2. Arlo
CHAPTER TWO
ARLO
Ilove the circus.
Ever since I was a child, thanks to my mother, it’s been a place I find exciting and comforting, wondrous and powerful. No two circuses are the same, and that’s why they’re so stimulating. It’s not often that they come to this small city.
My feet have fallen in time with Micha’s as we cross the road, and when I turn to look up at him, he has a grim expression on his face. He’s not the biggest fan of the circus, but he makes the sacrifice for me.
When the back of my hand not-so-accidentally brushes the back of his, I feel sparks zip up my arm. He looks down at me to meet my gaze, and the corner of his lips lifts in this smirk that always makes my heart pound. Before I can focus on that feeling, I pull away.
It doesn’t matter what I secretly feel for this man. It doesn’t matter what he pretends he feels for me with his wandering eyes. The unspoken connection will remain unspoken. He’s made it clear that he’s not interested in me that way.
We approach the back of the queue as my heartbeat quickens. That classic carnival tune that people seem to find creepy blares out of hidden speakers, and there are murky red and green swirls everywhere we look.
There’s a group of clowns circulating the queue, interacting with their audience before they fill the tent.
Micha hates clowns. I’ve never understood why he’s so freaked out by them; I’ve always enjoyed the different outfits, the various ways they do their make-up—it’s all intriguing.
Everyone’s been raving about this circus. The ‘circus from hell’ they call it. Some have been utterly confused about how they pull it off. Not to mention the fact that they showed up out of the blue and nobody from around here has ever heard of them before. But then I guess this is a tiny city.
“Creepy fuckers,” Micha mutters.
I can’t help but laugh beneath my breath.
Micha’s always been tall, at least ever since we met in our late teens, and considerably stronger than me, but he’s more unnerved by the smaller things than I am.
Face him with someone breaking into the apartment we share?
He’s fine. Put a clown mask on his desk? He’ll burn the place down.
“Don’t worry. I’m here to protect you.” I nudge his ribs.
“You protect me, huh? You couldn’t protect me from a paper bag, Pipsqueak.”
I ignore the way his teasing makes me feel, turning to look at the big poster pinned on the side of the circus tent that I’ve seen plastered all around town. It shows clowns, fire-breathers, tightrope walkers, and, in the middle, is the reason why I’ve been so entranced by this particular circus.
The star of the show.
Atop her head is a neon pink and green jester hat, with two pink balls that she holds between her long fingers, but the whole ensemble almost looks like hair, like two great thick pigtails.
Her skin is a very pale blue. She’s dressed in a tight, black, off-the-shoulder jumpsuit paired with a ruffled collar around her throat, and her feet are bare.
Her face is what hooked me. Her smile is unnaturally wide, her dark blue lips pulled up by stitches in the corners, and her green eyes glow so bright, even through the poster, that I feel like they’re staring into my soul.
I’ve never seen anything like it. The make-up team here must be insane.
I didn’t tell Micha that she’s the reason I’m so excited to come.
Despite the teasing and the non-relationship, I know he can get jealous and possessive.
He didn’t want to put a label on what’s happening between us, and he decided to break my heart by shutting it down, so I’m free to do whatever I want—which includes staring at sexy clown-jester-girl-thingy.
I don’t know what it is about her on the poster that has me so transfixed.
I caught myself staring a little too closely one time.
It doesn’t look like make-up on the poster.
It looks, dare I say, real. But Micha would laugh at me if I admitted that out loud, or if I admitted that I’m obsessed with some circus performer.
As soon as we’ve passed the ticket stand—which Micha obviously pays for—we’re enveloped in that caramel popcorn smell, and the music intensifies.
Micha doesn’t like loud noises. He’d rather spend his time in his room or working.
He works nights as a security guard on a graveyard.
I don’t understand how he enjoys his job so much, but I don’t question it. He’s always been a dark and scary guy.
He’s also too proud to admit that this makes him uncomfortable. He’ll just grumble and grouse.
We’re fairly early, so we find a seat in the front row. There are clowns in the centre who are performing interactive acts for the few of us that have arrived. Nothing I haven’t seen before. I’m itching with excitement for what seems to be the main act—her.
“I don’t understand why you enjoy these so much,” Micha mumbles, uncomfortably settling into his seat.
“I’ve told you,” I moan. “They’re fun and exciting.”
What I don’t say is that my mum was obsessed with them. We used to go every year before… Before she died.
It’s a sensitive topic between me and Micha.
When the seats are full and the lights dim, I focus on the centre of the stage. My heart pounds ten times harder when that feeling of anticipation washes over me.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Are you excited for the show tonight?”
