Girl on a Wire (9 page)

eleven

Goosebumps covered my exposed arms the next night as I navigated the maze of vehicles in the lot behind the big top. The cooler temperature reminded me that our current stop in North Carolina was a long way from humid Florida. Even in May, evening brought a slight chill here, and the Garcias’ home-on-wheels wasn’t anywhere near ours. But I knew right where to find it. I’d stretched my legs earlier, and paid close attention to where everyone was parked.

As I approached, I was reminded again that their RV was much nicer than ours. Newer, bigger, shinier—a reminder of the years of top engagements they’d played while we toured in obscurity. The lights were off, except for the back right window. The same side as the door, but I went for it instead.

I’d dressed casually to discourage suspicion, and now regretted it. I wanted to be wearing something that would give me a boost. An eye-catching outfit, more like a costume. But, no. This was perfect. Remy wouldn’t
get the impression I’d dressed for him from this ratty-for-me look of jeans and a faded vintage blouse. I wanted us to be on as even ground as possible. That was hard when he’d essentially rescued me on the bridge, and I was coming to him for help again.

My hand clenched in a fist, and I tapped my knuckles to the window glass once, then twice. I moved my palms up and down my arms to warm them, and blew out a sigh when nothing happened. I raised my fist to the window again, about to give it one last tap, when the curtain moved and the window snicked to the side, revealing a screen.

And Remy behind it. He was silhouetted against the light inside the room, and I had to move closer to get a look at him. His jaw was shadowed with a day of not shaving. His eyes were shadowed too, but they crinkled at the corners as he spoke.

“You planning on climbing through the window? Because getting this screen out won’t be easy.”

I molded my lips into a smile. “I’d prefer the door. But make it quick. Someone could see me out here.”

“Right.” He slid the window shut and the curtain dropped back into place.

I walked over to the door. If someone did bust me, I could always claim I didn’t know whose place it was. Well, that
might
have worked if the side of the RV hadn’t been decorated with giant overlapping murals featuring the previous generations of Flying Garcias
and
the current Love Brothers and Goddess. Fake Remy grinned out, flying across a background of fake spotlights.

Why didn’t we have murals? Right. Because we’d never been able to afford them.

Remy opened the door. “Come in.”

He turned sideways, so I had to slide in past him, our bodies brushing against each other as I moved up the stairs.

“Nice place,” I said.

It was immaculate. Pristine granite kitchen counters, longish dining room table attached to the wall, a large flat-screen mounted from the ceiling in the living room area, and a couch covered in satiny pillows that would’ve fit right in on the set of
Cleopatra
. According to one of Nan’s favorite tabloids, Elizabeth Taylor’s ghost made frequent appearances. If she needed a place to recline, she’d be right at home here.

Remy was watching me with an unreadable expression. There was nothing I hated more than an unreadable expression.

“So, what do you have to tell me?” I asked.

“I want to show you something.”

“Okay,” I said.

“It’s in my room.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

He shook his head. “I don’t. I mean . . . I’m not like that.”

“You’re telling me you’re not a Romeo?”

“Funny,” he said. “But yeah. I can’t stand guys like that.”

Who can?
But I shrugged the most casual shrug I could manage. A total lie, since there was nothing casual about my being here or the way I felt when I was around him. “Good to know. Lead on.”

He angled by me, and I followed him down the tight hallway. Some family photos were hung along the short hall, which reminded me the Garcias were a family more like mine than most. Sure, they had more space than we did, but not
so
much more. An RV was an RV was an RV. I notched my envy down a peg.

Then we were in his room. His and Novio’s, by the looks of the twin beds opposite each other. One was unmade, its built-in headboard shelf packed with a chaotic stack of paperback books with numbers on the spines. I picked one up and saw I’d guessed right—it was a mystery series. The other bed was neatly made with military corners, and a roll of wrist tape on the nightstand was the only personal effect.

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t come,” he said.

“You knew I’d come.”

“I didn’t.” He ran a hand through his short hair, making it a little messy. The movement told me he was nervous, even though he was decent at hiding it. He gestured to the made bed. “Have a seat.”

