Act Twenty-Four
Baylee Wright
46 Days to Infini’s Premiere
“What the hell was that shit-show?” Geoffrey nearly yells, shutting off the opening score to Infini before it plays through.
Dripping in sweat, 47 hung-over artists—including me—are scattered across the stage of a beautiful globe auditorium dedicated to Infini.
We’ve performed the opening dance and acrobatic sequence fifteen times already. I also have to juggle eight clubs, so I’m desperately trying not to drop one. My head pounds like a jackhammer lives inside my eardrums. I breathe deeply through my nose, and sweat continuously slides down my temples.
Everyone looks just as awful.
Most of the Kotovas are crouched with hands on their heads to keep from puking. Across the stage from me, Luka kneels and concentrates on one spot of the floor.
Beside me, Brenden shuts his eyes from the glaring lights and sways close to Zhen, who wears dark Ray Ban sunglasses for the same reason my brother won’t open his eyes.
I already told Brenden that I was drinking whiskey alone in my room, which spiked his worry, but at least he didn’t think I was with Luka.
Geoffrey scrutinizes us from the midnight-blue velveteen seats down below. This auditorium is identical to the one Amour and Viva share except for the color of the chairs (theirs are red) and the max occupancy.
Their auditorium is intimate and small.
Infini’s is grandiose and way too big. We have double the amount of seats that we need to fill. Which means double the pressure.
Brenden opens one eye to look at the trio of women sitting comfortably in the front row. He sways towards me and whispers, “I wish I were a clown.”
They’re exempt from Geoffrey’s commands because they’re not on stage during the opening number.
I whisper back, “You’re not funny enough to be a clown.”
Zhen laughs beneath his breath.
Brenden nudges me, his lips rising. I nudge back. He forgave me for being standoffish about an hour into practice. Nothing mends tiny spats faster than shared misery.
“Again,” Geoffrey emphasizes. “This time try to look less dead in the eyes.” I’m surprised he hasn’t found a whistle yet.
We all sluggishly move in the wings, hidden from view while Milla, the little Ukrainian girl, remains center-stage. She’s the first person the audience sees, and as my mom’s score starts playing, I inhale deeply and nod my head, listening for my cue.
I’m next.
The second person on stage is me. I walk and juggle all eight clubs around Milla.
“Look alive!” Geoffrey shouts.
I try to emote, but nausea brews viciously. I perform various tricks, catching and tossing clubs high and fast. It’s more subconscious. Like typing on a computer or driving. So I don’t have to think a lot, but I’m leaning backwards more than I like.
Honestly, as soon as Luka, Robby, and Abram do full twisting triple layouts in sync onto the stage, followed by so many Kotovas—it’s all a blur around me. Ordered chaos. Handstands on top of another person’s shoulders. Acrobatic floor work. Dancing to the rhythmic drum beat.
Everyone claps twice.
I spin three-sixty. My stomach hates me. I catch a club. Toss. Catch.
Clap. Clap.
I spin again and join the dance sequence while juggling. Brenden slips on the sweaty stage but catches himself.
Clap. Clap.
I’m going to throw up.
Anton bumps into Sergei on accident, and the music screeches to a halt. We all skid to a stop too, and I lose control of a club. It clatters on the stage, the noise echoing and basically broadcasting my failure. Thank you for that.
I feel too many eyes on me.
“Bucket!” Dimitri shouts from stage right. Grabbing a tin pail, he slides it across the stage. It reaches his little brother, Anton, who immediately vomits into it.
Collective, nauseated groans ring out. I have to squat and set down my clubs. My hand is on my mouth. Don’t gag.
Don’t gag.
I risk a glance at Luka, the length of the stage separating us again. He watches me, breathing as heavily as all the Kotovas, mostly from their athletic performance.
Don’t gag.
Erik joins Anton, retching in a second bucket.
I gag.
Luka’s eyes grow in concern.
Swallow. I swallow puke in my throat, and my brother crouches beside me, a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t think about it,” Brenden coaches in a whisper.
It’d be easier if I didn’t hear a chorus of vomiting. I keep my hand firmly planted to my mouth, and Geoffrey climbs onto the stage. We all tense as he struts around us and surveys our clearly hung-over state.
