Flying Tips for Flightless Birds Read online

  Which is how we ended up here, in an old, freezing, dilapidated warehouse at the edge of an industrial estate. It has no spectator seating and no changing rooms; in fact certain parts of it (in a back corner which we’re choosing to ignore) have no actual roof. But what it does have is space. We’ve laid out sponge mats on the floor for the acrobats, rigged up spotlights and a sound system, constructed curtained-off changing areas, and shoved in old sofas, kitchen cupboards, a microwave, a fridge and a big, battered dining table where we have regular meetings to discuss how we can’t afford to keep the place on unless we get more students.

  And rising above all this, way up in the shadowy heights of the corrugated ceiling, is the rigging for our flying trapeze. Just below it is the high wire, which we take down when we’re practising, and below that the safety net is stretched between us and a dusty concrete floor.

  At Franconis’ we provide the equipment, but you have to bring your own glamour.

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  I like Py because he gets it. Circus school isn’t something he does on Saturday afternoons because his mum wants him out of the house, it’s the reason he breathes in and out. I met him two years ago when he joined Franconis’. Didn’t ask if he could join, just walked in and informed me that he would, as if we’d sent him a written invitation.

  Mum was busy with the Tots Acrobats so I was filling in his enrolment form, which was a Post-it with the phone number of his next of kin. Just in case.

  “Freddie Carson,” he told me.

  “Welcome to the circus, Freddie. Do you have any circus skills already?”

  He flashed me a grin, like Please. “Guess,” he said, then stood back to let me look him over.

  Scuffed red Doc Martens, black combats, slashed black T-shirt, leather jacket with small holes speckled over the front. Chain belt with a heavy brass lighter hanging off it. Piercings, lots of. The lips grinning at me were chapped and the hands he took out of his jacket pockets were filthy – blunt nails, calloused fingertips and black stains worked deep into the lines on his palms. I noticed a plaster sticking out the neck of his T-shirt, the skin around it pink and shiny.

  Above all this, though, two things stood out: a smell that wafted from his clothes, not unpleasant but heady, the way markers or aerosols are heady; and the brick-red hair shaved close on the sides of his head, but longer on the top and styled into a sort of wavy Mohican.

  No, not brick-red. Flame-red.

  My eyes widened. “You’re a fire eater!”

  He gave a little half nod, half bow. “Fire eater, fire dancer, fire juggler – you name it, I’ll pour lighter fluid on it. Call me Pyro – the police do.”

  I could just imagine Dad’s face at the thought of the extra insurance we’d have to get if Pyro joined our circus, but I didn’t care; a fire eater would be a big attraction and so far we didn’t have one.

  “Are you any good?” I asked.

  He fingered the plaster absently. “I’m dedicated,” he said. That was good enough for me.

  And actually, he was good. He could already juggle three burning torches, swallowing them at the end, and knew enough fire-poi moves to put together a five-minute fire-dancing routine. But it wasn’t his skills that made me like him. I think it was the moment he drew his soot-blackened hands out of his singed jacket, held them out and spun around, all swagger, so I could examine him. He was one of us. Born to perform.

  That was two years ago. These days Py has red dreadlocks, he can handle five torches and he’s teaching Jay to work with fire so they can do team juggling. The result of this is that Jay is losing his fingerprints and Dad is losing his hair.

  I’m sitting in the middle of the safety net, bobbing gently and watching everyone practise while I wait for Birdie to arrive. The Juggulars are playing Combat Juggling below me, which is a game where everyone starts out juggling three clubs and then they all try to keep going while sabotaging each other. The winner, usually Jay, is the last one still juggling.

  Mainly I’m watching Py work on his poi routine. He’s holding the ends of two metal chains, one in each hand, each about half a metre long and each with a heavy ball on the end. During a show we turn the lights down and he sets the balls on fire, but for now he’s just working on the routine. He starts the chains spinning and soon they’re whirling over his head, under his arms, crossing and uncrossing in front of him and behind, all in time to a selection of Seventies punk classics pumping out of the sound system. He looks like a ninja at a nightclub.

