Page 12 of Wristlocked
“Seriously? We’re in the middle of class.”Well, close enough. Open gym is essentially our free time to train cross-discipline and work on anything we might not be learning as a part of our formal curriculum. My friends shift awkwardly behind me, and I know I’m being rude, but I can’t make myself care.
“I’m here at Celeste’s invitation,” my mom tells me, cementing the betrayal. “I expressed a desire to see how my daughter was faring under her care.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. Nothing is fine. Lyot is pissed at me, I might be throwing everything away for a pair of green eyes that spit fire, and now she’s here, ready to chip away at all the cracks in my hard-won independence.
“Bored of the straps already?” she asks, eyeing the rope behind me with a hint of contempt. Vaya bristles, but I know it’s not the apparatus my mother disdains, only my shameful lack of focus. I don’t rise to the bait. It’s obvious from the disciplinedchaos around us that this is a free period, and cross-training is a core element of professional circus, as she well knows. But my parents have only tolerated my fall from grace as a trapeze prodigy and agreed to pay for ACCA because the straps are still considered a premier discipline. And because they adore Lyot, holding out hope that the two of us will someday be the next Duo Laurent.
“I’m Chloe.” She holds out a hand to Jules at my side, the gesture strangely delicate despite the calluses I know are worn like tread marks across her fingers. “It’s a pleasure to see Gia making new friends.”
With a heavy sigh, I say, “This is Jules, Mother. And her partner, Vaya.” I don’t warn her to be nice. My mother is always nice to anyone who could be an adoring fan, and even though Vaya’s eyes flash and Jules maintains her usual composure, I know better than to expect my new friends not to be a little starstruck. Lyot is the only one I’ve ever brought home who didn’t cave to the Chloe Laurent charm. As if hearing my thoughts, my mother turns from her introductions to where Lyot is spotting a classmate through a roll up two points away. As soon as my eyes land on him, his head swivels in our direction, and I look away before I have to watch his expression go cold.
“And how is Elliot, my dear?” my mom asks me. “His coach must be thrilled to have snagged him.”
Neither of my parents paid much attention to the cocky, curious boy I started bringing home two weeks after they crushed my first rebellion, but after he beat me out for the Emerging Pro title two years later, they took notice. Satisfied that he was, perhaps, talented enough for their daughter after all, and resigned to the fact that he seemed determined to stick around regardless, my father’s paternal glares turned to tolerant apathy, and my mother turned the full force of her charm in his direction. Istudy her now as she watches him, morbidly curious to see how she reacts when he doesn’t rush to my side.
“Elliot.Mon chéri.”
The next thing I know, my mother is—much to my shock—kissing Lyot on both cheeks while he smiles tolerantly down at her and slides an arm around my shoulders. He leans in to brush his lips against my cheekbone, whispering, “You okay?”
I give him a quick, grateful nod and lean into his solid reality as much as I dare.
Vaya wags her eyebrows at us like an idiot over my mom’s shoulder, until Jules pulls her back to the rope, giving us space. My heart is a hot ache in my chest as Lyot guides me gently back toward the straps point, answering my mom’s questions with his usual tact.
“Will you show me what you’ve been working on?” she asks. “It’s been weeks since I’ve seen either of you train.” Seven weeks and four days, to be exact. Every time she shows her face in the gym, it’s a train wreck of frustration and humiliation that I don’t quickly forget.
“Gia nailed down her backflip from dislocs this week,” Lyot tells her, surprising me with the obvious pride in his voice. I’ve been chasing the trick for months, and though the proximity in which we train means he can’t help but be aware of my progress, my cheeks flush at the praise, and something warm and hopeful stirs in my chest.
“Oh?” She gives me a bright, scary smile. “That’s lovely, darling. Let me see.”
“I’ll lift you,” Lyot says, moving to the wall where the rigging rope is anchored and unwinding the hitch. The warmth drops to my stomach and dies, replaced by a building tension I try to ignore.
As a child, I used to love demoing skills for my parents, chasing their approval and basking in their pride. As I got older, the praise became more and more elusive, replaced by an expectation of perfection I could never attain. For the last two years, I’ve tried like hell to avoid letting them be involved in my training, minus the four months I spent prepping the cabaret act they insisted I perform in exchange for their financial support in attending ACCA. I think they hoped I might realize I actually missed the trapeze. Instead, I filled the act with every trick my mom is too old to pull off and performed to Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” in ripped fishnets and goth makeup. After that, they tried to pretend that sending me here to study straps was their idea all along and poured all their toxic devotion into making me regret it.
I lock my wrists in the hand loops, keeping my breath even and my eyes on Lyot. The previous week falls away as he lifts me, arm over arm, until I’m hanging six feet off the ground and ready to fly. I pike my toes to my fists and kick into the back beat. One strong arch, and I’m weightless, rotating around my shoulders through two, three dislocs. On the fourth, I tuck and pull my wrists to my hips to make the backflip, landing fluidly in the inverted pike and then launching into another disloc before letting my momentum swing to a stop. Lyot lowers me smoothly to the mat, flashing an infectious grin that turns him fifteen again, the blazing angel to my moody demon. I don’t want to look away, to let my mother steal the moment, but Lyot turns to rehitch the rope, and she’s waiting for my attention.
If I’ve impressed her at all, I’ll never know it; her smile is as plastic as ever, her words as hollow.
“What is Halsey doing in your flexibility class?” she asks me. “You are completely losing the flexibility in your thoracic spine. You had a much better upper arch last year.”
“I’m not trying to be a contortionist, Mother, or I’d be in Xue’s class. Halsey does flexibility for aerialists, and I actually need my lats and traps.” I’ve personally been loving the way my straps muscles are coming in, even if I am sacrificing some of my flexibility.
“Well, then.” Her eyes narrow, and I brace myself, the last of my backflip euphoria draining away. “How are your roll ups coming? I saw Elliot was helping that young man with his. Have you given up on yours?”
Lyot flashes me a guilty look, and my heart sinks. Roll ups are one of the quintessential tricks that every straps artist has to have in their arsenal, and they’re the bane of my existence. They are difficult, disorienting, and distractingly painful. I can do them, but not with any level of grace or consistency, and I know that if I were to try one now, I’d flounder under the weight of my mother’s icy regard.
“We’ve been here less than two weeks,” Lyot reminds her, returning to my side.
“Long enough to learn a new flip, apparently.” She waves a dismissive hand. “And perhaps a little trick on the rope?”
Lyot coils beside me, and I reach out reflexively to soothe him still. Before I can respond, however, a new voice has both of us turning in shock.
“I wouldn’t underestimate your daughter, Mrs. Laurent.” Gale’s indifferent drawl is as respectful as I’ve ever heard it, but there’s no mistaking the hint of challenge in his eyes as he approaches. He gives her a lazy once-over that rocks her back on her heels and then holds out his hand. “Gale Shepard.”
She clasps it, recovering swiftly, and gives him an appraising smile in return. My body is frozen fire. I’m afraid to look at him, to shatter the mirage. Lyot radiates tension at my other side and for once, my mother’s face is the safest place to hide.
“I know who you are,” she says. “Celeste is quite proud of her discovery.”
“Then you’ll know I’m not a full-of-shit fanboy when I tell you Gia will be kicking Mr. Chace’s ass up and down the straps in another year.” He gives her his patented cocky smirk and steps to my other side as I melt and burn.
