Even though all he was doing was going to her show, he still put on some of his nicer clothes. Dark jeans that were dark enough that they almost looked like dress slacks, a plain white t-shirt, and a blue long-sleeved button-up shirt. He even found himself rearranging his blond curls in the mirror and wishing he didn't look so young. Or so effeminate. Or so uncomfortable.
He put one hand on either side of the sink and closed his eyes, taking two deep breaths, going through the exercises a yogi-carnie had taught him to calm himself and control his body. Stop. Relax. Not a date. When he opened his eyes again, his face was composed. He adjusted his features to a swaggery kind of expression, interested but not too interested, confident and certain, and fixed them like that. Then he left his trailer.
He smiled and greeted the man collecting tickets and money at the door, and slipped through. Carnies didn't pay to see each other's shows. It was an unspoken rule.
Finding a seat near the front, he sat and crossed his ankles, and waited for the show to start. He didn't have to wait long, only about eight minutes. Seven minutes and forty-seven seconds, his mental clock told him. When his dad said he was a genius, he wasn't just bragging.
The girl had been right- it was a fantastic show, worth his time for sure. A man and a woman blew fire at each other from ten feet away and appeared to catch each other's flames in their hands. They juggled burning objects. They threw massive waves of fire over the audience's heads, making them ooh and ahh at the show. They shot firecrackers from their fingertips.
Of course, he knew it was a farce. He caught a glimpse of the shiny metal nozzle of the tube in the woman's sleeve, and noted that the lack of smoke meant they were burning methanol or some other chemical engineered for heatless fire tricks. They made colored fire (probably using boric acid and Epsom salts and copper and other materials). But still, fire was fire. It was hard not to be impressed.
The girl didn't come out until the last twenty minutes. She was by far the most spectacular. At one point, her arms were on fire up to her elbows, her legs up to her knees, and her hair (he didn't smell burning hair, so it was an illusion or another special chemical, but he still didn't like seeing that beautiful hair in flames).
Then, they brought forward the long pan that had been burning behind the whole act since the very beginning. Other carnival workers had stoked it until it was an 8' by 2' rectangle of glowing red coals. It was like a table, raised a few feet off the ground. The man (probably her father) held her hand to help her balance as she ascended a few stairs to the pan.
She put an arm over her face as if to shield it from the heat, and turned to the audience with a frightened expression.
"The Ruskin powers rely on the natural fire resistance of her blood and faith. To perform this staggeringly dangerous stunt, the Fire Angel needs our help! Show your support, help her build her faith!" a ringmaster said, voice booming around his mustache as he gestured grandly. The audience jumped to their feet and cheered for the 'Fire Angel'.
She scanned the audience, face determined. Her eyes rested on him for an instant- he hadn't stood and cheered like everyone else, choosing to remain on the bleachers, lounging as if he did it all the time. He flashed her a wink, and her eyes quickly moved on.
After the massive buildup, she stretched out one foot and set it on the coals. Then her other foot. Step by step, she crossed the fire, face alight from its cherry glow. The audience roared. In the excitement, a head of blond curls wove through the crowd and disappeared into the 'backstage' tent.
MNMNMNMNMNMNMNMNMNMN
When the 'Fire Angel' finished her act and retreated to the back tent, she was met by blue eyes and a cocky grin. She swallowed.
"Hello again," she said quietly, sitting at one of the dressing tables and plucking the red gems out of her hair. "Enjoy the show?"
He didn't question her change in attitude, from the threatening girl he'd first met to this shy, polite young lady. He'd already seen that coming- nobody acted like themselves when they were trying to get a mark. Or an audience member, in her case. Plus, her hands- he'd noticed them earlier. They had calluses and looked tough, but her nails were shiny and smooth, showing that she worked hard but remained mostly soft and ladylike.
"Yes, actually. It was really good. Fire skill like that is rare. I'd thought I'd seen it all, but your show was quite spectacular," he replied in a smooth, easy voice that was at once flirtatious and careless.
"I'm glad. I didn't know you were a carnie. You must be new," she reasoned, turning in her stool to smile at him. When she wasn't guarded, it was actually a quite friendly, harmless smile.
"That's right. My dad and I joined this band yesterday afternoon. I didn't expect to meet a Fire Angel in such a little carnival," he taunted, but he flashed his teeth to show that he wasn't being hurtful.
"Actually, it's Angela. I'm sorry, I never caught your name. You are…?"
"Patrick Jane. And I see the trick there- Angela, Fire Angel."
"My dad noticed that it would work first, actually. Thanks. What's your trick, then?" she asked curiously. He let out a proud little 'hmph' and leaned against a dresser, crossing his arms.
"I'm psychic, actually."
"Yeah, and I can actually walk on coals for real," she snorted, tossing her head and turning back to the dresser to wipe off some of her stage makeup. Her hair wafted a smell of clean wood smoke and pine needles to him.
"You have a brother who isn't as good at shows as you, but you love him anyways. Your parents favor you, but he doesn't blame you. Your parents never wanted children when the first had you two, but as you matured they realized you were an asset to the team and could produce ideas that they couldn't think of. You're afraid that they don't really love you, but they do. They just don't see you as a daughter- more as close friend with whom they live with and work with. They love you, but not because you're their daughter," Patrick said smartly. He saw her reflection blush, and took it as encouragement.
"Your favorite color is the color of the sky with a bright moon- dark, rich blue. You like it because you're always wearing red and have red fire and you're sick of it. You spent the first few years of your life in New England, but you prefer the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic, which is the only reason you like California so much. I see your worst fears, and your greatest desires."
"Stop it," she said sharply, gritting her teeth and staring at the surface of the dressing table. "Go away. Please."
"Only if you'll go to the café with me tomorrow at 2," he said cheerfully.