I glance over my shoulder. “It’s run out of Aerial Ethereal. In the entire troupe’s collection of shows, there’s not nudity in even one of them.” I hold on to this fact, but I silently wonder if I’d be brave enough to join a more risqué show. To be in the circus, I think I’d do a lot more than Shay would want me to.
I hear him huff behind me. “So you’re going to fly out on a whim. And what happens if you miraculously land the role?” He doesn’t think I’ll be offered the position. I’m not talented enough. My dad practically said that on the phone yesterday: The other girls are in a different league, Thora. Don’t get your hopes up. I know. I’m not the best, but I want to believe that I have some sort of shot. Even if it’s small.
“I’ll stay in Vegas and perform for the year.” A light energy bursts in my heart at that idea. It feels like happiness. A type of love that people search for all their lives.
“It’s summer. Conditioning for the girl’s gymnastics team starts in two weeks,” he reminds me. “You’ll lose your scholarship.”
It’s all a gamble, I realize. And I’m scared. I’ve never left Ohio for more than a week-long vacation, never by myself. But this is my one shot. If I don’t try now, I may never have another opportunity. And I’m tired of learning about finance and accounting as a back-up plan to the life that I want. The one that I can obtain right now.
So I’m going for it. Every part of my body says to jump and fly, no matter how hard voices like Shay and my parents try to ground me. I understand their realism, but I don’t want to look back and regret not taking the plunge.
“It’s a risk,” I say softly, sitting on my suitcase as I zip it.
When he meets my eyes, he shakes his head at me. “You’re one in a million, Thora. It’s a pipe dream, you realize this?”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. But if I don’t believe in myself, then who will?”
He lets out another heavy breath. “You know what this is like—watching my best friend enter a burning building, knowing it’s going to collapse on her.”
I must be scowling harder because he rolls his eyes at me.
“In short, I hate you right now,” he says.
“Right back at you.” That was a lame, kindergarten phrase. I sigh in frustration. I suck at bantering, even with someone I’ve known for years.
He laughs though, but it fades as soon as he watches me. Another long quiet moment passes between us. “Be safe, okay?”
I nod again. “Be happy, alright?”
“I am.”
I smile, and my phone buzzes on the single bed. He’s closest to it, and he grabs the cell. His eyes must graze the text on the screen. “Who’s Camila?”
I left this part out to Shay. I thought he’d freak even more if he knew my plans. If our roles were reversed, I’d be a little worried for him too. But he’s a guy, so the level of protection he needs on his own seems different, even if it shouldn’t be.
“Camila is the girl that I’m staying with during my auditions,” I say.
“She’s another gymnast?” He passes me my phone.
“Not exactly…”
His lips part. Shay has this All-American look: a suitable body and face for Abercrombie. The short cut of his light-brown hair, the curve of his biceps. But I’ve only seen those lips part like that for me. In shock and worry. They part in lust for girls on the track team.
“Who is she then?” he asks.
“I found her on this couch-surfing website, and we exchanged numbers.”
He rests his hands on his head in distress. “No.”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m going couch-surfing. It’s supposed to be real and safe…I did some research.”
“Have you seen her?” he asks valid questions.
“No, but she seems nice in texts.” Off his growing wide-eyes, I add, “It’s nearly free and way cheaper than a hotel. The plane tickets were expensive.” Since my parents weren’t one-hundred percent on board with my life choices, they said I should handle all the expenses. I’m an adult now, my dad said. He’s right in a lot of ways.
Shay starts, “If I didn’t have conditioning this week—”
“You’d fly out with me?”
His whole body goes rigid. “I was going to say that I’d drive to your parent’s house and have them convince you to stay.”
“They already know what’s happening.” I have a very hard time lying to my parents. I went to one party in high school and blabbed to my mom and dad the minute I snuck back inside. My mom made me ice cream, and I dished to her about the uneventful night.
“And they’re okay with it?”
“They’re a lot like you, actually,” I say with a smile.
“It’s not funny, Thora.”
I think I’m smiling and scowling to hide my fear. It grows the longer he talks to me, and I’d rather stay confident.
“He could be a dude,” Shay adds, pointing at my cellphone. “He could want to fuck you…or worse—kill you.”
Chills run down my spine. “We’re meeting at a nightclub where she works. It’s a public place.” I’ll know if she’s a pervy dude or creep then.
Shay is quiet for a second, and he stares hard at me, like he can break my optimism and my plans with a single, narrowed look.
He can’t. I won’t let him.
“You have one year left at college,” he says, “and you’re going to throw it all away?”
I shake my head. “It’s the opposite,” I tell him. “My life is just beginning.”
Act One
I roll my suitcase along the indoor cobblestone, a pathway leading towards The Red Death. It’s the club where Camila works, inside The Masquerade Hotel & Casino. She told me the club’s name was a play on Edgar Allen Poe’s Masque of the Red Death, maybe to alleviate any worries that I’d be catfished and end this trip in a body bag.
I blow out my stress with a breath. “You can do this, Thora,” I whisper to myself. The pep talk helps some.
I trek forward, struggling to avoid the pack of stiletto-heeled girls in glitzy dresses. They line up behind a velvet rope, fitting among the bright lights of Vegas like chameleons. Off to my left, casino machines glow and flash and ring while people bustle down the wide corridors with places to be, parties to attend, money to gamble.
I am the elephant, trudging around with my worn Adidas sneakers, spandex pants and oversized Ohio State shirt. Add in the frizzy hair from a four-hour flight and a bright red suitcase (almost pink from sun-fading) and I stand out. Badly.
The wheels of my suitcase clink against the cobblestone, drawing attention to myself. This breaks my usual straight-rigid posture. My shoulders begin to curve forward in ways I don’t like. I take another breath and then slip out my phone and text Camila while I walk.
I’m here. The line is really long. Should I wait in it? I press send. I have no idea whether bartenders have the power to let their “couch-surfer” cut the line.
My phone pings.
I gave ur name to the bouncer. Go up to him and he’ll let u in. – Camila
I continue striding forward then. Eyes zone in on me like lasers finding a target. The hot judgment sears my skin but I try to waft it off. Keeping my focus only on the bouncer—big, burly with tattoos that decorate his bulging muscles.