Rewrite the Stars

THE COOL BREEZE SWIRLS AROUND me, trees swaying in the twilight sky. Blonde strands from my once-perfect Dutch braids lash at my tear-streaked cheek, and the bottom of my tight, white, button-down linen dress flutters against my thighs. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking—must be close to an hour—or where I’m going, but I’m close enough now to realize that the lights I’ve been walking toward belong to a Ferris wheel in the distance. I see big rig trucks and trailers in a dirt lot and big top tents behind them. Harmonized screams come in waves, and the scent of something sweet and cinnamony fills my nostrils.

A carnival. Or maybe a circus. What’s the difference between the two? I’ve never been to anything of the sort, except for my high school’s annual fair for charity. It’s not like my parents would ever be caught dead at this type of thing.

I slow as I approach the hip-height metal gate, not wanting to draw attention from any of the people milling around, but no one seems to notice my presence. The profile of a guy in a black leather jacket catches my attention as he prowls across the patchy grass in front of me. He scratches at the stubble on his sculpted jaw and flicks his cigarette to the ground before he disappears behind a black and white striped tent.

Something flutters to my feet, and I look down to see a piece of yellow paper pressed against my once-white leather tennis shoes that are now coated with dirt. Bending over, I peel it off my ankles, reading the words:

Jessup Brothers Carnival Presents the Sons of Eastlake

Freak Show * Games * Rides * Food * Fun

This weekend only!

Noon-10:00 P.M.

Eastlake. Why does that name sound familiar?

I shouldn’t be here. I left after an argument with my parents got particularly nasty. Insults were slung, and feelings were hurt on both sides. Ignoring the nagging guilt inside my head, my feet move in the direction of Leather Jacket Man. I glance around, making sure no one will see me sneaking in, then swing one leg over the gate. I scurry toward the tent, looking over my shoulder in a way that screams guilty. When I’m finally inside, I’m shocked to see how many people can fit in here. There are rows upon rows of excited spectators of all ages with an aisle in the middle that leads to a giant ball-shaped cage of some sort.

“There he is, ladies and gentlemen! Sexy Sebastian has finally decided to grace us with his presence!” The announcer’s sardonic voice echoes throughout the tent, and the crowd starts to go wild. All eyes swivel to look past me, and when I turn to see what the fuss is about, I find Leather Jacket Man prowling in my direction. The leather jacket is gone, leaving only a black tank top with open sides, allowing for a perfect view of his sculpted stomach. Blazing green eyes roll at the nickname before they flash to mine for half a second. My back straightens under his gaze, and he lifts an eyebrow at me, as if he knows I don’t belong, before breaking the connection.

“Watch the Sons of Eastlake defy gravity in one of the oldest and most dangerous stunts in history!”

He—the one called Sebastian—makes his way toward two other guys on motorcycles, not stopping to acknowledge his fanfare. One of the riders wears a ribbed white undershirt—the kind my dad wears under his button-up shirts—and the other one has on a flannel with the sleeves cut off. The announcer hands Sebastian a helmet right before he gets to a third motorcycle. He nods to the other riders in greeting before securing his helmet and swinging one leg over the black bike.

I slip into one of the few open seats and watch, mesmerized as the lights dim, and “Dragula” starts playing from the speakers—a song my parents would be horrified to know that I like, let alone have heard of. The three riders make their way to the metal cage, and the announcer pushes on it, revealing a trap door. They file inside, Sebastian being the last one to enter, and then the door is closed, shutting them inside.

My foot taps to the catchy beat, shoving all thoughts of my parents to the back of my mind, and my stomach twists with nerves. Sebastian starts rocking back and forth on his motorcycle, the tires effortlessly gliding across the curved floor of the cage in a half-moon pattern. The other riders follow suit, but my eyes are glued to him and him alone, and I suspect the same is true for every other person in the audience. It’s clear he’s the leader, even though he’s done nothing to indicate that. It’s just something that can be felt.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for the Sons of Eastlake as they take on…the Globe…of…Death!” Well, that’s fitting. Each word from the announcer is drawn out for dramatic effect, and people scream their response.

The riders rev their bikes and it’s almost louder than the music, then Sebastian and the guy in the white shirt take off. They circle the rider in the middle, riding horizontally for a few rotations before he cuts through vertically. The crowd gets louder as they watch them barely miss each other with each loop. I’m literally on the edge of my seat, afraid they’re going to collide at any second, but they’re beyond choreographed, as if it comes as naturally as breathing.

