Circus Freaks

By Erin Lee

Six genres.
Six stories.
All the magic and crazy that is Erin Lee's award-winning Circus Freaks Series.
Enter a world where everything is an illusion: A place where curiosities and magic are ordinary things and where, to be a freak is the only way to be.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: Jun 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386393610

Erin Lee

Erin Lee lives in Queensland, Australia and has been working with children for over 25 years. She has worked in both long day care and primary school settings and has a passion for inclusive education and helping all children find joy in learning. Erin has three children of her own and says they have helped contribute ideas and themes towards her quirky writing style. Her experience working in the classroom has motivated her to write books that bring joy to little readers, but also resource educators to help teach fundamental skills to children, such as being safe, respectful learners.

Book preview

Shape Description automatically generated with medium confidence

Copyright © 2021 by Erin Lee/Crazy Ink

Editing: Samantha Talarico, Erin Wolf, and Rita Delude

Proofing: Kimberly Lee

Cover and formats: Crazy Ink Publishing, LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission from Author Erin Lee or Crazy Ink Publishing, LLC.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes.

CIRCUS FREAK

Chapter One

Cat

My name is Samantha . In theory, or Hebrew or even Aramaic it means God heard or Listener. Epic, really, considering I’ve never believed in God and that I’d rather poke my ear drums out with dull spoons than listen to the daily yammering around this place. I’ve never been a listener. Truth is, I take after my mother, may she rest in peace, who’d also rather be on stage than listening to anyone at all. I guess that comes naturally when you grow up as a sideshow act in a freaky-assed carnival. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

People call me Cat, and, yes, with a C, not a K. Cat as in feline. Of course, I set myself up for that with 29 cat tattoos and the three Sphynx princesses who live with me in my trailer—the same rusted thing I travel in as we move from town to town with the carnival that no one can seem to get enough of. Their names are Prune, Pixie, and Penelope because I have a thing for P’s. Truthfully, they get me through long and smelly days of people gawking at 3-feet-six-inch tall freaky me. Secretly, I like it that people stare at them too. It takes the attention off my vertical challenges and secret-keeping black eyes.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy being the center of attention from time to time. I mean, I do. I just don’t like it for the wrong reasons—like my missing hand from the idiot who thought she was cute on the Ferris wheel when I was two. (That’s the story we’re running with for now anyway). I sort of have a lot to hide. We’d best start with the things I can tell you about—the same things you probably paid to see. I have two belly-button piercings—one on the top and one on the bottom. Sometimes, I run string through the hoops and tie them together when I’m bored. The feline princesses like to bat at them and I enjoy the pain of it. I’m not exactly normal. But what fun would that be?

I travel around Madame Scarlet’s Carnival on a mini-bike. Apparently, it’s quite a sight to see. If anyone bothered to ask me about dreams of my own, I’d say I’d wish to grow tall enough to buy a Harley and get the hell out of here. But that isn’t going to happen, and I’m a realist. Still, I like being able to ride the scooter bike around. It saves me from being tripped over or stepped on by giant cotton-candy grubbing monsters who refuse to look down because, God-forbid, there’s a freak circus in town.

I’m really not that freaky at all. In many ways, I feel like I’m like everyone else. My favorite snacks are Cheetos, Skittles, and vanilla cake. I’ve never really been into chocolate though, and people seem to think that’s strange. When I do get a sweet tooth, I only go for the darkest chocolate sold at the chocolate-covered cherry booth.

In my free time, when I’m not twirling around on a stage with a sign that says World’s Smallest One-Handed Baton-Twirling Woman, I like to read. I know, sounds boring right? It’s not. I love to learn and am obsessed with horror novels. They help me escape and believe there are far worse fates than the one I’ve been dealt being the ex-fling of the jewelry-making Wiccan, Rusty, whom I refuse to talk about unless the listener is the better half of my Siamese twin brother ‘friends.’ I’ve learned to avoid talking about what’s incriminating.

