Joining the Circus

  “Straddle up! Slower! Slower! Good,” yelled Steve Fenton. I obeyed my tumbling coach, enjoying the newfound feeling of being upside down. I looked down at my hands, spread out to hold my weight. Nine fingers altogether. I sighed and came down.
    Just two years ago, I had had all ten of my fingers. I played the flute, wrote stories, took skating lessons. One day, after a lesson, I skated towards the exit, and slipped. Falling at an odd angle, I managed to slice my finger, mutilating it. A day later, I was one finger short.                                                                                                                 
    From then on, I lost hope. I quit skating. And because it was my right hand with only nine fingers, I stopped writing. The flute became impossible.
    Then, a year ago, my mom took me to meet Steve Fenton, a state wide gymnastics coach. I started taking a class once a week. Then twice a week, three times a week, and now, every day after school.
    I have still refused to go back on skates, even though that doesn’t require ten fingers. I tried to take up singing, but failed miserably. So now I devote all my time to tumbling.
    In fact, I want to try out for the circus.

                                      *                    *                        *

  I should have realized there was no hope when the manager of the auditions looked at my hand in disgust, and asked how it had happened, but I didn’t think he’d be that biased.
  I’d chosen a routine of a round off, three back handsprings, and a back layout twist. The onlookers applauded heartily, but the judges merely nodded at me. I wasn’t sure if that was good sign or not.
  “We’ll let you know our decision,” a surely looking judge told me. I nodded to show that I’d heard, and gathered up my stuff.
  It was a week before I heard anything. I had been eagerly waiting, and as I didn’t have much to do in the meantime, it was a long wait. I had withdrawn from people in general at my school after my accident. The only person close to a friend that I had was my coach, Steve.
  When I got the call from the circus, I was so excited I couldn’t stop shaking. Visions of me flying on a trapeze, doing flips off, and tumbling tricks on the floor flitted across my mind.
  “Hello?” I asked into the phone.
  “Is this Michelle Sanden?”
  “Yes,” I answered, holding my breath.
  “We’re calling about your audition for our circus.”
  “Yes?” I said again, this time as a question.
    “I’m afraid we cannot accept you.”

                                    *                      *                      *
    Why? That was my only question. I was not exactly disappointed, that would probably come after the shock, but more puzzled. I knew I was good enough; I was better than several of the performers that I had watched while at the audition.
    The more I thought about it, the more indignant I became.
  They had no reason to turn me down! So finally I got up my courage to go and ask them. Face to face.
  I was lucky enough to find the manager at the circus tent, shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk. I walked up to him, and waited for him to finish.
  “What do you want?” he asked roughly.
  “I want to know why I didn’t get into the circus.”
  “That is private information-”
  I glowered at him. “Wasn’t I good enough?”
“Well, it wasn’t a matter of how good you were, it was, ah, well,” he gestured wordlessly at my hand, and suddenly I understood.
  “You didn’t accept me because of my hand?” I asked, holding in my anger, but letting my disbelief seep into every word.
    “Every other performer in the circus is normal!” He shouted in my face. “We cannot allow your abnormality to ruin that!”
    I lost it. “My abnormality?! You think I wanted to lose my finger?!” I slapped him with all my strength, and dodged his answering blow towards my head. Still simmering with anger and hate, I ran out of the tent.

                                    *                      *                      *

    At home, I was too furious to cry. Instead, I played the scene over and over in my head.
    My mom came into my room, and sat down on my bed next to me. I had already filled her in on what the circus manager had said.
    “Maybe now you can go back to skating,” she said, trying to be helpful.
    I shook my head. “I wanted to be in a circus!”
  “Well, then, why not try out for a different circus?” my mom asked.
    I sat up. Why not? A voice inside me echoed my mom. There was another local circus that I could have tried out for, but the performers in it had more advanced skills than the one that had turned me down. Yet what did I have to lose by trying?
    “I’ll do it,” I said.

                                    *                      *                      *

    I did the same routine at the auditions for the “Circo del Mundo” which they told me is “Circus of the World” in Spanish. Like at my last audition, the judges merely nodded when I had finished. Shaking slightly, I walked over to my mom, who had been watching me. She gave me a hug. “You did great!”
  Once again, the judges told me I’d hear from them soon. I walked out feeling almost exactly the same as after my first audition.
  But Circo del Mundo actually called me only three days later.
  This time it was my mom that answered the phone. Then she called for me. “Michelle! It’s the Circo del Mundo manager!”
    I raced down the stairs, almost falling in my haste.
  “Yes?” I asked.
  “You’ve been accepted into our circus.”

                                    *                      *                      *

  I was introduced to the staff and performers the next day. One of the performers was missing two fingers, another one had shriveled ears, and two had slightly mottled skin; one had a blotchy face, and the other one had a discolored hand.
  The first show I did with them was a year after my audition. I made friends with all of them, except a surly juggler, and tried skating again. It would take a while to get to where I was before my accident, but now I’m devoted to Circo del Mundo.