Girl on a Wire (7 page)

“Cheesy.” He gave an eye roll.

“What can I say? I was born with a theatrical instinct.”

I punched his arm, and he let me.

I was reminded we were alone. No one else was here.

One hand—well, one finger, actually—would be sufficient to count the number of boys I’d been alone with that I wasn’t related to. The two of us were making a habit of it.

So it was probably for the best that voices approached outside. The crew, coming to set up the dressing tables. Yes, definitely for the best, since it made us step apart. That was what I told myself.

“Break a leg tomorrow,” Remy said.

And before I could say I didn’t plan on it, he was gone.

eight

The process of getting ready conspired to make me late the next day. I finished adjusting my hot-off-the-sewing-machine outdoor walking costume in the full-length mirror in Mom and Dad’s room.

The costumer had made it beautifully, if much faster than she wanted. It was fitted and covered in flat red sequins. A square neckline gave way to sleeves that would stave off any chills from potential breezes, above a short straight skirt those winds wouldn’t budge, with slits to the waist on either side for ease of movement. I wore a pair of leggings underneath and my best pair of slippers. With one last tug on the sleeves, I ran—glittering—through the RV.

“I’m coming! Let’s go!” I shouted as I flew out the door, slamming it shut behind me.

“We thought you might need a ride,” Mom said.

She was on Beauty, her favorite mare. Beauty was saddled with an ornate leather contraption, a shock of red and gold feathers shooting off the bridle at her milky forehead.

I would have sworn Mom’s eyes were shining with tears. Which I did not want. I was already crackling with nervous energy. I believed I could do this, but what if I couldn’t? What if something went wrong? What if there was truth to what Nan said, and old magic that might put me in greater danger
did
exist?

There isn’t. It doesn’t. You’re going to prove it.

“All right,” I agreed, not thrilled about it. I did need
a ride, just not this particular one.

Mom smiled. She knew I wasn’t good with horses. She’d tried turning me into a rider when I was a kid, but all I’d done was kick and scream whenever she made an attempt to lift me into the saddle. It might have broken her heart, for a day or two, when I climbed onto the wire for the first time.

“How far behind schedule are we?” I didn’t want Thurston to think I’d changed my mind.

I put my foot in the stirrup, and Mom helped pull me on behind her. “We will be right on time.” She clicked her tongue and gave a command in Russian. Beauty bounced into a trot across the field. Mom’s ponytail swished in my face. We hit the sidewalk, the horse’s hooves clattering on concrete. Mom called back to me, “
Solnyshka
, you do not have to do this to make us proud. You know that?”

My answer was light. “But you
will
be proud, right?”

I was glad I was behind her, because I could hear the shiny tears in her answer. “I am always proud of you, my brave girl.”

“Mom . . . I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“If anything happens to you”—she paused, then—“I’ll kill your father.”

We both laughed, though she probably wasn’t joking.

The parade lineup came into view beside the river. Orange traffic cones blocked entry to the bridge connecting this side of the waterfront to the city. A couple of police cars were parked sideways to send a message: No Admittance. The herd of performers waited on this side, so bright and wonderful in the full sun that I almost regretted I wouldn’t be crossing into downtown among them—even if they were probably glad to have one less Maroni in their number.

There was the silver-haired older lady ironically named Kat, wearing her epauletted uniform and surrounded by a half dozen of her dogs, barking and running around everyone’s feet in excitement. The Chinese acrobats wore their dragon-covered costumes, holding long streamers to wave in the air when they weren’t doing flips or when they were walking on each other’s shoulders. The clowns, diamonds of red greasepaint on their faces, stood near them on stilts covered by ballooning white silk pants. They towered over the Garcias, decked out in their pink and red and black. I scoured their group and finally picked out Remy, standing next to Novio and clearly making the blonde twins laugh. Dita wore a bow tie with her costume. The fact that it clashed with her skintight sequined number made me think that her mom probably didn’t approve of it any more than she had Remy’s quad attempt.

And there was Dad, striding out of the pack toward us, with Thurston in full ringmaster garb at his side. I’d already seen Thurston earlier, when he met Dad and me in the morning to discuss the wire setup with the crew. Since then, Dad had been here supervising.

Thurston outpaced Dad to meet us, a wireless mic clipped to his collar. “Good timing,” he said to us. “One of those cops is getting nervous. I’m afraid he’s going to call someone. Vonia.” He nodded at Mom in greeting.

