by Amie Denman
“But you love it,” June said.
Evie smiled and waved to a little girl shoving an umbrella stroller with her doll in it. “Of course I do. I’d be crazy not to.”
“And you love my idea of a parade.”
“Maybe,” Evie said. “I’d have to see how it looks on paper.”
“I’ll take a picture of it going down the midway and email it to you.”
Evie cocked her head and blew out a long sigh. “You can’t just pull something like this out of your hat.”
“Sure I can. It won’t be that hard to put together a float, get some of my dancers to ride along and entertain, maybe a banner. I just need a theme and I’m good to go.”
“But—” Evie protested.
“Listen. I own this place,” June said, smirking. “I can pull this off if I want to.”
“One-third,” Evie said. “You’re not even a simple majority.”
Jack ran a hand through his hair and loosened his tie. “If you want a controlling interest, you can have my share,” he said, heading straight for Aunt Augusta’s bakery on the midway, a beacon of sugary hope under a pink awning.
“How does he stay so skinny?” June asked.
“He’s in love,” Evie said.
June and her sister stood side by side watching hundreds of guests continue through the front gates. From their position on a small raised bandstand, they could also see over the front ticket counters to the Point Bridge, where cars waited at the toll booths. Sunlight flashed off windshields, and the line of vehicles stretched all the way to Bayside.
“And how about you?” June asked. “Anyone you’ve got your eye on?”
Evie shook her head. “I’m married to Starlight Point right now. I’m trying to get the red ink and the black ink to pick out china patterns together.”
“Might do you some good to get out of the office every day. You might meet people. Maybe around three o’clock?”
“Nice try.”
“I’d let you wear a sparkly sash and carry the banner,” June said.
“I think I’ll stay in the office and be the adult in charge.”
June raised her arm and did a perfect beauty pageant wave, nodding and smiling at her sister.
“You’re perfect for the job,” Evie said. “You’ve got more drama in one arm than I’ve got in my whole body.”
June laughed. “Someday, that’s going to change.”
“You mean you’re going to give up the stage?”
“Nope,” June said, “I mean you’ll get in touch with your inner drama queen one of these days.”
“Doubt it,” Evie said. She glanced at her smartphone and tucked it back in her skirt pocket. “You can have two thousand bucks to get your parade going. That has to cover float, costumes, everything. It’s the best I can do.”
“I’ll take it. I might even do it for less and spend the rest on a spa day for us.”
“Rain check on that until November.”
“No good. You’ll be insane by then and I’ll be in New York.”
Evie shoulder-hugged her sister. “I wish you’d stay. No matter how expensive your plans are.” She smiled at June and started to walk away.
“Evie,” June said, stopping her sister. “Which columns are the good ones—red or black?”
“Depends on how much fun you’re having,” Evie said, laughing, and then she turned and headed toward the corporate office behind the midway games.
* * *
“WHO THE DEVIL made this mess?” Mel thundered. It was almost ten o’clock at night. Mel would’ve gone home hours ago but rides shuttered for six months didn’t come to life without some kinks. Opening week was a maintenance challenge every year. That’s why his son, Ross, spent the week before and the week of opening “on vacation” at his grandparents’ house in Bayside. Without their help, Mel didn’t know what he’d do.
Without a beer, a shower and at least five hours of sleep tonight, he was on the verge of stealing one of the bumper cars and wreaking havoc on the Point Bridge.
The last thing he needed now was a mess in his maintenance garage. Someone had rearranged rolling tool chests, moved a lawnmower, turned on every light in the place and dragged an ancient maintenance scooter from its personal graveyard in the far back corner. Clanking and voices led Mel to the other corner where one of his most trusted year-round workers—Galway—was shoving a big box of stuff on a two-wheeled cart.
“What are you doing?” Mel yelled.
Jack stepped out from behind a tall rolling tool chest. “Plotting your overthrow,” he said. “I’ve just made Galway here the head of maintenance. Gave him your corner office, key to your personal bathroom, everything.”
Mel kicked a tire resting against a steel post. It rolled across the floor and whacked Jack in the leg.
“He can have it,” Mel said. “I’m going home. Someone else can clean up this mess.”
“Any idea how long it’s been since that old beer truck ran?” Jack asked, completely ignoring Mel’s outburst and pointing to a shadow in the far back corner.
“Two hundred years,” Mel said, his mood steadily worsening. “Heck if I know, it’s been at least ten since we sold beer in those trucks on the midway. Don’t even know why we even have one of them around anymore.”
“I think it’s perfect,” June said, her voice emanating from inside the boxy truck. “Needs some work,” she added.
“What’s going on?” Mel asked. He could already guess he didn’t want to hear it. Especially if it involved June. From what he’d seen in the weeks she’d been home, it was obvious she hadn’t changed much. She was just as beautiful. Her smile was just as wide. And her ideas remained way up high in the sparkly and expensive clouds.
“June wants a parade,” Jack said.
Mel rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. That beer and shower might as well be on Mars. “What’s the occasion?”
