Carnival

by K. B. Nelson

  “Okay. Whew.” She runs her hand through her ginger hair, and then glides down onto her knees so that she’s kneeling in front of me. “Intervention time.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m intervening. You can’t go around fucking carnies. For one, they’re gross. For another? Eww.”

  “First of all, I can do whatever the hell I want. It’s America. Secondly, it wasn’t exactly intentional. And besides, he’s different from the others.”

  “I’m going to give your judgmental statement a pass—”

  That’s ironic.

  “–but nothing good will come from fucking a carnie. Do you remember Rebecca Ross?”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s because she dropped out of school in the ninth grade after getting knocked up by Bigfoot the clown.”

  I grab her by the arms and force her onto her feet. “She was in ninth grade and Bigfoot was obviously a pedophile.” My hand digs into the pocket of my jeans and I grab my phone. “Besides, did Bigfoot look like this?”

  She takes a fleeting glance at the picture on my phone–the snapshot of Blue the night of the fair. “No, because Bigfoot was a clown. What part of that—” She rips the phone out of my hand. Her eyes light up and her jaw drops. “God spent a little more time and all that hocus-pocus on this man. Those beautiful eyes…”

  Being a bit too possessive, I wrestle the phone from her hands. “Tell me about it.”

  “Please tell me that he’s coming to my party Saturday.”

  I just shrug because I couldn’t tell you what’s happening tomorrow, let alone what’s happening in six days.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It’s the night of Summer’s party, and I still haven’t heard from Blue. It dawned on me Tuesday that he had lost his phone. My best guess is that he’s not in a rush to run out and get a new phone, as that would take a dent out of his mysteriousness, and we just couldn’t have that.

  I stand in front of the mirror in my bathroom, running a brush through my hair and considering a color change. Red’s out of the question, but I’ve had blonde on my mind for a while now. I’ll see how the night turns out and make a decision in the morning. We always make the best decisions when we’re drunk or hung over.

  The heat wave is now a thing of the past, so this is the first time in weeks I’m able to straighten my hair without the paralyzing fear of humidity. My faith in Jimmy Clay is slowly being restored. The jeans that I’m wearing, paired with a red plaid top, are counting on honesty. If a temperature spike occurs, then I’m going to roast.

  I sit down on my bed and kick off a pair of heels I’ve been wearing around the house for the past hour. You never know what life is going to throw at you or when you’re going to need to strap on a pair of pumps. In small-town Ohio, where girls don’t wear heels, this is how we practice. I slide into a pair of comfortable sneakers then make my way down the carpeted stairs.

  If all goes well, I’ll spend the night on Summer’s couch. Or her bed, if I’m feeling an abrupt need to jump start the rumor train one last time before she goes away to college. It was the same year Rebecca Ross went into hiding that the initial rumors began. Summer was having a slumber party and I wasn’t about to sleep on the cold floor in the middle of winter. When everyone awoke, Summer and I were tangled together like Rapunzel’s hair during an F4 tornado. I’d wager to say the Are they or are they not scissoring? scandal was directly responsible for nobody noticing the disappearance of Rebecca Ross, myself included.

  My mom said she would drive me to the party, so I began drinking early. She understands about this sort of thing, that I’m going to drink no matter what. She blames MTV, but I blame my drinking on the lack of family dinners. Both are bullshit excuses. I’m young and I’m going to drink and anybody who doesn’t needs therapy.

  Three shot glasses sit on the counter, two empty and one full. I grab the one full of Jameson—my favorite drink—and throw it back. The shot burns as it rushes down the back of my throat. It’s a wonderful explosion of sensation—taste, touch, and aroma. Reminds me of Ireland, somewhere I’ve never been, but hope to go someday.

  I glance up to one of the hundred clocks in my mom’s house. This particular one sits above the kitchen sink. Reading this particular clock has always been a chore. It has two forks for hands that are exactly the same length. When I came down the steps, the clock on the wall said it was ten-fifteen, so I guess the fork poking at the six is the minute hand. Ten-thirty it is, then, and my mom still isn’t home from doing what the hell ever it was that she said she was doing. I’m not about to get in my car and drive as I’ve never driven drunk and have no intention to ever do so. It’s something I’ve promised to nobody but myself. Sometimes I may be stoopid but I’m not stupid.