“Embarrassing,” he says with a curled lip, wearing a black blazer on top of an ‘90s concert tee. Giving away his age. “Am I wasting my time? Do you not even care about your own jobs? Really, what am I doing here?”
Many noses flare, suppressing irritation. No one back-talks, knowing AE hierarchy, and I bite down, also submerging more nausea.
Infini’s fate means everything to me, but we had no time to prepare for this practice. I don’t want to believe that today’s fuck-ups will jeopardize the future of the show.
While Geoffrey pauses, six more artists retreat to buckets and backstage. Puking.
“For Christ’s sake,” Geoffrey says, shaking his head. “Again.”
We can’t.
No one moves.
“Did you not hear me?” Geoffrey asks, his wild enraged eyes perusing us.
Zhen speaks for the cast, our unofficial captain. “Essential artists in the dance sequence are currently indisposed.” It’s the nice way of saying their heads are in puke buckets.
I wait for Geoffrey to call off practice, but I’m expecting too much.
“You’ll improvise,” he says. “That’s what you do when someone falls ill, is it not?”
“Yes, but we never lose this many cast members at once.”
“There’s a first for everything. Again!”
We reluctantly stand and restart the opening. I gather my clubs. I try so hard to stifle nausea that my eyes burn and well. Once more, it’s all a blur.
I’m on stage juggling. Everyone performs around me.
Clap. Clap.
I spin too slowly, and a club nearly crashes down on my head. I dodge just in time, the club striking the floor, and I run to the side of the stage. Finding an already-filled puke bucket, I vomit up brown whiskey and pasta.
The music cuts off for the umpteenth time.
“Get it all out,” Geoffrey hollers at hopefully more than just me. “When you’re done purging your apathy, line up.”
I wish I listened to Luka and threw up before practice, but I didn’t want to encourage bulimia, which he has always struggled with. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s gone through phases of fighting against it and letting it control him.
Until this morning, I had no idea where he was mentally in the spectrum of combatting and giving in.
But he stuck his middle finger down his throat without any hesitation.
I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, pausing for a moment, and I rotate slightly to see the jagged line of artists who are currently “composed” enough to stand.
Drenched in sweat, Luka, Dimitri, Sergei, Zhen, Brenden, amongst others line up—and a lot more kneel off to the side, sick.
My brother and Luka watch me, their heads turned while everyone else stares at the velveteen seats. And then they acknowledge each other with weird grimaces. I don’t have the energy to care about their clashing feelings right now, but Luka needs to stand down if we’re going to keep our hook-ups secret.
Thankfully, Luka backs off, tearing his gaze away from me.
I rise to my feet, hunched over. Hand on my hip. I make sure I don’t have a second wave before I join the line. I avoid the middle and slip into the right side, hoping to hide from Geoffrey.
A good chunk of the cast is still missing, and the choreographer paces the length of our uneven line. He eyes each one of us up and down.
“You.” Geoffrey stops and points.
I go rigid.
For some unearthly reason, he picks me out of the line and gestures for me to approach him.
I near the choreographer.
“Can you roll up your sleeves?” he asks me.
This is strange. “Yeah?”
“Do it.”
I roll up the sleeves of my black Adidas shirt, and he inspects my arms. I glance back at Brenden, and he mouths, what the fuck, at me. I shake my head once, just as confused.
I’ve never seen the Kotovas so on edge either. Half of them are whispering, probably in Russian.
Geoffrey tries to peer at my shoulder blades, but I can’t exactly roll the fabric off that part of my body. “Are you wearing a sports bra?”
“You’re not allowed to ask that,” Dimitri, of all people, interjects.
There’s an audible inhale from many of us.
“I would know,” Dimitri adds, “I attended a sexual harassment seminar.”
There’s a collective laugh, but the noise sputters out at Geoffrey’s glower. “If I want to hear from you, Dimitri, I’ll call on you. Otherwise, shut up.”
I wince at that exchange.
Dimitri grimaces and forces a fuck you smile—but he remains quiet.
Geoffrey faces me, waiting for a response.
“I am wearing a sports bra,” I confirm.
“Take off your shirt.”
Whoa.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Luka stepping forward, but Dimitri yanks him forcefully back. My brother similarly tries to intervene, but Zhen is speaking to him.
We all have to choose our battles, and this feels insignificant since I don’t mind taking off my shirt. I’ve worked out in just a sports bra before, but if I felt uncomfortable, it’d be a different story. Because I’d definitely refuse his request.
