Circus Galacticus (2 page)

The stars ... and the rock.

Dad gave it to me that same night. Here's the funny thing: What I remember best about my dad is his smile. He was this big bear of a guy who loved practical jokes and silly puns. But that night he was totally serious.

It's from up there,
he said, pointing to the swirl of light above us.
And it's very, very important. There are people who want it. Bad people. You have to keep it secret. You have to protect it. Can you promise to do that, Beatrix?

So I promised. Crossed my heart, and all that. Mom gave me another hug, then whispered in my ear,
You're our special girl, sweetheart, and only you can keep it safe.

I wonder sometimes if it was just another of Dad's practical jokes. Maybe it didn't mean anything. Sure, the rock is real enough. And it's not like any meteorite I've seen: smooth and black and glossy, more like something spat out of a volcano. But it's not as if ninjas have been breaking into my dorm room to nab it.

I pull the meteorite out of my sock drawer and set it on the window ledge where it can catch the almost-starlight. I hope they can see I still have it, if they're watching.

"Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad. I don't suppose you guys could give me some help?" I lean out, trying to catch a glimpse of Orion, my mom's favorite constellation. "I think I screwed up, bad. It's hard, you know, when—"

The words die in my throat as I realize there's a guy across the street watching me. I'm pretty sure it's a guy, even in that long gray coat. He's standing just beyond the ring of yellow light cast by the nearest streetlamp. I can't make out his face. There's a scarf muffling the bottom half, and he's wearing these weird mirrored sunglasses. A thin coil of smoke twists up, catching the light, but I can't see his cigarette.

Okay, maybe he's not watching me. Maybe he's having a smoke. It still creeps me out enough that I shut my window. There are better places to see the stars.

Heat sears my hand as I pick up the rock. I throw it onto the bed. How did it get so blazing hot? I blow on my stinging fingers. I must have put it down too close to the heating pipes.

Wrapping the rock in my blanket, I throw it over my shoulder hobo-style and slip out of my room. If Primwell catches me out, there'll be hell to pay, but it's worth the risk to get closer to the stars. Besides, no one knows about the unlocked door to the roof except me and Eddie, the night janitor. He isn't allowed to smoke on school property but likes to have a quick one at the end of his shift, watching the sun come up over the city. Works for me. I only come up here when it's full dark.

It's not much better than my dorm-room window, but there's one spot where I can curl up and tilt my head against the chimney and see nothing except the sky. My blanket's thin and ratty, but the rock is still warm, so I press it to my chest and huddle down. I slip into happier memories of spinning under the stars. In this half-dream state I can almost remember what my mom's voice sounds like.
You're our special girl, sweetheart.

I wake to fuzzy grayness. Thick fog blankets the rooftop, smelling like the sea. It's still the middle of the night. Better get back to my own bed before Primwell catches me and decides to expel me from the school as well as the gymnastics team. I roll upright, bundling the blanket and sticking the meteorite back in my pocket. It's ice-cold now.

Cautiously I find my way to the doorway through the fog, then hustle down the stairs and back to my dorm. I'm two steps through the door when I realize the window is wide open. I spin around as the door thumps closed behind me. A figure steps from the shadows.

I take it back. Ninjas
have
broken into my room.

I GRAB for the nearest weapon, an old hockey stick propped by the foot of my bed. I whip it through the air and slam it into the intruder. There's a dull clang. The impact jitters into my arms.

I don't waste time. I'm pulling back for another swing when a word cuts through the dark air.

"Wait." His voice is raspy, like he's talking through an old pipe.

"Yeah, right." I swing. An arm shoots out, seizing the shaft of the hockey stick.

It's him. Creepy smoking guy. I still can't see his face, only the close-clipped black hair, gleaming gray at the temples. His mirrored lenses catch glints of yellow streetlight as he twists, tearing the hockey stick out of my grip. He snaps it in two in midair, then tosses the broken shards across the room. "Don't fight me, Beatrix. I'm not here to hurt you."

I take a step back. My panic-quick pulse beats in my ears. "How do you know my name?"

"I know more than your name. I know you are unhappy. I know who your parents were."

The meteorite suddenly feels heavy in my pocket. "Who
are
you?"

"You can call me Nyl."

