Act Forty-Nine
Luka Kotova
At a 1:00 a.m. stage rehearsal, I slump a bit on a midnight-blue velveteen seat, just to kick up my feet on the chair in front of me. The cast fills the middle rows, watching Infini’s acts until our turn arrives to perform.
On stage, Zhen and Brenden clutch ivory straps rigged to the ceiling, and they slice through air, circling each other. In sync as the music crescendos to a heart-stomping beat. The breathy, celestial lights sweep their bodies, and they gracefully collide like two archangels born together.
I’m drawn in for a full minute, and I’ve seen their act before.
The only reason it may be axed: Corporate thinks there are too many “aerial” acts in Infini, and aerial straps could be replaced by Cyr wheels. (Which is ridiculous—it’s called Aerial Ethereal.)
Bay is worried, but I don’t think it’ll happen. We’re in October, and contract renewals are coming in January. If anything, Infini has a greater chance of being cancelled. Sales are only up 4% from last year, and I think the Masquerade and AE were expecting a 20% increase.
(That’s the monthly gossip, provided by Luka Kotova.)
Quietly, I shake Junior Mints into my mouth, my left arm around Bay’s chair. She conked out about an hour ago, and I’m not waking her since she’s done with rehearsal. We’ve all just been ordered to stay put until everyone finishes.
Brenden stretches in a split midair, and Zhen balances on his head with one hand, their limbs extended in clean angles. Even without costume and makeup, they’ve hooked in the attention of the cast.
My cousin Abram draws forward, his eyes lit up, and his chest lifts as trumpets infiltrate the score. Zhen and Brenden increase their momentum, soaring.
This is why I love art. The circus moves people.
Art moves people.
To me, there’s very few other things more amazing than that. After their act ends, Geoffrey nears the stage to speak to them.
He’s been testy since trampoline performed. The four oldest guys—Sergei, Dimitri, Erik, and Matvei—have been purposefully fucking up their routines at rehearsals only. Just to distract Geoffrey.
It works sometimes. His attention veers on them more than us, but I really didn’t want my cousins and brother to risk their reputations. Professionalism matters to them.
I’m the one who doesn’t give a shit.
But once Dimitri gets an idea in his head, there’s no stopping him.
“Take a seat on stage,” Geoffrey tells Brenden and Zhen, and then our choreographer slips into the row in front of mine.
He struts forward, and I dump the rest of the candy in my mouth. For some reason, this attracts him to me. I’m not even loud.
I’m quiet.
No one else was looking at me, but his gaze daggers my face. I chew casually, and I crane my neck over my shoulder.
All of my older cousins and Sergei are rigid one row behind me, their grays and Dimitri’s ocean-blues pinpointed on Geoffrey.
The choreographer saunters closer, and his overbearing presence wakes Bay. She tensely lifts her body up and rubs her eyes. Watching as he halts directly across from me, but I prefer his focus to fix on me, never her.
Geoffrey rests his ass on the back of a chair. He has a great view of my Adidas soles.
I spin my baseball hat backwards, nonchalant. Waiting. (Come on, Geoffrey, what do you have for me?)
Like he’s mentioning the weather, he says, “Tell me an excruciating moment that involves your sister.”
This again. “No,” I say simply like I’ve done before.
Sergei interjects, “We’re not doing acting exercises, Geoffrey.”
His gaze is still latched on me. “Luka has room to be more emotive. I’m helping him.” (Yeah, he’s not.) To me, he says, “Tell me an excruciating moment that involves your brother.”
I shake my empty Junior Mint box. “Which one?”
“Timofei.”
I almost laugh, finding this whole thing ridiculous. “With Timofei, there are none.”
“You’re lying,” Geoffrey shoots back like he had the gun cocked and loaded, ready for my response.
My muscles constrict, but my facial features don’t change shape.
Geoffrey stands straighter, nearing my row, his waist an inch from my soles. I bet he wants me to drop my feet to the floor. (I’m not going to.)
“Nothing excruciating has ever happened to you?” Geoffrey asks like he already knows the answer. I blink a few times, processing. He doesn’t know.
He can’t know.
Artists are aware that I have an impulse to steal worthless shit. Some think it’s funny. (It’s not to me.) There are rumors that I purge after I eat; some people know it’s fact. And Geoffrey has this information from medical—what he can’t have, what he doesn’t have, is how it all started.
Only my extended and immediate family know, plus Baylee, Thora, and John. That’s it.
“Your sister…” he trails off, a smile appearing. “You’re glaring.”
Baylee’s hand slips into mine.