“We’ll be right here the whole time,” she said, quietly.

“I know.” I slipped off Beauty as Sam, wearing the fringed ensemble he donned to assist with getting the horses in and out of the ring, clopped over on another of Mom’s mares.

Thurston rattled on, “I was almost afraid our star here had decided not to—”

“Do I look like a chicken?” I interrupted. When Sam opened his mouth to give a smart-ass answer, I gave him a good-natured dose of Bette Davis dragon: “Not a real question, Sam.” I made sure Thurston was listening before I went on. “This was my idea. We’re late because I
just
got my costume. No other reason.”

“I was going to say, ‘No, you don’t look like you just came from a henhouse,
’
” Sam said. He grinned. “It was supposed to be a compliment.”

I met Dad’s eyes, gave him a nod to let him know I was solid. He gave me one back that said he’d never questioned it for a second. It did more than anything else to make me feel ready.

“Good,” Thurston said, chastened. “Like I said, we have a nosy cop, and we need to get things moving. I had to pretend we have a helicopter that’s going to fly over and drop a banner onto the wire.”

Sam snorted. “What moron would believe that?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Eccentric rich guy only goes so far. Let’s get a move on.” Thurston motioned toward the colorful crowd. Dad put a hand on my shoulder, squeezed, but that was it.

None of them bothered with questions, with last-minute good lucks or be carefuls or offers to stay with me until I went up. Maybe we were all too superstitious to do it. Or maybe it’s just wiser not to consider the worst-case implications of anything we do, not right before we go on. I knew Nan was watching from the other side of the bridge. Maybe she’d keep her chipped fingernails crossed for me.

The bridge was painted a vibrant blue. A steel structure made up of crisscrossing beams stretched in a long arc over the deeper blue waters of the Saint Johns River, the two towers rising on either side of its middle section like some giant’s Erector set.

As we approached, the circus’s band arranged themselves at the back of the pack. They had brought the horn section and a portable drum along. When Thurston lifted his hand and signaled, they began to play. The sound was bright, horns blazing.

We surged forward with the parade onto the four lanes of pavement, blue metal beams crossing over our heads, a large chaotic group under control for the moment. The switch into performance mode was complete in a blink.

Thurston shepherded me to the front of the pack. He was talking, but I wasn’t absorbing a word he said. Someone jostled against my other side, and there was a tug at the low knot of my hair at the base of my neck. But when I turned, no one was anywhere near me. I caught Remy’s eye over my shoulder, and he gave me a slight frown. I resisted the urge to wave.

Thurston and I sped into a jog to outdistance the others. They’d crawl along until I was in position and couldn’t be stopped, the better to prevent any interruptions by the authorities. We stopped below the first of the towers.

The tower began well above the roadway, poised on the sixteen-foot metal “ceiling” of the bridge. The innards of the column were full of levers and cables, equipment for its actual purpose—to raise the entire middle section so tall ships could pass underneath. A nylon ladder the workmen had left for me dangled at eye level. There’d be a match to it on the opposite tower.

And I’d be alone once I reached the top. The workmen, Thurston, my dad—they had no place in what was coming next. That was all on me.

Only then did I really stop and look up through the metal bars at the wire itself. I knew it hung at exactly 170 feet, attached to the bottom lip of the tower’s top portion, instead of at the very top. That positioning offered more insulation from the wind without affecting the jaw-dropping visual that would be enjoyed by people watching from downtown. Thick braces punctuated the wire at three places, and guide wires clamped to the sides of the bridge below to keep the line stable.

The main wire was steady, with the slightest, unavoidable sway from the gentle spring wind and the length of it. I just had to be steady too.

“My PR team is the best in the country,” Thurston said. “You’re going up Julieta Maroni, but you’ll come down one of our biggest stars.”

Cottonball clouds drifted in a blue, nearly windless sky, and the sun shining through the gaps in the structure traced a dappled pattern over the pavement, my arms, my face.

“You know just what a girl wants to hear.” No use telling him I was mostly interested in how the people at the Cirque would treat the Maroni family after this. The general public was the last thing on my mind.

I took a breath and motioned for Thurston to give me a boost. He lifted me at the waist, and I grabbed hold of the highest rung I could reach, pulling up until my feet found the bottom rung.

