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.
The poles scare me.
About twenty feet above the trampoline’s net, mini-trampolines are secured to the poles. Higher up, and I spot tiny black-metal platforms on those same four poles.
So one monstrous trampoline.
Four tinier trampolines.
Four pole platforms.
And a gray forty-foot back wall.
Since this act is part of the dreamscape, the back wall is usually painted periwinkle blue onstage, cotton fluff attached to resemble a sky. I remember the angelic costumes from New York: white spandex, shimmery gold detail. It made all the guys look like celestial gods.
I always thought Luka looked hot, and he was just a boy back then.
Stop thinking. About him.
I drop my sports bag off my shoulder, juggling balls and clubs inside. All of the Kotovas already begin scaling the poles to reach the trampoline. Effortlessly, they use their hands and balls of their feet to shimmy up to the taut net.
Yeah…I don’t know if I can do that. There aren’t ladders. Seriously, the only way up is by one of four poles.
Geoffrey begins giving them direction, and I hang back and rummage in my sports bag. I hear him talk about me, and my neck heats.
“You’ll be assisting Baylee with an eight-ball, seven-up pirouette, among other tricks. One ball falls, and the entire act will be ruined. You must work closely together…” he trails off. “Baylee, get up there.”
Great.
I gather my red-and-orange stitched balls, four gripped in each hand, and I approach the apparatus. On the trampoline’s taut surface, all eight of the Kotovas stand in a line.
Confident. Intimidating. Gray eyes radiating with charisma—I forget how magnetic they are together, side-by-side.
Even if I haven’t spoken one-on-one to all of them, I know who they are. Dimitri and his two younger brothers: Anton and Robby. Then there’s Luka and Sergei.
Plus twenty-five-year-old twins Matvei and Erik, and their younger brother Abram.
Don’t look at Luka.
Don’t look at Luka.
It’s easier concentrating on work if I avoid, but it also heightens something inside of me. Tension? Nerves? All of the above?
“Dimitri,” I call out the tallest and largest Kotova. “Catch.” Easily, I throw each ball to Dimitri, and he collects them for me.
I sprint to the front-left metal pole, encased in a rubber material. I grip it and try to use my bicep and quad strength to scale this thing. Six feet up, I slip and slide down.
Ouch.
The rubber burns my palms, and I wipe my hands roughly on my thighs.
“Baylee.”
My stomach backflips at Luka’s voice. I turn my head, just as he lies down and reaches over the metal frame of the trampoline. He extends two hands for me to grab hold.
I’m trying to restrain my emotion, but it barrels forward. Flooding me full. Luka’s compassion softens his eyes, and he gestures me forward with both hands like, it’s okay.
I nod as though saying: I read the email.
His nose flares a little, smothering his own sentiments, too.
I dazedly walk towards Luka Kotova. Like I’m the girl in Infini’s dreamscape. Dimitri isn’t yanking him away from me, and Geoffrey—I glance once at the choreographer. Impatient, he taps his foot repeatedly and points at Luka, telling me to hurry into his arms.
It reinforces the unbelievable notion—that this is allowed.
We’re allowed to touch.
I blink, suppressing water that tries to well.
This is allowed.
It rattles my bones. I blow out a short breath, and Luka nods at me the closer I approach. I hate being the one that keeps everyone waiting. I hate being the one who consumes all the extra attention. A weird pit wedges between my ribs, so I pick up my pace.
I stand beneath Luka Kotova. Half his torso off the trampoline to grab me.
And despite all that we’ve been through—despite aching to just look at him, to take five-trillion years to absorb every detail of his features—there’s no hesitation between us now. No pause or reluctance.
I jump as high as I can jump, and Luka seizes my wrists. Easily, he lifts me up, his muscles flexing. Biceps supremely sculpted, even more so than I recall from our past.
Wow.
He’s older. I see how much older again.
I see how much time I missed.
My feet gracefully meet the trampoline, and his hands stay still on my wrists, warming me. Skin-to-skin. We breathe deeply. Inhaling raw breath.
I feverishly soak in his chiseled, charming features, afraid that this is the only time I have with him.
Afraid it’ll all be taken away again.
He’s beautiful. Inside. Outside. All of him.
His eyes dance across my face, as though he’s remembering a thousand moments together. As though he’s protecting this new memory from harm. From destruction and erasure. Luka licks his lips and then tries to draw me closer, towards his firm chest.
