Page 10 of House of Clowns

We tramped through the tall grass until the earth gave way to a wooden path beneath our feet. Tree shadows lengthened and stretched in the pale moonlight.

"How much farther?" I asked, peering down the switchback-heavy trail ahead.

"Five minutes, maybe." He clutched his notebook tightly to his chest now, and in a softer voice, asked, "Have you ever been scared?"

I looked down at him, something familiar in the desperate clutch he had on that notebook, like a shield. "Yeah, a few times," I said, memories flickering to life-like old snapshots: me standing alone in that orphanage as a kid and feeling like a ghost among strangers with an ache in my heart that asked one question over and over again, whether anybody would ever care.

"Me too," whispered Carlo, his small voice cutting through the quiet of the night. "I'm scared my sister will leave me. Like my mom did."

"Favorite people don't leave favorite people," I said, looking down at him as we reached the fence that divided the field from the road.

I swung a leg over the fence and leaped, landing on the other side. Carlo tried, but his arms barely reached the top. I reached out and steadied him as he clambered over and hopped down beside me.

His feet landed on the ground, and he looked up at me. "Why do you think that? That she won't leave?"

I shrugged, digging my elbow into his ribs to keep him walking. "Because she makes you feel safe. Like she's holding things together, even when everything else is falling apart."

As we walked into town, the cobbles beneath our feet changed, each one slightly uneven and worn. Time was stuck here, the sort of place where everyone knows your name yet judges you for every small difference. And here I was, a clown, leading this quiet kid who, for reasons I couldn't fathom, trusted me.

We stopped in front of three narrow houses that leaned on one another, peeling paint and small entrances, but all sharing the same crumbling stone walls. "OK, which one is yours?" I asked.

He turned and lifted his finger toward the small house on the far left. That house was the most run-down, with a sagging roof in several areas, steps leading to a narrow porch, and a single light over the balcony casting a warm glow across the yard below. He pointed at it. "That one."

We crossed the road, heading towards the house. Just before we reached the yard, I placed my hands on his shoulders, turning him toward me. "Listen, kid," I said softly, waiting for his eyes to meet mine, "Which window is yours?"

He looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. "The second one," he said, his hand gesturing toward it.

"If you ever need my help," I told him, "just turn your light on and off three times. I'll come right up."

He nodded toward the window on the ground floor. "That's my sister's room," he whispered thickly. "She... may need your help more than I do."

I followed his gaze to her window, heart sinking as I thought of the bruises she'd tried to hide, all the pain she carried alone. "Does she need help often?" I asked, my voice low. He nodded, his face weighed down.

Without another word, he led me to the porch. The house was constructed from old, weathered stone, and the door was thick, splintered wood that seemed to seal out decades of storms.

A growling voice rumbled from inside, just as Carlo raised his hand to knock. The door creaked open, and there he stood—his father, his face twisted into a sneer, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, barely steadying himself in the doorway. He spotted me, and his upper lip curled. "What are you doing here, you freak?"

"Dad," Carlo said immediately, stepping between us.

My fists were clenched, a wave of burning anger coursing through me, every instinct screaming for me to knock him down. But then I saw her creeping from the hallway. Bruises had swollen her face; purple skin like painful secrets, had blossomed there. And without thinking, I dug my nails into my palms, biting down hard to keep my cool—not to hurt him the way he'd hurt her. But she looked up at me, her eyes steady through the pain. For one moment, it was like she was begging, though for what, I had no idea.

Much as the churning anger urged me to move, to strike, I forced myself to remain still, to hold back.

EIGHT

ACE

With a loud whoop, Carlo launched himself into my arms—hard enough to send me backward until my shoulders were pressed against the wall. For one instant, a burst of pain shot through my back, but I wrapped my arms tightly about him, holding him as steady as possible. I swallowed the pain. He'd be okay, and that's all that counted.

My dad lingered in the doorway, his drunken gaze fixed on the stranger who had brought Carlo home, his words slurred but sharp.

"Freak," he spat, disregarding the help lent to us. My stomach twisted at the insult, the way he'd wield it so easily, so carelessly. I knew very well how words like that could cut deeper than anything else.

I steadied myself, stepping forward as Carlo clutched my hand, as though he sensed what I was about to do. I shot a glance back to him, beseeching him to stay there, then looked up at our visitor.

"Thank you," I said, managing best a faint smile as I met his eyes. For a moment, we simply looked at each other. Beneaththe painted face, the smeared colors, I saw something—an understanding, a kind of sadness he tried to hide. And in that second, I wanted nothing more than to reach out, to be able to let someone hold me.

He nodded silently, his gaze lingering for a beat longer before he turned and stepped off the porch. The quiet was cut by Dad's scowl following him.

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