  Fire poi are very technical, and very dangerous. If he misjudges anything, he’ll get a face full of burning lighter fluid. I’ve tried it with practice poi, and even with the plastic versions you end up covered in bruises. Jay has already chipped a tooth but at least the ball wasn’t on fire at the time.

  Py is good because he makes everything look so effortless. Every move segues seamlessly into the next, as if he’s dancing in the dark and there just happen to be fireballs strobing in orbits around him. I watch him make giant wing shapes appear in the air above him as he bends so far backwards, his chest is almost parallel to the ground. For a guy with arms like a body builder, he’s impressively flexible. And far more graceful than anyone dancing to Seventies punk is supposed to be.

  “Saw Birdie’s blog the other day,” Py says, hauling himself onto the net beside me and collapsing, out of breath. He makes it look so easy you forget he’s been in constant motion for the last two hours. “When’s she going to get to the good stuff?”

  “I assume you mean you?”

  “Natch. I want a whole post to myself. My fifteen minutes of fame or whatever.”

  “You realize no one reads our blog?” I say. “Except you, apparently.”

  “That’s because you haven’t had anyone good on it yet! Who wants to read about you sparkly pigeons flapping away up there –” he gestures at the air above us – “when they could be reading about—”

  “A guy giving himself third-degree burns?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You may have a point. I’ll get Birdie to interview you.”

  “She’ll have to clear it with my agent; I’m a busy man. Hey, how about a black-and-white photo – me, in the dark, swallowing a torch? Topless, obvs.”

  “Obvs,” I say, rolling my eyes, though to be honest, that shot could double our membership overnight and I’m trying hard not to visualise it myself.

  “We could do a video too!”

  “Not sure my phone screen’s big enough to capture your entire ego, but we’ll give it a go.”

  He grins. “Good hat today.” I’m wearing a grey flat cap with a yellow tee, skinny shorts and a suit jacket I got at Oxfam. Quite understated, for me. Py wears the same outfit every day – black tee, black combats or black jeans, boots, black leather jacket. Once he turned up in a grey tee and caused even more of a stir than the day Birdie wore a knee-length wedding dress to school (she wore a tight red jumper on top – she’s not insane).

  Py can’t believe anyone would spend longer on their clothes than the time it takes to sniff the armpits of a black T-shirt. I’m a little afraid to tell him how much time we spend shopping.

  He takes an apple out of one enormous combat pocket and devours it in three bites.

  “How’s school, Py?”

  Py is the only person on the planet who hates school more than I do. This is partly because he’s not allowed lighter fluid on the premises and partly because he’s dyslexic and has to put in twice the effort everyone else does. I wish he went to our school but he lives too far away.

  “Ugh,” he says through the apple mush. He’s two years older than us and he’s counting the days until he can quit. That’s another reason we want to make the circus school into a thriving business; if we could, we’d hire Pyro on the spot as a teacher, but so far we can’t afford it and he’s looking at a full-time job in the local KFC, which also has a No Lighter Fluid policy.

  I consider suggesting he trade fire-poi lessons for tuto
ring from Hector, but the thought of Hector let loose with a naked flame is downright terrifying. Besides, if the plan is to make him undateable, fire poi is not the way to go. Pyro is unquestionably the coolest person at Franconis’, though I’d never tell him that.

  In the end I get the juggling balls out because I cannot listen to Hector say the words “common denominator” one more time.

  He stands there in the middle of his bedroom, hands out, palms up, in front of him. He looks like a novelty towel holder.

  “Don’t be so rigid! Relax your muscles – you have to be ready to move.”

  “Well, I’m tense! You’re making me tense!”

  I put both hands on his shoulders and push them down, away from his ears. “It’s simple,” I tell him, placing a single beanbag ball on one palm. He grips it like a hand grenade and I make a mental note to get him to practise holding eggs instead. Then I take his wrist and move his hand in the simple pattern the ball will follow.