“We’re getting warmer,” Geoffrey says. “Let’s try this again. Tell me an excruciating story involving your sister and little brother or I’ll describe a scenario that will bring something out of you.”
My chest elevates in a breath like I’m running in place. Not sitting. I drop my feet and let go of Baylee’s hand.
She glares at Geoffrey. “You can’t do this to him.”
Before he hones in on Bay like he’s tried before, I immediately stand up and sidestep, blocking her completely. I feel all of my cousins and my brother rise with me
“Luka,” Baylee protests, springing to her feet. I’m taller, so she’s hidden from Geoffrey.
Now I stand face-to-face with the motherfucker I loathe, a row of chairs separating us. Our eyes latched again, I cup my hands in front of me.
And he says, “I’ll describe a scenario then.”
“Go ahead,” I reply.
“You were six.”
My nose flares; I shake my head dazedly. “No.”
“No, what? You weren’t six?” (I was.)
The air is thin. Silent, a pin drop could be heard.
“Your sister was three.”
I snap, eyes ablaze—and I charge. Someone fists my shirt before I reach Geoffrey’s face. Yanking me backwards.
He’s smiling. “Your brother was five.”
I tear out of a cousin’s hold, or maybe it’s Sergei restraining me, my pulse beats and bleeds. “You motherfucker,” I sneer.
Geoffrey thinks he has a piece of me. A part of me that I don’t give anyone else. He’s cradling my anger and pain.
Just to use against me.
“You were in the Midwest for a few months.”
I rip out of another hand, and I storm forward, my pulse on searing ascent. I’m being dragged back again. My cousins yell in Russian for me to take a breath and stop, Luka. I’ll be fired if I hit him, but he should be fired and sucker-punched for all of this.
I can’t sit quietly by and let him run over me.
I can’t.
I can’t.
“Your parents became friends with a few locals while you all lived there.”
I somehow bolt out of my cousin’s grip, and I launch a right hook at Geoffrey—a strong hand clasps my wrist, stopping me.
“Fuck you!” I yell through my teeth, veins rising in my neck. My face reddened in ire, I can hardly see straight.
Geoffrey soaks in my raw, unfettering emotion, but he just keeps going. “They were invited to a neighborhood summer barbecue.”
“Is this what you want?!” I scream so loudly my lungs scald inside-out—someone wraps their arms around my collar. “You want to hear me yell?!” I thrash against a muscular build. “Well, fuck you, you motherfucker.”
“The party was unrelated to the circus or AE. Only your parents, four brothers, sister, and you went.”
I spew threats, screaming fuck yous, my chest bursting open. Hot tears scratch my eyes, and knives stake my insides. I want Geoffrey to stop speaking, but he’s not going to stop. My anger does nothing to hurt him. It just pummels me, and I’m growing cold.
And numb. A voice whispers in my ear, “Shhh.”
Raging tears drip off my chin, and I breathe. And breathe, my chest rising and falling heavily. Two arms swoop underneath mine, putting me in a body-lock, and then…their large palms cover my ears.
Protecting me.
I blink and blink, my widened, bloodshot eyes flitting to the forearm that holds me. I see a tattoo of a lightning bolt striking a tree, and I know.
It’s Sergei.
My brother is the one shielding me from Geoffrey’s words.
And I shut my eyes.
Geoffrey is gone. I can’t hear him. I can’t see him.
Quiet tranquility pours through me. At ease. Calm.
Peace.
My past is still mine to give. Mine to share. I breathe and breathe, in control. I feel more in control, and that’s what it is: a state of mind.
In this moment, I can reach my past. I can touch it myself.
Geoffrey isn’t prying into me. He didn’t rip it out. I can cradle it within my own assured hands.
I can remember. I remember being a kid. Being led upstairs with Timo and Kat to a game room. The kind with a pool table, foosball. The person who led us—it was the teenage son of the host. Barbecue neighborhood party, normal people. In a normal place.
What happened wasn’t normal. He took off his clothes—it’s blurry.
I don’t know.
I remember being naked. We were all naked. Confused. So fucking confused.
I was just a kid.
Later, we had to be told by adults that he touched himself, forced us to undress and to watch. But these memories sit repressed in my head. Trauma that I can’t fully reach, but it affects me—and Timo. Katya remembers nothing. Timo and I, we obsessively fixate on things but in different ways, craving control, and I can’t shut if off.
I’ll never be able to, but some days, many more days than most people can imagine, I feel empowered. I break free, and I hold onto those. I’m holding onto this moment.
Where I can think about it. Breathe deeply. Touch the past and not drop to my knees.
I’m okay.
I promise this time.