“Definitely,” I answer.
Jamie purses his lips and shakes his head at me.
“What will Bo do?” asks Wink.
All eyes turn to Bo, sitting with his forearms on his thighs. He scowls at the men, an expression that I’m beginning to realize is only a shield. Unlike Jamie or me, he’s uncomfortable with attention, despite pretending to be a wagtail.
Jamie claps Bo on the shoulder. “Bo’s the boss, keeping all you clowns in line. Plus, Valora needs a haircut. Your hair looks like it was cut with a fork and knife, and it’s too long on one side.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s too damn distracting. Remember the blue stone?”
Once I found a pretty blue stone that I put into my pocket and forgot about. Later that day, I fell off the line and got a mouthful of dirt. Ba was livid when he found the stone in my pocket: “Every detail matters when you’re up there.”
I hardly think a bad haircut will unseat me, but if it’ll upset Jamie’s concentration, it’s better to cut it. “Fine, but what does Bo have to do with my hair?”
Bo keeps his eyes tightly focused on the seabags swinging gently on their hooks.
“He’s our barber. There’s a barbershop on E-Deck near Charlotte’s room. They don’t lock the doors. The upper classes have a soirée tonight, so the halls will be empty.”
My throat goes dry, and I gulp a few times to get the juices flowing again.
Olly scratches his nose with a cracker he’s produced from somewhere. “Bo does all of us, except Fong.”
Fong tosses his greasy locks. “I can trim my own hair.”
I wonder why Bo doesn’t cut Fong’s hair. Of all the Johnnies, those two never talk or sit by each other.
“Just do not ask for a shave,” mutters Bo.
The thought of Bo touching my head makes my stomach flip, even though it’s just a silly haircut.
Jamie studies each Johnny in turn. “Men, whether we impress Mr. Stewart or not, whatever we make, we split evenly. It’s how we’ve always done things.”
The men protest. “But you’re doing all the work.”
“Keep your money for America.”
“It’s bad luck to profit off the sweat of another’s back.”
“Do I look like I need it?” says grouchy Fong, whose knee patches are nearly worn through. He needs not just new trousers but an entirely new outfit, and maybe even a new outlook, if they sell such things.
Jamie looks at me, and I nod. “Those are our terms. Take them or leave them.”
Standing, Tao presses his palms and bows toward Jamie. “There is a saying: If you always give, you will always have. Thank you, little captain.”
With that, the Flying Twins cross to the next stepping-stone. Only a few remain until we step onto the shore of a new world.
22
The men leave, each to his errands, and Jamie turns on me, his face grippy. “A rail is hard enough. But props?”
“I’ve seen Fong nicking the salt and pepper. Why waste talent?”
He gives an impatient shake of his head. “They were common thieves until Tao found enlightenment. What I mean is, why do you always make it so hard? We haven’t done a show in two years.”
“Where’s the challenge in just walking across?”
“Routine can be peaceful. Like being a fireman is peaceful.”
I snort. Still running that same racetrack. “It’ll wear you down, eventually.”
“Unless my sister wears me down first.”
“If it’s too easy, the audience knows.”
“As long as you act like it’s hard, they’ll buy it. You’re always out to prove something.” He mashes his lips together.
I cough. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, why can’t we just give a performance? You have to make it ridiculous, just like Ba.”
Each of his ideas was as ridiculous as brick shoes. Well, if Jamie thinks I’m ridiculous, I think he’s ridiculous, too. “You’re the one chasing a girl who’s two leagues ahead of you.”
His mouth wads up like a fist ready to punch. Straightening, I face him eyeball to eyeball. The phoenix may stand taller than the dragon by several inches, but he’ll never cow me.
He crooks an eyebrow. “Remember how you thought it’d be a good idea to juggle eggs on the rope? You got egg all over that woman’s head.”
“She should’ve been wearing her hat.”
A smile struggles to break free from his face. “I doubt the RMS Titanic will look kindly on us if we crack their fine crockery.”
“So we won’t break it. We’ll practice, and if you don’t feel good about it, we’ll take it out.” I whack him on the arm. “Let’s do wake-up drills.”
We run through the stretches, and then I clear the floor to let Jamie practice walking on his hands.
He carefully lifts one leg, then the other. Locking them together, he takes small steps with his hands. But then he sways, and his legs fall apart. He manages to right them.
“When’s the last time you practiced?”
“It’s the ship,” he grunts. “It’s like walking on jelly.” Veering, he nearly kicks me in the chin.
“You’re like a hog on ice.”
He snuffles, then falls on his Queen Mum. “So maybe I haven’t practiced as faithfully as you. There wasn’t a point.”
“Family traditions don’t need a point. They’re traditions.”
“Wake-up drills aren’t traditions. They’re more like . . . chores.” He rolls out his tricky wrist. Sweat laces his forehead and parses his hair into wet tufts.
“All the more reason to do them. No wonder you’re a mess. Rusty as an old rake.”
How will he get up to speed by tomorrow? We can’t be out of balance. If he can’t ramp up, I’ll have to slow down, and then we’ll look like common street performers.
Hauling him up, I push him into a lunge. I won’t let this unseat us, not after coming this far. “Ready for the three count?”
“Aye.”
I grip his shoulders for support, then step onto his calf. “Yut-yee-som,” I count in Cantonese, then leap onto his shoulders, holding myself in a crouch. If I stood up all the way, my head would hit the ceiling. “Mind the drift, you goat!” The slightest wrong move can have great consequences for the person being carried.