Galway locked his tool chest, pocketed the key, glanced over his shoulder and quietly left the shop. Mel couldn’t blame him. If he could lock up and leave, he would. But he didn’t own the place and he was stuck listening to some harebrained idea involving one of the old beer trucks. On a pickup truck frame for maneuverability, the beer trucks had served gallons of the cold stuff for years on the midway. A sliding glass window on the side made it easy for guests to walk up and indulge.
“A daily parade,” Jack explained. “Afternoons. Down the midway, through the Wonderful West and out the back gate.”
“You twirling a baton and leading it?” Mel asked Jack.
“Nope. You are.”
“Kiss my butt. I’m going home.”
The back doors on the long abandoned truck creaked open and June looked out. Her hair was pulled back, but several chunks of it slipped out and framed her face, flushed with energy and sunburn.
“Plenty of room in here for sound equipment,” June said, her voice vibrating with excitement. “We could put a speaker on the roof for days when we don’t have a high school band lined up.”
Mel felt the air change the moment her gaze swung to him. He wasn’t foolish enough to think she brightened because of any reason except one: he was key to getting things done around Starlight Point. And she had a project in mind.
“Hey, Mel,” she said.
Mel crossed his arms and leaned against one of the many steel posts supporting the roof of the maintenance garage. “Happy opening day, June. I can’t believe you’re not dead on your feet.”
She smiled. “I’m used to long days on my feet. Staying up late. Broadway, you know.” She ended her explanation with a tiny shrug.
It was far more endearing than he wanted it to be. He pictured her for a moment, a brief flash where he saw June singing and dancing under bright lights, electrifyi
ng a crowd of thousands.
And now she wanted a parade.
“Long day,” Jack said. “Think I’ll go home and let you two work this out.”
Mel flicked a glance at his friend but didn’t say anything. Jack didn’t need his permission to leave. But Mel wished he’d stick around and help him fend off June’s ridiculous request.
Walking slowly toward the beer wagon, Mel heard Jack’s receding footsteps, and the shop door clicked closed.
June stood in the back of the piece of junk she apparently hoped to make into a parade vehicle. Mel didn’t give a darn if she was standing in Air Force One. He was tired. Exhausted from the maniacal ecstasy of opening day. There was a chicken potpie in his freezer just waiting for its five minutes in the microwave.
“You’re out of your mind,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “Doing a parade every day on top of however many shows is nuts.”
“Ten,” she said. “Six in the Midway Theater, four in the Starlight Saloon.”
“Whatever. It’s still crazy.”
June sat on the floor of the truck, her legs dangling off the back. “I’ve done crazy things before,” she said.
They were alone in the shop. Maybe this was the time to ask June if their summer romance seven years ago meant anything to her, or if it was just one of the crazy things she’d done. Suddenly, Mel remembered their awkward dance at her senior prom. He saw scattered moments as if a slow-motion movie were playing, filled with images of them together and not together. Like two magnets with the same polarity shoving themselves backward. If their charge ever reversed...
But it wouldn’t. June always had one foot out the door, the other one right behind.
“Can you help me?” June asked.
Mel didn’t answer. He concentrated on the scuffed toe of his work boot. He heard her sigh and shove off the back of the truck. Feet in green sneakers appeared right in front of him.
“Can this wait until next month or next year?”
He hazarded a glance up. She stood, arms crossed. “I won’t be here next year.”
“I know.”
“And...”
He shook his head. “None of my business if you want to keep running away from home.”
Her cheeks colored and he knew he’d struck a nerve. He’d had no intention of firing any weapons, but it had been a very long day.
Instead of looking angry, June cocked her head and studied Mel.
“You don’t ever wonder if there’s something else out there for you—something outside of Starlight Point?”
He shook his head.
“You want to stay on this merry-go-round your whole life? Working all year getting ready for a summer of twelve-hour days?”
Mel glanced at the dusty wall clock. “Fifteen hours.”
June sighed, uncrossing her arms. “Some things in life you only get one solid chance at,” she said. “Apparently you don’t get that. Nobody seems to.”
She swung around and flung the shop door open, disappearing into the night and leaving the parade issue on the table.
“Yes, I do,” Mel said in the empty shop, an echo his only answer.
CHAPTER FIVE
DRESSED IN HER dancing clothes and running her troupe through a scene, June only heard her cell phone ring because there was a break in the music.
“Trouble at the Silver Streak,” Evie said. “Can you run over and see what’s going on?”
“I’m in rehearsals. This show opens in seven days.”
“Sorry. Jack and I are interviewing candidates for the open accounting and finance position. The Silver Streak is right behind your theater so I hoped you could run over and see what the big deal is.”
June sighed. “I’ll pin on my name tag and go see.”
