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Harleen lurks at the edges of the tents, long after all the visitors have gone. She doesn't consider herself a visitor, more like a prospect really. That's why she's lingering, hopping onto the stakes on the ground, dancing around the lines holding striped pavilions upright: she wants to meet the performers, interview them to see if they're fit to bear her away into their magical world. She doesn't need to know what's beneath the makeup, just that they would take her in. She could become as good an acrobat as the Flying Graysons, she's sure of it.
As she skips and twists closer to the edge of the sideshows, a sharp yowling startles her out of her fantasies. It sounded like a dog being shot. Without thinking, she rushes into the direction the noise came from.
She sees a boy crouched over a cinder block, trying to lift it. His head jerks up when she approaches, and the cinder block tumbles on its side. Beneath it lie the remains of what may have been a dachshund, but she cannot be sure, it looks more like a squashed tube of red paint, with its skull cracked and its rib-cage caved in.
"What are you doing?" she demands and clips his ear. Belatedly, she realizes how idiotic the move was. If this was his doing, he might swing the block at her next.
The boy looks scandalized and touches his cheek. "I found it like this," he says, all wide-eyed innocence like a poster boy for a Catholic church meeting.
Harleen frowns. There are flecks on his jeans that could as easily be blood as they could be dirt. She wants to point out as much but a gaggle of voices approaches. Not wanting to be found at the scene of a crime and potentially be held responsible, Harleen dashes, but not without grabbing the boy's arm and pulling him along. They round the nearest tent, past some trailers and the back paneling of sideshow stands. By the time they stop, they're breathing hard and Harleen bursts out laughing, feeling a rush as though she's gotten away with pocketing sweets. A moment later, the boy laughs, too.
"Why did you do that?" he asks, once he has enough breath to.
"Do what?"
"Run?"
"Didn't fancy being caught for something I didn't do. Did you?"
It strikes her that the question could be construed as both as Did you fancy being caught? and Did you do it? She doesn't elaborate. Let him choose. She doesn't care for the answer anyway. Boys are liars, and cruel, too. Especially if they are psychopaths. Harleen has read about psychopaths, they fascinate her. They display cruelty towards animals at a young age. Wait – could he be one? This was textbook, after all. A grin splits Harleen's face. She has never met a psychopath before.
"No," he says, eyeing her for a moment as though gauging how much more is safe to say. Maybe he thinks she's the psycho.
"Then again, I wouldn't fancy being caught for something I did, either," she resumes, probing for a reaction.
The boy pushes himself off the trailer he's been leaning against and turns to face her. "What's a girl like you doing out so late?" he asks, and Harleen wonders whether something else is wrong with him. Disorganized thought patterns, or something.
She makes a gesture meant to encompass their surroundings. "The circus?"
"The circus. Of course." He hides his face in his palm, embarrassed. "How silly of me to ask."
"You're bleeding," she blurts when she sees his hand. Puncture wounds form a parabola on it. She rummages in her pockets for something clean to wipe the blood with. Naturally, she has nothing except for the clothes she's wearing. So she strips off her jacket and rips up the ratty longsleeve underneath. It's become threadbare from her loving it too much, and the thumb holes she'd cut into the cuffs give her the necessary starting place to tear into.
"Don't bother about it. It's nothing. I'm just going to wash it later and dress it myself."
"You can still do that later," she says and spits on one end of the makeshift bandage to clean off the blood, dabs it dry with the other, then winds it around his hand and ties a bow on it. "There. All done. You should probably go see a doctor about it and get a shot. Don't wanna catch rabies, do ya?"
The boy stares at her, then at his hand, a little perplexed, and when she realizes she's still holding it in both of hers, she lets go as if burned. He murmurs a thank you and smiles at her. Her face is starting to feel like a furnace and she hopes it's dark enough so he won't notice the color rising to her cheeks.
"You never told me what you are doing here," she resumes and shrugs on her jacket again. "Apart from poking dead animals, I mean."
"I live here," he says simply, rubbing his bandaged hand over his elbow, and then his face falls, pity overcoming his features. "That was old Theodore's dog. I wonder who would do something so atrocious to such a sweet little animal."
"Wait, you're with the circus? Really?" Excitement shoots through Harleen. She wouldn't have expected a kid like him to be part of the troupe. He looks so nice, so ordinary, not like circus folk at all. She thought he'd be more like her, staying out late to avoid an overbearing parental unit.
