by Bobbie Pyron
“Nobody from out of town will come to the festival without fireworks, and then where will we be? How will we make any money?” Coach Hull asked.
Mutterings of agreement ricocheted around the room. Nate looked up at his grandpa worriedly.
And then, wonder of wonders, Gen stood up. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and raised her hand. The mayor barked. Loud.
The room fell silent.
“Yes, Miss Beam?” Councilman Lamprey said.
Gen took a deep breath. Only Nate, his grandpa, and her daddy were close enough to see the trembling of her knees. In a loud, clear voice, she said, “It’s actually a good thing we can’t have fireworks.”
Councilman Lamprey raised his eyebrows. “Why’s that?”
She waved her papers. “Because as you know, the turtles will be here to nest about that time. That’s why I brought everyone a copy of the Turtle Rules.”
Groans circled the room. “I don’t see what those turtles have to do with having fireworks or not,” Mr. Sands said.
“The fireworks confuse them,” she explained. “As do any other lights near the beach. It’s our job to protect them, to care for them. They’ve been coming to these beaches to lay their eggs for thousands of years. You can count on them” — she shot a look at Nate — “unlike some people I know.”
“Those turtles sound pretty stupid if you ask me.” Mr. Sands tipped back in his chair and grinned.
“ ‘Those turtles’ are more important than the stupid money you make off your stupid fireworks,” Gen snapped.
Mr. Sands shot forward in his chair, his cold eyes fixed on Gen. “Now you look here, girl….”
A storm cloud flashed across Nate’s face. He was about to jump to his feet when his grandpa grabbed the back of his T-shirt and pulled him into his seat. “This ain’t your fight, boy,” his grandpa whispered.
Reverend Beam slowly stood and put his arm around his daughter. Although he smiled, his eyes were not a bit warm. “I think what my daughter, however inelegantly, is trying to say is that our natural resources are far more valuable than any tourist dollars we might see.” Heads nodded in agreement.
Picking up steam, the good reverend continued, “We are purely blessed in Paradise Beach with the good Lord’s bountiful beauty and wonder. We are stewards of this paradise, charged with protecting her.”
“Amen!” Miss Lillian called in a loud whisper.
“Save your sermon for Sunday, preacher,” Mr. Sands said.
“Yeah,” someone called. “We don’t need preaching, we need those tourist dollars.”
“Amen to that,” the town postmistress said.
“We need a lucky break for once,” Coach Hull said.
“Rowoof! Rowroof!” the mayor barked.
“Gentlemen!” A voice like the trumpets of Gabriel rang out. The room fell silent.
A substantial woman, a woman who suffered no fools, rose from her chair in the corner of the room. Men and women who fought the elements out on the sea to make a living, folks who bossed other folks around and handled large sums of money, trembled in their seats. Everyone who had stood sat down, including Reverend Beam and Gen.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Belk, please do speak,” Councilman Lamprey stammered. “We of course want to hear you weigh in — I mean, as it were …”
The woman held up her hand. Everyone held their breath. “As president of the Paradise Beach Garden and Beautification League, I speak for all of us when I say we support the fire department’s decision to not have fireworks at this year’s Billy Bowlegs Festival.” The other members of the Garden and Beautification League nodded in agreement. Mrs. Belk looked slowly around the room, daring anyone to defy her. No one did. Almost every woman in Paradise Beach belonged to the Garden and Beautification League, including Councilman Lamprey’s and Mr. Sands’s wives. Everyone in town knew better than to make enemies of the Paradise Beach Garden and Beautification League.
Mrs. Belk, whose husband was the president of Gulf Coast Bank and Trust, crossed one arm over the other. “And, I might add, I personally agree with Reverend Beam. You cannot put a price on the God-given beauty of this place. It is our greatest resource.”
“And we expect everyone to donate generously at our kissing booth at the festival,” a small woman much resembling a possum added, from the back of the crowd.
“Yes, dear,” Councilman Lamprey said.
After Nate helped Gen hand out copies of the Turtle Rules to each and every person at the town meeting, he looked for his grandpa. He heard thunder rumbling somewhere off in the distance and his head hurt like the dickens.
