I’m not at all surprised that the Twisted Triplets are the first to stand. They stride to the center of the auditorium and position themselves on the panel mat. When they face us, they’re so poised, I feel like I’m watching a professional show—even if they are just wearing hoodies and shorts. One of them sets an MP3 player and speakers down. Of course they have a routine prepared. And of course they always carry the equipment to show it off.
Even though I haven’t even spoken to them yet, I don’t like these girls. And I’m about 80 percent certain it’s not out of jealousy, either.
“We’re the Twisted Triplets,” the shortest blond-haired girl says. Oddly enough, she has a really thick Southern accent. Something about her appearance made me think she’d be Ukrainian or something exotic like that. She could be my neighbor, for all I know. “We’ve each been trained in contortion and rhythmic gymnastics since we were three. We’re hoping your coaches will be able to teach us something new, ’cause we’re getting bored of our old routine. Which is what we’re going to show y’all now.”
She nods to her other sisters, and the tallest one, who looks older, hits play on the MP3 player, then runs to line up with the rest—they are definitely not triplets, by the way. Seconds later the gym is flooded with bass and synths as some strange mashup of techno and pop music bursts through the room. But the music is nothing compared to what starts happening onstage.
“Are they . . . stripping?” Tyler whispers incredulously in my ear.
“I think so,” I say. Because as one, the girls start sashaying around and undoing the zippers of their hoodies. I almost close my eyes out of embarrassment for them, but then I catch the sparkle of unitards underneath. In one quick swish, they peel out of their hoodies to reveal spangled pink spandex. From the corner of my eye I can see Leena, who’s watching the girls like she might stop them at any moment. Like the rest of us, I don’t think she quite believes what she’s seeing.
Thankfully, after the introduction, the awkwardness shifts into something that looks a little more like an award-winning gymnastics routine. Two of the sisters do back walkovers and pause in handstands, flattening their backs until they were parallel to the ground. The shortest then steps on the backs of her sisters, reaches down, and does a handstand on their necks, balancing between them like the Eiffel Tower. No one applauds. Not because it isn’t good, but because it’s just so . . . unexpected.
I don’t have any idea how long their routine is, but after a few minutes they do some complicated backbend-headstand thing. They pose and the music stops. A beat of silence follows their dismount and bow. Then the coaches start to clap, and the rest of us join in with only a slight hesitation. The sisters have fixed, plastic grins on their faces, and their chests heave a bit with exertion.
Leena steps forward, still clapping, though she’s having a hard time keeping that confused/concerned look off her face.
“That was . . . very entertaining,” she says. It sounds like a question. “It’s clear you’ve practiced that one quite a bit; I’m sure our coaches are going to have a great time working with you.” I don’t miss the glance she casts back to two of the coaches in the corner—one a burly man and one a short old woman—and their shared expression of disbelief.
The triplets leave the stage, grabbing their speakers as they go, and Leena calls for the next performer.
A few different campers go up. One girl does stunt-bike-style tricks on a unicycle. A boy juggles a half-dozen bowler hats. Then Tyler stands up and grabs a wooden chair from along the wall, dragging it toward the center of the room.
“I think he likes you,” Riley whispers when Tyler’s out of earshot.
“I think you’re crazy,” I reply. Because I saw how he was watching the boy doing flips and break-dance moves: the exact same way that I was. I’m pretty certain Tyler plays for the other team.
Tyler sets the chair down and stands on top of it, right before grasping the edge of the chair. Seconds later, he folds up into a perfect handstand. He twists and turns and poses, even doing some tricks on one hand. When he finally stands upright, the room explodes into applause. A lot of people release breath they didn’t realize they were holding. I’m definitely one of them.
“That was amazing,” I tell him when he sits back down. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his face, but he’s beaming in spite of—or because of—the exertion.
“Thanks,” he says. “I’ve been training for a long time. Normally I do them on special chairs stacked on top of each other. My current limit is eight high, but I’m shooting for ten by the end of camp.”
I can only stare at him. The idea of doing handstands on the back of eight chairs makes my heart hammer with fear. Crap. If the idea of a few stacked chairs makes me cringe, how the heck am I going to be able to climb the trapeze ladder? I force myself to take deep, calming breaths. I tell myself it will all be okay—I’m going to be a trapeze star. I know it. Otherwise, why am I here in the first place?
“Wow,” Riley whispers. I glance over, thinking maybe she’s talking about what Tyler just said about the chairs. But no, she’s staring at the boy who’s walking to the center of the mat.
“I’m Branden,” he tells the group. “I’ve been training in flying trapeze for about three years, but I also do some ground work. So I figured I’d show what I’ve been working on, if I can borrow a Cyr wheel?”
I melt the moment I look at him. He’s got short brown hair spiked up at the front and is wearing plaid shorts and a tank top. His biceps are probably the size of my neck. Like Tyler, though, he looks built for a purpose, rather than just muscular to show off.
And he does flying trapeze, which means we’ll be working together.
“I think I’m in love,” I whisper, not really meaning to say it aloud. Tyler snorts with barely contained laughter.
One of the burly coaches I saw spinning around in the large steel hoops steps forward, rolling a hoop—I’m guessing that’s a Cyr wheel—beside him. Branden thanks him and takes the wheel in his hands, rolls it back and forth a few times like he’s testing its weight or diameter or something. Then, without even pausing to collect himself, he spins on his heel and brings the hoop with him, hopping onto the bottom rung and twisting like a penny.
Branden rotates fast and slow, alternating between the two with a dancer’s grace. At one point, he lifts both legs up in the air and spins like Superman from the top of the hoop, the entire thing flashing silver under the lights of the gym. That’s the only big trick—a few spins later, he stops with a slight stumble and grins. The camp applauds with the same enthusiasm as they did for Tyler’s routine.
“Thanks,” he says and walks the wheel over to the wall.
“Someone’s crushing,” Riley says.
I nudge her in the ribs; Branden’s walking back over, and the last thing I need is for him to overhear something like that. I’m already bad at being smooth around guys: I don’t need Riley or Tyler making it worse. When I cast a quick glance at him, my heart leaps to see that he’s looking at me, too. He catches my eye, and maybe it’s my imagination, but it looks like he blushes as he grins and sits down. I quickly look away.
“And it looks like you’re not the only one,” Tyler taunts. I glare at him.
I don’t know how I’ve only known these two for barely an afternoon, but they’re already settling into the familiar friend routine. I grin in spite of myself; I kind of expected I’d be the outcast here. The fact that I’ve already found these two makes me think it’s going to be an even better camp than I expected.
I can barely pay attention to the rest of the kids who go on to perform. There are jugglers and acrobats, a girl who hulas twelve hoops, and even a couple of guys doing a clown act. I try to watch them. Really. But I keep glancing over at the back of Branden’s head and feeling the butterflies swarm.