I’m hypnotized by the way they communicate without words or even hand gestures. I can’t imagine the level of trust something like this must take. After a few minutes, all three riders come to a sudden halt at exactly the same time. Disappointed sighs echo throughout the tent, and my shoulders slump, wishing it wasn’t over so soon. But then I hear the sound of another motorcycle, and a fourth rider appears near the entrance behind me. The cage door is dropped open once more, and he rides up through the aisle in the center straight into the ball.

“You guys didn’t think the show was over, did you?” the announcer taunts above the applause as he shuts the cage once more.

My eyes must be as big as dinner plates as I take in the scene made even more intense by the fourth rider. This time, two go vertical—Sebastian and the new guy—while the other two riders circle horizontally.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a rowdy

group of guys to my left, probably around my age, with their feet propped on the chairs in front of them—chairs that are occupied. One laughs as he digs his hand into a middle-aged woman’s bucket of popcorn and throws a fistful at his friend. The friend punches him on the arm, both guys unaware that the lady’s husband has flagged a security guard down.

The security guard walks over to my end of the row before he ducks down into the aisle, trying to get their attention without causing further disruption. When he asks to see their wristbands, I direct my attention back to the show, ignoring the fact that things seem to be getting heated to my left. Suddenly, the guys shove past the security guard before he stumbles backward on top of me, causing us both to fall to the ground.

The security guard yells out before he stands, bringing his radio to his mouth to call for backup. My hip stings from hitting the rough, hard ground with two hundred extra pounds on top of me, but it could be worse. I stand too, using my hands to brush the dirt and gravel off the back of my dress. Four more security guards run in, and the jerks who started the fight raise their hands in surrender. Everyone’s attention is on the commotion now. Even the bikes have stopped.

“Let’s go!” the first security guard shouts, and the boys start moving. “You were just going to get kicked out. Now, you’re going to jail for assaulting a peace officer. You too,” he says, grabbing my upper arm as I try to sit back down.

“Oh, I’m not—”

“I said move it!”

“I don’t even know them!” I try again, pulling my arm from his grasp. He pauses, assessing.

“Yet,” one of the offenders says, wiggling his eyebrows even as he’s being placed in handcuffs.

“Where’s your wristband?” the security guard asks me, eyeing me warily.

Shit.

“It, uh, fell off. Skinny wrists.” I shrug, holding up my arms.

“Uh-huh,” he says, not buying it for a second, and places the cuffs around my wrists. “Nice try. Let’s go.” He shoves his meaty palm between my shoulder blades, propelling me forward.

“She’s with me.”

Silence fills the tent, everyone’s eyes on Leather Jacket Man. He’s straddling his motorcycle, helmet off, and he’s now holding the announcer’s microphone.

“She’s part of the show,” he explains, and my eyes widen. What?

The security guard doesn’t look convinced, but what can he do? He doesn’t have proof that I snuck in.

“Well, come on, Princess. We don’t have all night. We’ve got a show to do!” His voice has a slight edge to it as if he’s challenging me. My neck and ears feel like they’re on fire, but I swallow my nerves as the guard reluctantly removes the handcuffs. I shake off his grip and slowly put one foot in front of the other as the crowd cheers me on.

Once I’m close, the other riders exit the cage. One of them jerks his helmet off and speaks low so only Sebastian can hear, but I can tell he’s not happy. He cuts his eyes at me and shakes his head before storming off to the side.

Okay, then.

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, looking between Sebastian and the aptly named Globe of Death. He extends an arm, motioning for me to step inside. I hesitate, considering bolting instead, but something in me is dying to see what he has planned.

“You better know what the hell you’re doing, Bastian,” the announcer mutters as I cross the threshold. “I don’t need a lawsuit because you want to get your dick wet.”

“First of all,” Sebastian starts, encroaching on the announcer’s personal space. “When have I ever fucked up on my bike? Second, you talk to me like that again and I’m gone. Good luck selling tickets without me.” He slams the mic into the announcer’s chest, then enters the cage behind me. He jerks a chin to one of the other stuntman, and he follows suit.

Pride wounded and resentment written all over his reddened, chubby face, the announcer slams the gate in place, effectively locking the three of us inside. I flinch at the jarring sound of metal clanging against metal, and my heart kicks in my chest. It’s smaller in here than it looked from the outside. There’s maybe a foot of space in between the bikes and me.

“That, uh…sounded final.” I try to joke, but my nerves get in the way. Sebastian props his motorcycle on the kickstand and stands in front of me, those green eyes inspecting. Assessing.

“You scared?” he asks. His voice is low and softer than it was a second ago.