Цирк (Tsyrk). I was reading the word again. A smile slid from ear to ear on my face. This moment was something I’d wanted since the minute we’d stepped onto that bus. I was going to the Giant Fountains.

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I trekked down the lane between the mare’s paddock and the woods. Tree branches dangled over, casting shadows along the worn dirt path. The electric fence hung limp on its posts; it was tired of horses trying to escape. The mares stood relaxed, nibbling on the hay strewn through their paddock. I slipped under the rope that was sectioning off the lane from the barn and stood up in an attempt not to stumble on the green apples scattered across the lane. I kicked a few of the apples into the woods; they were rotten, with brown slowly creeping over them. The trees had dropped the apples once the heat began. Soon summer camp would be starting at the barn. This was the way it always was. The barn was predictable; every year the same cycle took place. 

 

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I stepped out of the car. 

“Do you want to get a photo in front of the building, Ellie?” my mother asked.

“I’m good,” I replied.

 

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The school doors push open, letting the cold sunlight rush in, shining on what little skin I have showing. The winter wind whipped at us, turning us red. I begin thawing as I step onto the heated bus that was waiting to take us home from the show choir state finals. I can’t see through a dense fog on my glasses.

 

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I step onto the spring-floor and feel the familiar sensation of the short blue carpet between my toes; soft, yet scratchy at the same time. I take a deep breath, but I cannot seem to calm down. I'm so nervous that all I can hear is my heart beating fast in my ears, drowning out all the other noises in the gym. My hands shake as I salute the judge and try to reassure myself that it will be okay.  No success there. I sit down on the floor and get into my starting pose, trying to pretend that I am fine and pasting on the fakest smile ever. The music starts and I take another deep, shaky, nervous breath.

 

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Climbing is tough. On single track. With my mom’s mountain bike. Up Oak Knoll. 2,000 feet of elevation. With rocks. And roots. It’s only a blue trail. I am in my lowest gear. Why is the path getting steeper?

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The ocean crashed against itself in the distance, warning all to not go in. On the beach, however, the small waves rippled up the shore before pulling back, teasing the sand. Seagulls sang their screechy songs while they flew above the water as if they were mocking the harsh waves: “You won’t harm us from here.”

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“You don’t need to worry, you know,” my mom says. Sometimes I think she can read my mind.

“Yeah, I know.” I stare down at my tie-dye crocs. Then I look up.

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