What else can I tell you about myself (besides my cat fetish) that I don’t have to hide? I could start with my friends. Martha, known better as the bearded lady, is probably the best one I have aside from the feline princesses. When the freak-chasers have left, we like to sit outside my trailer and look up at the sky. She’s probably the only one who knows how much I hate it here.

Bearded Martha’s not the only one I talk to, though. There’s sex addict Joe who always manages to park his trailer next to mine and insists I call him ‘Daddy’ just to get a rise out of the old lady down the way who can’t keep up with new wave jive. No thanks. Go away. He never really leaves. I feel bad for Moe—his conjoined twin who can’t escape him either and mostly just nods his head because he’s learned better than to argue with his more dominant brother. Joe has a thing for deep-throating swords, but somehow, I also think a crush on me in spite of the dirty looks he shoots me when I laugh at Moe’s jokes that he couldn’t possibly understand. That’s all right buddy, deep throat a weapon again. I’m not here for your midget porn fantasies, sicko. When this happens, I look right past him and say hello to Moe—who always smiles back and never annoys me. Moe and I are a lot closer than we’d ever let anyone believe.

And then there’s Leslie. She is not a friend of mine. All I’m going to say about her is that she’s probably the number one reason I want out of here lately. I’ve only warned her a thousand times not to go near the elephants, but every time she comes back teary-eyed and holding out one limb or another asking me to patch her up. That part, I don’t mind. But it’s when she blames the animals for her injuries that makes me see stars. Leslie is someone I have tried to stay away from but just can’t. It’s impossible, no matter how many times I complain about her reaching down and patting the top of my head. I’m not a dog!

You see, Madame Scarlet has assigned us to the same slots for ticket sales. Because of this, it’s never-ending with Leslie, the kleptomaniac contortionist’s, constant drama. Up next will be her going in that Fun House alone at night. I’ve only warned her 3,000 times. But you watch. Some people just don’t learn. Some people listen even less than I do. That one thinks she’ll take over the shot. I humor her and tell her I believe her. She has a lot of learning to do.

CIRCUS FREAK

Chapter Two

W hatcha up to? If it wasn’t for Moe, I wouldn’t even look up. Instead, I look over Joe’s shoulder and smile at his poor tag-along brother. He smiles back, a scarlet red rushing to his cheeks. I’ve always wondered why the blush never runs into Joe’s cheeks too. But then again, Joe’s the only one swallowing swords so maybe it’s just the way their conjoined bodies are set up. I can’t say I’m envious of them. The idea of another head with her own freewill and thoughts attached to my own neck is just too much. I guess, maybe if I was a conjoined twin, at least I’d have a better shot at two hands. Who knows? It doesn’t matter. You deal with what you’ve got.

Well?

Nothing much. Just chilling out. There’s no use ignoring him. If I don’t get rid of him fast, he’ll come right up on my retractable porch and start his yammering.

But I’m busy, I grumble.

Nice to see you too, Daddy. Doing what? Joe asks.

I hate him. Thinking.

About what?

You—leaving.

Come on, Cat. Why do you have to be that way? You’re making Moe sad. Isn’t she, Moe?

I hate when he does that shit. He knows it makes his brother uncomfortable. Neither of us answer. It’s an unspoken dance we do—me, the midget, and him, the handsomer head without the nerve to fight narcissistic, pervy Joe. (The one I’m probably in love with but too realistic to do much about it).

Fine. But ten minutes. Really, Joe. I have stuff to do.

Like what? Pet your cats?

"Well, if you must know, I was planning on doing some reading. I do that, you know. You should try it."

I push hair that’s fallen in my eyes out of the way with the stump that hangs off my right arm. I’ve learned to use it quite effectively. It’s not like I really remember things being any different. In a way, I’m thankful for my disability because it’s what got my mother teaching me to twirl the baton. If I didn’t have that skill, God knows what might have become of me. I mean, I could have strictly sold tickets with Leslie, but I’d have probably killed her. The time we do spend together is more than enough.

Ha, ha, very funny. I do read, you know. Just last week I read the entire ‘Consumer Reports’ looking for a new sports car.

I roll my eyes. "And what do you plan to do with that? Hook it to your trailer? You don’t go anywhere."

