In that moment, I’m incredibly grateful for Riley’s presence. The kids around me are all strangers. The coaches are all older and more impressive than should be humanly possible. And I suddenly have the terrible feeling that everyone in this room has been doing this for a lot longer than I have, not that that would take much. I’m probably the only one without an ounce of experience. I’m an imposter. And if not for Riley’s comforting arm in mine—and her previous encouraging compliments still ringing in my ear—I’d have turned around and called home.

I look over to the girls clustered a few feet to my left. The three of them are wearing matching blue hoodies and shorts, their blond hair pulled back in ponytails. They’re ridiculously skinny and have that sort of stature that says they practice ballet—chin up, shoulders back, feet turned out. Definitely sisters. Or if they’re not, they’re some sort of Twilight Zone anomaly.

“I don’t think they’re human,” comes a voice behind me. Riley and I turn around.

The boy standing there is a little taller than me, and he’s gorgeous. He’s wearing a loose lavender T-shirt and a beanie cap over his curly black hair. He’s tan and clearly goes to the gym. Often. But he’s not bulky like the wrestlers or football jocks at my school—he looks like a swimmer.

“Tyler,” he says, holding out his hand. I shake it. I can’t stop the blush rising in my cheeks. His smile is infectious, and he doesn’t take his brown eyes off me while we shake.

“I’m Jennifer,” I squeak.

“A pleasure,” he responds.

When Riley takes his hand and introduces herself, though, his attention shifts smoothly to her. Maybe that’s just how he looks at people—with his full attention, none of that eye sliding most people do. I can’t help but think that this somehow makes him infinitely more attractive.

“What do you think?” he asks, his voice dropped to a whisper. He nods to the blond girls. “Genetic experiments gone wrong or cyborgs?”

I snort and try to cover it with a normal laugh. It fails, obviously, but it just makes him smile. So much for being smooth around the cute new guy.

“Cyborgs,” I whisper. “Definitely.”

Riley eyes the girls warily. “I’ve heard of them. They call themselves the Twisted Triplets. They’re contortionists. They went to nationals for gymnastics last year.”

“If they’re that good, what are they doing here?” I ask.

“Heck if I know,” she replies. “They should be, like, training for the Olympics or something.”

We don’t have time to ask any more questions, because at that moment the coach from earlier, Leena, steps up to the crowd.

“Hey, everyone!” she calls out. The campers quiet down immediately. Riley takes my arm again and Tyler sidles up to my left, blocking the Twisted Triplets from view. “I’m Leena,” she continues, “and I’m the lead aerial coach for this session. All of us coaches are really excited for this week—we can’t wait to meet and train each and every one of you. But since there are a lot of you and a lot of us, we thought the best way to do introductions was to put together a little show. So, first we’re going to show you what we do, and then you can show us what you do. If you want to, of course.” She grins. “There’s no pressure, and you’ll all get your chance to shine during the show at the end of the session. So, if you all want to have a seat over there, we’ll get started!”

She guides us over to a spot along the rolled-in bleachers and we sit down in rows. Tyler’s arm is brushing mine, and Riley’s knee is against my leg. Save for the butterflies fluttering around at Tyler’s touch, it feels like we’re all old friends—the closeness seems pretty natural.

Once we’re all seated, Leena jogs over to join the coaches lined up along the opposite wall. Then she claps her hands three times in a steady beat, and the show begins with a fanfare.

Music blares through the loudspeakers as the coaches jog toward us, some of them flipping and cartwheeling as they go. I start clapping immediately along to the music, and I’m not the only one. Tyler and Riley are clapping along too, and soon all the campers are joining the beat.

Long strips of fabric unroll from the ceiling, and a few girls and guys start climbing. Below them, five coaches are doing some crazy sort of acrobatics; they run toward and up one another, flipping and tossing themselves and their partners up and around in dizzying flips and crazy handstands. The people on the aerial fabric pose in backbends and drop into death-defying rolls as two guys pull out the large metal hoops along the wall and begin rolling around each other like coins in a dance that makes me wonder if they’ll crash. It’s chaos in its coolest form. People are juggling and flipping and doing handstands and dropping from the ceiling and then, after only a few minutes, they all do one final trick and line up, facing us. They give a bow and call out their names: “I’m Brad and I teach Cyr wheel!” “I’m Tori and I teach acrobatics!”

They all sound a little winded, but not nearly as bad as I would have been.

I’m only a little disappointed that there wasn’t any flying trapeze, but I guess I can’t expect them to set that up in the gym. A few of the coaches call out that they teach flying trap, but I think I saw them doing acrobatics on the ground. Clearly, they expect everyone to do a little bit of everything. I’m just hoping I can do even one thing that impressive.

One of the coaches steps forward. She looks a little older than the others, but she’s still built like a super gymnast and could probably outrun anyone in my school. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, and if I remember right, she was one of the aerialists. I don’t recognize her until she speaks—Olga Karamazov looks a lot different without all the stage makeup. I actually think she looks better without it.

“Greetings, campers!” she says. Her voice is laced with a thick Russian accent, but years under the American big top have washed some of it away. “And welcome to the first annual Karamazov Circus Camp. I know you’re all as excited as we are for this week; the days will be long and the work will be hard, but together we will create an amazing show and even more amazing memories. My name is Olga Karamazov, and my sister and I created this company ten years ago. Sadly, she is down in Florida training, but I am delighted to be working with such a fantastic group of coaches to teach you all. I can assure you that each member has been handpicked not only for their skills, but for their character. Although proper technique and safe training are our top priorities, we want to ensure that you have fun while performing! After this afternoon’s presentation, we will do a small series of team-­building exercises so you can learn even more about one another. Then, tomorrow, you’ll have your auditions. I’m sure all of you have ideas of what you’d like to train in, and I want to let you know that we will do our best to give you your first choice. Coaches aren’t just looking for skill and aptitude, they’re looking for a willingness to learn. So if you’re new to this, don’t worry. Remember, fun is the name of the game—this is a circus, after all!”

She flashes a big smile. It’s hard to calm the nerves doing backflips in my stomach, though. I’ve been daydreaming about trying out on the flying trapeze for months—heck, for years—but now that it’s here, I’m kind of terrified. Suddenly the idea of being that high up makes my head reel with vertigo.

“Speaking of fun, I think it’s time for you to take the stage! You’re welcome to come up and show off a few tricks or a routine if you have one. Our coaches will be watching and spotting from the sidelines, but please—no tricks you aren’t entirely comfortable with. We don’t want any injuries before the training even begins!”

At that, all the coaches save for Leena walk to the sides of the auditorium. Olga asks us to come up one by one—“But again, only if you want!”—and tell our name and a bit about ourselves, including what we’re planning on auditioning for and how long we’ve been doing circus arts.