Hang Wire by Adam Christopher

belts.
    Highwire is different. He knows this. He suspects this is why he has no memory of his life before the circus. He suspects he didn’t have one, that he’s part of the circus because somehow the circus birthed him, like the caravan arrived and the Big Top went up and out of the darkness walked the acrobat, ready to put on a show.
    Maybe the circus birthed him because it knows that there is work to be done, out there, in the city.
    Maybe. And maybe it doesn’t matter.
    Under the Big Top, Highwire flies through the air with the greatest of ease.
     
    He doesn’t expect the argument that follows their performance, but it goes like this:
    “So, you think you’re the world’s greatest high wire artist.” John. Feet on the ground, he’s still in his spandex but is wearing awful square-lensed glasses like a cheap backstreet accountant. On the trapeze he wears contacts but he takes them out as soon as he can.
    “Right?” John takes his glasses off, pulls at his costume near the waist and rubs one of the lenses with the purple spandex. As he does do, the costume tightens around his crotch. Highwire looks at Jan.
    They’re a well-matched pair. Both older than you might think, which is part of why they are so good – they’ve been doing it so long. She has pinched features. Sharp nose. She doesn’t say anything but she squints at Highwire in the dark behind the Big Top. Highwire sees her eyes moving over his face, which is still hidden behind his mask. She probably wishes he would take it off, but that would spoil the act. Highwire is a mystery man, even to them.
    John finishes polishing his glasses and puts them back on. The bottom of the lenses touch his cheeks, giving him little dimples and leaving red marks that take a while to fade when he takes them off. He frowns. He expects an answer.
    “I might be,” Highwire says. Honesty is the best policy. When everyone is honest, everything works out. Most people in the world could take that advice. “But I have a lot to learn, and two fine teachers.”
    Well, that part is a lie. But he has to keep his partners happy.
    John nods but keeps his mouth tight. It’s the nod of a disappointed father. Highwire doesn’t remember his father, unless his father is the circus, in which case he is all around him. Part of him thinks this makes sense and part of him thinks the idea is hilarious. He folds his arms, his expression hidden behind his mask.
    “Look,” says Jan, and then she stops. She grips John’s arm and Highwire can see her hold it tight. “We’re not complaining about the show. Far from it. You’re great. You’re amazing.” Jan smiles and it looks genuine, but the edge of fear is still there, lurking over her shoulder.
    “But look,” John picks it up. His hands are on his hips. “You’re never here. We never practice.” Now a stern look in the eye and the shake of the head. “I know you’ve got it down, no problem, but we need to practice, even if you don’t. There’s only so much we can do on our own.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “We made mistakes in there. We made mistakes, and you corrected for us. It’s amazing, really, but c’mon, we need to work together here. It’s not good for the show. You have to come to rehearsals.”
    Highwire folds his arms. They’re right, and he’s surprised. He doesn’t come to rehearsals. He supposes he must have once. How else would they have worked out their trapeze act? Unless the circus did all the work for them, implanting the routine like it gave birth to its magical acrobat.
    “We come to your trailer.” Jan now. “Lord knows we do, but we can’t raise you. It’s like banging on the side of a tomb, it’s so quiet in there.”
    “I’m sorry,” says Highwire. At this Jan and John seem to relax.
    Nobody says anything. Then John nods and Jan smiles. “We’ll meet at eight, OK?” she says, gesturing at the Big Top. Highwire nods, and they seem happy and turn away, muttering a good