Why would Leo dance in the street with me in the afternoon and ask Genevieve on a skating date? Can’t he make up his mind which one of us he likes better? I want to tell Hana how it’s bothering me, but I decide not to because her homesickness gets worse at bedtime.
I don’t want to tell my mom either. She’ll say I’m too young to be worrying about boys. But I’m in the mood to hear her voice, and it’s been a few days since I phoned home. I grab my phone and go down the hallway to make the call. I’m afraid Hana will get even more homesick if she knows I’m speaking to my parents.
My dad answers. “Your mom’s out. She’s gone for a swim. It’s awfully hot here.”
I wait for him to ask how things are going at circus camp, but he doesn’t. “I’m working on a big report,” he says. “Why don’t you phone back this time tomorrow?”
Those are my dad’s words. But I know he’s saying something else—he’s still upset that I haven’t given up my dream to make a life in the circus.
“You being careful?” he asks just before I hang up.
I hate how he is always worrying about me. It’s like a sickness he can’t control. “Can you try to quit worrying?” I ask.
“I can try,” he says, “only I don’t think it’ll work.”
* * *
The next day in aerial class, I have trouble concentrating. “Point your toes!” Terence has to remind me more than once when I’m climbing the rope. “I want to see you paying more attention to your form, Mandy!”
But when I work on keeping my toes pointed, I lose track of what my arms are doing. “Reach higher!” Terence tells me. “Keep those shoulders away from your ears! Lengthen your neck! I want to see you channel some giraffe!”
Is it my imagination, or is he losing patience with me?
Terence must know something is wrong because when we’re all sitting on the mats, he gives us a little lecture. “Circus is physical,” he says. “But it’s mental too. Circus performers need to be able to focus no matter what’s going on in the rest of their lives. Without focus, the moves get sloppy. And without focus, there’s a greater danger of injury. Sometimes even serious injury.” Because Terence makes a point of not looking at me when he says this, I know his advice is meant for me.
So when it’s my turn again, I will myself not to think about how it felt to dance in the streets of Old Montreal with Leo, or to remember that he has asked Genevieve to go skating on Sunday. Instead, I focus on my body and the rope.
This time, I use every muscle in my shoulders to hoist myself up, and my toes feel stiff from pointing them so hard. I know the friction from the rope is chafing the skin between my big toe and the one next to it, but I don’t feel the pain. All I want to do is concentrate on my form.
I’m beginning to think the coaches at circus camp aren’t big on compliments.
Terence is right. If I want to make it in circus, I’ll need to train my mind as hard as I train my body.
Only just when I am thinking that, the side of the rope brushes against my cheek, and I’m suddenly remembering the feel of my dad kissing me goodnight when I was a little girl. You being careful? his voice asks in my head.
“You’re losing your concentration again, Mandy!” Terence bellows from the mats. How can he tell?
Unlike me, Genevieve does not seem to be having any trouble concentrating. When it’s her turn, Terence asks for only the tiniest adjustments. “Open your chest a little more. Give yourself to the audience.”
At the end of climbing class, Terence gets us to do some forward bends on the mats. Genevieve and I face each other. “Oh my god,” she says, staring at my feet. “What have you done to your toes? They’re totally gross!”
I look down and see that the skin between my first two toes has begun to bleed. How could I not have noticed? I was so focused on trying to be focused that I didn’t even feel it.
Terence says I should put on some antibiotic cream when I get upstairs. I wonder if bleeding toes counts as one of the injuries he was talking about before.
I have antibiotic cream in my cosmetics bag. I’m sitting on one of the lower bunks in our dorm, applying the cream, when Anastasia taps me on my shoulder.
“Use this instead.” She hands me a tube of Krazy Glue.
“Are you joking?” I ask.
“Would I joke about a circus injury? Antibiotic cream is good for preventing infection. But with Krazy Glue, you’ll be back on the rope tomorrow! It’s an old Russian circus trick.”
“You have Krazy Glue in Russia?” I ask, taking the tube from Anastasia and squirting a little of the liquid between my toes.
“Krazy Glue might be an American product, but I heard that a Russian man, a friend of my uncle Boris, invented it. He mixed together water and corn syrup. My uncle Boris was a famous equestrian…” Anastasia has launched into another one of her family stories.
It’s a long story. But I listen to every word. It’s the only way I can think of to show my gratitude.