Act Forty-Three
Luka Kotova
One hour to 8:00 p.m. show-times and no decision has been made yet. I’ve been held in Antoine Perrot’s office since this morning. He’s the Director of Infini. In Corporate hierarchy, he’s above Geoffrey Lesage. Beneath Marc Duval.
(Everyone is beneath Marc.)
The glass door is shaded with blinds. I can’t even peer into the hallway. Trying not to stress, I kick back on a chair and I toy with a wooden puzzle from his desk. Also, I eavesdrop on his Corporate phone call.
“There’s nothing more I can do on this end.” Perrot (he goes by last name) perches his phone to his ear, anxious hand on his short silver hair. In his early fifties, he looks a lot like John Slattery, the actor from Mad Men. (Yeah, I looked him up on IMDB.)
I listen intently.
“Marc, I know. I’ve had the creative staff try to reason with the artists, but they aren’t budging just like New York and Montreal.”
My lips gradually lift. About three hours ago, Perrot shot out of his seat when he learned the cast of Nova Vega and Celeste were nowhere to be found. All taking the day off. It’s now 10:00 p.m. in their respective cities, and the artists missed their openings.
To avoid local media coverage, Aerial Ethereal cancelled their shows five minutes before curtain-call, citing illness within the cast.
Like they all have the flu.
But the cast abandoned their shows to make a change. It’s not all about me or Bay. Most refuse to perform until Marc agrees that the no minors policy will never be implemented.
Still, my huge family and the Wrights have been seeking a dissolution to the contracts we signed five years ago. Brenden is advocating for Bay. Her aunt has even hired a lawyer, her husband’s colleague.
I eavesdropped on all the lawyer-talk. AE’s representatives harp on one thing: the contracts we signed were an opportunity. A so-called gift that no other minors—at least the ones caught having underage sex—received. They were fired. We kept our jobs.
And we had a choice. We could’ve not signed the contracts, quit AE, and then we would’ve been a couple. Maybe we would’ve went to high school together.
Had a semi-normal teenage life. Been happy or sad. Who can really know what our lives would’ve been like?
All I know is what happened. Where we are now.
Our lawyers have been combating AE, calling the terms of the contracts “grossly extreme” and an “abuse” of power. I don’t know if we really have a chance.
It could be wishful thinking, but to have her family, my family, fight for us this time—it’s validation I didn’t even realize I needed. Five years ago, we were just kids in their eyes, and nothing we said would’ve made a difference. We couldn’t change their minds.
We couldn’t make them see what we felt, and I really didn’t think we could change them now. But somehow, someway, they see Bay and me as more than young love. Maybe they pity us—for all that we went through—or maybe they sympathize and finally understand our pain.
I don’t know.
I don’t need to know their motivations. It doesn’t matter to me.
Just knowing their voices aren’t rivaling ours, that they’re shouting in certainty and solidarity—it’s enough. Our families finally believe we’re worth the fight.
Perrot has his hand to his forehead. “No. Marc, it’s almost eight p.m. here. Viva already missed their show—I know. I also heard that Seraphine’s cast is missing.” He checks his watch. “It’s almost one p.m. in Tokyo, so there’s time…wait.” He rolls forward on his chair, eyes widening at the computer screen. “Dammit. The artists for oceanic touring shows are leaving—dammit.”
Perrot catches me smiling, and I can’t suppress this one. Not even if I tried. Because I’ve never been on this side of power.
By banding together, individuals can be mightier than the hands that encase us. That control us. I’ve been witnessing artists across the globe tear at red tape and snip the strings that force us every which way.
It seems unbelievable. I smile more. Unbelievable. Just like the circus. Where the impossible becomes possible.
Perrot cups the speaker with his hand, anxiety wrinkling his forehead. “You’ll know the outcome with everyone else,” he says to me. “You’re free to leave.”
I immediately spring up. He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I head to the glass door.
“Wait.”
I stop.
“My puzzle.”
It’s in my pocket. I lick my dry lips and then casually return the unsolved, wooden puzzle to his desk. “Sorry.” (I am sorry.)