He shrugs. Well, I’ve got no one to go with, I’m still holding out hope that a certain pretty lady is gonna finally give me a chance.

Moe closes his eyes, shakes his head, and leans further to the side. I wonder if he wishes he could wear ear buds like the kind I throw in my ears when the giants come for Derby Sundays on carnie shut-down day. Maybe, when Joe is asleep, I’ll sneak over and ask him. I’ve done it before. Joe’s a deep sleeper, and Moe and I have had some really deep conversations in spite of his snores. But they aren’t often. And they aren’t enough to even consider him a close friend like I want. It’s hard to be friends with a guy who is basically a mime. Good things take time.

Don’t give me that shit. What about Nancy? Or Melissa, the stalker who creeps on everyone’s Facebook pages when she thinks you’ve gone missing? That one would hang out with you. Why don’t you go see her?

Moe’s eyes spring open wide. No.

My mouth drops. I’m proud of him. It hadn’t occurred to me, of course, that if Joe ran off to the psycho stripper’s house, Moe would be along for the ride too. Duh.

Bad idea.

No! Great idea. I think I will. Thanks, Cat.

Joe, who has full control of the shared body’s legs, pivots and turns toward the gravel path that serves as a road for animal trainers and leads to the Big Top circus tent.

Don’t go! I yell, wondering why I even care so much about Moe.

It’s not like I want to spend the night listening to Joe whine about why I won’t let him pet my ‘kitten.’ Yes, he really says that. Yes, it gets worse. I’ll spare you for now. And, no, ‘the carpet’ doesn’t ‘match the drapes.’ For fuck’s sake, I have purple hair at the moment.

It’s too late. Joe picks up the pace and finally begins a quick jog back to his trailer. In minutes, he and Moe are on his Harley, and I’m drooling with jealously that he can ride the thing at all. What I wouldn’t give for that ability. Whatever. Nothing changes. Not around this place. I learned a long time ago that the only way to shake things up around here is to do it yourself. For me, it was the only way to get rid of Rusty. But that’s a whole other story for another day. A woman has a right to her secrets, you know—even a weirdo like me.

CIRCUS FREAK

Chapter Three

Icreep past the maze of end tables, mismatched broken chairs, and lamps Joe likes to collect. He often fixes up broken things from the side of the road and resells them on EBay for pocket change. Joe and Moe’s trailer is always jam-packed with trinkets and odds and ends. When Madame has no use for something, the token twins are the first she goes to—asking them to dispose of it but fully aware that it will never happen. Frankly, I think she likes knowing she can always go back for a Big Top or Fried Pickles sign if she should ever need it again.

No one in this carnival life of mine ever locks their doors. If someone should need something, like an extra salt shaker or spoon, it would be rude to keep a neighbor out. Here, we live by a code that freaks should stick together. I’m not sure that always works. As I fumble past Martha’s coffee pot, I roll my eyes and make a mental note to tell her Joe must have ‘borrowed’ it again.

Even from down the hall, I can hear Joe’s snores. How the man ever gets laid is beyond me. Way worse than his personality and the unfortunate fact that Moe has to tag along with him is his personal hygiene. I have no idea how Moe puts up with all that nose picking either. I wonder if the boogers ever come out of the pillow case. Probably not, he does sleep with an apnea mask from time to time. Screwed himself up with the sword and fire swallowing. Still, there are silver linings to everything. His deep sleep equipment serves to Moe’s and my benefit. With all that rattling, it’s made the asshole brother a much harder sleeper. Like a mountain, really.

I hold Penelope close to my chest. I can’t go anywhere without her, or she’ll make a creepy clicking sound so loud it will piss off the neighbors. Moe calls her Peaches because that’s what she feels like. He’s her favorite. He doesn’t mind when I bring her here at night. We both like it that Joe’s allergic to cats. Imagine that? Who the hell is allergic to a cat without fur? Only Joe. With him, it’s always something.