  “You’re just tossing a ball from one hand to the other. The ball goes up, then it comes down again, and you catch it with the other hand. Simple, yeah? Now you try.”

  He chucks the ball sideways and completely fails to catch it. I scratch out my mental “egg” note.

  “No. That’s not tossing, that’s passing. The ball has to go up then down, not sideways. It should go past your nose.”

  “Kind of like a normal distribution curve! A parabola!”

  I stare at him. “Whatever. Up then down. When you can get it to land in your other hand without reaching for it, then you know you’re doing it right.”

  He tries. For two hours. The ball lands by his feet, under his bed, in his wastepaper basket, on his head and, once, out the window, but it seems to be repelled by a mysterious force field from going anywhere near his other hand. Every time he throws it, my muscles twitch instinctively, and by the time his mum calls him for dinner we’re both exhausted.

  “My back’s killing me,” he says.

  “So stop dropping the ball,” I growl.

  “Can I keep this? I’ll practise some more tonight.”

  “Really? You’re not ready to quit?”

  He looks surprised. “Of course not. I’m sure it takes everyone a while to get the hang of it, doesn’t it?”

  “Er, yeah.” But usually hours, not eons.

  “Will you come back tomorrow? We can work on your chemistry write-up.” He says this like it’s an incentive.

  But the chemistry has to be done so I tell him I’ll see him after lunch and then I leave, with the thud-thud-thud of falling beanbag balls echoing in my brain.

  He must have stayed up all night because by Sunday he’s got it. Sort of. One in three lands in the right place, anyway.

  “Thank God,” I say. “OK, now take a ball in each hand. Throw one, and when it gets to the top of its arc, throw the other one. And then catch them both. When you can do that, we’ll add the third.”

  His delighted smile turns to dismay. “Maybe we should do the chemistry first.”

  Don’t try this at home, kids. (Come to circus school and try it here!)

  Posted by Birdie

  Ladies and gentlemen! Introducing one of Franconis’ most popular stars, our very own tame(ish) arsonist, Mr Freddie “Pyromaniac” Carson!

  Pyro (16) has been with Franconis’ for two years now and always lights up the show with his flaming poi, flaming torches and flaming hair! I’ve conducted a quick interview with him to show prospective students the kind of skills they can learn at Franconis’.

  BF:

  Py, can you tell our readers what age you were when you started working with fire?

  P:

  Hiya, Birdie. I suppose you could say my introduction to the business was when I made my first aerosol flame-thrower at the age of four.

  BF:

  Riiiiight. But you probably wouldn’t recommend that to our younger readers, yes? You’d probably say that was a mistake?

  P:

  (Shrugs) It was a good laugh is all I remember. But, now you mention it, my sister does still have a very small bald patch, so yeah, in retrospect I should have done a bit of practice in direction control first.

  BF:

  Um, OK. And why do you want to be a circus star?

  P:

  It’s not about the fame for me, Birdie. It’s an art, what I do; and I’d do it whether anyone wanted to watch or not. In fact it’s better if no one’s watching because you’re less likely to get in trouble. Basically I just like setting stuff on fire. At circus school you can do that and not get arrested, which is why I’d recommend it to all your readers.*

  BF:

  Working with fire must be pretty dangerous. What’s been your worst injury to date?

  P:

  Hmm, I suppose the worst was a fractured leg. Whacked it with a fire staff. Those wooden staffs are pretty solid.

  BF:

  Wow, I didn’t know you’d fractured your leg, Py!

  P:

  Oh no, it wasn’t my leg.

  BF:

  Ah.

  P:

  I’m much better with the staff these days. And I haven’t had a burn in … (consults a Post-it note covered in scored-out numbers) six days! That’s almost a record. I’m interested in teaching, too, so if people want to join Franconis’, I’d be willing to teach them everything I know.

  BF:

  What an offer. Any final advice for wannabe fire starters out there?

