Girl in the Shadows (6 page)

Once the crowd was assembled—midway, Cirque performers, and actual audience—Thurston spoke again. “I’m excited to show you a new marvel we’ve brought along this year, a Ferris wheel inspired by the original.” He stepped into a small operating control center at the base of the wheel and pulled a large lever.

We gasped.

Lights flared to life along each of its arms, stretching high into the sky above us. White, red, and gold. The paint on the cars themselves was blue, and the rest of the frame painted white. Like a visual hat tip to the Cirque.

“And I’m happy to introduce one of our favorite marvels, to open the season with all due grandeur.” Thurston pointed up, and we strained to look where he indicated. The top of the wheel was higher than the tent—two hundred feet up, at a guess.

A girl in a short blue dress stepped free of the very top spire of the big top, balancing a long pole across her arms. Only then did we see the wire that ran from the tent to the Ferris wheel, angled up because of the massive machine’s height.

Jules didn’t waver as she moved out onto the wire toward the wheel.

She didn’t pause or slow. She took one step and then another. And another.

I felt someone jostle me, and I looked over, expecting to see Dez. But it was Dita and Remy. Remy gazed up, starry-eyed. Dita punched his arm. “You knew and you didn’t say anything!” she said.

Remy didn’t look away from his girlfriend.

Who could blame him? It was hard to look away from her, riveting-high above us. She placed each foot so surely, continuing to walk upward at a slight angle. The crowd around us cheered in delight at the spectacle.

It wasn’t her bridge walk, but it was just as grand. In fact, I liked this more. It made her more a
part
of the circus. I couldn’t have spoken for the rest of the company, but I got more excited with each step she took.

Soon it would be our turn.

Soon we would take custody of this audience.

She’d done us all the best favor in the world—as long as we were up to the challenge of not being a letdown after this.

There was a lesson for me here: Jules had come out of nowhere and made herself a name by being bold. What she was doing up there was dangerous, and she did it anyway. Watching her, I felt like I could do the same.

seven

The midway was set to stun.

A modern sideshow act had its fire-eaters onstage as I passed, all six swallowing flames they’d designed to burn a variety of colors while wearing elaborate, fantastical makeup and costumes that made them as much creatures as people. It was far cleverer than the goth Renaissance Faire twists I’d seen on these things at showcases back home.

I was nervous, given my catastrophic audition. But I didn’t have a choice. My job required me to attempt a trick, pray I got it right, rinse, repeat. After seeing what Jules had done, I’d run back to the Airstream to grab my straitjacket. Before using it, I wanted to try something simple, find my performing legs again.

I picked a spot between stages, set the straitjacket down on the ground behind me, and removed a fresh deck. Then I waved to a family walking by. “Would you like to help me with a quick trick?”

A little boy grabbed the arm of a bearded man beside him and said, “You have to, Dad!”

The guy shrugged. “Sure.” As they came closer, he added, “I’ve never seen a girl magician before.”

No kidding.
“Prepare to be extra-amazed, then,” I said, forcing a smile.

I gave a showy shuffle of the cards, then removed my handcuffs from my pockets and secured my left wrist, clicking the cuffs shut. “Test these, please. And close the right side.” The man completed the task.

We’d attracted more of a crowd, which made me part relieved, part extra-nervous. The people spread in a semi-circle around me and my volunteer. I fanned the cards, hoping they were impressed by my wearing handcuffs while I did it.

My plan was to execute the same trick that had eluded me at my audition. It was simple enough aside from the cuffs, and I needed to prove to myself that I could do it when it counted. “Pick a card,” I said, “but don’t let me see it.”

The man dithered over which one to choose, moving his hand back and forth. Finally, he plucked a card free, cupping it close to him.

“Look at it. Remember it,” I said.

He did, peeking carefully—as if that would prevent me from figuring it out. The little boy tugged on his arm, and he bent to show it to him too.

“Now put it back into the deck.”

He straightened and slid it carefully back among the other cards.

I showboated with my shuffling, earning gratifying applause at one point. I made the cards dance to the extent possible with the cuffs, a controlled waltz from side to side in front of me, up and down, arranged and rearranged. “You’ve seen me thoroughly shuffle, correct?”

The bearded man nodded, and the crowd did too. My worry remained, but I saw the thread of something else, the thread of what I wanted. Amazement.

I pulled on the card I was certain would be the man’s. I let the rest of the cards fall dramatically around my feet. And I held up that single card.

“Was your card the two of clubs?” I asked.

The man smiled. “It was. It was!”

The rest of the crowd applauded.

Whew.
I could still do magic, in front of people even.