  I could wait for her to get home, but I’m feeling a little antsy to get to the party because this could be the last time I see Summer for a while. Also, if I wait for Mom to return home before I go to the party, I’ll have this bottle finished, and it’s not a good look to show up to a party completely blitzed. It is, however, perfectly acceptable, and a display of good manners, to show up buzzed.

  * * *

  It’s about ten degrees cooler than Jimmy predicted. For him, that’s probably a record, but still, the difference between sixty and fifty degrees is no minor infraction. Especially, in a state like Ohio. In the fall, and before the first snowfall, fifty degrees feels like thirty. In the spring, fifty feels like eighty.

  I walk briskly along the cracked sidewalk but not fast enough to break a sweat. In the midst of taking shots while showering, I forgot to apply deodorant. If the situation gets too dire, I’ll stumble up to Summer’s bathroom and apply when necessary.

  Dylan’s supposed to be there, so I’m a little worried about that, after our run-in at the fair. Drunk Dylan is kind of like sober Dylan, except more intense and hornier. If you’re having a party, and he’s on the guest list, it’s best to have a shock collar on hand for when he inevitably starts humping anything remotely humpable. In a house like Summer’s, there’s a very real possibility that she could spend the following morning cleaning up his army of little dills as he likes to call them.

  I come to a rest outside Summer’s home. Music blares from within but the porch is deserted, which is unusual, as the wrap around porch that folds around their beautiful Victorian home always seems to be the hot spot.

  I knock on the wooden door once and then open it, wondering why I even bothered since we were well past knocking years ago.

  The door swings open and it’s an unusual sight. Just like the porch, the inside is mostly devoid of human life. Four teens dressed in cut-offs and basketball shorts play beer pong on the dining room table to the left—a formal dining room that has never seen formality. The carpet beneath the teens is soaked with spilled beer. Or urine.

  “Summer,” I call out and the four players turn and look at me like I’m stupid.

  “In the kitchen,” Summer calls from the back of the house.

  I give the teens a smirk before making my way through the very basic living room. There’s a flat screen hanging on the wall and a vintage couch sitting in front of it. Once Summer’s gone, this place will be the perfect bachelor pad. The openness is perfect for throwing parties but not so good for hosting responsible adult company.

  I make my way down a short hallway lined with pictures of Summer, her dad, and her mother who had passed five years ago from breast cancer. At the end of the path comes the cherry-coated kitchen. Summer lunges at me, greeting me with a hug. Based on the strength of said hug, I’d say she’s five shots deep, because the drunker she gets, the stronger she becomes. I sit my half-empty bottle on the counter beside a tray of dark-colored Jell-O shots and a bottle of Jager.

  “Where the hell is everyone?”

  “They should be coming. And don’t even ask who those boys are out front because I have no idea. But I’ve been here alone, and I wasn’t going to confront them.” She wraps he
r mouth tight around her finger and sucks Jell-O off it.

  “They’re cute.” I lean my head around the corner, peering down the hallway and into the living area where they’re still playing. “But they look kind of young. Are you sure your dad’s okay with this?”

  She waves her hand. “Yeah, it’s cool. He said he might stop by to grab some clothes after work, though.”

  Her dad used to scare me. Before I knew him as Mr. Daniels, I knew him as Officer Daniels, the mean ol’ bastard who pulled my mom over for going sixty in a thirty-five. It was a few months later that I ran into him again at Summer’s house. Gone was his uniform, and ever since then, he’s been like a second father to me, albeit a better one than the first.

  Summer reaches for one of the dark-colored Jell-O shots and asks if I want one. The answer should be obvious. I grab one of the plastic cups and we each tongue the Jell-O, loosening it up before swallowing. I gag as the blob slides down my throat. It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.

  “What did you make these with?” I shake off my disgust.

  “Jager,” she smiles. “Don’t like it?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Party’s here,” Dylan yells. I pivot to see him and Tyson standing in the doorway to the kitchen, each holding a cheap case of beer. “Room in the fridge?”

  “You know there’s never room in the fridge.” Summer points to the kitchen sink, which is full of ice. “Put it in the cooler.”

  “Nice.” Dylan grabs the beer out of Tyson’s hand and makes his way to the sink to begin unloading beer into the ice.

