Russian bar sits off to the side with our cousin Vitaly and a new guy who replaced my role in Viva. I used to be one of Katya’s porters. I held one end of a bar similar to a balance beam while she performed a difficult routine on top.
What I love and miss most is working with my sister.
I notice that she hasn’t started practicing yet. I don’t have time to chat, but I call out, “Kat!” I already begin to wave before she turns her head.
I frown.
Is she wearing…? She is.
Kat wears pink lipstick, bright and overdrawn, and her black mascara and thick eyeliner darkens her eyes. I almost question whether it’s stage makeup since it looks cartoonish, but no one else is wearing any. It has to be her choice. Still, she’s never worn makeup at practice before.
That’s not all.
She’s dressed in a tiny sports bra and spandex. No shirt. My frown deepens. There’s no way Nik saw her leave the suite.
Katya waves back like nothing’s different.
“Fuck—” I walk straight into Brenden’s drenched back, his shirt soaked through with sweat.
He shoots me a glare but says, “Zhen’s leading the cast in stretching.”
I nod, as tense as him. I try to push Katya out of my mind and take a seat on the blue mats. All fifty of us are situated in a jagged circle. A few cousins are between me and Sergei.
Zhen spreads his legs open and reaches forward.
We all follow suit, but I lift my head up.
Baylee.
She’s directly across from me, only the empty middle of the circle separating us. I sweep her features more rapidly than I want or intend. More used to dodging her than staring.
Black spandex pants and a lime-green tank suction the slight curves of her body. Four thick but tight braids swoop down her head and are tied into a bun at her warm brown neck. Pretty and sporty. I remember she always used to wear this hairstyle for practices.
She tries to rub her damp forehead with her shoulder. Looking fatigued but still upright, she uses the short break to take it easy.
She’s okay.
She’s not hurt from being run-hard by the choreographer. I relax some, and as she leans into the stretch, her eyes slowly close in rest.
My lips begin to lift.
Baylee is confident and reserved. Quiet and passionate. I see all of what I remember.
She has an oval face that I loved holding between my hands. Rosewood-pink lips that I loved kissing. Thin yet strong arms that I used to intertwine with my brawn—and wide, curved hips that used to be beneath my straight.
She’s undeniably beautiful. The kind of beauty that chokes me up, and I don’t know how the whole world doesn’t see what I see—how I’m not fighting every fucking person on the planet for the chance to even speak to her.
Way back when, I’d hold her tight in bed and tuck her firmly against my chest—she’d fall asleep in my clutch. And I’d stare out the window, right into the New York City landscape, and I thought this is what I want forever.
I want this and her.
Dreams.
They’re fucking cruel.
Zhen reaches for his right leg. We all follow.
I keep staring. More than I would ever dare—all because of the email. Granting me extra room to move in a prison cell without windows. Without a door.
I notice Brenden sitting protectively next to Baylee, and just as he changes stretching positions, he catches me ogling his sister.
I absorb the threat in his eyes. He keeps glaring. Waiting for me to look away. But detaching is harder than I thought.
We all press our legs together, touching our toes, and Baylee turns her head a fraction. Enough to spy her brother’s contempt. She follows the path of his piercing glare.
To me.
Her collarbones jut out in a strained breath, and she shakes her head at me like, what are you doing?
She hasn’t read the email.
Or maybe she really doesn’t want to risk anything concerning me. Maybe she’s in agreement with Nik. My chest caves—no.
No, I’m not ready to accept it. I clutch tightly to what may be lost already, but I’ve always been unable to release my grip. Marc Duval made me believe that a future with Bay was hopeless, but he could never convince me that she didn’t love me. That she didn’t hurt just as badly when we were torn apart.
Brenden cranes his neck towards Zhen, giving me a moment to speak to Baylee. I mouth, email.
Her face scrunches, confused.
I lick my lips and mouth better, email.
Realization washes over her features, and she begins to stand, to retrieve her phone probably, but then a new voice pulls our gazes to the left.
“Infini artists.”
(Fuck my life.)
Baylee sits back down, and my muscles constrict as the ash-blond goatee guy steps into the middle of the circle. The guy that I literally ran into. The one that chastised me.
The one that clearly disliked me.
I figure out who he has to be before he even introduces himself.
“Four of you have just met me, but to the rest,” he tells us, clipboard tucked beneath his armpit, “I’m Geoffrey Lesage. Your new choreographer. For the entire season, you will listen to me. You will respect me. All without question or backtalk. No exceptions.”
He purposefully hones in on me.
The cast definitely notices, some people whispering to each other. I bet Brenden is telling Baylee, see, don’t associate yourself with that.
I screwed up in the hallway, but at this point, I don’t really care. If Geoffrey has the power to demote me, then so be it. He demotes me. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. I live for the art and my family, and I doubt he has the authority to take either away from me.
I’m nonchalant. Calm. I drape my arm over my bent knee and everyone else pauses their stretches while Geoffrey appraises the whole cast.
My eyes flit to Bay. She keeps glancing in the direction of the locker room. Like she really wants to grab her phone to check her email.
She cares. I smile again.
She cares.
I nod to myself.
And then Geoffrey steals my attention. “There’s no time for hugs and hand-shakes. I’m not your friend. I’m here to push you to be your very best, and it’s your job to give it to an audience. Every time.”
Some artists nod, but most of us stay still and just listen.