Slowly, I creak the door to their room open. On a night table beside Moe’s head burns an orange candle. He told Joe, when we started this routine of nightcaps, that he was having trouble sleeping at night. He said he had nightmares and swore he was being haunted by Rusty. If he didn’t want him flailing around all night, the candle would have to happen. After a few nights of fits, Joe finally gave in. The real purpose for the candle is so it’s easier for me to let myself in.

Hey, he whispers.

Hi hon, I say, Brought Peaches for you.

I walk slowly toward the right side of their shared California king bed. It’s a wonder it even fits in the tiny room stuffed with spare parts from pretty much everything imaginable. It reminds me of the trash compacters in the Star Wars movie’s Death Star. At any moment, I expect the walls to start closing in on us or something.

Moe holds his one hand out. We often joke because we have that in common—one arm we have full control over and another that’s entirely useless. I always think, while they never really grew into more than stumps, at least I have legs too. For Moe, that left arm is all he’s got.

Penelope—Peaches—springs out of my hold and lands on Moe’s chest. I’m not clear where he stops feeling and Joe begins, but I gasp.

Moe shakes his head, indicating that we have nothing to worry about as Joe rolls further to their right side and brings Moe with him. What the hell must that be like, I wonder, to be forced to go wherever the other guy tells you to? But my grimace softens as Peaches melts into Moe’s arm like she’s finally found home. Even with me, the cat never really seems fully at ease. And Joe? All my cats hate him. He calls them mutants. It only makes me hate him more. The guy is always trying to get a rise out of me, and I’ll never figure it out; unless, maybe, he knows more than he lets on?

Joe sneezes, knocking Moe a little to the right. I try not to laugh and exhale when Joe goes right back into another snoring fit. Moe hardly appears to notice.

Thanks for coming, Moe whispers.

Of course.

I climb on a plastic milk crate Moe’s told Joe he likes to sleep next to in order to hop up on the bed. I sit on the edge of their bed, blanketed in zebra sheets and a carnival-branded comforter Madame gave us all last Christmas. I reach up to kiss Moe, my secret ‘friend,’ on the forehead.

Sorry about earlier.

Don’t even sweat it.

He’s just such a dick.

I know. I don’t know how you do it.

If Moe could shrug, I’m sure he would right now. Instead, his tone tells me everything. In a low grumble he says, I don’t either.

Where did you guys go? On the bike I mean. Did he wind up taking you to a brothel or something?

Strip club down the road.

Even in the candlelight, I can see the crimson creeping up Moe’s cheeks. If we could ever be fully alone, I’m sure the guy is quite the prude. I can’t imagine what he’s seen with Joe in charge. I know he keeps his eyes shut and prays for it to be over. He’s told me it doesn’t matter. Down there, he can’t feel a thing. For him, the nerves seem to end up pretty high. He’s compared it before to being a quadriplegic with a close to the head neck injury. But Joe says differently.

I look down at the floor, which my dangling feet can’t reach, cursing myself for even asking the question. This is why Moe doesn’t like talking to anyone. It’s not like he’s allowed to have his own day and interests. I think, sometimes, he may be jealous of me. I get nervous that he’ll hate me. I wish I had the nerve to ask him about this, but it’s just not something we talk about. I mean, it’s just a simple crush. Nothing serious like with Rusty. We’re not even technically dating. How could we with his brother around?

So, did you hear what Leslie did?

No. What now?

"She lost the cash box." I roll my eyes.

Again?

Yep. I warned her about that. I told her to make sure she double checked. I think someone stole it. One of the giants.

Unreal. Does Madame know?

I shrug. Not yet. I don’t think so. Martha told me.

"How is Martha anyway?"

She’s okay. Still hung up on Larry but whatever. That was three towns ago. She’s old enough to know you don’t get involved with a townie, ya know?

Yep.

We spend three full hours shooting the shit and talking about our favorite singer, from a new band Joe hates. Finally, when my eyes are too heavy to hold open any longer, I take Peaches-Penelope back and tell Moe to hang in there. Stupid thing to say. It’s not like he has any kind of option on that. It’s not like you can even do shit to help him except these silly midnight meetings.