"Yes, my mother is a snake-dancer."
"That is so cool!" And so not overbearing at all. "What's it like, living here?"
"Cramped," he says and she titters. He's kind of funny. And although he's not her usual type, she thinks he's cute, too. In a way. A weird way. Harleen likes weird.
"I imagine you must see lots of places."
"Lots of places certainly see us."
Harleen sighs dreamily. How she would love to see the world outside this godforsaken city. The few pennies she owns don't get her far. She's tried, but always came back for training. She's conscientious like that.
"Do you like card tricks?" he asks.
"Sure!" Harleen bounces on the balls of her feet, skin alive with questions, and determined to stay until she's burned through all of them. She no longer sees him as a psychopath – he's too cute for that – but rather as an opportunity, her entry ticket into this world if you will.
He produces a deck from inside his coat and shuffles it. While he does so, she begins her barrage, drilling him on the show and what life on the road is like. He answers whatever he can and when he's done shuffling, he spreads out the cards in a fan, face down so neither of them can see, and bids her take one.
It's the ace of spades.
"Don't show it to me," he says and folds the deck again. "Just memorize it and put it back."
She does and he shuffles again. She asks him if the strongman's weights are real, if the fortune teller can actually see the future in her crystal ball, what kind of snake his mother owns. He seems faintly amused by her interest.
Then he picks a card and holds it up. "This is not the one, right?"
It's the two of clubs. She shakes her head. "Nope." He pulls out another card and asks the same question. Again, it's not her card.
"But this is your card." He holds up the queen of diamonds.
She grins and shakes her head. "Still not."
"What?" He looks at the card, all disappointed that he couldn't show off his purported skills. "I must have done something wrong. This usually works."
Somehow, she doesn't believe this was coincidence. He looks a bit too pleased about it.
"Here," he says, offering her the card. "Keep it. As a souvenir. This seems to be an unlucky deck for me, but a lucky one for you. It wasn't even full to begin with."
"Queen of diamonds. Is this supposed to mean something?" She wonders if he was flirting with her, although she's almost certain he would have chosen the queen of hearts if that were the case. Or maybe he doesn't want to be too obvious. Or maybe she's reading too much into this.
He shrugs. "It means whatever you want it to mean."
"Is this your act?" she asks, tapping the card against her chin. "Charming the patrons?"
"Are you charmed?"
She stops tapping and grins. "A bit."
"You're certainly charming."
In that moment, a woman's voice calls in the distance, saving her from death by cute overload.
The boy grimaces. "That's my mother. She probably wants me to make dinner."
"At this time?" she asks, not considering it weird for him to prepare her food. She's certainly been working until now.
"Our timetables are a bit different than those of ordinary folks, I guess. I'm sorry, I gotta go."
"Wait," she says, unwilling to let her chance at escaping her boring life slip away just yet. "Can I—" She can't ask him to meet his mother now, not when family dinner time is ahead; that one's usually awkward. But she feels compelled to come up with some reason to linger. "Can I stay the night?"
"Don't you have a home?"
"I do, but..."
"I would go back if I were you. It's dangerous out at night."
"Are you concerned?"
He cocks his head as though she's asked him a trick question. Perhaps she did. "Wouldn't anyone be?"
"I can take care of myself." She stems her fists on her hips, daring him to contradict her.
"Of that I have no doubt, but I believe it will be warmer and more comfortable sleeping at home than on the streets."
"All right, I'll go, if you're being such a pain about it," she concedes, "but only if you agree to show me around next time I come by."
Maybe she should have asked how long they're gonna be around, because she has gym practice most days, but his smile is so dazzling she promptly forgets about it. She hopes the length of their stay is documented on the posters.
"Have you seen the freak show already?" he asks.
Harleen tilts her head in a vague cross between aye and nay, unsure what kind of answer he's expecting. It was the first thing she looked at although she left rather underwhelmed. It was your usual run of midgets, contortionists, and fat people. Nothing she hadn't already seen in the streets of New York City.
"We'll start there."
"Jerome!" the woman calls again, closer this time, and sharper too.
"Gotta run. Thanks for patching me up," he says, pecks her cheek and dashes off, waving with his bandaged hand. "Don't get lost on your way home."
Harleen stands rooted for another moment, touching her burning face. She's wanted to do that, kiss the ear she'd clouted earlier and giggle at him gawking. Instead, she just stares, half in and out of a dream, believing to have found the shining knight who will bear her away on an adventure.