I pull my sopping shirt off my head, and he examines my back, nodding to himself.
“I thought I saw old burn marks on your arms and shoulders yesterday but I wasn’t sure. Now I am.” Geoffrey motions for me to put my shirt back on. I tug it over my head as he says, “No one mentioned that you’ve juggled fire before.”
Great. I see the interest in his eye. “I stopped juggling fire when I was fourteen.”
“Why?”
I’m scared to say the truth. I know what his response will be. “It no longer fit the choreography.”
“The choreography. You mean the boring, soulless routine that once existed before I arrived?” That’s exactly why I should’ve lied, but maybe a tiny part of me agrees with him.
“What other high-risk juggling can you do?”
I’m quiet, hands on my hips. Almost winded.
“Don’t make me examine your scars next.”
I’m afraid. He’s already one-hundred percent going to add fire to the routine. Which is fine. It’ll add the “awe” factor that might help Infini. I’m definitely okay with that.
But I can’t tell him that I can juggle machetes.
He’ll without a doubt incorporate it within the choreography, and even with blunted edges, they’re too dangerous for the kind of complex tricks I perform. I’m worried that if I tell him “I can juggle humongous-as-fuck knives” and then put my foot down, he’ll fire me and find someone who can do it.
I slowly shake my head. “Nothing else.”
“Nothing else?” He looks disbelieving.
“Why would I lie?” I say.
“Laziness.”
I stare up at the eighty-foot ceiling, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes.
“Here’s an ultimatum,” he begins. No. I feel sick again, but for a completely different reason. “If I ask the veteran staff about your various props and they list off a high-risk one—you’re fired. Or you can tell me the prop now and you’ll have a choice.”
Choices.
This one has to be less painful than Marc Duval’s choice four-and-a-half years ago.
“What choice?” I ask.
“You’ll either perform with the high-risk prop or you’ll prove to me that you don’t want to—by holding plank for three hours on this stage.”
A three-hour plank? My whole face falls, unknowing whether or not I have the strength for that.
“How badly do you want to omit the prop? How much iron-will do you have?”
Strangely, his words bolster fight in me. I nod over and over.
“No, Baylee,” Brenden calls out, his voice sharp with worry.
Only one choice lets me off the hook. There’s no way the staff won’t tell Geoffrey the truth. He may even be able to look in AE’s artist database and see my specific skills.
“I’ll ask you again,” Geoffrey says, ignoring my brother’s outburst. “What other high-risk juggling can you do?”
“Machetes.”
Geoffrey claps his hands, grinning. “That will grab an audience’s attention.”
I look back at the line and almost everyone has their palms to their head. Luka is squatting, his face in his hands.
It’s okay. I want to tell him.
Brenden can’t meet my eyes, but he looks sick to his stomach.
I focus on Geoffrey. “Where do you want me to plank? Off to the side—”
“Right here.” He points at my feet. Where I stand. Front and center. I hate being the center of attention like this, but it’s over. I can’t exactly rip the spotlight off anymore.
I lower to my forearms and use my core to hoist my body up, my toes on the ground in a push-up position. I hold this pose, my muscles already burning.
And then something happens.
Luka breaks the jagged line by walking forward. I arch my neck to see him fully, and without any hesitation, he comes in-line with me and easily lowers to a plank position. My lips part, stunned and overwhelmed.
He’s doing this with me.
Luka turns his head to meet my gaze. So much love and encouragement stares back at me.
Sweat drips down our temples and the bridge of our noses, and not long after Luka’s demonstration, Brenden leaves the line to join us. He sets his forearms on the ground, his determination pouring through me.
I love my brother so much.
One beat later, there’s a mass rush forward of Russian men.
Every single Kotova drops down to plank position. It builds an even greater fire beneath me. The last time I had all the Kotovas on my side, I was best friends with Luka. I lost all of that when we got in trouble.
I forgot how powerful their solidarity feels.
Ten minutes in, and the entire cast of Infini is holding plank. Even the clowns.
“Camaraderie!” Geoffrey shouts. “This is what I like to see! This is what I want. Give me that fighting spirit every minute, every day.”
It’s not as easy as it looks, and I only wonder if there’ll be more tests after this one. And worse: what happens if we fail?