Act Forty-Four
Baylee Wright
Premiere of Infini
Hurriedly, I exit stage left to raucous applause, my juggling torches snuffed out and sweat beading my forehead. My ribs jut out as I catch my breath, but I can’t slow.
I have to do a quick costume change from the “nightmare” to the “dreamscape” aesthetic. And I love my current nightmare costume: a sheer skirt over a burgundy velvet leotard, turtleneck. Fiery ruby crystals are sewn in spirals across my breasts and waist.
I’m a beautiful, magical blaze of fire.
Sliding past artists backstage, the nervous-excited energy is high and it has nothing to do with boys or dating. All our hard work amounts to the moments we spend on stage together and the subsequent awed claps from the audience.
And the hope it won’t end here. It can’t end.
My mom’s music echoes so triumphantly, the drum beats and trumpets that dive into your core and make you want to move. It instantly makes me smile.
And rouses my spirits beyond anything.
Backstage, Luka sprints fast, his cue coming soon since Wheel of Death is next. He’s shirtless, his sculpted abs, arms and shoulders purposefully displayed to evoke sheer masculinity. It works too well.
My neck heats, and my gaze drops to his pants: skintight blood-red spandex. His costume leaves nothing to the imagination, not any carve of muscle or bulge. Luka is undeniably hot.
No pun intended. He’s supposed to be a devil, and the costume department even attached sparkling horns in his dark brown hair. His bold black and red makeup is scary yet attractive.
I’m scarily attracted to him.
As he races past, he grins. “You were amazing!” He turns around, walking backwards and slowing his pace. Keeping our gazes locked for as long as possible.
I press my lips together, my smile out of control. I’m about to tell him to kill it, but he says, “Fuck it.” And he runs back to me.
I shake my head, still smiling. Luka, always the risk-taker.
He carefully kisses my lips, just once. An out-of-this-world vigor floats me eighty-feet high in my brain.
It’s the most bizarre feeling ever. His eyes drink me in, and our lungs inflate. I start groaning and laughing because my face hurts.
He dips his head to whisper, “Girlfriend.” We’re together.
Boyfriend.
I’m drowning in love. I push him before he misses his cue. “Go, go.”
Luka nods and raises his brows playfully. “See you, krasavitsa.” He finally turns his back to me and bounds for stage left.
At a mirror, I ensure my hair is still secured into two high gelled buns, and while I remove my makeup and change into a sky-blue, turtleneck leo, I glance at my gold-stitched balls for the trampoline act.
I’ll talk about juggling to anyone who’ll listen, but it’s not like the Mets or Jamaican food. My love for those two has never come into question. I’m not living inside of them.
But I live inside of juggling. It’s my every day. No breaks. No time apart. Living with a passion isn’t like sitting on top of the world twenty-four-seven. I drop down constantly and stare pointedly at my juggling props, and I question if they’ve revolted against me.
Every toss feels off. Every way I move feels wrong. Like I’m all out of whack, and in one moment, I hate juggling like it’s my stubborn spouse. It’s my foe.
Then one day, my clubs float in perfect symmetry. My heart soars as high as the props I toss, and my passion blisters bright inside of me. Juggling is my love.
I remember why I do this. Why I grind through the hard parts—I do it for these blissful, world-bending moments.
For the premiere, it’s been happy. I pick up my gold-stitched balls, and I hope that I can keep it that way.
* * *
Curtains closed only a half hour ago, but Geoffrey calls us over and tells us to take a seat on stage. A few Masquerade employees sweep up popcorn between rows, the auditorium nearly empty.
None of the artists have even washed off their makeup or changed out of costume yet. We were all excited and ready to celebrate the premiere. It went really well.
Full house. Sold out, and the Russian swing finale roused the audience to their feet. I’m pessimistic about my fortune and luck, but there’s evidence saying that this was a good first show.
I know it.
My hand tightens in Luka’s while we sit, and I rest my chin on my knee. Brenden whispers to Zhen close by, and they shake their heads, as confused as everyone else.
“Artists.” Geoffrey surveys all of us, his face unreadable. “How did you think that went?”
A few people say, “Great.”
“That’s not what a critic from the L.V. Times said.”
I frown, and Luka squeezes my hand like, it’s okay.
But we performed for critics yesterday, a special pre-showing. We already read the one negative review that said “lacks the spark of its original” and “it sputters out like the juggler’s torch”—that part was awful. I douse my torches at the end on purpose.
Other critics were positive.
“…you’ll keep dreaming long after the curtains close…”
“…bold choices for an old staple show…”
“…the talent breathes life & fire into the classic Aerial Ethereal reverie…”
“…the music dominates once again…”
Geoffrey spreads his arms. “And I happen to agree with the L.V. Times. You know why? The proof is in the numbers.”
We haven’t heard about sales. No one in AE’s financial has shared them with us.
I stiffen while he draws out the news.
Geoffrey skims his goatee with three fingers. “April and May have sold out, but summer sales are shit.” He points a threatening finger. “If there are thousands of unfilled seats come June and July, you’re all in boiling water. This is a sinking ship that I’m personally bailing out, and I will push you as hard and as far as humanly possible.”
His gaze lands on me.
And Luka.
“How badly do you want this show to survive?”
So badly, but my belief in our choreographer’s “talent” vanished around the time he tried to emotionally push Luka.
I don’t trust him, and I’m afraid of playing into Geoffrey’s hand.
But he’s our boss, and as long as Antoine Perrot says to listen to Geoffrey, we can’t disobey him.