Finally, he spotted his grandfather, cornered by two other charter boat captains. The two captains did not look happy.
“What’re you doing, Jonah, to bribe all these tourists onto the Sweet Jodie? You paying their hotel bills? Offering them free dinner or something?” the captain of the SeaBiscuit asked in a not entirely friendly way.
Nate’s grandpa laughed uneasily and pulled on his white ponytail.
“Yeah,” said the captain of the LunaSea. “Seems like you got some kind of game going, Jonah.”
Grandpa switched his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and shrugged. “No game, Rusty. Just luck, I reckon.”
“Yeah, well, your good luck is taking business away from —”
Before the captain could finish, Nate tugged on his grandfather’s arm. “Hey, Grandpa.”
Grandpa pulled the boy to him. “Speaking of lucky!”
The two disgruntled captains smiled and shook their heads. “Truer words were never spoken,” the captain of the SeaBiscuit said.
Lightning flashed outside the tall windows. Nate shook beneath his grandfather’s hand and let out a tiny moan.
“We best be getting home,” Grandpa said. “The boy’s not a big fan of thunderstorms, and we walked over here.”
“I’ll give y’all a lift,” the LunaSea’s captain said.
“Don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Grandpa said. Lightning flashed again. Nate shook like a frightened puppy. “But if you’re sure it won’t put you out …”
“No trouble at all,” the captain said. As they dashed to his car, he grabbed Nate’s lightning-scarred hand. His weatherworn palm mashed right up against the L and Y burned into Nate’s palm. “Maybe some of your good luck will rub off on me,” the captain said over the rising wind.
The next day and for many days after, the captain of the LunaSea had more business than he knew what to do with.
One luck-filled week later, Nate fairly sailed through the Sweet Magnolia RV and Trailer Park on his bike as he made his way over to Gen’s. Tonight was the kickoff to the weekend-long Billy Bowlegs Festival, culminating in the Blessing of the Fleet. All week, the town had been getting ready to celebrate the founder of Paradise Beach, the pirate Billy Bowlegs. All weekend the town would be abuzz with arts and crafts, shrimp boat races, crab races, reenactments of the day Billy Bowlegs washed up on the shores of what was now Paradise Beach, and, of course, one long, continuous fish fry.
He had never been to the carnival, with its rides and cotton candy and games. Grandpa was always busy getting the boat ready for the Blessing of the Fleet, and Gen hated crowds. But this year, Nate Harlow was going to the carnival with Ricky Sands and a whole mess of his equally popular friends. He smiled into the cloud-studded sky and fingered the lucky rabbit’s foot in his pocket.
He found Gen reading on the back porch of The Church of the One True Redeemer and Everlasting Light, Mercy and Goodness curled in her lap.
“Hey Gen,” he said, parking his bike and mounting the steps to the porch. “You want to come with me to watch them set up the carnival?”
She barely glanced up from her book. “Too hot.”
“Come on, Gen,” he pleaded. “It’ll be fun, it’ll be different.”
“You know I don’t like ‘different,’ ” Gen snapped, hard as a turtle.
Nate sighed. “How long you going to s
tay mad at me?”
Pink splotches bloomed on her neck and face. She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I’m not mad. I don’t care if you go to that stupid carnival with Ricky Sands and his merry band of philistines.”
Nate pinched his nose and pitched his voice high. “I beg to differ,” he said in an almost perfect imitation of Gen and one of her favorite comebacks.
He watched for a smile. He knew for a fact he was the only one who could get away with imitating her and not get socked in the belly.
No smile came. Without looking at him, she said, “We need to go to our dune and watch for the loggerheads.” She scratched the chin of the tabby named Mercy. “My calculations of the currents and ocean temperatures and tides show they should start coming in any night now. Plus, tonight is the first night of the full moon.”
Nate frowned. “I’ve never been to the carnival, Gen. I want to do what the other kids are doing for once.”
An awkward silence grew between the two friends.
Finally, he said, “I’ll go down to the beach with you another night.”