While I climbed, I concentrated on trying to find the calm
place inside. It was a long way up, and I listened as the front of the parade passed beneath me, felt the nylon rungs straining against my fingers. Finally I levered myself off onto the flat lip of the ledge. I shook out the stiffness in my hands, did my best to shake off tension.

The moment of no turning back: I reached down and unclipped the edges of the ladder, letting it fall to the waiting arms below.

Needless to say, the platform hadn’t been constructed for a picnic. It was sturdy but small, and I walked cautiously to reach my balance pole, which lay nestled inside a metal lip along the back. Dad had also left me a towel and gym chalk. I recoated my palms and the soles of my feet and dusted the bottoms of my slippers clean with the towel before I put them back on. Then I hefted the long pole carefully, letting my arms become accustomed to the weight.

I didn’t usually use a pole. But for a walk this high, it was pretty much a requirement. This one was standard size, twenty feet long and forty pounds. That might sound too long or too heavy, but those are the things that provide the extra stability. I wasn’t Bird, able to do this with a parasol and a smile. At least not yet.

I eased back to the edge of the platform, directly in front of the wire. The joyfully blaring horn section passed below. They nearly drowned out the shouting, which I’m sure was their intention. I caught sight of Thurston arguing with a police officer. The cop gestured angrily up to me, yelling, “You! You up there, stop!”

There was nothing for me to do about that, except hurry.

Still, I took a moment to mess around with my grip on the pole, shifting my palms an inch this way, an inch that, until it felt solid. Until my center of
balance did too. Only then did I examine the flat horizon in front of me, the one I intended to walk into.

The world usually seems small from high on the wire. But from that height, it seemed enormous, like it could swallow me in an instant. Maybe it was a trick of the sparkling blue river water below—I’d only ever seen solid ground underneath me. The increasing volume of the shouts below told me it was time. It was now, or not at all. Once I got out on the wire, we didn’t have to worry about cops interrupting. We didn’t have to worry that I’d turn chicken.

One more breath, and I took my first step, letting my foot learn the feel of this wire. And then slowly, slowly, I placed my other foot in front of it. Lightly, lightly as a butterfly, I moved forward, the platform left behind. One step, and another. And another.

Everything faded into the background except the weight of the pole, the easy sigh of the wind, the nothing scent of the air, and my feet, one in front of the other, one in front of the other, smooth and steady. There was no skyline, no tall buildings reflecting light beyond, no choppy water below. No clouds. No birds. No music. No nerves.

There was nothing but the wire fixed to the opposite platform. One I had to reach, by going steady and smooth. Smooth and steady.

And that’s how it went, me feeling like time had vanished, that the only thing that marked the passing seconds was my forward movement, my progress toward the other side. The walk was going exactly as planned, and the bigness of the moment surrounded me.

I was doing this. I. Was. Doing. This.

I’d reached the homestretch, a good two-thirds of the way across, when I noticed the slight tremble in my arms. It wasn’t the pole’s weight—sure, it was heavy, and I didn’t practice with it that often, but I was strong enough to hold it. There shouldn’t have been a problem.

A rivulet of sweat ran down my forehead, dripped into my eye. I blinked at the burn, and I paused. I stopped where I was, and the tremble became all I could notice. Except the sweat. And the wild pounding of my heart.

The wire under my feet was still stable, but I felt the opposite. Then I made a mistake. I shifted my focus away from the platform. I looked down, and everything swam for a moment, like a picture coming into and out of focus.

It’s not like you can take a break in the middle of a high-wire walk two hundred feet above a river and not risk freaking people out. But I had to do it anyway.

Breathing the dizziness away, I made sure my back foot was stable. I couldn’t slip. Once I was sure of it, I picked up my other foot and held it off the wire, an inch. Maybe two.

Then I bent the leg I still stood on, dangling the foot that was already off the wire. I resisted tightening my grip on the pole as I lowered myself to a crouch. I eased my thigh onto the wire, knee bent at a slight angle, and rested there for a moment.

My head felt woozy. There were shouts from far away, from somewhere below. My family would wonder what I was doing. This was an acceptable form of showing off on an open air walk that was going well, as long as I didn’t take too long. They wouldn’t immediately assume a problem, but they’d be worrying. I saw my mom’s face, remembered her vow to kill Dad if anything went wrong. I heard Nan’s warnings echo in my ears.