Bad Blood

by Carly Anne West

  “Kinda weird that this is all going to be roller coasters and rides pretty soon,” says Enzo.

  My stomach.

  “How soon?” I ask.

  “I dunno. They said on the tour. Next year I think?”

  I hear Mya let out a tiny gasp.

  “That’s not even possible!” I say, only realizing how defensive I sound after Enzo looks confused.

  “Hey, man, that just means that pretty soon, we won’t have to drive three hours to Spree Land to scream our heads off. Hey, didn’t your dad design a couple of the rides there, too?”

  I’m barely listening to Enzo. I’m trying to remember how long it took for Dad to design Fernweh Welt. Eighteen months? Two years? And even then, there were … mistakes.

  Sure they got together the backing and started clearing the ground a couple of years ago, but all the planning, the construction … How is Dad possibly going to finish the designs and the engineering for the Golden Apple Amusement Park in under a year?

  “My dad says your dad must be working around the clock to get everything ready for the ceremony,” says Enzo, and suddenly he comes back into focus.

  “What ceremony?”

  “Dude, how do I know all this stuff and you don’t? Don’t you live with the guy?”

  Be calm. I just need to be calm.

  It won’t be like before. It won’t be.

  “The unveiling thing-a-majig,” says Enzo, turning to Trinity for help.

  “Don’t look at me,” she shrugs. “You’re the town crier.”

  Enzo looks mortally wounded. “I’m not the—anyway,” he says, turning back to me. “Some of the City Council people want to look important, so they’re gonna have a big ceremony.”

  This night just keeps getting better.

  “I told you your family is famous,” says Enzo, and I hate so much that he’s right.

  “Why? Who’s your family?” asks Lucy from somewhere inside her suit.

  “Roger and Adelle Peterson were his grandparents,” says Maritza.

  “Wait, you mean the people who burned down the—?”

  Enzo and Maritza jump in to stop her, but Trinity is the first one to act, pinching the opening of her T. rex mouth shut.

  “Don’t do that! It’s dark in here!” she says, sounding like she’s at the bottom of a hole. But I’m less concerned about the conditions of her suit and more interested in what Lucy was about to say about my grandparents.

  “Burned down what?” I say.

  “Nothing, it’s nothing,” says Enzo so unconvincingly, I’m actually a little disappointed in him.

  “Look,” says Mya, sounding about twenty years older than she is, “whatever it is, I’m sure it can’t be that bad, so you might as well just tell us.”

  “They burned down the first Golden Apple factory,” blurts Maritza. “Or I mean, that’s what people say. Some people. Hardly any people.”

  “Okay, so maybe it can be that bad,” says Mya, looking stricken. Her eyes are round and panicky, and she looks even more deranged under all her fake blood and bunny fur.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “I mean, that’s ridiculous, right? Who would believe that?”

  I start to laugh, hoping the rest of them will join in, but when nobody does, I understand just how many people would believe that.

  “Why?” I ask. Maybe I demand. “Why would they do something that … ?”

  “Illegal?” says Trinity.

  “Reckless?” Enzo says.

  “Dangerous?” says Maritza.

  “Can you please open my mouth?” says Lucy, and Trinity looks confused for a second, then quickly unpinches the dinosaur’s face.

  “Sorry.”

  “Pointless,” I finish. “I was going to say pointless.”

  “I guess if you believe the rumors,” says Enzo, “it’s because the Tavishes stopped giving them money for their research.”

  “Why would that make them burn down the factory?” says Mya. “What would that have to do with making candy?”

  Trinity shakes her head. “Nothing. It was about—”

  “Anger,” I say, and everyone gets quiet because they know I’m right. “They were mad. So they took it out on the Golden Apple Corporation.” I look up. “Because it was the Tavishes’ company.”

  Trinity surprises me by putting a hand gently on my shoulder and finding my gaze, which is no easy task.

  “They investigated. A gas line broke. The whole arson thing was just a rumor.”