“Do what you want,” she said, not looking at him. Goodness glared at Nate from Gen’s lap. And if the cats had not curled up on the book she had been reading, he might have wondered at the title: Test Your Luck.
That night, Nate fingered the money in his pocket his grandpa had given him for the carnival. “Don’t spend it all at once,” Grandpa said. “And stay away from those games of luck. They’re run by riffraff. They’re just out to steal your money.”
But Grandpa’s words did not find a place of prominence in his mind, because Nate’s mind and nose and eyes were filled with the glory of the carnival. Flashing, spinning lights! The smell of popcorn, peanuts, sugar, and fry grease! Everywhere he looked, his eyes took in the colors of brightly painted rides and all sorts of prizes dangling from the tent eaves. Everybody from miles around crammed into Billy Bowlegs Park.
Ricky Sands jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow. “Better shut your mouth, Sparky, or a fly will get in,” he said.
He snapped his mouth shut and trotted behind Ricky and Connor and a bunch of other boys. They shoved their way over to the Tilt-A-Whirl. Nate’s heart bounded into his throat as he climbed into the half-cup seat with Ricky and Connor. By the end of the ride, it wasn’t just his heart squirming in his throat.
“You’re green as seaweed,” Connor said, laughing.
“If you’re gonna puke, get away from me!” one of the other boys said.
Nate swallowed hard and shook his head. “I’m okay.” He could just see Gen rolling her eyes.
“Lookit!” Ricky said. “They got the Monster Masher here!”
Nate forced himself to look where Ricky pointed. A tall, silver, rocket-shaped ride shot screaming passengers high into the air, then jerked them back down again. Up and down, up and down the screaming, crying, strapped-in, unable-to-get-away passengers flew. His legs quivered like jellyfish.
“Awesome,” the boys said in reverent voices.
Nate closed his eyes and pictured Gen atop their dune — the tallest dune on Paradise Beach — the sea oats rattling in the wind, watching the water’s edge shimmering in the moonlight for signs of the turtles. Right then, he wished like anything he were right there beside her.
Ricky thumped him so hard on his back, he almost fell to the ground. “This’ll make a man out of you.”
Nate sighed and trailed behind the boys as they made their way through the crowd over to the Monster Masher. He watched as the freed passengers staggered and wobbled from the ride. Coach Hull smiled weakly at the boys, then threw up behind the bushes. Nate felt the corn dog he’d eaten rise up from his stomach in sympathy.
“Whoa!” Connor said. “Did you see Coach?” The boys laughed and poked and made retching sounds, which did not help Nate’s efforts to keep his corn dog where it belonged.
He shuffled forward in line, shuddering and shaking. Ricky and Connor bought their tickets and raced over to the giant, heaving machine.
“How old are you, kid?”
Nate opened his eyes and looked up past a big, round belly to the cigar jutting from the mouth of the ticket taker. “Eleven, sir,” he said.
The man shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth and tapped a cardboard hand with his cane. “See this here?”
Nate nodded.
“You gotta be this tall to go on this ride.” He shoved Nate over to the hand, which hovered a good half foot above his head. “Too short,” the cigar man declared to one and all. “Can’t go on this ride, kid.” In a lower voice he said, “Sorry.”
Nate shrugged and waved to Ricky and the other boys. They laughed and shook their heads as they were strapped in one by one.
He forced himself to walk away in a feet-dragging-with-disappointment kind of way. What he really wanted to do was skip. For the first time in his life, being short had brought him luck!
Nate wandered over to the ring toss.
“Five rings, five chances to win, folks! Only a dollar to win one of these fabulous prizes!”
Coach Hull, still a little green around the gills, tossed one, then two, three, then four rings into the air. Each landed neat as you please over the neck of the milk bottles. He rubbed his hands together and winked at a beaming Miss Trundle. “The next one’s for you, Trudy.”
He tossed the fifth wooden ring. It wobbled and wavered in the air. Nate held his breath. Coach Hull and Miss Trundle held their breath. The ring fell with a tiny clink.
Miss Trundle clapped her chubby hands together. “Oh my, Don! You’re so talented!”
Coach grinned and puffed out his chest. “Pick out your prize, Trudy,” he said.
