Grumpy Puck

5. Calliope

Chapter 5

Calliope

I replay what happened all the way to the circus parking lot. Obviously, the kiss is at the forefront of my mind, particularly how passionate, fierce, and completely and utterly insane it was.

With Wolfgang safely in tow, I slam the car door, hard, and head into the colorful, circular building. What possessed me to do something like that? One second, I wanted to slap the bear with my palm, and then boom, I did so… but with my lips.

Hey. At least it wasn’t my pussy. But still… Why that guy, of all people?

Maybe my ex was right. My family and I just might be a little cuckoo in the head.

As if to illustrate my point, when I pass by the kitchen, I spot my dad juggling our toaster, a loaf of bread, and an avocado.

“Hey, Papi,” he says as he reaches for the knife—still keeping the rest of the objects in the air as he does. “How was your first day?”

Should I discourage this new attempt at a nickname for me? If we spoke Spanish, it would make more sense for me to call him that. Then again, these names are getting worse, so maybe I should settle. For all I know, the next one might just be Mini-Me.

“That bad, huh?” he asks, now juggling the knife as well.

Skillfully keeping all the objects circling in the air, he side-eyes my attire, or lack of it, but says nothing. Not that I expected him to. He’s probably decided that a jersey and nothing else is what all mascots wear during time off. I’m betting the rest of the family will assume the same.

Skimpy clothes and circus go hand in hand.

“First days are always tough,” says Mom’s voice from somewhere far down below.

What the hell? Where is she hiding?

I walk around the kitchen counter in search of her—and find her sitting in a deep split, munching on avocado toast. As expected, she doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by my attire.

“My day was fine,” I lie. “I’m here to get my stuff.”

Dad almost drops the toaster. “You’re still moving out?”

I nod. “The place they offered me is closer to work.” And it’s twice the size of my current room, and I don’t have to share it with anyone.

“Will you still come home for family dinners?” Mom asks worriedly.

“Of course.” I know I’ll miss everyone terribly; plus, I can’t cook to save my life, so a home-cooked meal will always be welcome.

“All right,” Mom says magnanimously. “Go get ready.”

I trek to the room that I share with my oldest sister, and of course, I catch her hanging upside down like a bat, her entire body held up by one foot hooked onto a trapeze that is hanging above the top bunk of our joint bed.

“Hey,” she says, her breath unnaturally even considering her position. “How was it?”

“Good.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Just good?”

“Look, Seraphina,” I say. “If you want a more in-depth discussion, come down to my eye level. Otherwise, my neck will start to hurt.”

As I thought, she clearly isn’t that interested because she continues to hang.

I change into normal clothes and walk up to my rat habitat, an object that occupies all the square footage of this room that officially belongs to me.

“Hi, all,” I say, pausing Beethoven’s “Für Elise,” a composition that my little friends greatly enjoy.

Everyone greets me with gleeful chirps and hops. When Wolfgang rejoins the group, their jubilee is through the roof, at least until Marco tries to hump Wolfgang but is then chased away by Polo.

“You teach them anything new lately?” Seraphina asks from her high perch.

I know she’s just asking to be polite, but I can’t resist pulling out a tiny unicycle and setting Lenin on it.

“Wow,” Seraphina says as Lenin makes circles on the table. “He can totally ride that.”

Yep. Being the cleverest and the most food-motivated, Lenin is the quickest learner. When I take him from the unicycle and give him his treat, he looks at me thoughtfully:

Tovarisch, I should get a bigger treat for that. It’s only fair since I, the rat proletariat, did all the labor here.

“You know, you could resurrect your old act,” Seraphina says.

She’s talking about the dark days when I rode a unicycle, an activity I enjoyed about as much as a root canal, and the latter is at least done under anesthesia.

“You could hold a circular platform in your hands,” my sister continues, “And have the rats ride their unicycles while you ride yours.”

I shake my head. “Too dangerous.”

She scoffs. “Oh, please. A unicycle act is too dangerous for rats, but walking on a tightrope isn’t too dangerous for Grandma?”

I roll my eyes. “You know nobody can stop her.” For that matter, is there a way to stop Seraphina herself from leaping to and fro at forty feet in the air?

“Touché,” Seraphina says.

“Everyone,” I say to the rats, “please don’t worry. I’m not taking your toys away. We’re just moving.” With that, I pack the various tunnels, exercise wheels, social and individual homes, and last but not least, the various toys meant for climbing, chewing, shredding, pushing, carrying, and foraging.

Once everything’s all packed into my car, I drive us over to the new place, where I set up my babies all over again.

“Want to go get the rest of my stuff?” I ask Wolfgang.

He scurries onto my shoulder, and I return to the circus to collect the rest of my possessions—which seem meager in comparison to those of my cute charges.

Once I’m fully settled in my new apartment, I take it in as if for the first time.

The place is spacious and has an amazing lake view, where, just to remind me that we’re still in Florida, a giant gator is warming himself on the bank.

“See?” I point at the gator. “That is one of a million reasons why you guys are better off living indoors.”

Wolfgang chirps.

Meine Liebe, the main reason to live indoors is not safety. It’s because that is where the manna from heaven, also known as cheese, resides.

Lenin grinds his teeth particularly loudly.

If religion is the opium of the humans, cheese is that for the proletari-rat.

“We finally have room for a TV,” I tell everyone. Until now, we’ve been watching movies and shows on the tiny screen of my laptop.

The rats do not seem all that enthused about the prospect of TV, but I sure am.

Now, where will I put it?

I look around and realize that something about the living room is different today compared to the way it was when I first checked it out. There are smudges on the walls, and a few floorboards look like they’ve been pulled up and then placed back.

How odd. I must have not noticed before.

Whatever. I put on some nice music and get on my laptop to search for the job of my dreams—which obviously isn’t dressing up like a hybrid between a clown and a bear. No, what I really want is to produce a live show featuring rats, and I would call it Pied Piper.

For the moment, however, the best I can do is pitch my show to any place that might remotely consider making my dream a reality.

Oh, and I’m realistic enough to know that a show starring rats isn’t a traditional form of entertainment. Pied Piper is most likely a pipe dream, especially now that circuses around the US have cut down on animal acts in general. Case in point: the circus where most of my family works asked Grampa to retire his lion show a few years ago.

I smile. Grampa retired along with his show and then used his free time to teach me his craft—all the while thinking that I’d work either with lions like he did, or with bears like his great-grandfather did. When Grampa learned about the rats, he said, and I quote, “The only worse ideas would be working with cockroaches, ticks, or your grandmother.”

Regardless, I send out email pitches until my eyes get tired from staring at the screen, and then I head over to my favorite part of this apartment: my very own bedroom.

Damn. There’s no bunk bed or snoring trapeze artist on top of it. I look forward to sleeping like a baby who took an Ambien… except that isn’t what happens when I actually get into bed.

I’m kept awake by images of dark eyes, strangely sexy scowls, and hair on powerful arms.

Ugh. Is the bear messing with my sleep now?

No. I’m just horny without a specific reason—and now that I have privacy, I can actually do something about it.

I lick my fingers and slide them down under.

“Just make sure you do not think of him,” I remind myself as I circle my clit. “Whatever you do, don’t think of him.”

Yeah, no. The mantra doesn’t work, and Michael is exactly what I think about when I come.

But hey. It could have been worse.

I could have screamed his name and scared my rats.