Rewrite the Stars Excerpt
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, I move my feet in the direction of the 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 gentleman! 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 the leather jacket man prowling in my direction. The leather jacket is gone, leaving only a black tank top with open sides, allowing 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 the cage, revealing a trap door. They file inside, Sebastian being the last one to enter, and then the door is closed, locking 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. I hear 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 go horizontal.
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 over.
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 backwards 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. “Nice try. Let’s go.” He shoves his meaty palm between my shoulder blades, propelling me forward.