Dimitri grasps the back of his shirt and tugs him away from me. We’re physically separated in probably a snap-second, even if it seemed longer.
I try to shake out my feelings, still dazed as Dimitri passes me the juggling balls.
Geoffrey points at the apparatus as he speaks. “For now, let’s have Baylee sit on the back-left platform before we add her in.”
How the hell do I get on the back-left platform? I think and then realize, I jump.
The Kotovas let me tackle this on my own and stand on the metal edge while loosely gripping the poles. With a big breath, I swallow my fear and begin to jump.
By the third jump, I gain so much height that my pulse races ahead of my thoughts. I feel like I’m taking way too long—when in reality, I’m probably not in the air for more than ten seconds.
I use my arms for balance. Higher and higher.
I’m supposed to just…step onto the little platform, mid-air. Go for it, I tell myself.
And I try.
My foot touches the lip of the platform, but I careen backwards. Shit. I slip and plummet downwards. My back hits the trampoline net and bounces me. I use my core strength to right myself upwards, but I aim towards a mini-net. Shitshit.
My shoulder touches the net, and I catapult off, barely able to hear Dimitri and a few others coaching me on where to go. What to do.
Somehow I land in the center of the trampoline again, and I kneel and force my body down to ground myself. Impeding all movement.
My heart is stuck in my throat. Anxiety burns me up, and I feel some Kotovas start to shift towards me. Including Luka. “I’m fine,” I say, extending my arm so they’ll stay put.
I’ll try again. It’s not like everyone succeeds the first time. Some do, but in most disciplines, practice is important. Whenever I try a new juggling trick, I still drop balls and clubs.
Ignore everyone.
I find a calm place inside, and I just jump and jump. Gaining enough height again, I don’t rush myself this time. I bounce once more, and mid-air, I extend a leg to try and touch the tiny square platform.
I land fine, but my momentum pushes me forward. I run into the pole, and I wrap my arms around it (hands already full of juggling balls).
Stable.
I breathe heavily and rest my forehead on the pole, thankful that I made it to the platform. The first time is always the scariest. And sometimes the hardest.
When I sit, legs hanging off, everyone but Luka reroutes their attention. His gaze lingers on me for a long moment, as though to ensure I’m secure. That I’m okay. When he sees that I am, he focuses on his cousins and the choreographer.
I really enjoy this part. Observing the Kotovas in their intense training session. It’s like witnessing each individual piece of an extraordinary puzzle. All before it’s put together.
Now that I’m allowed, I mostly watch Luka. I find myself smiling way more than I ever would—and it’s not a coy smile. It’s a giddy, uncontrollable smile that has been locked away for years.
Luka propels himself at the back wall with one deep jump, and then he runs up the hard surface. Three cousins in tow. So swiftly, they land on top.
Naturally graceful, they may as well have wings.
Luka steps off the wall like it’s nothing, but he physically drops from forty-feet.
I inhale strongly, even if he’s done this a million times before. Dimitri stands close on the trampoline and digs his foot deep. So as Luka plummets, he hits the taut surface and soars straight up.
He does a quadruple back tuck over Matvei who performs a triple layout below. Luka also has enough air for a triple full (one back somersault with three twists). My view isn’t of haphazard, awkward actions. These aren’t a bunch of guys on a backyard trampoline flopping around.
Their lithe movements carry extreme precision. They call out to one another in Russian, making eight in-flight bodies look like ordered chaos. They’re unequivocally picturesque slicing through air, and this is just practice.
Geoffrey stops them more than once and asks who can do what combination, and they all always raise their hands, their advanced skillsets the same.
“You two.” From the ground, Geoffrey motions to Luka and Robby. “Full twisting triple backflip. Luka goes from the far left to right, and Robby crosses in the middle.”
Panting, Robby rubs sweat off his brow. “We’re doing the same thing?”
“Yes. Listen.” Geoffrey glares. “You cross like this.” He just crosses his arms.
Abram rolls his eyes, but it’s hard to frustrate Luka. He runs his hand through his soaked hair, and he nods a few times like he’s ready to just go ahead and try it.
I wrap my arms around my stomach and lean forward. If this is timed wrong at all, Robby will crash into Luka, and it’s not like a full twisting triple backflip is easy.
Luka is positioned at the far left, and Dimitri counts in Russian, ignoring the choreographer’s earlier rule about speaking in English.
