High Wire (2 page)

He shouted, “What's going on? The idea is to stay
quiet
during other performers' acts. The audience out there can hear you, right up to the top bleacher.”

They'd be able to hear Sorelli too. But no one had the nerve to point that out.

“Zack's aunt gave him this little sweetie,” Whitney said. She was planting kisses on Pooch's ugly face. I wondered if her eyesight was bad.

She handed the dog to me. The clown act was finishing, and she was on next.

The ringmaster switched his baleful gaze to me. His bullet-like eyes narrowed. “This is a circus, not a zoo, Zachary. Get rid of the mongrel. Now.”

I took Pooch into the guys' dressing room. I opened my gym bag and changed shoes.

Pooch stuck his head in the gym bag and sniffed around. When he emerged, he was holding one of my leather slippers in his teeth.

I was mad, but I knew to pry the slipper away from him slowly. You can make a dog let go of anything if he thinks you don't want it. My border collie had been that way.

Any similarity between Thelma and Pooch ended there. I viewed Pooch's ugly face and squat body. Thelma had sure been better-looking.

I carried Pooch out back of the big top. I set him down. He promptly took a dump.

“Why me?” I asked him.

By now it was dark outside, but I decided I'd better do the good-citizen thing. The way my luck was going, Sorelli would step
splat
into Pooch's poop. I scooped his business into a bag and shoved the whole thing into the nearest trash bin.

Pooch's trusting brown eyes watched me.

“Don't get any ideas. Tomorrow I'm taking you back to Aunt Ellie. I'm stuck with you tonight.”

He wagged his tail.

I walked Pooch to my trailer. All the circus performers and crew lived onsite. The crew had set up the big top in Vancouver's Vanier Park near Kits Beach. The huge tent would be a red-and-white-striped city landmark until Labour Day. Concession and souvenir stands crammed the field in front of the big tent. The trailers were parked behind it.

Pooch trotted along close to me like we were old pals. Dumb dog didn't know he wasn't wanted.

I figured he'd need some water by now. We didn't have a bowl in the trailer, so I rinsed out the toothbrush glass and filled it up with water. Pooch stuck his snout into the glass. He glugged the water back.

At least he wasn't fussy.

I got out my cell phone. I needed to talk to Aunt Ellie. I would explain that Circus Sorelli couldn't have any animals. Not so much as a pet goldfish. The ringmaster had told me this during orientation.

He'd also said that fewer and fewer circuses these days featured animals. It wasn't so much that elephants and lions were dangerous. They could be trained.

People were the danger. There were hundreds of horror stories about animals being mistreated, like getting whipped or jammed into too-small cages. In the United Kingdom, they've passed a law banning animal acts in circuses.

I wanted to let Aunt Ellie know all this, so her feelings wouldn't be hurt.

And so she would butt out. I had to get Pooch back to Aunt Ellie. Let her deal with him.

But I never got a chance to phone her. Instead I found a text message:
I adopted the pup from the pound.
A replacement for Thelma! BTW, I'm off
to the Okanagan on business. See you
next week
.

She was out of town.

And Sorelli wanted Pooch gone now.

I covered my face with my hands and let out an agonized groan. Thanks a lot, Aunt Ellie.

What was I going to do?

Chapter Three

“Something wrong, Zen?”

Cubby strolled into the trailer. He'd toweled some of his makeup off, but a white sheen remained. It made him look ghostly or badly in need of a blood transfusion.

I didn't have time to reply. Pooch bared his teeth and growled at him.

Cubby jumped.

The dog advanced. Cubby backed away, frightened.

I laughed. It was funny to see this little yapper taking on a tall guy like Cubby.

I picked Pooch up. “Pooch, Cubby,” I introduced them. “Pooch is just visiting. I'll take him for a walk. That should settle him down.”

As I walked out, I got a foul look from Cubby. I guessed I shouldn't have laughed. I hadn't improved relations between us any.

Intermission had started. I had time to walk Pooch around the circus grounds.

Pooch ran in circles around me. This was his way of urging me to get a move on.

