Girl on a Wire by Gwenda Bond

grinned. “Julieta Valentina Maroni, everyone.” He slipped into the first row, in front of my mother.
    “Julieta,” my father said behind me, but it was too late for talk. “Not now,” I said.
    Thurston’s taking his seat must have been a signal to whoever was operating the lights and controls, because a ladder began to lower slowly from the rigging beside the farthest left-hand wire. My wire. I found the line of my spine and timed my crossing of the center ring so I’d reach the ladder just as it finished the journey.
    My costume was a prima ballerina’s dream, or maybe more like a crazy dream about a prima ballerina. Instead of white or pink, I’d gone with rich red for the color—inspired by the rose that had turned out not to be a gift. The bodice was simple and fitted with clean lines, and at the waist frothed into a relaxed rather than stiff tutu.
    Sensing that unnecessary flourishes would turn this particular crowd even more against me, I climbed the ladder without adding any showy smiles or significant pauses. I concentrated on grace and speed, and soon enough I was at the top. I stepped onto a small rectangular platform. The wire ran from it, continuing across a wide swathe of the tent.
    A rehearsal is never quite the same as a performance. Every extra set of eyes on you brings extra intensity. People add a charge to the air, a spark. I was keenly aware of the crowd of experts watching, probably hoping I’d screw up.
    Before I took my first step, I let the people below fade away, let go of my worries about my fall and Nan’s weird actions and how people at the Cirque treated us, until it was just me and the wire and nothing else. I was an upside-down rose, a suspended drop of blood, a floating ballerina.
    I was alone on the wire. I was whatever I felt like being.
    Lost in the nothingness, I did my best, executing my aerial ballet like no one was watching and like everyone was. Soon enough I reached the platform on the other side. Done.
    The performance had been flawless. That took the sting out of the subdued applause—polite, nothing more—from below. I heard a wolf whistle and recognized it as Sam’s.
    I had to bite down on an unprofessional grin as I took my bow. When I finished, I headed back down and into the stands, where I’d need to be for the next phase of my plan. Mom pulled me in beside her and Sam. Even Nan gave me a nod, signaling approval.
    Too bad that won’t last.
    Dad went next, walking straight and sure, adjusting his speed when it suited the walk. Faster, slower. But no tricks. None were necessary. The way he moved was enough, so easy that everyone watching believed gravity had given up on trying to keep him tethered to earth. He simply walked on air.
    Even this harsh audience couldn’t help giving in to applause that was more than polite when he finished. Thurston was on his feet. From Dad’s pleased expression, I could tell he was sure he’d secured the finale spot.
    I experienced a moment’s concern that he’d flip out when I put my plan into action. If I really had the guts to do it. But before I decided to raise the guillotine above my own neck, it was the Garcias’ chance under the spotlights.
    They didn’t hold back on the pausing and smiling on the way up their ladders. And they got affectionate applause and shouts from the crowd in return. There were two sets of platforms, one higher and one lower, and two sets of trapeze swings. Novio and Remy were on opposite platforms, Remy on the higher one and Novio the lower. The girls were all on the platform below Remy, beaming.
    Remy and Novio unhooked their trapezes and started things off by sending them sailing across to each other. Each of them grabbed the bar of the tossed swing at the exact same moment and their bodies launched into the empty space, crisscrossing because of the height difference. The brothers released their grips on the bars of the swings, and I expected them to plummet, to bounce off the net—I was