Have a seat on his bed.
Okay.
I did.

There were only a few feet between us.

“This room isn’t big enough for the two of us,” I said.

He countered. “Some people would say this circus isn’t either.”

Leave it at that.
“What was the first show you worked on?”

He blinked. “Big Apple, I think.”

“And straight to the Greatest after that?”

“I’m sure my mom has a scrapbook, if you want to see my baby pictures and relive my first catches. We worked all those shows, yes. But it wasn’t what you think. The performing was fine, but our training schedule sucked. It was brutal.” He paused for a second. “What you told me about learning to wire walk outside, pretending to be your hero? It sounded fun. More fun than any training we ever did when I was a kid.”

“Really?” I was fascinated by the glimpse at Garcia life. “You seem pretty close with your brother and sister.”

He nodded. “We grew up in the trenches together.”

“Come on. It couldn’t have been
that
bad.”

“My grandfather was our trainer until he died,” he said, as if that was enough explanation.

I sensed this was not the time to ask what that had been like. And silently thanked the universe that if my dad was a hard teacher, he was never a harsh one.

“Tell me why you came up on the bridge,” I said. “What made you notice the feather and think it was a problem?”

Remy dropped onto the unmade bed opposite me, and there we sat, so stiff we were more like marionettes than the latest generation of two circus dynasties.

He watched me closely as he spoke. “When you were up there”—he raised his hand—“you were in trouble, right?”

My dad had drilled it into me for many years: weakness was the one thing I could never show. Not to someone who was my competitor.

Remy waited.

I stood. It would be a mistake to admit anything had gone wrong. I tried to tell myself to walk away, to not mention Nan or the doubts she’d planted in my head. My plan was to walk back through the Garcia RV and out the door, never to return. But my feet were glued to the floor.

He said, “I swear I’ll never tell another soul, but I need to know. Were you in trouble?”

I knew I should leave. Everyone in my family, with the possible exception of Sam, would be telling me to make my exit right now. Instead, I sank back onto the bed. He’d already promised not to tell anyone what happened up there.

“I was in trouble,” I said. “Nan—my grandmother—has been off since we got here. She’s convinced someone is out to get us . . . with magic. Trust me, I know how it sounds. My dad believes her way of thinking is dangerous. He’d say that her doom and gloom must have affected me, and I think he’s right.” Now for the main question, the reason I was here. “But someone did plant that thing on me. Do you have any idea who?”

Remy held my gaze for a moment, and then he bent beside the unmade bed and pulled out a drawer beneath it. His white T-shirt showed off shoulders and arms as well formed as a sculpture. “I should just show you. It’ll be easier to explain that way.” Folded clothes filled the drawer to the brim.

So I was sitting on Novio’s bed, not his. I got up again, asked, “You’re going to show me your shirts?”

He ignored me, rummaging beneath the stacks of folded clothes. “Granddad passed away last year.”

“Roman Garcia. I’ve heard of him.” Legend had it, he’d been one of the best male flyers ever to work in the business.

I felt a pang of sadness for Remy that he’d already lost his grandfather. I couldn’t imagine losing Nan, but then again, I didn’t really have any other grandparents. Nan had never married, and Dad’s and his brother’s father took off before they were born and never came back. Mom’s parents had both passed away young. All I knew of them came from stories and photos. Mom had been raised by distant relations who’d come over to work with circus horses.

Remy held the clothes up with one hand while he carefully removed a corkboard from the bottom of the drawer with the other. The board was almost too big to fit the space, and he lifted it out awkwardly. The first nonsmooth move I’d ever seen him make.

“Our house is in Sarasota.” He held the board to his body so my view of the things hanging on it was blocked. “When we got to winter quarters to officially join the Cirque, I found this near our trunks and the other gear we brought across town from home. I’m almost sure I’m the only one who saw it. I don’t know if it was my mom’s or if it was my grandfather’s and she had it with her. Or if someone planted it with our stuff. I found it right on top, like it had been left there for us to discover. I . . . I snuck it away and hid it, as fast as I could. I didn’t want anyone else to see it. And no one ever acted like anything was missing, which means it could have come from anywhere.”

