My breath catches in my throat when Suzanne exits from the highway onto a street called Iberville. There, right in front of me, taking up nearly the whole front window of the van, is a giant blue-and-yellow-striped tent—the big top—and next to it, the Cirque de la Lune headquarters, the round building where Cirque performers train. I’ve seen this view in the brochure and on the Internet a thousand times, but now I’m here. I’ve arrived. I blink—twice—just to make sure this is really happening.
“Wow,” Genevieve says, which is how I know she feels the same way.
Suzanne is the camp director. Camp takes place in the Montreal Circus College building. Like everything else on this block in Montreal’s north end, it’s big, shiny and new. Tall tinted windows make it impossible to see what’s happening inside. “That’s because everyone is curious about the circus and what we do in here,” Suzanne tells us.
Yeah, I think, everyone except my dad.
There’s a concrete terrace outside the MCC building. Suzanne explains that there’ll be a barbecue there tomorrow night to celebrate the start of camp.
After we get our security passes, Suzanne takes us up to the third floor, where the dorms are. For the next two weeks, a dozen girls will share one large bright room—and two bathrooms.
Bunk beds line the walls. “Since you’re both climbers, I’m guessing you’ll want the top bunks,” Suzanne says. “Backpacks and suitcases go under the bottom bunks. We need to be sure there’s room to walk. Let me show you the bathrooms.”
There’s so much to see—la palestre, the giant training studio where we’ll have some of our classes and where we’ll perform on the last day of circus camp; the smaller studios; the gleaming cafeteria where we’ll have most of our meals. Finally, I realize I’ve forgotten to text my mom.
Sorry, Mom, I write to her. Landed safe. Amazing here. Love u.
I nearly add Say hi to Dad for me, but I decide against it. I haven’t completely forgiven him for not coming to the airport to see me off.
For a second I remember what my mom said when she was hugging me goodbye: You know how hard this is for him. Dad’s father was a stuntman in the movie industry. I never got to meet him, though it sounds like we’d have got along. Dad says Grandpa was a daredevil who wasn’t afraid of anything. Unfortunately, he died on a movie set at the age of forty-two.
In a climbing accident.
Suzanne explains that the boys have a room at the other end of the third floor and two bathrooms of their own. Genevieve wants to know whether there’s a plug for her blow-dryer in the girls’ bathroom. “There’s no way I can go around with frizzy hair,” she tells Suzanne.
Other kids have been arriving all day. Some are delivered by their parents. Some come by bus or train. Suzanne tells us she’ll go back to the airport after supper to collect another group.
Genevieve and I meet Hana, an acrobat from Korea. She looks like a porcelain doll, and her English isn’t very good. Then there’s Cécile, a tightrope walker from France, and Anastasia, a Russian trapeze artist. “I’m Anastasia Bershov,” she tells us. She has a British accent and a handshake that leaves my fingers aching.
“Did you just say Bershov?” Genevieve asks.
“That’s correct.” Anastasia straightens her shoulders. And that’s when I realize which Bershovs she means—the famous Russian circus family. This girl’s great-grandparents were international circus stars.
We have sandwiches and salad in the cafeteria. Lights are out in the dorms at ten, but I’m still on West Coast time. Somehow I manage to sleep. In the morning there’s a buffet breakfast in the cafeteria. Fresh fruit, all kinds of cheese, yogurt, bran muffins and the most delicious, most buttery croissants I’ve ever tasted.
“Welcome to circus camp!” Suzanne claps to get our attention. She explains that she wants us to feel at home but also wants us to understand that there are rules—and if we don’t follow them, we’ll be sent home. “No girls in the boys’ dorm. No boys in the girls’ dorm. No smoking, no drugs, no alcohol. No unsupervised practicing that could be considered dangerous in any of the training areas, or anywhere else for that matter, inside or outside the school. If there are any accidents, the camp could be sued. Shoes,” she adds as an afterthought. “No bare feet in this building. Except in the shower.”
Suzanne says we’ll spend our first day getting to know each other. We’re meeting up in la palestre in half an hour.
We’re early, so Genevieve and I take our time getting to la palestre. “You smell like cookies,” I tell her.
Genevieve does her hair-flip thing. “Thanks,” she says. “It’s my vanilla cologne. I guess you don’t wear perfume?”
“I’m not into smelling like cookies.”
“I’m not into smelling like sweat,” Genevieve says with a smile.
“I don’t smell like sweat,” I tell her.
“What are you getting so worked up about? I never said you did.”
On our way to la palestre, we spot two guys in one of the smaller, glassed-in studios. Both are short with dirty-blond hair. One is dressed in clothes that are way too big: a loose-fitting shirt and pants that look dangerously close to falling off. The other’s clothes are way too small: a tight-fitting tank top and pants that stop six inches from the ground. The guys have their arms around each other’s shoulders and are performing for a silver-haired gentleman sitting in a folding chair at the front of the studio.
We peer through the glass to see what they’re doing. The guy in the too-big clothes must feel us watching, because he spins around to look at us. Genevieve and I both giggle when we see his red clown nose.
Genevieve nudges me. “Check out the old guy. It’s Hugo Lebrun. From Cirque de la Lune.”
“Oh my god, you’re right.”
One thing Genevieve and I have in common, besides climbing, is an obsession with Cirque de la Lune. My mom and I have been to eight Cirque de la Lune shows, mostly in Vancouver, and once when she took me to Las Vegas for my birthday.
Genevieve’s never seen the Cirque live, but she’s watched all its DVDs—and memorized every aerial act.
I can’t believe I didn’t recognize Hugo Lebrun. He’s been in some of Cirque de la Lune’s biggest productions. We’re standing just a few feet away from the most famous clown on earth.
Both boys are looking at us now. The one dressed in baggy clothes is much better-looking than the one in the too-tight clothes—he has clear blue eyes and hair that curls at the nape of his neck. The other one’s face is chubby and pockmarked.
The handsome one slides his hand down his side, reaches into his pocket and pretends to take out a cell phone. Now he points to the window where we’re standing, then at the imaginary phone. He flips the phone open and begins tapping one fingertip on an invisible keypad. He glances back at the window, lifting one eyebrow as he holds the phone to his ear.
He’s pretending to call me. Or Genevieve.
I hope it’s me.
We both crack up. Hugo Lebrun laughs too.
Genevieve and I wave to the boys and to Hugo and head back down the hallway. Genevieve tucks her arm through mine. “I totally love circus camp,” she says.
Even if we end up competing for the same spot, even if we disagree when it comes to makeup and perfume, it feels good to have a friend.
Genevieve leans in toward me. “You know that cute clown?” she says. “He’s mine.”
And because I don’t know what to say to that, I don’t say anything.