Like Gravity
Page 26
“You did all this?” I’d asked, walking toward him.
I knew it must have taken him several hours to put up all the decorations, plus there was the fact that he’d obviously spent time picking out presents and – attempting, at least – to wrap them.
“It’s your birthday,” he’d shrugged, as if it were no big deal; like it was some kind of given that he’d do all this, simply because one more year of my life had passed. He didn’t understand that this was in no way similar to what I’d become accustomed to in the past fourteen years. He was breaking my annual tradition of solitary, semi-drunken celebration – deviating from the norm and turning a day I normally dreaded into something magical and romantic.
He didn’t know that my father’s idea of a birthday gift was a painfully generic card, stuffed full of empty, meaningless words written by a Hallmark employee, and a hefty check. The years he’d remembered to even scribe his signature on the bottom of the card were the most memorable; usually, he had his secretaries take care of such trivial business, as he couldn’t be bothered to deal with unimportant matters like his only child’s day of birth.
When I’d moved out of the house last year to come t0 Charlottesville, I hadn’t even gotten a phone call from him – not that I’d really been expecting one. Lexi had bought me a cupcake and a bottle of tequila, then taken me out and gotten me wasted enough to forget why I hated the day so much.
So I’d guess it would be repetitive to say that my expectations, when it came to this year?
Zero, zilch, nada.
I’d figured that twenty-one wouldn’t be much different from twenty; judging by the state of my kitchen this morning, though, I’d be pretty comfortable admitting that I was wrong.
“I love you,” I’d whispered, glancing around at the room in wonderment, before arching my head back to brush a kiss across Finn’s smiling lips.
I was broken from my reverie when a passenger car finally descended and it was my turn to climb onboard the Ferris wheel. A hand appeared from my peripheral and one of the carnival workers helped up into the compartment.
“Thank you,” I said, releasing his hand and turning to face him after I’d settled onto the bench.
“I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, you know.” At the sound of his voice, my eyes flew away from the safety bar I was preparing to secure my lap to examine his face. To my surprise, Finn was standing there, looking a little green as he stared up at the ride over our heads. It had been his hand I’d grabbed for support.
“You changed your mind?” I asked, trying to subdue my sudden excitement.
“It was the puppy dog eyes,” he shrugged, climbing into the cab and settling close next to me. “They get me every time.”
I laughed as he pulled the bar tight across our laps, shaking it several times to check that it was securely latched.
“…probably spent about ten minutes total putting this deathtrap together…completely unsafe…” Finn was muttering under his breath about the ride, looking in every direction as we lifted off the ground several feet so the couple in line behind us could board their own car.
“Hmmm? Did you say something, caveman?” I asked sweetly, cupping a hand around my ear.
“Just how much I love you for convincing me to ride this thing,” he replied sarcastically.
I smacked him on the arm.
He laughed, but it was strained with tension. His white-knuckled grip on the security bar betrayed his anxiety, only tightening the further we rose into the air.
“You really didn’t have to come,” I told him, feeling rather ashamed of myself. “I’m sorry for bugging you about it.”
“Don’t be,” he said, staring out over the fairground lights below.
The park really came alive at night. It was sunset now, and most of the little kids had gone home hours ago, replaced by too many couples to count. Country music blared from the speakers of almost every game stand, screams rang out as adventure-seeking fair-goers were spun upside down by the scarier rides on the far side of the park, and food vendors called out their wares to passerby. The myriad of voices blended together into one distinct medley: the nighttime soundtrack of every autumn carnival across the country.
Noisy, bustling, bright; just breathing the air made you feel more alive.
“The view is so beautiful from up here,” I sighed.
“It really is,” he agreed. When I glanced over at him, though, it was me he was staring at, rather than the carnival spread out below us.
“Corny,” I accused, elbowing him lightly in the stomach. Secretly, I was enjoying the rush of warmth his words sent spiraling through my chest. Finn wrapped one arm around my shoulders and tugged me closer, so I was snuggled up against his side.
“You love me anyway, though,” he whispered into my ear, his mouth moving lower to press a kiss to the sensitive spot behind my lobe. I shivered at the sensation, tilting my head to give him better access. With his face buried in my neck, he didn’t notice the kids in the passenger car above us, but I did.
There were two small children around eight or nine years old – siblings most likely – in the compartment. The boy was bigger, and he was finding great delight in his sister’s fear; he heaved his body backward and forward, until the car gained momentum of its own and was rocking wildly. His sister was clearly terrified, hanging on to the security bar and pleading with him to stop. He was laughing at her.
It happened so fast.
Sometimes you see change coming. You might not want it, might not be ready to embrace the new course your life is about to set out on, but at the very least you can prepare for it. Adjust your expectations. Formulate a new plan.
Other times, change is so sudden, so unexpected, that it knocks you right on your ass and leaves you wondering how you got to this place – blindsided, with your expectations and hopes and dreams as unsalvageable as an ice cream cone dropped to the ground at the carnival, melting slowly into the dirt road.