Two Starlight Point police officers got there ahead of June and the first-aid staff. One of the officers, Don Murray, had been there since before June could remember. Large and stoic, he was a mountain in uniform at the entrance gate of the Silver Streak. He gave June a meaningful look and nodded toward the turnstiles behind him. The dual system of turnstiles counted guests who entered the queue lines on the midway and those who made it all the way through the line to the loading platform. Maybe comparing the numbers was interesting for someone like Evie. If she did compare them, the numbers were not going to match up today.
The first-aid scooter, obnoxious horn beeping, pulled up behind June and one of the firefighters got out, shouldering a first-responder bag. The tall firefighter, Martin, nodded at June and spoke in a low voice, “Dispatch said there’s a leg stuck in the turnstile. No idea how something like that happens.”
“Is it bad?” she asked.
“We’ll see,” the other firefighter, Curt, said. “We called Maintenance as soon as we got here. Probably need help taking apart the turnstile.”
A boy who appeared to be fifteen years old raised his head when June and the two firefighters walked up the steps to the loading platform. Lanky and blond, the kid wore the summer uniform of basketball shorts and a Pistons T-shirt.
The Silver Streak was silent, summer workers standing around watching the spectacle. The boy whose leg was trapped grimaced in pain while two ride operators held him in the air above the three-pronged silver arms of the turnstile. His leg was twisted at a terrible angle.
June’s knee hurt just looking at the kid’s leg. There’s no pain like knee pain. Before she could ask the boy what happened, the rear entrance of the Silver Streak opened and Mel strode through. His long legs flashed and he carried a huge tool bag slung over his shoulder. He made brief eye contact with June and the two firefighters and drilled in on the mechanical problem.
“Did you try to jump over it?” Mel asked the kid, a reassuring smile on his face.
“Uh-huh,” the boy replied.
“Looks like you almost made it, but I don’t recommend trying it again.”
Why on earth would someone try to jump over a turnstile? Boys. The kid was paying for his stupidity now, though. And how did he get stuck like that? Apparently, his foot didn’t clear the arms of the silver turnstile as he tried to jump it. His shoe hooked, the arms locked, and he was trapped.
“My knee is broken,” the boy whined.
“You can’t really break your knee,” Martin said. “But that’s gotta hurt.”
Martin slid an arm under the skinny teen and held him up. Both ride operators scooted back, obviously happy to be relieved of the sweaty and miserable victim of the turnstile.
“I’ll hold him up if you can slide the leg out,” Martin told his partner.
“Can’t. The arm locked a notch back and the angle...” He didn’t finish the sentence, but June knew what he meant. This was going to be a painful lesson for the kid, and he would never want to look at a turnstile again, much less jump over one to impress his friends.
Mel knelt and examined the boy’s leg and the mechanical operation of the machine. He wiped sweat from his brow. June imagined him racing to get here in the maintenance scooter, which was probably parked under the platform. Starlight Point was surrounded by a road informally called the outer loop which offered multiple gates into the park. These gates were always locked and used only by maintenance and security, but they provided quick access when necessary without driving vehicles on the park’s midways. Only the onsite fire department drove on the midways during park operating hours, and only if it was really necessary.
“I think we can get his leg out if we take it apart,” Mel said. “I brought a bunch of tools.”
“You can’t take my leg apart,” the kid cried.
“No,” Mel assured him. “We’re taking the machine apart. I don’t cut up legs. Not in my job description.”
June glanced around, hoping no one was taking cell phone video or pictures of
this. Ride closed, line empty, upset friends and armed security standing by. Two girls and one boy, probably friends of the kid locked in the turnstile, stood on the platform talking to one of the ride operators and watching anxiously. At least they don’t have their cell phones out.
“What’s your name?” Mel asked the boy as he knelt underneath him and started to remove the weathered blue metal shields on the turnstile.
“Jason.”
“First time at Starlight Point?”
The boy shook his head. “We live in Bayside and come all the time.”
“First time jumping over a turnstile?”
Jason shook his head and lowered his eyes. His flushed face got even more red.
“First time not making it over?” Mel asked.
Jason nodded and made eye contact, a tiny smile breaking through the pain on his face.
“Thought so. Were you trying to impress one of those girls over there?”
The kid looked down. “I feel stupid.”
“Don’t,” Mel said. He pointed to a scar above his eyebrow. “See this? I got it trying to impress a girl. I don’t even want to tell you how.”
“Did it work?”
“She didn’t even know I was alive. Story of my life,” Mel said.
June stood silently listening to their conversation, impressed by Mel’s ability to put the boy at ease. He must be a wonderful father.
“We’ll get you out of here,” Mel continued, “but you’ll have to trust me and work with me.”
“Have you ever done this before?” Jason asked.
“Not exactly, but I did get a Matchbox car out of the garbage disposal at my house. My son thought he’d never drive that car again, but it turned out fine. Just a few scratches on the fender.”
The kid didn’t respond, just hung there miserably while Mel used a wrench to remove more bolts from the turnstile. With the shields off, June could see the guts of the machine. A series of gears and levers. She was glad Mel knew what he was doing.
“We all have a few scratches on our fenders,” Mel continued, smiling at the boy. “Gives us character.”
