Free Girl on a Wire by Gwenda Bond Page B

section and a portable drum along. When Thurston lifted his hand and signaled, they began to play. The sound was bright, horns blazing.
    We surged forward with the parade onto the four lanes of pavement, blue metal beams crossing over our heads, a large chaotic group under control for the moment. The switch into performance mode was complete in a blink.
    Thurston shepherded me to the front of the pack. He was talking, but I wasn’t absorbing a word he said. Someone jostled against my other side, and there was a tug at the low knot of my hair at the base of my neck. But when I turned, no one was anywhere near me. I caught Remy’s eye over my shoulder, and he gave me a slight frown. I resisted the urge to wave.
    Thurston and I sped into a jog to outdistance the others. They’d crawl along until I was in position and couldn’t be stopped, the better to prevent any interruptions by the authorities. We stopped below the first of the towers.
    The tower began well above the roadway, poised on the sixteen-foot metal “ceiling” of the bridge. The innards of the column were full of levers and cables, equipment for its actual purpose—to raise the entire middle section so tall ships could pass underneath. A nylon ladder the workmen had left for me dangled at eye level. There’d be a match to it on the opposite tower.
    And I’d be alone once I reached the top. The workmen, Thurston, my dad—they had no place in what was coming next. That was all on me.
    Only then did I really stop and look up through the metal bars at the wire itself. I knew it hung at exactly 170 feet, attached to the bottom lip of the tower’s top portion, instead of at the very top. That positioning offered more insulation from the wind without affecting the jaw-dropping visual that would be enjoyed by people watching from downtown. Thick braces punctuated the wire at three places, and guide wires clamped to the sides of the bridge below to keep the line stable.
    The main wire was steady, with the slightest, unavoidable sway from the gentle spring wind and the length of it. I just had to be steady too.
    “My PR team is the best in the country,” Thurston said. “You’re going up Julieta Maroni, but you’ll come down one of our biggest stars.”
    Cottonball clouds drifted in a blue, nearly windless sky, and the sun shining through the gaps in the structure traced a dappled pattern over the pavement, my arms, my face.
    “You know just what a girl wants to hear.” No use telling him I was mostly interested in how the people at the Cirque would treat the Maroni family after this. The general public was the last thing on my mind.
    I took a breath and motioned for Thurston to give me a boost. He lifted me at the waist, and I grabbed hold of the highest rung I could reach, pulling up until my feet found the bottom rung.
    While I climbed, I concentrated on trying to find the calm place inside. It was a long way up, and I listened as the front of the parade passed beneath me, felt the nylon rungs straining against my fingers. Finally I levered myself off onto the flat lip of the ledge. I shook out the stiffness in my hands, did my best to shake off tension.
    The moment of no turning back: I reached down and unclipped the edges of the ladder, letting it fall to the waiting arms below.
    Needless to say, the platform hadn’t been constructed for a picnic. It was sturdy but small, and I walked cautiously to reach my balance pole, which lay nestled inside a metal lip along the back. Dad had also left me a towel and gym chalk. I recoated my palms and the soles of my feet and dusted the bottoms of my slippers clean with the towel before I put them back on. Then I hefted the long pole carefully, letting my arms become accustomed to the weight.
    I didn’t usually use a pole. But for a walk this high, it was pretty much a requirement. This one was standard size, twenty feet long and forty pounds. That might sound too long or too heavy, but those are the things that