  I try to keep her gaze, but as I stare out at the clearing made for the Golden Apple Amusement Park and the horizon beyond it, I catch sight of another familiar silhouette: the tower of the abandoned weather station where my grandparents used to work.

  I think back to the article framed in the History Room at the factory, the witnesses who saw two shadowy figures fleeing the scene.

  “They were close enough to the factory. What if … I mean, it’s possible they could have—”

  Trinity shakes her head. “Nobody even knows who those supposed witnesses were,” she says, seeming to read my mind. “And besides, the fire started in the basement. Security records show no one entered or left the basement that day. There were no signs of forced entry, either. Unless your grandparents figured out how to teleport into the basement of the factory, they didn’t set that fire.”

  I want to feel better. I really do. It’s just that the knot in my stomach has found such a nice home, and I don’t see it unraveling anytime soon.

  “But what if, I don’t know, they found a different way in? Like what if there’s a sewer system or something?”

  “Okay, first of all, gross,” says Trinity. “I’m not sure any kind of revenge is worth crawling around in a sewer.”

  “She has a point,” Maritza pipes in.

  “Second of all,” Trinity continues, “People were so ready to blame your grandparents, the police searched. Trust me, there was no other way for them to get into the factory. They were innocent.”

  Trinity’s explanation should be more than enough to convince me. It also should have convinced everyone else thirty years ago. So why didn’t it? Why was everyone so determined to pin the fire on my grandparents?

  I also can’t shake the realization that even though he knew about these rumors, Enzo still wants to do this stupid story on my family. It’s like he can’t understand that this isn’t just a fun story to share with your buddies when you’re trying to freak each other out. These aren’t random strangers anymore. These people are my family.

  “Did anyone else just feel that?” asks Trinity.

  I didn’t even realize she’d walked away. Now she’s standing in the middle of the path ahead. Her dark green costume should be iridescent under the moonlight. It was before. Now, it’s a cloudy, dull gray, and when she tips her head to the sky, she quickly flinches away.

  A single tap lands somewhere on the leaves above us, then another, then another.

  It doesn’t take long for the drops to multiply, and in no time, the bright moonlight that had been lighting our path up to this point disappears behind a smear of thick black clouds.

  Before we even have a chance to react, the forest begins to flood.

  In no time, the dead leaves and pine needles and loose dirt turn to a muddy river under our feet. Wind takes hold of the branches and thrashes them around wildly, and with the wind comes the thunder and lightning, so much worse than the last time that I wonder if this is more than a storm.

  This feels violent.

  “Come on!” I hear someone scream, but it’s impossible to tell who it is.

  We should run, but where? Which way?

  I thought I’d turned in the opposite direction, but it doesn’t look right anymore. The entire landscape of the forest is changed, and soon, the wind is blowing so much rain in my face, it hurts to keep my eyes open.

  I drop to a crouch for a second, covering my head with my hands as the torrents fall, and this time when the thunder rumbles, I swe
ar it shakes the ground.

  “Mya, stay with me!” I holler into the howling wind, but I don’t hear her respond.

  I stand from my crouch, shoulders still hunched, and search behind me, but I’m confused to find no one there. I turn to the side, and still no one. I spin faster to the opposite side, beating back the panic that’s sneaking in fast, and I find myself alone.

  “Where are you guys?!” I yell, loud enough to make my throat catch. Water hits my face so hard it feels like pebbles. Wind swipes at the branch beside me, and it slaps my face with enough force to sting.

  “MYA!” I shout, my voice cracking under the strain. I think I hear someone calling back, but the wind is distorting all sound, and whether she’s behind me or in front of me or anywhere at all is impossible to say.

  When I look up again, the sky isn’t blue or gray or black anymore. It’s a deep purple, and it’s moving.

  No, that isn’t the sky—it’s birds. Hundreds and hundreds of black birds screeching through the sky, not a flock but a swarm, their wings beating in unison with the wind.

  “MYA!!”

