a touch of her own style. With her was a bulkier version of Remy, who I assumed was the brother I hadn’t met yet, Novio.
Yapping dogs in costume orbited around an older woman dressed in a sergeant uniform. A beautiful blonde woman on a tall stomping horse with a tricked-out saddle must’ve been Jules’s mom. Her father—a wire walker too, I’d gathered—wore plain black like me.
“You’re gawking again,” Raleigh said. “I think they want us over here.”
He steered me that way, and we were joined by a lovely assistant—I knew there would be one around here somewhere—in a black satin evening dress and white gloves that came to her elbows. She and Raleigh made a striking couple when he offered her his elbow and she hooked hers through his.
“Where’s your bird?” the assistant asked him.
“Bird?” I said.
“Shh,” Raleigh said to her, looking sheepish.
Okay, I didn’t need to know what that was about.
“Welcome, Jacksonville, to the second season of the great, the astounding, the amazing and best circus still going . . . the Cirque American!” Thurston boomed.
The pronouncement was met by cheers from the audience behind us, and from the performers at the back. Then Thurston gestured, and in front of us the band struck up its music, like something out a 1950s nightclub. Peppy, loud, with lots of horn and drums.
And we were moving.
The walk was on the long side, but it sped by. Various Cirque performers took the spotlight as we crossed the bridge, the procession pausing and making a small circle at the back so the followers behind could see. At least some of them could.
Jules’s mom’s tall horse bowed low and then reared high and danced in a circle. The tattooed contortionists contorted, twisting themselves into human pretzels, only to then be shown up by the Cirque’s actual acrobats in their silk costumes, building a tower of bodies that stretched high above the roadway.
The mood continued to build, tension turning to anticipation. I wanted one of those performing spots badly, and it must have showed. “This isn’t our scene,” Raleigh said. Then, correcting himself, “Not mine, anyway. In any case, there may be photos. You’d best stay out of the limelight today so your dad doesn’t see.”
The photo thing had never occurred to me, and put a slight chill on the rest of the parade. I considered getting a mask—it would help with my boring costume issue.
At the grounds, the band marched us all the way to the tent, then past it to the Ferris wheel. Thurston waited patiently beside it for the entire mass of people to arrive, conferring with a workman there. Jules’s father had joined them, I noticed.
Once the crowd was assembled—midway, Cirque performers, and actual audience—Thurston spoke again. “I’m excited to show you a new marvel we’ve brought along this year, a Ferris wheel inspired by the original.” He stepped into a small operating control center at the base of the wheel and pulled a large lever.
We gasped.
Lights flared to life along each of its arms, stretching high into the sky above us. White, red, and gold. The paint on the cars themselves was blue, and the rest of the frame painted white. Like a visual hat tip to the Cirque.
“And I’m happy to introduce one of our favorite marvels, to open the season with all due grandeur.” Thurston pointed up, and we strained to look where he indicated. The top of the wheel was higher than the tent—two hundred feet up, at a guess.
A girl in a short blue dress stepped free of the very top spire of the big top, balancing a long pole across her arms. Only then did we see the wire that ran from the tent to the Ferris wheel, angled up because of the massive machine’s height.
Jules didn’t waver as she moved out onto the wire toward the wheel.
She didn’t pause or slow. She took one step and then another. And another.
I felt someone jostle me, and I looked over, expecting to see Dez. But it was Dita and
Yapping dogs in costume orbited around an older woman dressed in a sergeant uniform. A beautiful blonde woman on a tall stomping horse with a tricked-out saddle must’ve been Jules’s mom. Her father—a wire walker too, I’d gathered—wore plain black like me.
“You’re gawking again,” Raleigh said. “I think they want us over here.”
He steered me that way, and we were joined by a lovely assistant—I knew there would be one around here somewhere—in a black satin evening dress and white gloves that came to her elbows. She and Raleigh made a striking couple when he offered her his elbow and she hooked hers through his.
“Where’s your bird?” the assistant asked him.
“Bird?” I said.
“Shh,” Raleigh said to her, looking sheepish.
Okay, I didn’t need to know what that was about.
“Welcome, Jacksonville, to the second season of the great, the astounding, the amazing and best circus still going . . . the Cirque American!” Thurston boomed.
The pronouncement was met by cheers from the audience behind us, and from the performers at the back. Then Thurston gestured, and in front of us the band struck up its music, like something out a 1950s nightclub. Peppy, loud, with lots of horn and drums.
And we were moving.
The walk was on the long side, but it sped by. Various Cirque performers took the spotlight as we crossed the bridge, the procession pausing and making a small circle at the back so the followers behind could see. At least some of them could.
Jules’s mom’s tall horse bowed low and then reared high and danced in a circle. The tattooed contortionists contorted, twisting themselves into human pretzels, only to then be shown up by the Cirque’s actual acrobats in their silk costumes, building a tower of bodies that stretched high above the roadway.
The mood continued to build, tension turning to anticipation. I wanted one of those performing spots badly, and it must have showed. “This isn’t our scene,” Raleigh said. Then, correcting himself, “Not mine, anyway. In any case, there may be photos. You’d best stay out of the limelight today so your dad doesn’t see.”
The photo thing had never occurred to me, and put a slight chill on the rest of the parade. I considered getting a mask—it would help with my boring costume issue.
At the grounds, the band marched us all the way to the tent, then past it to the Ferris wheel. Thurston waited patiently beside it for the entire mass of people to arrive, conferring with a workman there. Jules’s father had joined them, I noticed.
Once the crowd was assembled—midway, Cirque performers, and actual audience—Thurston spoke again. “I’m excited to show you a new marvel we’ve brought along this year, a Ferris wheel inspired by the original.” He stepped into a small operating control center at the base of the wheel and pulled a large lever.
We gasped.
Lights flared to life along each of its arms, stretching high into the sky above us. White, red, and gold. The paint on the cars themselves was blue, and the rest of the frame painted white. Like a visual hat tip to the Cirque.
“And I’m happy to introduce one of our favorite marvels, to open the season with all due grandeur.” Thurston pointed up, and we strained to look where he indicated. The top of the wheel was higher than the tent—two hundred feet up, at a guess.
A girl in a short blue dress stepped free of the very top spire of the big top, balancing a long pole across her arms. Only then did we see the wire that ran from the tent to the Ferris wheel, angled up because of the massive machine’s height.
Jules didn’t waver as she moved out onto the wire toward the wheel.
She didn’t pause or slow. She took one step and then another. And another.
I felt someone jostle me, and I looked over, expecting to see Dez. But it was Dita and
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