“Don’t forget your vitamin,” her mother said.
“I never do,” Annie answered in a rag-thin voice.
Annie had been a wild girl, too. Together, the sisters had sailed out over the creek on a tire swing tied to a fat tree limb by a knotted fist of rope. They took turns flinging their heads back in defiance of gravity, letting the ends of their hair trail along the water’s surface, reveling in the feeling of weightlessness. Later, they made tiny tattoos on their skin with a blue Sharpie.
“I’ll be a sorceress,” Annie said, inking a star into her palm.
“I’ll be a pirate queen named Josephine,” Mary Lou said. She’d chosen an ancient Celtic design she’d seen in a book from the library.
“I’ll turn your ship into a dragon.”
“I’ll tame the dragon and ride it to the ends of the world.”
“That’s a very good plan. Let’s be pirate queens together and roam the seas like we own them,” Annie said. “We could ride motorbikes across the Indian countryside and watch the sun turn the land the color of saffron. It does that, you know. Or we could go to Prague and put our hands on the crumbling stones of the churches and imagine all the other hands that have touched there.” Annie read from a copy of On the Road she’d checked out of the library. “‘The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time.’”
Annie shimmied out of her dress and Mary Lou saw that her sister’s body had ripened over the year. She was sixteen, and her br**sts were full and firm. Her hips curved like treble clefs, notations in a music Mary Lou had yet to hear.
Annie passed her hands up those curves. Her eyes had a dreamy quality. “I feel like I’m too much for one body to hold. Do you ever feel like that?”
“No,” Mary Lou answered. She was twelve.
“You will, Pirate Queen.”
With a fierce yell, Annie cannonballed into the cold, clear water, making as much of a splash as possible, soaking Mary Lou in her wake. For the first time she could remember, Mary Lou had the sense that her sister stood apart from her, that though she could jump in after, they would not share exactly the same water. She tried not to be afraid.
One Thursday in March, the circus had come through Humble, Nebraska, like a rogue spring wind, the kind that kicks pollen into the air and sends the shoots up too early. Annie bent toward the sun of that circus like a March daffodil, blooming full. She especially loved the daring acrobats, and one in particular, a dark-eyed, ruddy-cheeked boy named Jacques-Paul. He had a crooked front tooth that reminded Mary Lou of a lady crossing her legs, and when he smiled, there was something slightly naughty in it. Annie felt the pull of that circus in her bones. She spent her afternoons with the lion tamers and clowns. The bearded lady taught her to play the mandolin, and the snake charmer said she was a natural. But she always ended up in the big tent, her eyes trained on Jacques-Paul as he defied the odds, grabbing through thin air at nothing, finding temporary safety in the bar at the last minute.
“Climb,” he commanded and extended a hand.
Annie shed her shoes and stockings and scaled the ladder. On the platform, she closed her eyes and put out her hands. And then she was screaming and laughing far above the net, his arm around her waist like the surest harness.
It was during lunch period that Mary Lou saw Annie standing by the chain-link fence that guarded the middle school’s muddy running track. Her battered, butter-plaid suitcase was at her feet. She’d stopped wearing her hair in pigtails, and now it ranged about her shoulders like kudzu, untamed, uncontainable.
“I can’t live in a cage,” she told Mary Lou without tears. “I’m leaving with the circus.” Jacques-Paul leaned against the hood of a beat-up blue Impala playing with a yo-yo.
Mary Lou wanted to ask her sister about the plans they’d made, about being pirate queens who played by their own rules. “What will you do?” she asked instead.
“I’ll see the world’s biggest ball of yarn and play my mandolin outside diners. We’re going to take pictures at the Dinosaur Pit. Jacques-Paul’s going to teach me to be an acrobat. He says I can do it. I think he might be a little wild, like us.”
Mary Lou wasn’t certain. He didn’t smell right. She glanced at Jacques-Paul’s hands to see if they were sure enough to bear a wild girl’s weight. She guessed it was hard to tell just by looking. Mary Lou closed one eye and tried to imagine Annie singing from the passenger seat of that Impala as they traveled the asphalt arteries of the nation. Behind them, the circus wagons were loaded up and ready to roll. All those traps in the back of the bear wagon made Mary Lou nervous.