I gathered up the fallen cards and worked my way from the midway’s far end toward the big top slowly and steadily, doing card and coin tricks, usually in handcuffs. The tangle of performers who’d been outside the big top during auditions had grown and morphed into an alternately roving and stationary arrangement of wonders.

This new world would require navigation. I’d have to map it each time I worked the crowd. Smaller tents and open-air stages dotted the sides in some sort of genius irregular pattern that must have been deliberate, if only you were Thurston, its architect. The Ferris wheel sat in the inexact center. The entire setup was designed to give an intriguing, memorable journey to the circus tent.

Dez’s stage was just past the Ferris wheel, prime real estate he’d probably charmed his way into. The wheel was an instant megahit, in constant operation with a long line of people waiting. I spotted a TV camera. It was currently filming the over-the-top, charismatic Dez.

After a moment’s hesitation, I walked to the back of the crowd and lingered to see his act. I should have known better.

He was in full charm mode, escorting a woman with her hair dyed a bright turquoise from the large gathered crowd—mostly female, I noted—up onto the stage. She was blushing at whatever he’d said. He motioned for her to lift her arms and placed the straps over her wrists, the exact same way he’d done for me the other day. Grinning Brandon was at the edge of the stage.

Dez spoke up, so the crowd could hear. “It takes real bravery to stand motionless while knives are being flung at you. Which is why I help out with a little light bondage. But Kristy assures me she’s ready and not at all afraid.”

Good for her.
If that was true, she needed to be more suspicious of charming boys. So did I. The penny Dez had pressed into my palm earlier was tucked away in my pocket. Which made me feel increasingly dumb. Though maybe it was an okay kind of dumb to be?

I could deny it all I wanted, but I liked Dez’s attention. The assistants back in Vegas would have had lots of advice to give me backstage.
Moira,
they’d say,
don’t fall for his lines. They’re just lines.

In this imaginary conversation, I replied,
But what if they aren’t?

Dez swept a gaze out at the audience and . . . caught me watching. Maybe. A slight frown flitted over his face. Again, maybe. He was back in stage mode too quickly to be sure.

He lazily juggled a trio of knives, adding a fourth. They flashed like the sharp threats they were as the lights caught them at the highest part of the arc.

Then he began to throw.

The jaw-dropping effect was as strong from the audience point of view as from the target board. Though not as heart-pounding.

Kristy, the audience girl, flinched only once, and Dez clucked at her not to move. I knew I shouldn’t be standing here. I should leave. I fully expected him to make a heart shape around her, like he had around me. The thing he’d
claimed
I inspired.

It would only underline the fact that I wasn’t anything special to him. But a perverse need to see whether I was right made me stay rooted where I was.

And, yes, when she stepped away from the board, he had done just that. The knives formed a pretty yet sinister heart shape. He took her hand, and she bowed, blushing.

I bolted for the space in front of the next tent, my cheeks red too. This was another excellent reminder that I wasn’t here for distractions like Dez. I was here to work. Dumb was dumb.

The Cirque’s performance would start soon enough, the midway wrapping up. Thurston didn’t want us in direct competition. The crowd would be ushered out from a side exit at the end of the show, so that they didn’t end up on the dark and deserted midway.

People were beginning to flock toward the tent, tickets in hand. I held the straitjacket in front of me, making it clear I was about to do something with it, and marched to the very entrance of the circus tent.

When I got there, I took a deep breath, and then turned to face a not-small audience who’d gathered around.

“We think of Harry Houdini when we talk of the art of escape,” I said.

I dropped the straitjacket and removed my coat—taking the handcuffs out and handing them to a little girl in a
Frozen
T-shirt at the front of the pack. “Can you hang on to these for me?” I asked her.

She nodded solemnly and took them.

“But many women have also completed escapes just as great as Houdini’s,” I said, projecting my voice. “From a woman named Minerva in the 1900s, who Houdini had shut down because she was competition, to Dorothy Dietrich, one of the greatest escape artists of all time, still alive today. And what’s a favorite to escape from? The straitjacket.” I picked it up so they could see it. “You can see why. The sleeves are sewn shut at the ends to prevent use of the hands, and are then pulled tight across the front of the chest and fastened in the back. Additional straps at the back and through the legs make it impossible even for someone with adrenaline surging through their body, increasing their strength tenfold, to get free. The inescapability of a straitjacket is the whole point.”

I held out my hands to the little girl and waved her forward. A face-painter had left an elephant on her cheek, the only place you’d find one of those noble giants at the Cirque. “Do the handcuffs feel real?” I asked her. “Are they strong?”