  P:

  Yeah. Remember, kids, you’d be surprised how flammable household furnishings can be.

  BF:

  So, “safety first”, that’s what you’re saying?

  P:

  No, I’m saying it pays to experiment.

  BF:

  I think we should wrap this up now. Thanks for talking to us, Py, and we look forward to seeing you in Franconis’ upcoming shows!

  P:

  No problem, Birdie. Keep ’er lit, yeah?

  *Disclaimer: Franconis’ Circus School is fully stocked with fire extinguishers, first-aid professionals (Dad) and comprehensive insurance. What you get up to with Py outside class times is your own responsibility/fault.

  < < Previous Post

  It’s two weeks before Hector can manage one complete cascade with three balls. I explain, I demonstrate, I draw diagrams, I make slo-mo videos, I yell, I coax, I move his arms around, but he’s hopeless. My school work is improving so fast I’m approaching the class average in tests (and I now know how to work out the class average), so I feel bad that Hector still looks like a blindfolded beginner. Even clowns have to be able to manage basic juggling.

  “Hector,” I say gently one day as he rubs his fists into his aching back like a pregnant woman. “I don’t know. Either you’re not putting in the effort or I’m failing you in some way.” I totally know how Miss Allen feels now.

  He sits next to me on the yard wall and probes a couple of blue-and-yellow bruises on his forehead. He bruises like he has tissue paper for skin. “I’ll get better, Finch, I promise. I’m way better than I was last week.”

  “Well, that’s true; you haven’t almost killed any wildlife this week.”

  “That pigeon came out of nowhere!”

  “I imagine it’s saying the same thing to its mates about you right now.”

  “Don’t give up on me.”

  “I’m not giving up. But you know the basics now, you just need to practise, and I don’t think my nerves can stand watching it.”

  “Oh. So you don’t want to hang out any more?”

  Is that what we’ve been doing? It occurs to me that I don’t “hang out” with people. I spend time with Birdie, Wren, Jay, Py and all the classes at the circus school, but if you asked what we were doing, I’d say “working”. We’re either rehearsing routines, talking about routines, planning new routines, designing costumes for routines, or watching each other practise routines. I wonder what people do when they “hang out”. Hector puts his chin in his hands and
stares at the ground, dejected. This apparently.

  “Of course I want to hang out,” I say. “I just think we need to try a new skill. Can you ride a bike?”

  He twists his lips non-committally. “I had one years ago.”

  “Great!”

  “That’s why one of my kneecaps is lumpier than the other.”

  “Oh. Do you still have the bike?”

  He looks apologetic. “It had to be scrapped.”

  I join him with my chin in my hands.

  Don’t look down

  Posted by Birdie

  Janie Chang (15) has been with the circus school almost as long as I have. She can ride a unicycle, walk on stilts and she’s a Tuesday Night Acrobat, but her main passion is aerial silks and she is usually to be found dangling from the ceiling down at Franconis’.

  As well as looking stunning, aerial silks are impressive because there’s exactly zero safety equipment involved. No wires, no nets, no harnesses, just a couple of lengths of material hanging in the air. Aerial-silks artists need serious arm muscles for climbing, doing fancy poses, swinging, spinning, spiralling, wrapping themselves up in the silks, and then unrolling suddenly, dropping like yo-yos and catching themselves before they hit the floor. It takes strength, flexibility and grace, and Janie’s got all three. And today she’s going to tell us a little bit about herself.

  BF:

  What is it about circus skills that you love, Janie?

  JC:

  I love the sense of achievement, how you get better and better every week. And it makes you stand out, you know?

  BF:

  Tell me about it. I know you have loads of different skills, why do you love the silks in particular?

  JC:

  I guess I especially like the silks because I’m in control. There’s a bit of danger and you can make everyone gasp when you drop out of a wrap, but if you know your stuff you get to feel quite comfortable up there. Wrapped up in my silks is where I feel safest in the whole world.