  I begin to run. I don’t know if it’s the best way or the worst way, but it’s all I can do. If I stand still for too long, I might get swept away.

  “MYA!”

  She could be anywhere. Absolutely anywhere. She was so close to me, and just like that, she wasn’t.

  A bolt of lightning cracks across the sky, and I know I must be imagining it, but it feels so close, I’d swear I smell burning. The thunder is like an ancient curse, roaring through the sky, seeking vengeance.

  I search desperately for something familiar: a tree, a roofline, a path. But the rain is blowing sideways as one solid sheet, and water is filling my ear. Even if she called out for me now, would I be able to hear her?

  I stumble over an exposed root and fall to my knees, the shed needles flowing through the stream of rain and pricking my legs and hands. I try to take a breath deep enough, but all I do is sputter.

  “Where are you?” I scream.

  Where are any of you?

  I run and I run, but none of it feels like progress. I try to squint through the storm, but it’s like the storm doesn’t want me to see.

  “It’s okay,” I yell into the rain, just for myself. “It’s okay.”

  It’s okay.

  But it’s not okay.

  Mom told me to stay calm, so that’s what I told Mya, and together, holding hands and linked like a chain, we wove in and out of the crowd lining the ramp up to the flume ride. The ramp grew steeper the higher we climbed, but somehow, we managed to run faster.

  When we reached the top, we stopped because everyone else was stopped. Compared to the chaos below, the platform observed a strange silence. The ride was frozen, its emergency break thrown, its red lights flashing. The water below rushed, and the sound of it echoed under the dome of the platform, something akin to static. Over the static were the gentle whimpers and whispers of three dripping parkgoers, some with jackets thrown over their shoulders, some leaning on paramedics. Every one of them stared down at the steep drop below, where one of the carts was visibly trapped underwater. The catch designed to pull the carts to the top of the hill had never released, dragging four people under the water for who knows how long.

  A ways off from the other three passengers, a man lay on the ground with a paramedic over him. The crouched medic had his back to us, quietly counting as he rocked forward with quick movements. A pair of soaking wet gray tennis shoes pointed to the dome overhead. The body they were attached to lay prone on the ground beside the ride.

  Mom squeezed my hand hard, and at some point, I lost feeling in my fingertips. I squeezed Mya’s hand, but I tried not to hold hers so hard.

  “His seat belt wouldn’t release,” someone whispered.

  “Someone had to go in and cut it, but by then—”

  “He couldn’t breathe in the water, so—”

  I can’t feel my fingers. Or my arms. I think all of me is numb.

  The man continues to count and press, count and press.

  “And he’s here with his family.”

  “I just don’t understand how—”

  “Something with the chain that pulls the carts—”

  “It just didn’t let go when they got to the top—”

  “Can you even imagine … ?”

  I try to read Mom’s face, but she’s turned toward the man on the ground. I want to ask her where Dad is. I want to know why the ride failed.

  I want to know if this is why Dad told Mom to keep Mya and me away from the flume.

  But Dad isn’t anywhere to be found. It’s just Mom and Mya and me, the three of us with linked hands and linked guilt because we know something more than the rest of the people here; we knew that the park was built fast, and Dad wasn’t happy about that. We knew that for the last week, Dad hadn’t been around so much.

  Later, we would know that people were looking for him, that there were questions to answer, that Mya and I were allowed to pack three boxes apiece before we left the rest behind.

  In those slow-motion minutes on the platform of the flume ride—by the frozen boats and the water sloshing over the tracks—we stared at the man who pressed on the other man’s chest. I watched the unconscious man’s shoes point motionless to the sky. At some point, I let go of Mya’s hand, and Mom let go of mine, and the man performing compressions stopped, and we all stared at his still body while the prone man’s family draped themselves over him.

  Then they screamed a single, collective cry.