I nearly trip over Joe’s apnea wire on my way out. I hover against the far wall of their trailer, wrinkling my nose as I pass a sink full of dirty dishes above my head. If it were up to Moe, the sink would be spotless. For Christ’s sake, the guy has OCD. I pull the cat closer in to me as we finally slip out the front door and walk in darkness broken only by reflections from the blinking Come Again sign by the rear parking lot. I think I will. Moe’s so nice. Easy to talk to. Nothing like Rusty. If only...

CIRCUS FREAK

Chapter Four

I love strippers.

It was what their T-shirt said the first night I ever spent any significant amount of time with them and came to the conclusion that Moe was living a life far worse than mine. That night had to have been five years ago—not long after Rusty disappeared and near that dusty town just outside Chicago. They still wear the ratty thing sometimes—mostly on set up or break down days, but still.

I run my finger along the edge of a metal bookshelf that spans the longest wall in my tiny living room. Thumbing through more books than I have room for, I decide I’m in the mood for horror. Something about listening to Joe snore through that Vader mask makes me want to kill.

I’m older now. I know my triggers. I know I can’t go back, and I don’t want to live with the acid that I’ll wake up to—pouring down the side of my face and waking me from nightmares. I can’t live like that again. Not even for Moe.

Would I get caught? Well, if history repeats itself, probably not. There are advantages to being a little person, you know. For starters, people underestimate the things you can pull off. They forget that I was born this way and have learned to do pretty much anything they can, even with one arm. They assume my mind is as shrunken as the limbs they don’t understand. They are very, very wrong.

Sure. It doesn’t take that much brain power to twirl a baton—even one with fire on both ends. A toss here, a spin there. When I’m in the mood for it, a triple toss turn around with a spiral. I can do pretty much any trick that will pass the time before the elephants—the real show—come out. But they never consider the kind of intellect it takes to keep a drunken crowd amused in a tent sweating 105 degrees. They don’t think about the spontaneity involved in switching up routines because Ray or Bob or even Mike were too lazy to pick up the lion poop. If I’d had any say in the matter, I’d have been a K-6 elementary school teacher. I deal with children all day long, anyway. At least, with teaching, I might have had a shot at people really listening to me.

Why the hell am I so fidgety? Is it that Moe’s the only one who does listen to me? There has to be a way to help him. I could... No. Cut it out. It wouldn’t even work. His circumstances aren’t the same, and it’s not like he ever hurt you or made you sleep tied to a chain. It’s not his fault or Joe’s either. Joe’s an innocent in that way.

It doesn’t matter what they think of me, even Moe. Sometimes, you just have to make peace with things. Things just are whatever they were meant to be. Everything happens for a reason; it’s what my mother always used to say. God I miss her. I resolved after Rusty that I’d never do it again. She wouldn’t approve. Lately, though, with Joe and Moe, it’s all I can think of. It’s not like I believe my mother is staring down and watching me. She probably doesn’t even know.

The temptation haunts me. And knowing I’ve gotten away with it before helps absolutely nothing. It—the craving—started the night Moe told me he wished he would never wake up. He told me he’d rather be dead than stuck with a brother who belched in his face and had no respect for women. His curse, he said, was not something he deserved. And even though he’d considered taking Joe’s pistol to his head, he didn’t have the guts for it.

Killing me would be killing him, he said.

What kind of bullshit is that? I’d never take my own life, but I like the idea that I’d at least have that choice. That’s another thing Moe doesn’t have—free will to end it all. And there was something in his eyes—or maybe something missing. Moe isn’t one to sparkle when he speaks. But when he described what he believes to be the afterlife, he shined. I knew he meant it. Even in that candlelight.

Stop thinking about it. It’s insane. Besides, who would you tell your secrets to? Martha? You could tell her. No. It wouldn’t be the same. Just read a stupid book. You need an escape. There’s nothing more you can do for Moe than be his friend. It’s really all he needs. He’s looking better. Smiling more too. And it’s not worth digging Rusty back up again. Once was enough.

I put Home Sweet Home back up on the shelf—reaching instead for Kaleidoscope. I need something more upbeat. Reading horror will only provoke me. It will light that same inferno in my soul that led me to finally take care of Rusty. I can’t do that again. I just can’t.

