Page 18 of House of Clowns

Ruby asked, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow at me.

Chiara stepped forward, extending a hand. "I'm Chiara," she said cool and matter-of-fact. "And we're not dating."

Ruby's brow arched a bit higher. "You sure about that?" she asked, her tone laced with challenge.

I shot Ruby a look, and she raised her hands in mock surrender. We moved past her into the room.

"This is Ruby," I told Chiara. "One of the silk dancers."

As I proceeded further in, I saw Dhalia seated cross-legged on the bed, a deck of cards spread before her. She sat under a black veil, engrossed in the cards before her. Rocco called her"crazy,"but since she'd foreseen he'd lose his leg—and she was right—no one used that word anymore. She listened to an insight, to a knowing beyond any of us, yet she was one of the most sensitive people here.

"This is Dhalia," I whispered to Chiara, nodding toward her.

Chiara stepped over to the bed, perching lightly on its edge. She leaned over, laying one finger on one of the cards. "Unity," she breathed, her voice barely audible.

Dhalia pulled her veil back, studying Chiara with surprised eyes. "How did you know?"

"My grandma taught me to read the cards," Chiara said in a smooth voice. "The only truths in the world, according to her, were three; two belong to the people and one to the cards."

Dhalia laughed, reaching over and touching her arm. "Oh girl, that's deep," she said, shaking her head with a smile. "I just look at some cards and tell folks what they want to hear. Whether it comes true… well, that's another story."

Ruby rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "But itdoescome true," she muttered.

"Oh, shut up Ruby. Don't spook the new girl," Dhalia said, waving her off. "I wasn't even reading right now. Just getting high enoughtoread later." She winked, tapping the side of her nose.

I let out a deep sigh, rubbing my forehead before taking a step toward Chiara. "I think you might be safer sticking with me," I suggested—leadingly—but with enough clarity to make it a command.

Dhalia laughed, her voice teasing. "What, safer with the clowns?" She smirked. "You and I both know you couldn't even keep a goldfish alive." She and Ruby burst into laughter, making dramatic hand gestures of a fish flopping over.

Chiara turned to me, her gaze steady. "I'll be alright."

I nodded, though I couldn't help feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. "The show's at eight," I said while I backed out of the room.

The door shut with a slam behind me courtesy of Ruby, and as I made my way upstairs, Chico and Bart waited for me at the top of the staircase.

"My ass is stiff," Chico complained, rubbing his backside. "Feels like it might fall off if I even touch it."

Bart chuckled, nudging me right in the ribs. "We saw her, the girl," he said with that smirk of his. "Did you… you know… get any?"

I shoved him aside, scoffing. "No," I muttered. "I'm not that lucky."

They laughed, following me back to the room, ribbing me the whole way. But despite the jokes, I couldn't shake the feeling Chiara was already tangled in something deeper than any of us realized.

THIRTEEN

JOKER

The night wrapped itself around me, comforting me with the realization that normal was only a dream I had long abandoned. Tonight, more than ever, I felt just like the clown everyone expected me to be.

I slipped into a pair of cherry-red suit pants, catching my reflection in the mirror. Lean and cut, my torso was half-covered in a wild patchwork of inked stories with no plot, no purpose.

Each was a souvenir with no meaning—an etching to skin that told no story. Yet, here they were, scattered over me like a roadmap to nowhere. My face stared back at me: expression calm, eyes unreadable. Strange, considering how somber I felt for a guy painted up as a clown.

Why is a clown expected to be smiling anyway?

I let out a soft laugh at the thought, a bitter chuckle that evaporated as soon as it came.

Reaching for the brush, I plunged it into the thick, white paint, letting its cold cream coat my fingers before I spread it across my face, one careful swipe at a time. With a separate pot of black, I pressed two fingers into it; the color was dark, heavy, andunforgiving. Slowly, I eased it down off each eye high onto my cheeks, tracing shadows down my cheekbones. The face staring back at me had transformed, its edges softened, and the eyes hollowed. I clapped my hands, the sound of my fingers against paint-slick skin loud in the quiet room.

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