I let the chair slam back down. Charles flinches.
"Judging a chili cook-off sounds like an unnecessary risk," I say. "What if I get food poisoning? I'm sure some of these contestants won't be abiding by health and safety standards."
"Nonsense. They do it every year. It's perfectly safe."
"Will you be sampling this year's chili, then?"
"With my stomach?" Charles flips a chair around and sits awkwardly at the table, nearly tipping himself over. "God, no. There are not enough portable toilets on the fairgrounds for a disaster of that magnitude. Look, Samantha, darling, I had to pull a lot of strings to even get you on the panel. Well, some old woman who's been judging the contest for twenty-five years died or something or other, so they were admittedly a little desperate..."
Mark scratches his chin. "Maybe I could add that into my routine..."
"But tragedy births opportunity!" Charles says with a flourish of his wrist. "With the Valkyrie on the panel, we'll sell the tent out for every show. And, as your employer, I am obliged to mention that this is not so much a favor as it is an order."
I lean my chair back again; being suspended between falling and floating helps me think. Normally, I'd tell Charles to go stick his head in a simmering pot of disgusting chili: I know how much the boss relies on my act, and that gives me quite a bit of political pull. Unfortunately, I used that leverage a few months ago to renegotiate the contracts of all of our performers. Everyone appreciates the pay bump, but I'm not in a position to disobey Lord Charles right now.
Charles recognizes my position before I say anything. He's not dumb, I’ll give him that.
"Splendid! Lucky for you, I’ve only conscripted you for the first round of the cook-off… it begins in an hour." Charles hurries to the wardrobe racks and returns with a skimpy red wine dress that sparkles like a firework and will be tighter than a tourniquet. "I believe this gown will pair perfectly with a home-cooked chili. Just don't eat too much..."
"Yeah," Mark says, "we don't want Sam farting as she jumps through a flaming hoop."
I laugh so hard I snort, which puts a grateful smile on Mark's face.
Walking through a county fair in a shimmering skintight red dress and high heels is not my idea of a good time. When I walked past the kissing booth, a dozen men jumped in line because they thought I was taking over—some of them left their wives throwing ping-pong balls into greased bowls or buying cotton candy. Admittedly, I enjoyed the look on their faces as I kept on walking.
Clouds of teenage boys wearing too much body spray waft by me, making me hold my breath in the midday heat. Sweat licks my skin, adding to the sheen of my dress. I stop at a lemonade booth along the way, and the woman running the stand gives me a free drink after she recognizes me, which is good because I didn't have anywhere to shove my wallet in this stupid dress.
Just as I'm about to leave, some asshole with a giant gold belt buckle grabs my arm. "Let me get that for you, sweetheart," he says with his over-emphasized country twang.
I understand the reality of being a performer: I get catcalled and followed around and hit with such awful pickup lines that I cry laughing telling them to everyone backstage. Men go home thinking about me, and not through an artistic lens. It’s fine—it’s natural. But I do not, under any circumstance, allow some random man to put his hands on me without asking.
"Let go of my arm," I say it like he should've done it yesterday.
"Come on, sweetheart.Relax.Let me just—"
I throw the lemonade in his face.
The bright yellow sugar water cascades down his frown, soaking his plaid button-up, jeans, and boots.
"Get that for me? All right, you got it for me. Enjoy."
He's fuming, but he lets my arm go.
"What the fuck is your problem?" He’s screaming louder than a little girl on a rickety roller coaster. "This is a two-hundred dollar shirt, you psycho!"
"So you only pretend to be a cowboy," I laugh. "Makes sense. A real cowboy wouldn't go grabbing a bull that ain't his. Shame that you ruined such an expensive shirt over a two-dollar lemonade. Ma’am, may I have another drink? I seem to have spilled mine.”
The old woman is smiling like he deserves every bit of that and more. I wonder if she knows this prick. But before she can diffuse the situation with a fresh drink, the man slams his hands on the table, cracking the plastic. Lemonade still drips from his bare chin.
“You fuckingcarniesthink you can come into my town and do whatever the hell you want?” he whines like a hog. “How about I teach you a lesson—“
He moves.
I’m not sure what he intends to do—grab me again, hit me, flip the table over—but he doesn’t get that far. A giant hand grips the back of his head, slams it down, and holds the man bent over the table, completely submitted and squealing like the pig he is.
A giant has come to my rescue.
Traveling with a circus has exposed me to all manner of people. I’m friends with twins who stick bits of metal in themselves for fun. One of our acts is a strong woman who can lift audience members over her head.