I put the book on my cat-torn couch, walking in short clumsy steps to the refrigerator. I grab a bottled water, cold the way I like it best, and move toward the lazy-Susan. First, with my only hand, I put the bottle on the counter. Then, I grab two cans of tuna, opening them in quick strokes with a can opener I stole years ago from one of the vendors and a stick Rusty made for me that I use to hold the can still with my mouth. I shouldn’t say stole. I’m not a thief. I don’t want people thinking that of me. Maybe it was more like borrowed—sort of like Martha’s coffee maker.

I don’t bother draining out the juice. The P’s love to lick it up with their long, rough tongues. They wait patiently at my feet while I step up on a stool to reach the cabinet where I keep the plates. I grab a plastic one and dump the tuna on it in two circle-shaped chunks. I repeat this two more times.

Okay, no fighting.

They purr at me as they watch me climb down to the ground and place the plate on a plastic food splash mat marked with a P. They scramble to the plate, hissing at each other to get the best position, like they never had any plan at all to listen to me. Oh, the woes of a cat mother. At least they will never leave me. Sometimes, they even listen.

CIRCUS FREAK

Chapter Five

Carnival life is predictable . People, ‘the giants,’ would never believe it. For them, it’s something you save up for or a place to take a kid on a weekend with an absent parent or grandparent. For the giants, watching a woman dance on an elephant’s back is something out of the ordinary. But for those of us who spend our lives putting on the show, not much changes.

What does change, is the venue. We travel the same circuit every year, making tiny alterations based on the cost to rent the land. Our shows run about six times a week. We pack up on Tuesdays and move to the next spot—for more sticky-faced mini giants with full pockets and grand plans to win at a game of spin the bat. Today is Monday. It’s our last day in far-too-cold-for-me Portland, Maine. Next up? Burlington, Vermont. At least we’re moving in the right direction. By season’s end, we’ll be back down in the Carolinas where I like it best. It’s too bad we have to head so far out west before we get there. We’re trying a new venue this year in a place called Escape, Colorado. Can’t say we don’t get around I suppose...

I thumb through a laundry basket, trying to decide which of my costumes to wear tonight. Madame is great about trusting me to make these decisions myself. It wasn’t always that way. For years, she micromanaged what we did and how we approached our shows. These days, she’s older and more distracted. She’s just as stunning as ever though and never really seems to age. The rumors about her around here are endless, but I’ve learned not to question her. Like me, she has a right to her secrets, and as long as she’s fine with me, I’m keeping to myself. It’s a silent agreement we arranged not long after she took the carnival on the road and off the Manor Hill back home for a reason she never quite explained. Now, it’s only the new acts that she watches closely.

Hey girl, hey!

I jump, dropping a sequin tank top I probably shouldn’t have put through the wash. I’ve been trying to kill that shirt for years because Joe says it makes me look like a stripper. It just won’t die.

Jesus, Mart, you scared me.

You got coffee? Can’t find the coffee pot. Joe probably took it again.

He did. And yes. Help yourself.

Thanks.

Martha walks in long, tall strides to the kitchen where she easily reaches the counter top and begins searching through cabinets for sugar.

It’s on the counter. Above the trash.

Oh. Thanks. I should know that.

How have you been? I’m almost afraid to ask.

It’ll get her talking about Larry—the first and only man to be able to overlook her full beard and 200-plus pounds of mass. According to Joe, the only reason Larry liked her was that he thought she was a cross-dressing man. Secretly, and watching her now, I agree with him. But I’d never tell her that. I know what it’s like to be born a freak. I know the hurt of being different than everyone else, and I’m certain that Martha is not a man.

Aw. You know. Glad to get out of here. Weekends are hard.

Tell me about it. I’m so sick of that stupid baton. I extend my arm and spin my wrist in the motions of a figure eight. I’m getting all kinds of joint pain.

Ain’t easy getting older.