Nate was not a bit surprised when Miss Trundle chose a large pink cat with diamond sparkly eyes. She hugged it to her pillowy chest.
“How about you, young fella?” the man behind the counter said. “You want to try? It’s just a dollar.”
Coach Hull frowned. “Nate, you’re not exactly good at this sort of thing.”
He looked at the wooden rings the man twirled on his arm. The man grinned. “Might be your lucky night, huh, boy?”
Lucky. Nate looked at the L and Y burned into the palm of his hand. He rubbed his thumb over the rabbit’s foot in his pocket.
He stepped up and slapped his dollar bill on the sticky wooden table. “Yes sir, it just might be.” And it was.
Every ring he tossed fairly sang its way to the nearest bottle and settled around its shoulder with a happy sigh.
And he was not just lucky at the ring toss. Oh no, his hand knew exactly which yellow rubber ducky bobbing through the circular creek had the best prize numbers. He guessed right down to the ounce the weight of the fat lady. By the time Nate made it to the baseball throw, a crowd trailed behind him, including Ricky Sands and his gang.
Jinx Malloy stood before the table, smacking the baseball in her hand. She narrowed her eyes at the rows of miniature clowns standing straight as soldiers seven feet away.
“Alls you got to do, little lady, is knock down four of those fellas,” a tattooed man said as he took her money.
Jinx glared at the man. She pulled her cap down tight on her head and flipped her braids behind her shoulders. She spit on the ground and let loose a throw that could have gone all the way to Wewahitchka. The clowns didn’t stand a chance.
“That’s one,” the tattooed man cried. He tossed Jinx another ball. “Think you can knock down another one?”
She did. She knocked down the next one too. The crowd clapped. “Come on, Jinx,” Nate said. “Just one more.”
Jinx wound up her arm tight as a tick and grinned. She took aim at one particularly goofy clown and let the ball fly. The ball smacked the clown right in its grinning face. Thwack! Half the clown’s hat popped off. The clown wobbled and tilted. The crowd clapped.
But the clown did not fall. It popped back up, listing a bit to one side.
“Aw, tough luck, honey,” the tattooed man said, g
rinning.
“It’s rigged!” Jinx said. “I hit that stupid clown hard enough to break his face!”
The tattooed man ignored her outburst. “Who’s next?” he asked the crowd.
Ricky Sands strutted up to the table and handed over his money. “I’ll show you how it’s done,” he said, winking at Jinx.
And it looked like he would too. He knocked down the first and second clowns with barely a thought. Ricky grinned at Jinx and wound up for his third toss. Thwack! The ball hit a clown square in its grinning mouth. It didn’t budge.
The crowd gasped. Ricky stared in disbelief. “No way,” Connor called from the sidelines. “That clown should have gone down.”
“Yeah, it’s rigged,” someone cried.
The tattooed man glared at the grumbling crowd. “You pays your money, you takes your chances,” he said. “Who’s next?” he asked, surveying the crowd with narrowed eyes.
Ricky grabbed Nate by the shoulders and shoved him toward the table. “He is.”
The man looked at the small boy standing before him, his arms full of stuffed animals, lightsabers, and a giant inflatable hammer. The man grinned. “Looks like you’re the big winner tonight,” he said. “Care to try your luck here?”
Nate hesitated. Maybe he’d used up all his luck for one night. Was luck like that?
But then he saw it, hanging in the rafters among the stuffed bears and giraffes, the plastic rifles and guitars: a magnificent bright blue sombrero with red trim. His grandpa had had one almost like it years ago until it was lost in a tornado (yes, that same tornado that’d snatched up Nate’s hound dog). Oh, he could just imagine the smile on his grandpa’s face if he won that sombrero.
“I reckon,” he said.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Bobby Louder and all the little Louders clapped and chanted, “Spark-y! Spark-y!”
Nate handed the stuffed animals to Jinx and the rest of his booty to Ricky Sands. He handed his last dollar bill to the tattooed man. The man handed him a ball. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
Nate looked at the rows of grinning clowns. The baseball grew warmer and warmer in his hand. He took aim and threw.
