Flight of a Starling Read online

  ★ ★ ★

  Praise for

  2017 Carnegie Medal Nominee

  Paper Butterflies

  “A harrowing account of abuse, retaliation and love against all odds.”

  —The Guardian

  “Heathfield has written a beautifully heartbreaking story that will frighten readers, tear them apart, give them hope, leave them hopeless, and, finally, give them some relief.”

  —VOYA

  ★ ★ ★

  First American edition published in 2019 by Carolrhoda Lab™

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

  Text copyright © 2017 by Lisa Heathfield

  Carolrhoda Lab™ is a trademark of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All US rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Carolrhoda Lab™

  An imprint of Carolrhoda Books

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, Minnesota 55401 USA

  For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  Image credits: EditorAtLarge/Shutterstock.com (trapeze artist); Julia Poleeva/Shutterstock.com (watercolor).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 10.5/15.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Heathfield, Lisa, author.

  Title: Flight of a starling / Lisa Heathfield.

  Description: Minneapolis : Carolrhoda Lab, [2019] | Originally published: London : Electric Monkey, 2017. | Summary: Told from two viewpoints, sisters Lo and Rita spend their lives flying high on the trapeze, but real danger comes as secrets begin to unravel the tightknit circus community and Lo finds love with a “flattie.”

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018021916 (print) | LCCN 2018027930 (ebook) | ISBN 9781541541832 (eb pdf) | ISBN 9781541526112 (th : alk. paper)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Sisters—Fiction. | Circus—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.H433 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.H433 Fli 2019 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018021916

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-44593-35505-6/22/2018

  To Frank, Arthur, and Albert—

  for being my extraordinary.

  Rita

  The air in the alley sticks to my skin. The bricks sit too close, pushing grief deeper into me. I stop to touch the walls.

  Were you here, Lo?

  I listen for a reply. Listen hard for her laughter, but it’s not here. The silence grips so hard at my heart that I don’t know how I breathe.

  Dean stands waiting at the end of the alley, framed by daylight. It’s only a few weeks since I’ve seen him, a few weeks since he was my sister’s whispered secret, but he looks so different. Lo loved his eyes, but they’re raw with a sadness I never knew could exist.

  “Are you OK?” he asks, but he knows I’m not. Neither of us are.

  “She really liked you,” I say, my words stumbling in the bricked-in air. But he just stares at me, this boy from a world I don’t know, a world that never moves on, unlike our circus.

  “It’s this way,” is all he says. A building stands in front of us, and I know it’s the abandoned factory that he came to with Lo. But she said it was beautiful, and it’s not. It’s gray and broken, and I feel cheated.

  “Is this your mom’s old factory?” I ask.

  Dean looks surprised. “Lo told you?”

  “She wanted me to see it.”

  I’m here now, Lo. But where are you?

  The pain of missing her weighs on me, so heavy that I have to crouch down. I put my head into my hands, press so hard that my eyes hurt, dig my fingers deep into my skull until I can feel my hair pulling hard from my scalp.

  I know Dean sits next to me. He moves my hands and puts them on the floor where Lo once walked. Then he stands up, this boy who burned so strong for her.

  “This way,” he says.

  He leads me down the side of the factory, and we climb onto a rusting container and scramble through a hollow window. We’re in the room that Lo described, with its low ceiling and empty squares where glass should be. I remember her eyes lighting up when she told me about it, and I thought I’d find a place sprinkled with rainbow ends.

  I follow Dean up some stairs. Through a door and there’s another with a lock that he opens. It’s a small room and there’s a painting on the wall in front of us, two people sitting on a cliff, a blur of birds above them.

  “Did Lo come here?” I ask. Did you leave your footprint?

  “She did this.” He points to the wall next to us. There’s a long blue line and standing on the end of it is a stick girl with a too-pink face and a big red mouth. “She’s meant to be you.”

  “I’m smiling,” I say.

  A stick man has his arm around me. I know it’s my dad. Lo must have stood here, concentrating, but still she painted a leg too long. I imagine her laughing, looking away at the wrong time.

  “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to a figure lying down on the line.

  “Your grandpa. That’s him too.” The next figure is sitting up and has wide, round eyes. “And that one—that’s your mom.” The stick woman has been drawn in the same raggedy way, clumsy lines making her fall slightly from the wire. But her face is clear as daylight.

  “You painted her face?”

  “I just helped.” Dean looks away.

  “Why?”

  “No reason.” But there is. Lo has secrets hidden in this boy. On the end, there’s a girl balancing tiptoe on the line.

  “Lo,” I say quietly, but Dean doesn’t answer.

  He’s painted her with open arms, and she’s smiling. Leaves are weaved into her hair, and birds are scattered around her hands. Feathered wings curve from her back and rise in an arc above her head.

  “She’s beautiful,” I say.

  Dean stands with his hands in his pockets. He has hurt and grief all folding in on themselves. Tears are on his cheeks, but I’m useless.

  What should I do, Lo? How did you know him, when he’s a stranger to me?