On the other side of the big top, a giant billboard of Sorelli looked down on us. This smiling cartoon ringmaster raised his top hat beside big red letters:
Circus Sorelli—The Be Happy Place!

It was a cheerful summer landmark for the city.

It was all in your point of view, of course. For us performers, the huge sign meant the ringmaster was always watching us.

I scratched Pooch behind his ears.

Pooch gave a pleased
woof
!

Once we got outside the big top, Pooch trotted calmly along beside me. I bought a burger from the concession stand. I broke it up into pieces, and set it on the ground on a paper plate. Pooch gobbled it up.

People hurried past, seeking out their own snacks or buying souvenirs, like Circus Sorelli Ts or red-sequined ringmaster jackets.

I breathed in the salt-tangy air. Mixed up in it was the baked-vanilla aroma of cotton candy from another concession stand. I always thought it was weird how cotton candy smelled better than it tasted.

Once Pooch finished the burger, we walked around some more. People were gabbing excitedly about the acts they'd seen.

A couple of boys were talking about me. “Didja see how slick the wire guy was?”

They were looking at a huge placard with photos of all the performers.

“What's his name? Let's find him.” They squinted at the photos.

I waited to hear them say
Zack
Freedman
. Maybe one day I'd be blasé about getting recognized. For now I was a First of May. Circus folk called new performers First of Mays because circuses traditionally open on May 1.

“Yeah, there he is! Jacob Donnell.”

Huh? I stepped over to peer at the placard.

Sure enough, under the words
High-
Wire Performer
was a photo of Cubby.

I stared at Cubby with his toothy smile.

So Cubby had been on the wire before me. I guessed they hadn't printed new placards yet.

I recalled the ringmaster saying that the previous wire walker, Jacob, seemed too tense on the wire. Sorelli told me you couldn't enjoy watching him.

Sorelli always called kids by their formal names. Jacob…
Cubby
.

I hadn't clued in, but now I got why Cubby was so hostile. Why he kept razzing me.

He resented me for getting his job.

The two boys were watching me curiously. I gave a mock bow. “I'm your friendly wire walker. Zack Freedman.”

The boys rolled their eyes. One scoffed, “Yeah, right. Dream on, buddy.”

At first I was annoyed. Then it struck me as funny. I laughed.

The boys looked nervous. They probably thought I was a nutter. They walked away, muttering.

Pooch and I walked around some more. We got a few disapproving glances. The No Animals Allowed sign greeted people at the gate.

I told Pooch, “Too bad you're such a squirt. Otherwise you could pass for a seeing-eye dog. What's the point of small dogs, anyway? Huh?”

Pooch just looked up at me, tongue hanging out. He was happy.

Dumb dog.

We would have got more looks if I'd been wearing a clown outfit, or a bodysuit like the acrobats and trapeze artists. People would stop and gape at someone they thought was a performer.

But I wasn't into costumes. Even for my act, I wore only lightweight painter pants and a Circus Sorelli T-shirt.

I explained to Pooch, “When Philippe Petit walked between the towers, he wore street clothes. I'm with him. You don't need a costume to live out a dream. You need what's inside you. Determination. Self-control.”

Pooch was busy sniffing a half-eaten cotton candy. Some idiot had dropped it on the ground.

I didn't want Pooch to eat it—that molten sugar would wreck his teeth.

Without thinking, I whistled for him:
Hooo-eee
. It was the way I'd whistled for Thelma.

It must be universal dog language. Pooch pricked up his ears. He left the cotton candy and trotted after me.

In the back of the big top, I tied Pooch to a tent pole. I used the skipping rope I kept in my gym bag.

I was up next with my juggling act. Sorelli was out in the ring, warming the audience up for the second half of the show. We could hear his groaners.

“How hot is it today? I'll tell ya. I was up on Cypress Mountain, and the caps were melting.” Pause. “The caps on my
teeth
! Now
that's
hot!”

Whitney walked into the waiting area. She was done for the night, but performers often hung around to chat. She bent down to pet Pooch and coo over him.

I left my spot at the head of the line and joined her. In a low voice I said, “Tell me about Cubby—how he lost the wire job.”