Had I known, in that moment, that getting on that goddamn amusement ride would irrevocably change things between Finn and me, I never would’ve climbed aboard. We were young and in love; we were invincible – or so I’d thought. If I’d known it was all about to be ripped from me, maybe I’d have held him tighter, told him I loved him one last time.
I didn’t get that chance.
One minute, I was looking up at the siblings in the car above us, and the next, I was somewhere deep inside my own head. It was disorienting, how quickly the memory took hold of my senses, dragging me back exactly fourteen years in a single instant.
Our foster mother, Eva, had agreed to take us to the Fall Festival, and the eight of us kids divided into two minivans, with the oldest fighting for the front seats. There were two chaperones with our group – women I’d never met before – but they kept mostly to themselves, talking to each other rather than the kids. I think they were Eva’s friends – sometimes they hung around with her at our group home – but I wasn’t really sure.
As usual, my scrawny frame was shoved into the back row, between two of the bigger kids. I kept my eyes closed for the majority of the ride, retelling myself the legend of Andromeda over and over in my head to shut out the noise in the van and the uncomfortable, cramped backseat.
The boy sat in the row ahead of me and didn’t look back. A part of me wished he would, but I knew it was for the best – we never talked to each other in front of the other kids. As far as they knew, I was still the little mute girl who kept to herself.
The back porch at night – that was our place, the one space in the house I ever felt safe enough to be myself. Safe enough to speak. Every day I feared one of the other kids would discover us out there, and learn my secret. But for now, on my way to a carnival with the promise of sugar and fun hanging in the air all around me, I pushed my fears away and determined to have a good time. It was my birthday, after all.
I was seven. I didn’t feel any different – I didn’t look any bigger, either.
If my mom had been here, there’d have been cake and presents and so much laughter my sides would ache for the next three days. The fact that it was my birthday and she wasn’t here made it seem more real, more final than ever before – she was gone, and she was never coming back.
Even with my eyes pressed closed, I could tell we were approaching the fairgrounds. The other kids’ voices got louder as they talked about which rides they would go on and pointed at different attractions through the windows as our car rolled slowly into line for the parking lot.
Squeezing my eyes shut even tighter, I made a birthday wish. It wasn’t done over a cake, and I hadn’t blown out any candles, but I hoped it would count anyway.
I didn’t wish for presents. I didn’t wish for my father to find me. I didn’t wish to be adopted. I didn’t even wish for my mother back.
Instead, I wished on every star in the night sky, on all those constellations the boy had taught me to find and name, that we wouldn’t be separated. That, whatever happened, we would stay together. Because the boy with the sad eyes? He’d become my brightest star; the one who led me to safety every night, when the nightmares and the grief became too much. He’d guided me from the darkness – my North Star in the never-ending shadows.
And I didn’t want to lose him, not ever.
Our foster mother parked the van and the rest of the kids immediately jumped out and sprinted for the park entrance. I trailed slowly behind, knowing I would never be able to keep up anyway. When we were handed our tickets and allowed into the park, the group splintered off in every direction.
The older girls I shared a bedroom with, Mary and Katie, took off for the food stands on the other side of the park. A pack of the older boys ran for the giant thrill rides that flipped upside down and made you throw up. The rest headed for the ring toss and dart throwing games.
I didn’t see where the boy had gone.
My foster mother and the other two chaperones were busy with Bobbie, the three-year-old toddler who’d arrived at the house two weeks ago. He was the youngest by far, and he used up almost all their attention. The rest of us had been given an allowance of twenty tickets each, and sent off to spend them however we wanted. I think Eva was just happy that she didn’t have to deal with the other seven of us for the next few hours.
I decided to stick by myself, rather than chase after a group of older kids who didn’t want me tagging along anyway. I wandered around for a few minutes, taking in the sights and smells, and eventually parted with three of my tickets in return for a lump of cotton candy so sticky I had to suck on each of my fingers for several seconds to get them clean.
When I saw the Ferris wheel – shiny red and lit up with hundreds of tiny glowing lights – it seemed magical, like something out of a storybook. It was enchanting, utterly unlike any ride I’d ever seen before, and I instantly wanted to ride it up, up, up into the sky. I knew the view of the stars from the very top would be incredible.
I got into line and tried to ignore the three boys standing several feet ahead of me. They lived in the group home, and I knew from experience that they would tease me mercilessly if they discovered me standing anywhere near them. I should have gotten out of line as soon as I saw them – I almost did – but the lure of the Ferris wheel was too strong, and I figured there was a pretty good chance they wouldn’t notice me anyway.
I was wrong.
We were nearing the front of the line when Eugene, the oldest – and meanest – of the boys turned and spotted me. About thirteen, with blond hair and a tall frame, Eugene was a bully. I’d always thought it was because he hated his dorky name so much, he felt like had to prove how tough he was every minute of the day.
“Hey, freak!” he yelled, the excitement and malice clear in his eyes.
