Page 10 of Grease's Guide

We all gasp as the realization hits us, but I blur it out.

“Devin, Piper's dad is…. Ghost?”

Chapter Eight

Becky

Three Months Later:

“Oh, sweet baby cakes, that's just terrible. You should prop it up. Just rest, darling. Mama Tizzy will take care of everything,” Mama coo’s to Sphera, The Globe of Death girl.

She’s the one who stands in the middle of a tight spherical cage as three dirt bikes ride circles all around and above her. Out of every single performance at this circus, that has to be my biggest fuck no job. Now, don't take that the wrong way. I won't be trying the tightrope or hoop, but if I had to choose the most dangerous and appalling stunt, it's the one this girl does. Who dreams of getting run over by dirt bikes?

“I have to get out there, Mama Tizzy. I have a show, and it's getting ready to start,” Sphera frets as she tries again to get up and off the couch she's been resting on. It’s her trailer, which she and her husband share. He’s one of those crazy bike riders. Unfortunately for her, Sphera ain’t going anywhere. Shit, my mama's accent is starting to take over my head again.

“Baby cakes, you broke your ankle. Ain’t no one out there exspect’n you to get in the Sphere of fire,” Mama says.

“There’s no fire,” I remind her once again, even though I know she intends to ignore me.

“Now, if anyone has a problem with you taking just a little break, they can come talk to Mama Bear here.” We may have only known these people for three months, but they are already scared of mad mama bear. No one will question this decision. “In the meantime, I want you to drink that tea up and get some rest. Heal baby cakes.”

Mama throws a blanket over Sphera’s lap, laces a hand over her forehead, and then turns and pulls me out of the small trailer.

“What are we gonna do, mama? We have no one for this part of the show. Someone’s gotta get in that sphere,” I tell her, panicking as I follow her.

I try to pull up the red glitter corset so my nipples don't pop out while simultaneously pulling down the black leather shorts that might as well classify as boy-short panties with big gold buttons running up the sides. It does nothing, though; the top is too tight to budge up, and the shorts are a lost cause since they are leather and stick. The only saving grace is that I have black stockings on, though those make my feet slip in the too big high heel leather boots.

I look like a ridiculous giraffe. Just as I think it, I turn my head as a face comes into my peripheral view and, wouldn’t you know, right there is a giraffe. I look at my mom in the same outfit as mine, just a smaller size, and can't help my insecurity. My mom might be just shy of forty, but she could easily pass for my younger and hotter sister. She makes every outfit look like it was created for her.

“Why the circus? Out of everywhere we could have ended up, why did it have to be the circus?” I ask myself more than anyone, but my mom answers anyway.

“Adventure baby. It’s time we have our adventure! And don't fret. We have someone for the cage,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me through the tent flap behind the current show at the back. We are basically the floaters, watching the show and ensuring nothing gets dropped or in the way; we run around a bit and keep things clean. My mom, though, hasn’t been happy with that. Hell, I think she would try to take over as Ringmaster if you gave her the cane, a can of hairspray, a comb, and an alibi. To be fair, the Ringmaster is an ass.

“Who?” I ask, following her as we make our way behind the animals, then across a few hay bales, over some clown props, and finally stopping at the cage. She walks closer, and I already know.

“No! Mama! No, nuh uh. You are not getting in that cage! I won't allow it,” I say, this time taking her wrist.

“Oh, come on, baby, just one show. This is my chance! I’ve been wanting a real act for months! Ever since they took away my throwing knives,” she grumbles, trying to pull from my grip.

“You stabbed the fortune teller,” I yell.

“That was an accident!” she says, not meeting my eye.

“You sure? Or are you sure it wasn’t because she told you that you needed one of her hats to cover that ‘mess of a hair?’. Her words, not mine!” I screech before she turns her claws on me.

“That old bitty,” she grumbles.

“She was younger than you.”

“Synomitry,” she states.

“You mean semantics, and I know you knew that one,” I say, pulling one last time.

“It's finally my chance, baby girl. The spotlight is on me, and everyone is watching and clapping. How's my hair? Hmm? What about the fluff?” she asks, messing with her hair and fluffing it more.

“I will not watch my mother die by a dirt bike in a metal cage. Nope!” I tell her.

“Sugar plum, the show is about to start, and I want to be in that cage, so just let g…” I start to turn her just as she yanks, making us fall in opposite directions. I somehow end up close to the cage. As I’m getting up, I feel a hand on my shoulder.