I’m a part of the excited crowd as we shout, “Yes!”
The booming voice circling the massive tent turns into a person when the ringmaster struts on stage, dressed in a red tailcoat with gold infringements and a microphone in his hand.
“I asked if you are excited for the show tonight?” he shouts, and we reply with a louder confirmation.
The atmosphere binds my bones, memories of my mother and I making me smile sadly as the ringmaster goes through his classic routine.
His words fade to background noise when I feel Micha’s thigh press up against mine, and my exhale trembles.
He’s nasty. He knows exactly how to make me react, and it’s unfair.
Before that desperate feeling of want can take hold, I remind myself of his recent rejection and pull away abruptly, pushing myself to the opposite edge of my seat. He frowns, but I refocus on the circus.
When the ringmaster bows and walks out the back of the tent, the tension around the open space thrums with anticipation, the music amplifying. Micha grimaces against the loud noise, but I lean forward, awaiting what’s to come.
Disappointment curls deep in my stomach when I’m not greeted with the girl from the poster.
Four hoops are lowered from the ceiling, women in leotards sitting on the bottom of each bar with crossed legs.
They reach up and grab the top of the hoop, extending their legs before flipping back over the top.
The crowd enjoys it, screaming and applauding at their strength and flexibility.
Four men run onto stage, catching the girls as they drop from the hoops. They form different sequences of acrobatics, getting on each other’s shoulders or standing on their hands.
Clowns creep around the edge of the stage with balloons and cotton candy, entertaining the smaller children as the adults fixate on the tightrope walkers. Well, all the adults bar Micha, who tracks each clown like he’s personally planning their assassination.
After a man swallows various sizes of swords, the wheel of death is brought into the centre, a pair of clowns inside running against it and doing somersaults. Still, I feel like I’m waiting for something better.
Micha leans in to meet me, his mouth getting dangerously close to my ear when he says, “Are you enjoying it, Pipsqueak?” My heart stammers. His breath skimming over my skin forces goosebumps to rise.
I can’t reply, my words caught in my throat. I force a swallow and nod. Only then does he move away, and I exhale.
When the performers jump off the wheels and bow dramatically, the lights lower to nearly pitch black, and the fun carnival music that we’ve been listening to lowers alongside it. The wheel is removed, the dimmed lights raise to set the dark tone, and the music becomes slower.
I feel it. This is it.
A single piece of red silk drops from the ceiling. It hangs there, rippling from the momentum before stilling as we all wait.
Slowly descending from the top of the silk, near the roof of the tent, is what I’ve been waiting for this entire time. I see her pink and green hair in the low light and her fitting dark jumpsuit, but her face is shadowed.
Fingers cling to the fabric as she lowers herself, everyone gasping as they see the lack of protection she has.
It’s solely her hand, holding her up over fifty metres.
When she’s halfway down the silk, she hooks her foot beneath the fabric, kicking it up and spinning to wrap it around her thigh and ankle.
She drops. There’s a collective gasp, but she’s secured her leg, holding both her arms out in a performative stance that sends the crowd into cheers as she dangles by one appendage wrapped in silk.
My heart pounds as I watch her. She’s incredible. Smooth and silk-like with her movements. The way she manipulates the fabric as if it belongs to her mind is hypnotic. When the bright white spotlight turns on, she’s revealed, and my obsession heightens upon seeing her so clearly.
I can feel Micha’s eyes on the side of my head, never leaving.
The circus girl unravels rapidly, making the crowd fear for her again, but she catches the silk and lets it spin her body as three sets of bars descend around her.
She swings back and forth on the silk before jumping to the first one, flipping herself to balance on top of it with one hand, her legs dropping as she performs the splits upside down, twenty feet in the air.
“Damn,” Micha mutters, and I think that’s the first semi-positive word I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth at the circus.
She jumps from pole to pole, performing different acrobatics on each one before they begin to lower, until she drops to the ground, immediately diving forward to flip herself over in a walkover.
Her movements aren’t as languid anymore. There’s a jerkiness to them.
The tip of a pink tongue traces against her teeth, sharp and jagged and surely not real.
The audience is screaming, crazy for her and what she can do with her body. I’ve never seen anyone so flexible.
There’s no chance to properly look at her face now that she’s on my level before she bends herself in half backwards, pressing her forearms on the ground behind her head. Her thick pink and green pigtails hang upside down, and she stays in position as the crowd claps.
She walks upside down on her feet and forearms, nearing the edge of the ring until she’s almost directly ahead of me, facing me, and when she opens her eyes, my breath catches in my throat.
Glowing green eyes land on me, staring into my soul, and Micha’s don’t leave the side of my head.
Ensnared.