“What is it?”

In response, he laid it on his rumpled bed, a few of the photos and clippings pinned across the surface fluttering before they settled. I couldn’t make out the details from where I stood.

“Cops would call it a murder board,” he said.

“A what?”

“Sorry. That’s how I’ve thought of it. Too many mystery novels on the road.” He glanced over at the stack of books. “The trusty detective always cracks the case. And Mom watches
Law and Order
. All of them. I just mean evidence. It’s evidence.”

“Of what?”

“That’s what I don’t know. But it can’t be good. Murder boards never are.”

I stepped next to Remy. My shoulder brushed his. I dreaded seeing what was on the board, but couldn’t keep myself from looking.

The largest photo was of Dad, looking so light on the wire that it was as if his feet weren’t touching it. My semiblurry face and blonde hair were visible behind him. I must have been on tiptoe, doing one of our occasional duo sets. The picture couldn’t have been more than a year old.

Much of the rest of the board was taken up by black-and-white snapshots from decades ago, clearly taken long before the age of digital cameras. All of them featured performers. Two tiny girls, one standing on the other’s shoulders so her hand was high enough to rest on the flank of an enormous elephant wearing a fancy headdress. The girl highest up had a familiar-looking rose pinned to her chest. In another picture, a ring girl for Barnum wore an uneasy smile and a hat with a tall peacock feather. A third featured a group of clowns standing next to a leather steamer trunk that looked old and beat-up, with a distinctive pattern of gold studs embossed on the top. One of the clowns was mugging for the camera, holding up a square scarf with an exaggerated eyebrow raise.

The rose. A peacock feather. My breath caught in my throat.

There was also a faded newspaper clipping with the headline “Clowns fired after malfunction blinds three, kills two.” Another clipping read, “Elephant, ‘Tiny,’ kills two performers in escape.” And one more: “Ring girl dies in fall at 19.”

Remy reached out and tapped a washed-out photo I hadn’t noticed yet. It was creased at the edges in a way the others weren’t, like someone had handled it often. “This is an old picture of my grandparents,” he said.

A handsome young man with broad shoulders easily held a smiling beauty perched on his forearm, while his other hand extended forward with the palm open, something in it glinting in the camera’s flash or the sun.

I turned from the board, my breath still caught. I released it. “What do you think this means?”

“I saw the feather in your hair when we were in the crowd, walking toward the tower. I thought it must be a joke,” Remy said. “I wasn’t going to say anything to you, even after I saw it. I didn’t think any of this meant anything. I assumed the board was someone messing with us, or maybe something my grandfather would have kept. But . . . now, I don’t know . . . These photos are like proof of some of the stories people tell about your grandmother. Proof that the accidents happened.”

Anger rose up in me. “You saw the peacock feather. Why didn’t you tell me on the bridge that it was something you thought was linked to my grandmother?”

His expression was pained. “I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. I didn’t want to talk nonsense. Because the thing is, I don’t believe in magic either—it seems crazy. But my grandparents always did. My mom does. And then, I saw the feather, and you were up there and you stopped. And I thought, What if the board does mean something? What if that ring girl died because of the peacock feather? Or the others? That picture of you and your dad . . . I didn’t even know who it was for sure until you guys showed up in Sarasota. That’s why I came over to dance with you during the masquerade party. To see if you knew us.”

“I’d heard of the Garcias, that we . . . didn’t get along,” I said. “But I knew almost nothing about you.” I examined the ominous collection of items on the board again.

“My mom was beside herself when she heard the Maronis had been hired. I thought maybe she could finally let the past go after Granddad died. He was her dad, and he was as hard on her as on us. But your family’s name brings out the worst in her.”

“Do you think she would . . .” I didn’t want to finish the accusation, and I didn’t have to.

“No. I can’t imagine my mom
doing
anything to you, besides being unhappy you’re here. But somebody made this board, and whoever it was might. So before I knew what I was doing, there I was, climbing that bridge tower. Just in case.”