I, as usual, didn’t respond.
“What, cat gotcha tongue, freak?” Eugene sneered.
The other boys turned to look at me as well, laughing and joking amongst themselves. I wrapped my arms tightly around my chest, trying to hold myself together as I did my best to ignore them.
Don’t let them see you cry, Brooklyn. Never let them see weakness.
The boy had told me that several weeks ago, after a particularly brutal day of teasing at the dinner table when Eugene had “accidentally” bumped into me, causing my entire plate of chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes to fall to the ground. Eva had blamed me for being clumsy and sent me to bed without supper as punishment.
A target who doesn’t fight back, who won’t even defend herself with words, is the easiest victim in the world.
“Riding alone?” Eugene asked, reaching out a hand to grab my upper arm roughly. “We can’t have that. I am your big brother after all – obviously not by blood. As if I would be related to such a loser,” he laughed hysterically.
The other boys snickered at his words.
“Come on, Brooklyn. We’ll ride together. Just like real siblings.”
This was no innocent suggestion; I could hear the threat buried within his words. The last thing I wanted in the world was to ruin the magic of the Ferris wheel by riding with Eugene, but I didn’t seem to have a choice.
What I did have was a bad, bad feeling about this.
I glowered at him and tried to tug my arm away from his grip, but he was so much bigger, stronger, tougher – you name it – than me. It wasn’t a fair fight; but then, it never was when it came to Eugene.
Before I knew it, all my remaining my tickets had been ripped from my hands and I was being herded onto a Ferris wheel car with Eugene hovering at my back. The other boys were standing behind us, waiting to board their own car and blocking the exit; any escape attempts would be stopped before I made it two feet. I tried to catch the eye of the man checking our safety bar, but he didn't look in my direction once.
And then it was too late; we were up in the air.
Eugene hooted loudly, victorious, and the boys in the car below answered with cheers of their own. I made myself small, squeezing as far away from him as possible within the tiny compartment.
When we were about halfway up, he started the rocking.
Leaning his body forward over the bar, then slamming it abruptly against the backrest, Eugene made the whole car swing back and forth dangerously fast. Within seconds I grew dizzy and began trembling in fear; a few times we tilted so sharply I was sure I'd slide right out from under the bar and fall to my death on the hard ground far below us.
I didn't scream, I didn't cry; I refused to give him that much satisfaction.
But I was scared out of my mind, wailing internally at the injustice of this. He'd taken away any and all excitement I'd had when I'd first spotted this awful ride. By the time we finally returned to the ground, I was not only ready to throw up my cotton candy, but had vowed I'd never ride a Ferris wheel again, as long as I lived.
The boys left me – ticketless, nauseous, and alone – at the base of the ride. They laughed as they sprinted off, high fiving one other and planning which rides they'd go on next. I sat in the dirt and tried very, very hard not to pity myself.
It was there that the boy found me.
“Hey, Bee,” he said, extending one hand down to help me to my feet.
“Hi,” I whispered, my voice small.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
So, he'd seen what Eugene did. I nodded.
“Don't let them get to you. Not on your birthday.”
I looked up into his face, surprised he'd even known it was my special day, and he winked at me. “Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me back toward the line for the Ferris wheel. He paused when he felt my resistance.
“I don't want to go back on there,” I insisted, tugging my hand away.
“That
's exactly why you have to, Bee. Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'get back on the horse that threw you?’” he asked.
I shook my head no, looking at him questioningly.
“Well, it's the truth. Don't let an idiot like Eugene ruin Ferris wheels for you. I saw your face earlier, when you first got in line… You looked so excited. Weren’t you?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I did really want to ride, before. But now…” I trailed off.
“It will be different, Bee. I promise. Don't you trust me?”
I thought about it for all of a second. “Of course.”
“Then let's go.”
We waited in line for a short time, and the boy shared some of his tickets with me since Eugene had taken all of mine. I was nervous when we first climbed on board, but soon enough I realized that the boy had been right – it was different this time.
The only thing the boy hadn't mentioned was that he was terrified of heights, which I figured out about twenty seconds after we left the ground. He was breathing heavier than usual, and his skin looked pale and clammy with fear.
When the wheel stopped turning, we were perched at the very top of the park and I could see the whole galaxy lit up like a million tiny frozen fireflies in the night sky. I started to point out constellations to the boy, naming them easily now, after weeks of practice, and even retelling some of their stories out loud.
I think that calmed him somewhat, because his grip on the safety bar loosened up and he turned to look over at me as we began our descent back to the ground.
“Happy Birthday, Bee,” he said, squeezing my hand with his own.
I thought again about my earlier birthday wish, and prayed even harder that it would come true.
“Thanks, Finn,” I replied, smiling back at him.
Chapter Seventeen
Breaking Point
“Bee? Bee, what is it?” Finn asked. He’d pulled his head up from the crook of my neck, and was staring over at me with a concerned look on his face. “What’s wrong?”