She straightened, her dark eyes somber. She glanced around to make sure the others weren't listening. “I can't talk about it, Zack. If I do,
I'll be cursed!
”

Chapter Four

I stared at Whitney. Then I remembered circus superstitions. It was bad luck to talk about another performer's mistakes. It was also bad luck to bring peacock feathers to a circus or fall asleep inside the big top.

This last superstition actually made sense at one time. In the early 1900s, before bleacher-type seats, crews piled dirt to make a raised ring. They wanted to be sure everyone could see. When performers jumped around, the dirt sometimes collapsed, burying front-row audience members alive. So, at the start of a circus performance, the ringmaster would warn the audience not to fall asleep.

“I'll protect you from any curses,” I promised Whitney. “I just want to know why Cubby has been hassling me since I got here.”

We could hear Sorelli still cracking jokes. After that, he'd get into warnings about shutting off cell phones and not using cameras. We had a couple of minutes.

Whitney sighed and nodded. “Okay. Well, this is Cubby's third year with the circus. In his first year he was part of the clown act. Last year he got the wire job. He thought the wire was so cool—not goofy, like the clown act.

“But after the summer was over, Sorelli said Cub didn't have the flair to be a professional wire walker. He put Cubby back to being a clown.”

Whispering now, Whitney added, “Cubby was furious. He vowed to make Sorelli suffer.”

“Does Sorelli know about this?”

She shook her head. “I guess he assumed Cubby would accept losing the job. But he
hasn't
accepted it, Zack. That's what's so disturbing.”

“And now for our first act, Zachary ‘Zen' Freedman!” announced Sorelli.

Even with my cue, I didn't like to leave Whitney. She was pale, and her dark eyes were round and frightened, like she'd said too much. I felt bad. She seemed to be taking the superstition seriously.

On an impulse I said, “Stick around for my act. I'll work up a new bit, just for you.”

As I ran out into the ring, I wondered what this new part of the act would be. I'd come up with something. I had to cheer Whitney up.

I also wondered if she was scared by the idea of a curse, or if she was scared of Cubby.

I started with a simple juggling pattern, a
cascade
. I tossed three clubs. They are the same shape as bowling pins, but in juggling, the term is clubs. Go figure.

Whenever I had a club in each hand, the third club in the air above them was at its highest point. In that instant, the clubs formed the three points of a triangle. People think of juggled objects as moving in circles, but it's a triangle shape.

I was focused on precision. I was in my own space again, in the world, but somehow away from it. It was just me and the clubs, flowing on and on.

As ours was a youth circus, the ringmaster kept the acts fairly simple. There was no flame-throwing on the trapeze swings, no sword-swallowing on the high wire. The dangerous tricks were for adult performers in the professional circuses. Sorelli said our concern was getting things right, not getting fancy.

The problem was, I was bored with tossing only three clubs. I could handle more.

I wanted to show off. Whitney was watching in the shadows, and I'd promised her something extra.

I called, “Hey, star gymnast. Bring my bag. I need more than three clubs. This is kid stuff.”

The audience laughed and applauded. This was totally unscripted. After the show, Sorelli would be on my case big-time. But I didn't care.

Whitney carried my gym bag into the spotlight. I asked her to take two clubs out and put them under my chin.

I kept tossing the first three clubs. I caught the next one coming down in my right hand, as usual. Then, after passing it into my left hand, I dropped the two new clubs from under my chin into my right hand. I did this in the nanosecond before catching the next of the original three clubs.

I introduced a fourth club into the throws. I waited till I worked the four clubs into a smooth flow. Then I introducedthe fifth.

The audience roared. They stood up to clap. Another standing O!

I was thrilled, but I didn't let it distract me. I kept the five clubs going, catching with the right as they fell and transferring to the left.

I was interrupted by loud frantic barking.

Pooch ran into the ring.

The audience screamed with laughter. I let the clubs complete their arcs. One by one, they plunked into my right hand.

I glared at Pooch. He'd ruined my act.

The dog ran in a circle around me, barking. He was pleased with himself for tracking me down.