"And you're what? Some sort of long-lost family friend? Fairy godfather?"

The choking, wheezing sound nearly jumps me out of my skin before I realize he's laughing. "In a manner of speaking."

"I'm not looking for a prince." Yeah, keep up the banter, I tell myself. Don't let him see how scared you are.

Nyl cocks his head, his voice smoother now. "What about a place where you belong? I can give you that. They left you alone, with so many questions and no answers. I can help you."

I slip a hand into my pocket to grip the meteorite. The weird silvery words from the poster come back to me.
Strange things happening? We have answers!

"Are you from the circus?"

"No!" He recoils so violently the scarf slips free from his face. My breath catches at the sight of what's beneath: a chrome faceplate, like some sort of funky gas mask, studded with hoses that curve off over his shoulders. Threads of white smoke rise from behind his back as he draws a rustling breath.

I open my mouth, but it's a long moment before anything comes out. "What—who are you?"

"Someone who knows you can't cover lies with bright lights and sequined costumes." The bitterness in Nyl's voice crawls along my skin. "Don't trust him. That boy may glitter and enchant, but he is far more dangerous than you can imagine. You will find no answers there. Believe me, it will only end in pain."

As I back up another step, I hit the edge of my bed and stumble. The direction of Nyl's gaze shifts to my hand, raised to steady myself. And the meteorite I'm holding.

Smoke twists up from Nyl's silver mask as he growls something I can't make out. His fingers twitch, and I think I see a crackle of blue light in his palm, just for a moment. "That stone. Beatrix, did your parents give that to you? Did they tell you how dangerous it is?"

"My parents wouldn't give me something dangerous," I say fiercely.

"You must give it to me."

Nyl moves so fast I don't have time to run. His cold fingers clamp onto my shoulders, pulling me close. The mirrored lenses of his goggles reflect fragments of my face: a wing of shiny black hair, a dark, terrified eye. His breathing is as loud as a hurricane in my ears.

You have to keep it secret. You have to protect it. Can you promise to do that, Beatrix?

I struggle against his hard, cold grip, wrenching my arm up. The meteorite crunches into his monstrous face. He catches my hand before I can land another blow. Crackling blue flames lick from his fingers, biting into mine. I hiss as pain lances up my arm. The meteorite falls to the floor, skittering off under the bed.

He tries to push me away then, going after the rock. I bring my other arm up. Maybe I can get his eyes, hit a weak spot. My fingers slip across one of the tubes. I grab it and pull. It doesn't give.

Nyl roars, shaking me until my teeth rattle. I bite my tongue and taste blood. Just do it! I scream silently to myself. You promised! You need to keep it safe!

I yank on the tube again. A stream of pale smoke hisses into the air. I twist away as Nyl scrabbles at his face, croaking and gasping.

"You will regret ... your choice." He sounds like he's about to keel over. He backs away, toward the window. "One day ... you will beg us ... for help."

He turns, slipping out the window like a ghost. By the time I stick my head out to see where he's gone, there's no sign of him. How did he even get up here? My dorm is on the third floor. I slam down the window anyway, busting my fingers to close the ancient lock.

I slump onto my bed. Now that he's gone, now that it's over, I start to shake. Some maniac in a silver gas mask just broke into my dorm room and attacked me with a glowing handful of blue lightning! If there weren't a shattered hockey stick lying in the corner of the room, I'd think I was going crazy. All my life I've been afraid it was all a big joke, my folks saying I'm special and giving me the rock to keep safe. Well, I guess it's not a joke, at least not the part about keeping the rock safe.

The meteorite! I scrabble under my bed until I find it, then slump down to the floor, hugging it to my chest. Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe.

I curl into bed, trying to push down my host of fears. I can do this. I'll find answers. Things will look better tomorrow; I know it.

When I wake up the next morning, my hair is pink.

***

A girl with hair the color of cotton candy stares back from the mirror. I raise a hand to my cheek. So does she. I tug a lock of my hair forward so I can see that, yes, it really is
bright pink.

At first my mind spins elaborate explanations. Maybe I got something on me yesterday in chem class that caused a weird reaction. Or Della snuck in and dyed it while I was asleep. Maybe I ate a piece of radioactive bubblegum.