  At first, I think it’s a tree trunk I’ve run into. I’m stunned backward, and I still hear the ringing of screams in my ears. When I finally open my eyes, I’m staring at the dark, starless sky. Clouds still hang low and heavy, the storm not yet through with us, but most of the rain has stopped. The birds, if there ever were any, are gone.

  It was my dad—that’s what I ran into.

  “You have no idea how much trouble you’re in,” he says so quietly, I can barely hear him over the echoes still cluttering my head. I hear enough, though.

  Mom’s arms are around me too tightly, and between Mya and her, I don’t know who’s pressing harder. All I know is that I’m on my feet fast, and it isn’t long before I see a band of soggy friends, costumes torn and soaked and dragging, hair wet and eyes big as saucers. Enzo and Maritza have towels around them like capes; supervillain Trinity is covered by her dad’s rain jacket.

  All the parents have the same look:

  We’re so relieved you’re safe. Now you will die.

  “Are you okay?” whispers Enzo, and I only have time to nod before Dad pulls Mya and me away.

  “Home. Now.”

  The walk home was still blustery enough that the silence from my parents wasn’t as noticeable. We had the rattling of leaves and the growl of thunder to fill in the spaces. As soon as we close the front door behind us, though, it’s just us and the sound of drops hitting the floor under our feet.

  “I won’t even ask what you were thinking,” Mom admonishes as she helps us pull our drenched costumes off and piles them in a heap by the door. “I don’t even want to know.”

  Her voice is shaking. I’ve heard her voice shake like that before.

  When we’re free of our Halloween gear, candyless and fearing the imminent wrath of Dad, he finally turns to face us, the dark hallway shadowing his face so we can only see the gleam of his gritted teeth.

  “You’ll be lucky if you ever get to leave this house again,” he says, and he’s unnervingly calm. There’s no menace in his voice, no quiver like Mom’s or quiet fury like Trinity’s dad or Mr. Esposito’s wordless scolding he managed to do all with his eyes.

  Instead, Dad’s voice is matter-of-fact, and I’ve never been more frightened of him than I am in this moment.

  “To your rooms,” Mom says, and Mya and I drag ourselves up the steps, hearing Dad’s study door click shut as we reach the landing. Not even a crack of light leaks f
rom underneath the door.

  That night, I hear Mya’s door creak open first, followed by some murmuring, a tiny sob, some more murmuring. The storm has all but cleared by now, and my room feels damp and dark with the memory of it. I have no idea what time it is, but it feels late.

  When Mya’s door shuts, it’s mine that opens next. In walks Mom, and to my surprise, she climbs the three-rung ladder on the side of my bunk to lie down beside me.

  Even more surprising is when I start to cry. It’s not like a full-fledged sobfest or anything; it’s just that the knot that usually hangs out in my stomachs seems to have moved up to my throat, and it hurts when I swallow.

  She wipes my face dry with the edge of her sleeve and pushes the hair off my forehead. After a minute, I stop crying, and she just keeps pushing my hair back and saying, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Is it?

  It’s not the first time I’ve wondered how much Mom really knows. Does she know exactly what happened that day at the flume ride? Does she know what it was those people in the dark suits wanted to talk to Dad about afterward? Does she know why we had to leave at night? Does Mom know about the weather station, about the fire at the first factory?

  Does she even know who the Petersons are?

  These aren’t questions I’ve figured out how to ask. Maybe I’m not asking the right way. Maybe I just don’t want to know the answers. I wonder if Mom’s the same.

  “It’s okay,” she whispers over and over.

  Just like she said to me that night after the flume ride and the man in the sneakers and the family that screamed.

  And that night, when I whispered to her: “Was it an accident?” she’d said nothing at all. She just held me tighter.

  Just like she’s holding me tonight.

  It could have been a life sentence for Mya and me. It probably should have been. But after two weekdays of quarantine, the mere presence of us seems to be stressing Dad out.

  Apparently, Enzo was right about the Unveiling Ceremony for the Golden Apple Amusement Park. It’s going to be a huge deal, and Dad seems to be feeling the pressure in a big way.