She nodded, blue eyes giant. Her willowy mother had one hand on her shoulder but didn’t protest.

“And would you take a look at this straitjacket and confirm that it feels real too? If it’s okay with your mom.”

The little girl eagerly stepped forward, and the woman removed her hand to let her.

As if I’d assigned her the world’s most important task, she did as I asked. She pulled at the canvas with her small hands, tested the straps. She still held my cuffs, the small key protruding from the lock.

Randomly, I found myself thinking again of the penny Dez had given me, still in my pants pocket.
I was a fool for keeping it in the first place. I should give it to the little girl. Get rid of it.

I didn’t.

“Are you satisfied there’s no trick to this garment?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she said, her voice as small as she was but steady and confident.

“Now,” I said, and swallowed for effect, faking nervousness about what was to come. “I’ll need two volunteers to help me get into the straitjacket.”

The little girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve, and the woman stepped forward. A frat-type boy in cargo shorts was the other volunteer. They picked up the straitjacket. “Just pull it onto my arms and into place,” I instructed.

Who knew what might happen with me trapped inside the straitjacket?

But my magic had been MIA all day, so it was a chance I decided to take. I raised my arms to fit into the long sleeves. The angle was important; I kept my shoulders wide, pulling as much air as I covertly could into my lungs. A small amount of wiggle room could make all the difference in an escape, no matter what the restraint.

There was an awkward moment as they negotiated holding on to each side, and then the rough canvas slipped across my skin. The woman stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the crowd until they’d pulled the jacket all the way on.

“Great job,” I said. “Now I need you to tighten all the straps. Don’t make it easy for me to do this—really make them tight.”

I subtly refilled my lungs as soon as I was done talking, before they started their new assignment.

“I don’t see how it could be too easy, but okay,” the frat boy said. He got a little too much enjoyment out of vigorously testing each one to make sure it was tight enough, yanking hard. I paid careful attention to the position of my elbows as they secured the arm straps, faking resistance a fraction earlier than it would’ve naturally occurred.

Once they were finished, I released my breath.

“You’re both satisfied there’s no way for me to get out of this without practicing the art of escape?” I asked.

The woman and the guy both nodded, and so did most of the crowd. I had them invested.

One of the things that makes a straitjacket escape in plain view so effective is the crowd’s certainty it’s not a trick. And it’s not, not really. It’s a true escape.

The people in the audience invest because they can’t imagine any possible way they’d get out of the restraints the escape artist is in. They expect the person to get free but have no idea how it will be accomplished. That’s what makes it magic, and not a simple physical feat.

“Does someone mind starting a stopwatch on their phone?” I asked.

The willowy lady held hers up. “Ready?” she asked.

“Go,” I told her.

I began to work. Sweat streaked down my face. The straitjacket was like a pressure cooker in the humidity.

This wasn’t an escape for the weak.

The crowd around me had hushed entirely, and I strained to keep my focus. Any escape could be flubbed if you allowed yourself to be distracted. Any escape involving real restraints—like the ones I was currently in, fraction of wiggle room or not—could cause serious injury without the right level of care.

A bright flash in the crowd caught my eye, and I realized the news crew had migrated down here to film me.

I swallowed back an admonition for them to stop. The odds Dad would see some local affiliate’s coverage were slim. And I could take pleasure in bumping any footage of Dez. Assuming I managed to.

Assuming I nailed this escape.

I wiggled my upper arm, constrained to the front of my body, using that slight amount of play I’d arranged to have. I pressed my elbow up with sheer will, and a little more, and a little more, grinding it inch by inch toward my head, the second arm following because it had no choice, with the hand of the arm I was moving beneath it.

There were uncomfortable groans and noises of worry as I began to twist and writhe and work to get free.

I pushed up and slipped my head under my arms, bringing them both above my head and then around to my front. A familiar blaze of pain flared. Contrary to popular belief, dislocating a shoulder isn’t necessary for this escape, but that doesn’t mean it feels like a nice day in the sunshine.

The crowd clapped.

Scanning them, I let the discomfort pass. The hardest part was over. Now it was down to undoing the buckles and straps. Still complicated, but the home stretch.

Until I glanced into the crowd and recognized a few of the faces looking on. Thurston and Raleigh, side by side. Thurston was already in his ringmaster tux and tails while Raleigh was in civilian clothes, done performing. They observed with interest.

Then there was Dez, just to the right behind Thurston. Dez looked like he might rush forward.

Like he cared if I was in trouble.

I closed my eyes and ignored his presence.

Or tried to.

That heat flared within me. Not the bright hot pain I was used to at certain moments during an escape like this. It was my magic.