  Without asking, I go to the row of cans underneath the painting. I look through the colors until I find the one that I want. The lid is difficult to get off, but I pull until it’s free.

  I want to paint it above Lo’s head, but she’s too tall, with her angel wings. So I hold the can next to her and spray it onto the wall, turning the drips into a clumsy red heart. In the middle I write “Lo”. It’s better than a footprint, I tell her. It won’t disappear.

  With the can in my hand I look at Dean.

  “Where else did you go with her?” I ask him.

  He hesitates for long enough for me to know that he doesn’t want me walking in all their memories.

  “The beach,” he says.

  “Let’s go there.” But before we leave, I lean my hand on Lo’s wall. I want her angel wings to come alive and fold around me until I sleep and sleep and make it all go away. I need her to step out of the painting, her bare foot leaving the line and coming away from the bricks until she’s standing here next to me.

  But she doesn’t, because she’s not alive. And all I can do is kiss her painted cheek and silently beg to go back to before.

  Chapter One

  L
o

  Rita, Sarah, and I sprinkle sawdust over the waterlogged grass, making a path from our vans to the big top. Little chips that we scoop and throw, and I know when we’re gone that they’ll slowly get trodden down and disappear, just as we do.

  Baby Stan, who’s named after his dad, sits in the middle of us, his hands spread happy on the wet earth. Rita works in front of me, completely focused as she digs the spade into the wood shavings in the wheelbarrow, balancing it and throwing it steady onto the ground. She’s always faster than me. I’m happy to hide behind the fact that she’s eleven months older and must be stronger.

  “You should slow down, Rites,” I tell her.

  “And you should put more clothes on.” She laughs, pointing to the little gold top I’m wearing.

  Sarah slaps a piece of shredded wood from Baby Stan’s fingers.

  “Not in your mouth,” she says. For a moment, he looks at his big sister from where he’s sitting in the damp, deciding whether to cry, but she stares at him until he turns away. “Your hands are filthy,” she tells him, even though she must know he isn’t old enough to understand.

  She reminds me so much of Ash when he was her age. The pale face with freckles that never disappear. Their mom, Carla, says she stewed their hair in a copper pot when they were born, but Ash shaves his head so close now that you can barely see the color.

  The rain is light, but the drops are still batting into my eyes.

  “Where’s Spider when you need him?” I ask.

  “You reckon friends can change the weather?” Rita asks.

  “You never know. If he can eat fire, I reckon he can stop the rain.”

  “I bet Ash couldn’t,” Rita says.

  “Don’t you like him today?”

  “No,” Rita says firmly, but I just laugh at her. Ever since we were children, they’ve been in love, and we all know they’re meant to be together, even if sometimes their relationship rocks unsteady. “I wish he’d marry a flattie.”

  Sarah looks shocked. “You don’t mean that.” She knows we’re not allowed to be with people who don’t have circus blood.

  “You should be careful what you wish for,” I tell Rita, as I scoop up the last scraps of sawdust from the wheelbarrow, throwing them high into the air, before we watch them settle, heavy and wet on the ground.

  “Come on,” Rita says. “Rob’ll be waiting.”

  “Is he really going to put in the new motorbike trick?” Sarah asks.

  “He says it’ll bring in more people,” Rita says.

  “Will it be dangerous?”

  “It has to be.”

  Sarah walks quickly to keep up, stopping with us as I balance the wheelbarrow against the props van.

  “Tricks’ll kill you if you leave that there,” Rita tells me.

  “I’ll say it was you then.” I laugh and link my arm through hers as we go into the big top.

  “What’s that?” Sarah asks. A huge bowl takes up almost the entire space of the performance ring. Its walls are made from a giant metal spider’s web.

  “Rob rented it,” Rita says. Ash looks over and smiles when he hears her voice. He’s standing next to Ernest, Spider’s dad, and even though he’s taller than him, he still looks like the boy we’ve grown up with. He’s handsome too, and I wonder why Rita can even doubt him.

  Dad’s back is to us. “The risks are too high.” He’s an angel’s breath shorter than Rob, but he’s determined.

  “It’s what they want to see, or we lose them,” Rob says.

  “I think it looks exciting,” Sarah says, and Dad turns to us.

  “Lo and I are OK with it,” Rita says, going to stand next to Rob.

  “But I’m not sure I am,” Dad says.

  “It’s no bigger a risk than anything else we do,” Rob says, his hand on the seat of the motorbike. “It might look it, but the consequences are all the same.”

  “He’s saying we could all die doing any one of our tricks.” Ash laughs.

  “You’re not helping.” Rob stares at him.

  “It’s not your daughters at risk, Rob,” Dad says.

  “But we’ve worked on it,” Rob reassures him. “It won’t go wrong.”

  “Won’t it?”

  “We’re ready for it,” I tell Dad. “We want to do it.” I look at Rita and she nods.

  “Why are you so worried this time?” Ma asks him.