He swivels in his chair, phone pressed to his ear again, and before I reach the doorknob, he exclaims, “Wait.”
“I didn’t take anything else.”
Perrot raises a finger at me to wait and speaks to Marc in fluent French. I understand only a few words. Billets (tickets) is one of them. Then he gestures me to sit again.
My lungs are heavy, and I return to the chair and lean back on its wooden legs. Pretending I’m not stressed when so much weighs on me. I still hear Timo and Kat’s screams…and I haven’t seen or talked to them since.
Nik has texted me they’re okay and sent me pictures of his suite. A lot of my cousins are drinking and playing cards. Eating takeout. Chilling.
Bay is there.
Nikolai said that Dimitri has been annoying her during their card game—his attempt at distracting her from everything.
I hope I made the right choice in letting Nikolai corral our family and confront Corporate. I hope I didn’t fuck it all up for no reason.
Perrot pockets his cell and high-tails his ass to the door. “I’ll be a few minutes. I need you to stay here. Do you understand?” His words almost slur together; he speaks that fast.
“Yeah, sure.” I’m being honest. I won’t leave.
Perrot is out the door in a snap-second.
Alone for the first time, I unearth my phone from my pocket and FaceTime Katya. I mutter beneath my breath, “Please don’t ice me out. Please don’t ice me out.”
It rings and rings.
I stare fixatedly at the screen, not blinking. “Come on.” I hunch forward, forearms on my thighs and phone cupped in my hand. “Come on, Kat.”
The call rings out. She doesn’t answer.
I inhale a sharp breath and run my hand through my hair. Okay, I’ll try Timo. I click into my favorites and find his name near hers. I press FaceTime and the ringing begins. And my apprehension elevates.
My hand is on my mouth, waiting. Waiting.
Timo answers.
A ceiling pops up, and I hear Kat say, “Turn the camera around.” She’s with him? I’m unable to move, like if I do they’ll disappear.
The camera spins. On screen, Timo and Katya sit side-by-side on her top bunk, an orange Noctis poster behind them. I don’t pretend that they’re emotionless beings who can accept what I did with a full-blown smile. I planned to leave without telling them, and they knew that.
They know everything now, and if I could do anything differently, it’d be saving them from the pain I caused.
Katya has dark circles beneath her eyes, and Timo wants to glare, a look he used to give Nik. Not me.
“Uh…” I start, lost for words for a second. I put my hand to my mouth, then my eyes. I break down, crying silently. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I’m so sorry.”
Katya sniffs. “How could you do that?”
I shake my head, and I drop my hand, my throat closed. I struggle to look at the screen.
Sounding wounded, Timo says, “We didn’t even earn a goodbye from you? Nikolai was that high on your list, but you couldn’t tell us or even leave a note. Would you’ve liked a note, Kat?”
“Yeah,” she sniffs again. “I would’ve loved a note.”
I stare off at the wall, dazed. Could I’ve written a note and changed this outcome? Probably not. We’d still be here, right now. Feeling each other’s pain.
“And you lied over and over again,” Katya cries. “I asked you about Baylee point-blank, and you told me…” She growls in frustration at her tears. “I really hate…what you did.”
“I know.” I shut my eyes closed. “I couldn’t tell you though.”
“Why?” Timo asks. “That’s what I want to know. We trust each other with everything. So what if the company told you not to, we’d never let it slip, man.”
My eyelids flit open, and I meet their hurt straight-on. “I couldn’t put this on either of you. It seems easy, okay? One secret, but it’s not like the time you two snuck out to a salsa club and I had to lie for you. It’s not like when I broke curfew to eat pizza on the subway and you made a pillow dummy on my bed for Nik to find. It’s bigger than that.” I sit up more, chest on fire. “It’s five years of holding your breath every time you see Bay in proximity to me. It’s five years of checking over your shoulder to see if Corporate is breathing down your neck. It’s five years of feeling like—if I say the wrong thing, I screw everyone over. And it’s not just our lives at stake. You ruin children across oceans, across the world.” I take the biggest breath of my life. “That’s why I didn’t put this on you.”
That’s why.
Slowly, they both begin to nod.
Understanding.