I chew my bottom lip, worried.
Dimitri shouts one last time, and Luka jumps and twists his body three-sixty-degrees. Now facing backwards, he performs rapid, technically perfect layouts across the trampoline, hands never touching the surface. Just feet.
Robby is coming at him.
My fingers touch my lips, just as he accelerates and passes his cousin in a split-second. Luka gains a lot of air at the end, and he finishes his last rotations, his triple backflip powerful.
And beautiful.
Then he lands on his feet, wobbling a little more than I think he’d like, but his tiny movement may be unnoticeable to an audience.
Geoffrey critiques them more than praises, and he has all the Kotovas perform a few skills again. Hopping on the available platforms. Flying at the mini-nets. Soaring up the wall. Thirty minutes tick by before I’m called on.
“Baylee, come down to the trampoline’s base.”
That means falling, but this is the fun part. I jump down, and all eight guys kill my momentum with their weight. I can’t even figure out how, but they just did it.
Focused eyes on me, Geoffrey asks, “You expressed grief over which trick?” He can’t remember because I didn’t actually vocalize my concerns yet.
“The eight-ball, seven-up pirouette. Six-ball, six-up is more manageable to start.” Just saying.
“We’ll see. For now it’s eight and seven.” Geoffrey fingers his goatee before pointing at…no. “Sergei, lift her on your shoulders. You’ll assist…”
I partially tune out the choreographer’s instruction, my eyes narrowed on Luka’s oldest brother. Sergei raises his squared head, shoulders pulled back. His whole authoritarian demeanor puts a weird taste in my mouth. He looks ready to order me around, as though I’m a prop to his act. In actuality, he’s assisting my discipline just as much as I’m assisting his.
I don’t have the heart to glance at Luka.
Those not participating position themselves on the metal frame and the platforms. I stand in the middle while Sergei approaches.
I expect him to say, tell me when I should rotate. Or call out to me with commands.
Instead, Sergei says, “I’ll lift you and begin jumping. I’ll spin after three counts.”
“That’s not how it works,” I say. “Three seconds isn’t enough time for seven balls to be airborne.”
If he hears my opinion at all, he doesn’t say.
Sergei just clasps me by the hips and hoists me on his shoulders. My body is completely rigid. Uncomfortable, for one. My legs drape down his chest, and he grips my calves and begins jumping without even the slightest pause or call-out.
I feel like I’m on a theme park ride that I didn’t ask to be a part of, and it’s made of a Russian man and hard muscle.
At least thirty-feet high, all eight balls still in my palms—I internally freak out. I don’t trust Sergei with my life, and if he drops me, I could bounce and go flying at the back wall or the metal frame of the trampoline. Which is hard enough to crack a skull.
“Any day now.” Geoffrey pressures me.
And it works. I concentrate on juggling.
Rather than simply tossing, I push the first two balls into the air so I don’t fall backwards. I work in pairs, the balls soaring in a clean arc, and then Sergei rotates just as I launch the fifth and sixth balls.
Juggling is about timing. It’s practically math, and when the timing is off, this happens.
The balls fall.
On the trampoline.
And they fling every direction thereafter.
It’s less embarrassing than it is aggravating. I want to succeed badly, but I’ve never relied this heavily on someone else. This is going to take a while.
I must wear the dejection because Geoffrey snaps, “What’s wrong?”
Catching my breath, I say, “I don’t think this partnership is going to work out.”
Sergei is not my favorite person ever, and he technically owes me a grand that he’ll never pay—but I’m not unearthing my personal life at work.
“Fine, we’ll try Dimitri.”
Sergei switches out with Dimitri, and in another breath, I’m on Dimitri’s shoulders and he tells me, “Throw my balls, Baybay.”
Ignore.
I’m not in the mood for his jokes, and ignoring them is the easiest tactic here, especially in front of a choreographer.
As soon as Dimitri jumps, I have trouble concentrating on the trick. I’m thirty-feet up again, but I keep thinking about Dimitri losing his footing and then me falling and face-planting into a mound of hard muscle or metal.
I realize fast that the problem wasn’t just Sergei.
It’s me.
During the rotation, all the balls drop. I shake my head at Geoffrey. I try the trick with Erik and Robby to only meet the same failed result.
Off Robby’s shoulders and firmly planted on the trampoline, I walk towards the metal frame, lungs ablaze. Because I know what I’m about to do.
Please let this work.