Was this was what Nyl was warning me about? Did the rock somehow cause this? I pull the meteorite from under my pillow. I frown as my fingers catch against a slight imperfection. What the—?

A thin crack runs halfway around the rock. It's barely noticeable, but that doesn't stop the guilt hammering into me. They gave me one thing to do, and I screwed it up. It must have happened when I bashed it into Nyl's face. Or maybe when I dropped it. Doesn't matter—it's still my fault.

All things considered, it's been a pretty miserable twenty-four hours. Getting kicked off the gymnastics team means my ticket out of this sorry excuse for a life is toast. I've got a crazy gas-mask-wearing stalker who can toss around blue lightning with his bare hands. And Primwell is going to flip out when she sees my hair.

Honestly, though, the pink isn't bad. It'd be cute if it weren't so freaktastic having it change color all on its own. What's next, paisley? Or worse, plaid?

That's right, Trix, I tell myself. Hold on to your sense of humor.

I dig out a scarf and tie it kerchief-style over my head. My bobbed hair is short enough that I think that'll do the trick. It's Saturday, so at least there aren't any classes. And since I've been kicked off the team, no practices, either.

I slip downstairs, hoping I don't meet anyone, especially Primwell. But the hall is empty. Just me and my pink hair, and the ringmaster's smile daring me to dream.

I study the poster. What did Nyl say?
Don't trust him. That boy may glitter and enchant, but he is far more dangerous than you can imagine.

Was he talking about the ringmaster? He looks too young to be dangerous. Too young to be a ringmaster, for that matter. But there's something in his eyes, something ancient and timeless and, yeah, maybe a little scary. Again, I think of the desert sky. Are the stars dangerous?

I wonder what my parents would say.

I shift my gaze down. At the bottom of the page, the silver words still promise answers. And today's date. The school trip is tonight.

"Let's hope for some truth in advertising," I tell the poster. Because you can bet I'm not going just for the popcorn.

***

Our buses pull up in front of a giant red striped tent that rises up from a cloud of spinning spotlights. At the top sits a ringed ball, like the planet Saturn, proclaiming
CIRCUS GALACTICUS!
with each revolution. I've spent the entire ride scrunched down in my seat, praying Primwell doesn't decide my kerchief is a dress-code violation and discover my pink hair.

I make it off the bus safely, lagging at the rear of the group. An army of smaller stands lines the approach to the big top, decked out in stripes and neon. There's still a ton of people outside, sucking down sodas and cramming popcorn into their mouths. At least I think it's popcorn. It looks blue in this light.

I ditch the school group as they head for the ticket booth. I hustle along the midway, searching for the Hall of Mirrors. Music buzzes against my skin, matching the jittery excitement inside me. I think I see Primwell, so I duck behind a big guy in front of one of the refreshment stands. He doesn't notice; he's too busy shaking his tub of popcorn angrily at the boy inside.

"But it
is
popcorn," the boy is saying. He rubs a hand over his crest of bright red hair. He's got a crazy clown grin slathered over his lips and asymmetrical white diamonds on his cheeks.

The man scowls. "It's blue!"

"Doesn't it taste like popcorn?" says the clown boy, sounding disappointed. "Anyway, that other stuff is blue. The frozen drinks. Slooshies, or whatever you call them. I figured you Earthers liked your food blue."

Earthers? That's carrying this whole space theme a little far. The boy is trying to soothe Mr. No Blue Popcorn with complimentary "slooshies" when I spot what I'm looking for: a long, low tent slung up alongside the big top. The sign on the front says
HALL OF MIRRORS
, under a larger neon light that blares
FREAK SHOW
. I guess the universe has a sense of humor.

I'm about to go for it when I see Primwell. She's patrolling the open thoroughfare between me and my answers with a searching look on her face. And I kind of doubt she's on the prowl for blue slooshies. I bounce on my toes, my stomach a churning ball of frustration.

A loudspeaker crackles. "Ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin! Please make your way to your seats, and let us take you out of this world!"

I stop bouncing, mesmerized. It's a voice that makes you want to look up into the starry night sky and spin, or to run a mile to see the first snowflakes falling over the bay. As a tide of bodies surges toward the big top, I lose sight of Primwell. I shake off my daze. It's now or never. I run for it.