Timo combs longer strands of hair out of his eyes. “We should’ve been the first to know you were quitting.”
“I love you two the most, that’s why you were the last.”
Katya huffs. “That makes zero sense. You know that?”
Timo’s eyes soften and sweep me. “It makes some sense.”
Katya frowns at our brother. “If he loved us the most, he’d tell us first.”
“Not if it hurt him to say goodbye,” Timo says. “It hurt that badly?”
My eyes burn, welling up again. “Dude, I don’t want to do that again. Ever.”
“You won’t have to.” Timo sits up straighter too, the bunk bed creaking, but my unknown fate strains the air.
This morning, I sent in a termination email. They could still fire me, even if I sent another that said: Disregard the last email. I do not want to quit Aerial Ethereal.
It’s all up in the air.
“Will you promise something?” Katya asks, still sniffling. “That you’ll tell us things in the future. I’d want to know if Geoffrey confronts you again.”
“Aye aye.” Timo nods. “Nik is the one who keeps us out of the loop in fear of hurting our childish sensibilities. We don’t do that to each other.”
Katya makes a circular motion, tying us all together.
“I won’t block you out,” I promise. “I’m not ditching you two for Nik or Serg or even Dimitri. It’s us three.”
“Until the end,” Timo says theatrically, fist to his heart.
“Until the end,” Kat smiles.
I smile back. “Until the—” The door whips open, and Perrot motions me forward, his face somber.
“Luka?” Katya says.
“Are you okay?” Timo asks.
“It’s, uh, Perrot. I have to go.” I stand up. “I’ll see you.” I end the call and pocket my phone. Perrot looks more uneasy than he did when Nova Vega’s show tonight got cancelled.
The blinds smack the door as he shuts it behind him. Before he speaks to me, his cell rings. “Perrot,” he greets, phone to his ear. “No, Marc just cancelled all three Vegas shows. It’s madness.” He sighs. “AE is telling the press it’s for stage maintenance…I hope so. We’ll see.” His gaze flits to me. “He’s here with me. I’m about to do it now.” He pauses. “No. No. Marc is stuck in Seoul. His flight won’t arrive until tomorrow.”
After a few more words, he hangs up, and then his hand is on my shoulder. He steers me out the door.
I glance back as we walk, caught off guard. “We’re leaving your office?” We’re already out of his office. Into the hallway.
“Marc made a decision,” Perrot says. “I’m about to tell everyone, and you’re coming with me.”
* * *
One thing I’ve always had in common with Baylee Wright: neither of us prefers the spotlight. We will gladly pass the sweltering attention onto someone else.
I stand beside Perrot in a seated crowd of over a hundred, and I’d rather be on the blue mats next to Baylee and my family. Eating popcorn and smiling at the person who’d take my place.
Perrot canvasses the artists with a single glance. “I represent Marc today. He apologizes for not being here in person, but he’s across the country at the moment. He’s heard your concerns and your pleas, and he’s taken this matter very seriously.”
Eyes dart to me. Like I have the answers.
At this point, I have nothing but hope. And aren’t most battles won with just that? Hope. I smile weakly to myself and look up at Baylee.
Her arms are loosely around her bent leg, and her uneasy gaze stays on Perrot. Until she feels me staring. Then she looks my way.
Our chests rise at the same time, and in a crowd full of people, with eyes all on me, I mouth, I love you.
Tears brim and she brushes them quickly. She nods repeatedly, expressing the same sentiment. She presses her forehead to her knee, trying to hide her sorrow.
Bay thinks it’s over.
The worst has come.
My heart is in my throat, but I lift my gaze to the eighty-foot ceiling. I listen and wait for Marc’s decision to either capsize the lives of hundreds or make it better.
Perrot clears his throat and reads a checklist off his phone. “I’ll begin with the easiest point of contention.” He places his hand on my shoulder. “Luka Kotova will still remain employed by Aerial Ethereal—”
Clapping from my cousins and siblings cuts into Perrot’s speech.
It feels too bittersweet to smile. I stuff my hands in my sweatpants, my fingers skimming wrapped peppermints and keys to nowhere.