I laugh. Martha, in her late thirties, is hardly old. And I’m barely pushing twenty-eight. But for traveling carnival folk, we are basically ancient. My only realistic parental figure left—Madame is more like a grandmother to me—since my parents passed, I don’t consider arguing with her. I smile and nod.

Too darn early for this shit, Martha grumbles as she sits at my kitchen table, sipping at her too-full coffee. She drinks it from a mug left over from last year’s stop in Oregon.

Close the window if you want. Can’t hear it as much when the windows are closed, I say, referring to the banging of the road crew testing the Ferris wheel and making early-morning tweaks on Madame’s maintenance bucket list. I don’t mention that I’m cold and would like the window shut anyway. I hate asking anyone for help, but closing it with one hand on a stool has caused me more than one fall. I’d thought of trying it when I woke up shivering, but decided it would warm up. I’d told myself we’re leaving anyway, and it’s not like I’d be in the trailer long. Mondays are busy prepping for a new move and cleaning up from the weekend’s festivities.

It’s as if she knows this. She stands right up and makes her way around the trailer, shutting all the windows.

It’s six in the morning! She yells out to Paul and Phil from the last window. Keep it down.

I laugh. You tell ‘em.

They flipped me off! So rude. Can’t find any sort of gentleman around these parts.

Gentlemen exist?

No, probably not, she says, chuckling and returning to the table to finish her coffee.

Finally settled on a white leotard and bedazzled leggings with my knee high boots, I lay the outfit out. Standing, I use my legs to push the laundry basket to the corner of the living room. I never really empty it. I see very little point in putting things away. When you’re always on the move, you don’t put much value in getting comfortable with anything. And I don’t mind living out of baskets.

What you got planned for today?

Same old, same old, I say, considering telling her about my late night with Moe and his predicament. I can’t shake the worry that he might do something stupid. Every time I see him, he seems to get worse—more defeated. I decide against telling.

You know, we need to do something about this. Stir things up.

How so?

I’m not sure. But something. The whole summer’s blown by and we really haven’t done anything. We should go out. Have a girl’s night or something.

Go where? We’re in Maine.

But Burlington has shit to do.

They do?

Are you kidding me? Weren’t you there last year when Leslie got arrested for public intoxication and being lewd?

My head springs up involuntarily, What?

Yeah. We all went out, and she did her contortionist shit. Only she didn’t feel like she should wear anything. I shit you not. She’s doing all that leg crap she does buck naked on the bar at some dive on Main Street. How did you not know this?

I try to figure out where the heck I could have been. To miss something like that is not the norm for me. Usually, I know everything about what goes on here. Or, I thought I did.

Oh! Burlington last year was my appendix. I was at the hospital. Then complications. Missed that week.

Ah! That’s right! That sucks! I tried to warn her. Tried to get her to put her clothes back on. But you know Leslie.

All too well. Does Madame know?

Yep. She’s the one who posted bail.

Wow.

Yep. So let’s do that. Let’s go out.

Do we have to bring Leslie?

Cat! Be nice! We have to stick together around here.

Spoken like a woman who isn’t signed up for a month with her of ticket sales.

True story. But give her a chance. She’s not so bad.

Uh huh. Okay. You can believe that.

I lean over the edge of my ratty couch as casually as I can, pretending I’m trying to fold a blanket one-handed. Gross. More than half of her coffee left; she’ll never leave.

Lately, the only one I can stomach is Moe. Carnival life and the people here are really wearing on me. I think the change happened when I lost my parents and finally got over Rusty. For a while, paranoid about getting caught, I was distracted. Back then, the carnival was the best place I could be—never in one spot, always moving. Getting further and further away from evidence. But now, where I can finally sleep, I need something different.

Some people are made for this life. I’m not sure that’s me. If I’d been dealt another hand, I’d have gone to school. I love kids—not the ones who reach out with greedy hands for popcorn. I like the ones who sit quietly, asking questions about the animals or eyes fixed on the bright lights and loud noises. To me, they have potential. Kids like them can be anything they want to be. If I’d had my way, I’d have been a part of that. I’d have spent my summers learning through reading and brought it all back to the classroom to teach them about the world—about places even I haven’t seen and different types of people. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.