“To start, I’ll read off the completed act list, and then we’ll briefly discuss the narrative of Infini.” He grips the clipboard, licks his finger, and flips a page. “Act list is as follows, including the participants. Listen closely for your name. Act one.”
I stare off and absorb Infini’s program:
Act 1: Dance & Floor Acrobatics (opening)
Act 2: Contortion
Act 3: Aerial Hoops
Act 4: Juggling
Act 5: Wheel of Death
(intermission)
Act 6: High-Risk Trampoline
Act 7: Clown Trio
Act 8: Aerial Straps Duo
Act 9: Hand-to-Hand Balancing
Act 10: Russian Swing (finale)
Geoffrey calls me out for four acts (1, 5, 6, and 10): the Opening Dance, Wheel of Death, High-Risk Trampoline, and Russian Swing. I expected to be a part of those. I even expected Bay to be called for Act 1 and Act 4: the opening and juggling.
What I didn’t expect—what makes zero sense—is why Baylee is called for trampoline. Act 6.
Bay’s eyes grow, mouth slowly falling. As stunned as her brother. As the rest of us. She’s only ever participated in her juggling act and the opening.
But beyond that, trampoline is notoriously an all-Kotova act.
Chatter explodes, and Geoffrey doesn’t take Marc’s approach by shushing uneasy crowds with the raise of a hand.
He literally says, “Shut the hell up.”
I can’t even be surprised at this point.
The cast quiets, and Dimitri simmers silently, his face full of hard lines. He’s a proponent of you must give respect to earn respect. Although Dimitri’s definition of “respect” doesn’t always equate to everyone else’s.
“What’d I say before?” Geoffrey takes measured steps around the inner-circle, eyeing us. “You listen and you comply. No backtalk. We’ll put on a great show if you accept these changes without falter and work your asses off.”
I catch Baylee nodding in agreement, determination narrowing her eyes. She’d do anything for Infini’s survival. I already know this.
“As of now, the narrative for Infini will not change, including stage decorations and original scores.”
Baylee lets out an audible breath, and I realize now that she must’ve been worried about the fate of the music, all composed by her mom.
“Expect new costumes. Fittings will take place much later. The atrocious choreography is more pressing.”
I can tell that several artists are biting their tongues.
“Someone stand up,” Geoffrey says, “and briefly describe Infini’s story to the newcomers.”
At first no one offers. An awkward beat passes before Zhen rises to his feet.
Clearing his threat, Zhen explains, “The audience follows a girl just as she goes to sleep. The first five acts, she travels through an imaginative nightmare that tries to seduce her. After intermission, she reaches the dreamscape. The last five acts, she celebrates the infinite realms of enchantment and revelry. Where lastly, she wakes from bed.” Zhen smiles. “The end.”
We all clap. I whistle using my fingers.
Zhen takes a bow, and right as Geoffrey is about to speak, Zhen kindly translates his previous words in Mandarin for a group of new girls.
I’ve never seen Zhen rub anyone the wrong way, but Geoffrey huffs loudly, outwardly agitated. When Zhen finishes, Geoffrey shoots him a look and snaps, “You done now?”
Zhen nods, tensed.
Geoffrey tightens his grip on his clipboard. “How many of you can’t speak English?” he asks.
Some artists mutter the question in different languages so others can understand. Besides Russian, I hear Japanese and Portuguese.
Slowly, artists begin to raise their hands. I count about fifteen out of fifty.
As I gauge Geoffrey’s reaction, I get why Dimitri called him a fart-face. His forehead crinkles, cheeks pulling upward, and his lip curls like he needs to take a really big shit.
But come on—Aerial Ethereal employs athletes and performers from all over the globe. This isn’t a new development. Language barriers are common and expected. It’s a part of our job, and our shows are better for hiring based on talent, not on whether we all know English.
Dimitri gestures towards the choreographer, and in Russian, he says, “Welcome to the circus.”
I laugh with all my cousins.
Geoffrey isn’t amused. At all. “If you speak English, keep it in English unless you have to communicate with someone who can’t understand.”
Brenden rolls his eyes and leans into Baylee to whisper, probably voicing his irritation. He’s good at speaking a lot of languages—I wouldn’t forget how smart he is.
The choreographer continues scrutinizing each one of us.
I pull my arm over my chest in a stretch, and I try to recall Geoffrey’s credentials. I looked them up once. He’s from Montreal. Maybe. I think he previously worked with a full French cast, and this has to be different for him.
Especially since AE fired most of the translators this year, deeming them “unnecessary”. Corporate tries to cut costs where they can.
(One day they’re going to chop off their own fucking foot.)
Geoffrey straightens his blazer. “As most of you know, the part of The Girl was once played by Adelia.” The Girl connects the whole story together, and she’s basically the only performer who appears in every act. Even if she’s just standing on stage left, reacting to the other acts in front of her.
Bay knew Adelia better than I did. I think she was in her thirties, and last I heard, she was transferred to Noctis, a touring show.
“This year, The Girl will be played by someone else. I’d like you all to welcome a familiar face.” Geoffrey extends his arm towards the left, and our heads turn—what?
I know her.
Even before he says her name.
“Milla Baiul.”
The little Ukrainian girl practically skips merrily into the center of the circle, hands cupped together. Light chestnut hair, sheet-straight, touches her waist. Milla is only eight, and she used to be a part of Viva. The show that I was in. Where Katya is now.
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.