Perrot waits patiently for the noise to die before continuing. “The last two issues of concern are the no minors policy and the contracts signed by Baylee Wright and Luka Kotova.” He pauses and points at a young girl and boy from Viva. “Please put away the phones. No recording.”
Secrecy has always been important to Aerial Ethereal.
(Clearly.)
But I understand. This world is exclusive to those allowed to enter, and there’s a whole section about “social media” conduct in everyone’s contract. No one can make YouTube videos or live-stream any kind of footage from practices, rehearsals, and definitely not performances.
Marc would flip if any of this traveled to the press.
As soon as the phones disappear, Perrot speaks. “Marc wants to assure the entire troupe that he values and respects the opinion of every artist. He understands your fears and concerns, and with great consideration, he has made a decision.” Perrot reads off his cell. “‘To protect the integrity and morale of the Aerial Ethereal troupe across the globe, the no minors policy will not be instated or used as a future mode of…’” he trails off at the cheering. It explodes, especially from all the kids.
I end up smiling, but I also cage a breath.
It’s good.
That’s really good, and Bay’s face says the same. It’s good, but there’s a part that still hurts. We have no idea where we stand in all of this.
“Quiet!” Dimitri yells, gesturing with his hands for everyone to sit.
Perrot talks over the fading cheers. “And lastly, Marc has decided to dissolve the contracts—” Baylee covers her face, bowing forward with emotion, and it hits me like a tidal wave.
We’re allowed to be together.
Truly.
I barely hear Perrot say the reasoning: to rectify any emotional and psychological distress inflicted upon the recipients.
I beeline through the half-seated crowd. People spring to their feet. Hugging. Cheering louder. I aim for one person. One girl.
The sea of people starts parting for me, knowing where I’m headed. As soon as Baylee rises to her feet, I clasp her hand and draw her to my body.
“Come here,” I breathe.
She clutches the back of my neck, and I hold her face gently, her cheeks slicked with tears. Our eyes dance over one another again. And again.
I tune out all the commotion. It’s just me and her.
We sway like music plays, and her brown eyes smile before her lips do. My smile stretches wider and higher, and I dip my head down to whisper, “You know what I’m going to do, Bay?”
“What?”
“I’m going to kiss you for the first time in front of a crowd.”
Isn’t that fucking bizarre? That in all our lives, in all our time together, we’ve never kissed for other people to see. It’s been private. It’s been ours, but if we could’ve unrestrained it and let it free, we would’ve from the beginning.
Baylee’s smile overpowers her features, and my lips touch her rising grin. Our kiss pulls us together like a magnet, and I clasp the back of her head, my tongue parting her lips. Deepening the kiss—and then loud, dry clapping breaks into our reverie.
We lean back only slightly to spot the source.
Geoffrey Lesage saunters through the troupe, still clapping, and his gaze is dead-set on us.
“Congratulations,” he says loud enough for all to hear. “You got what you wanted. You won your dispute.”
Why the hell is he bitter? The no minors policy isn’t enforced, and the whole cast is intact. He got what he wanted too.
“It wasn’t a game to me,” I say easily. “It’s my life—”
“It’s my career.”
Realization pummels me. I assume that Marc didn’t appreciate his blackmail tactic or usurping his power. Geoffrey skipped rungs of the Corporate hierarchy, and I bet he was slapped on the wrist.
“You’re not our choreographer anymore?” I ask.
“Would you like that?” he snaps. “For me to leave?”
I go rigid, my hands on Bay’s shoulders, and Geoffrey stops about ten feet from me, his gaze flitting to Nikolai, who glares threateningly an arm’s length away.
Geoffrey’s focus returns to me. “Well?”
“I don’t want you to leave.” (Yes I do.)
He fixes his blazer. “Then you’ll be happy to know I’m still your choreographer and dedicated to Infini’s success.”
Baylee nods, tensed. “We all want the same thing.”
“Good.” His voice is tight, and he scans the discomforted cast. “Dress rehearsal tomorrow for Infini. Don’t be late.” His scowl darkens at the two of us. “No exceptions.”
We bruised his ego.
And I worry he’s going to make us pay for it.