  “Because we haven’t practiced enough,” Dad answers. “This is the first time with the actual bowl, and he wants us to perform it in a couple of days.”

  “You’ve got to trust me,” Rob insists. “It’ll be worth it.”

  Ernest looks at Dad steadily. “It might be pushing it for us,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not safe. It’s just new.” His wiry hair is pulled back in a ponytail, but stray bits still crackle out from his forehead. The teasing that he can’t be Spider’s dad, not looking so different, sometimes touches too much on true.

  “We’ll be OK, Dad,” Rita says, linking her arm through his. “You’re just getting nervous in your old age.”

  “Who are you calling old?” The smile he has can’t cut out the worry, but it’s enough for us to know he’s backing down.

  “Nerves are our enemy,” Ernest reminds him.

  But they’re my friend too. They hold me before every jump. They’re by my side and never really let me go, sending sparks through me and making my smile real.

  “I think we should trust Rob,” I say.

  “Yes,” Sarah says. She’s desperate to impress, to be the center of the performance.

  “Right then,” Rob says quickly. “Let’s try it out.”

  We follow him and Ernest as they push the motorbikes to the edge of the ring door curtains.

  “So,” Rob says, “Lo, remember you’re not happy as the changeling, you want to get back to your world. That’s the feeling you’ve got to get across to the audience.”

  I catch Rita’s eye and pull a face.

  “It’s not funny, Lo,” Rob says seriously. “Just going through the motions isn’t enough. You’ve got to actually feel it, make the audience really believe.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “I’m not the boss.”

  “He certainly isn’t,” Ernest says. “He’s just a young pretender.”

  But there’s warmth in his voice. Most flatties who join us only stay for a few months, but Rob has been with us four years, and he’s woven into our circus fabric now.

  “You ready, fairy queen?” I ask Rita.

  “Of course,” she smiles, before she puts on her helmet, clicking it firmly into place.

  Rob and Ma sit on one motorbike. They pull down their black visors together, blocking themselves off from us. Dad stands to the side with Sarah and Ash, watching as Rita and I climb onto the other bike behind Ernest. I have to crouch at the back and steady myself, before I pull my own helmet over my head.

  Immediately, the sounds are numbed. Inside it, the world shrinks to just me.

  Ernest turns to us. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” I think the word stays trapped in the mask and so I nod.

  “Ten laps, then Rita, you jump onto Rob’s motorbike. Two more, then it’s you, Lo. They’re quick, so count. Don’t forget,” he says. “OK?” And I nod before he pulls down his visor.

  We’ve been over and over it, and it’s locked in my mind. Still, I run through it, the exact pressure from my feet, where my hands must be.

  Rob and Ernest start the engines, filling the big top with the noise of the bikes. I hold Rita tight as we race and tip toward the edge of the wall down into the bowl. From here, it’s beautiful, a perfect crater, a metal web for the future audience to see through.

  We drop into it, and the speed is instant. One lap. Ma and Rob rush past us, head on, the fronts of our bikes almost scraping. Two laps. If I reached out, I could touch them. Three. I count as the wheels leap up above the edge, a mirror to them, air beneath us. My blood has become fire. I count the rest of the la
ps, each one burning adrenaline deeper into me.

  Rob comes close, and Rita leaps onto their bike. I’m not meant to look, but I do. For long seconds the noise cradles her, before she’s caught by Ma and she’s safe.

  One more lap.

  “Go!” I hear Ernest shout.

  I don’t have time to think, only jump in the way Rob’s taught me, enough to reach them.

  In one breath, everything is washed silent, before the world is back, and I land behind Rita.

  But I’ve misjudged it. I know as soon as my foot hits the seat that it’s in the wrong place; the bike will unbalance. It tips too far to the side and Rita falls. Ma swings out an arm for her, but Rita crashes onto the metal and spins away from us.

  I try to jump for her, but Ma grabs me. She holds me until the bike stops on the ledge, and I see Rita, curled too far away. We run, and when I get to her there’s blood on my sister, twisting in ribbons up her arm. I try to say her name, but my breathing swallows it.

  Ash stands motionless as Ma kneels next to her, and Dad is taking the helmet gently from her head. Rita’s eyes are open. Her curls are smeared against her skin and shock is covering her face, but she’s breathing. The world starts ticking again as I take off my helmet.

  “Rita?” I crouch down, scared to touch her.

  “It went a bit wrong,” she smiles weakly, her words lopsided.

  “Does anything hurt apart from your arm?” Dad asks her. She shakes her head. “And can you move your legs?”

  “Yes,” she replies. So he puts his arms under her, carefully lifts her, and carries her quickly up the edge of the crater. Now I hold my sister’s hand. The skin from her shoulder to her elbow is grazed and packed with blood.

  “Your arm’s a mess,” I tell her.

  “At least it’s not my face.”

  “Not the face,” I say. And her laughter is enough.

  ★ ★ ★

  We don’t light the barrel fire. It feels wrong to do it until Rita is back safe with us. Instead, we sit in Ernest and Helen’s van, waiting for more news.