  Tyson reaches past me and grabs the bottle of Jager. He smells like a potent combination of wood and musk—must be trying out some new cologne. He twists the cap off the bottle and throws his head back, chugging the thick black liquor.

  Summer darts from the other side of the island and snatches the bottle out of his hand, then smacks the back of his head. “Go stand in a corner.”

  “Easy, babe,” he says coolly.

  “Don’t call me babe.” She steps close to him, invading his personal space. “I’m not drunk enough yet.” She throws her head back and takes a long swig. Once finished, she savors the thick taste of black licorice with a wincing mouth.

  When Dylan’s done filling the improvised cooler, he turns around and braces his hands against the sink. “Is this gonna be one of your lame parties where it’s just the four of us? Plus those four losers playing pong?”

  “People are coming. And if they don’t, then the four of us will finish everything in this kitchen.”

  Tyson, assuming he is out of the doghouse, wraps his arms around Summer and me. “You guys are gonna miss us,” he says.

  I’m not going anywhere.

  “Probably not. Those city people are more my kind,” Summer says through a smile.

  My eyes roll. “Shut up. You’re the trashiest person in this kitchen. You were born for the sticks.”

  Summer grabs Tyson’s arm and throws it off her. “Whatever. I’ll send you pics from the top of the world.”

  “The top of the world?” asks Dylan.

  “Yep. The dorm is right beside the stadium.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Dylan says, springing to life. “Your room overlooks the stadium?”

  “That’s right. I’ll be cheering on the Buckeyes from my bedroom.”

  “O-H,” Dylan yells.

  “I-O!” The rest of us yell in unity. Say what you want about Ohio, but we’ve got the Buckeyes and you don’t. It’s the one thing that connects all of us Ohioans. We would steal, maim, and murder in the name of Brutus.

  Dylan turns to me with a sly grin. “I’ll be your boyfriend again if you let me stay with you on Saturdays.”

  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to get out of that deal. And he still doesn’t know I’m not going and won’t be sharing a room with the thousand dollar view. “Sounds like a terrible plan to me.”

  He glides across the hardwood floor, spins around, and grabs me by the waist. “Please.” He nuzzles his nose against my neck.

  My hips swivel against his groin. “Sure.”

  He pulls back, his eyes wide in excitement. “Really?”

  “No.” I break away from his grip and grab a Jell-O shot.

  “Where’s Joey?” Summer leans against the granite counter.

  “He’ll be here in a little bit. He’s bringing his cousin,” Tyson says.

  I turn to him, my finger coated in Jell-O. “I didn’t know he had a cousin.”

  “That’s silly. Everybody has cousins.”

  I swallow the disgusting chunk of Jell-O and raise my hand. “I don’t.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” says Dylan. “I’d love to meet up with a cousin of yours.”

  “If I had a cousin, he’d probably be a boy.”

  “Hey, get me drunk enough…” He bites his lip and pumps his hips forward. His hands cradle an imaginary ass while moans purr out of his throat.

  Remember what I said about the humping? It’s time to start hiding shit.

  * * *

  Summer and I walk into the living room, leaving the two boys in the kitchen. Summer grinds her heels into the carpet. “Where did all these people come from?” she asks, referring to the crowded living room.

  Don’t ask me how we failed to detect the entrance of well over twenty people into the house. I see a lot of familiar faces in the crowd. Most of them are still in high school. Like spotting Waldo in a collage of cowboys, my eyes dart straight to Cassadee James. The mere presence of her stupid ass almost makes me want to leave or go back into the kitchen with the boys.

  Cassadee James is your basic fake bitch. Two-faced and she has the laugh of a donkey crossbred with a goat. Mentally, she never progressed past knock-knock jokes and basic algebra. Physically, she’s been carrying around love potions shaped like tits since the sixth grade. And don’t think for a minute they weren’t battle tested, because those headlights have blinded more horny teenagers than it would take to fill a football field.

  She flashes me a smile, and I immediately need a drink. If she comes within five feet seven inches of me, I’m going to Caty with a ‘D’ her ass. That’s a Mean Girls reference, by the way. I twist toward Summer, but she’s gone. I spot her, the life of the party, in the middle of the room with her hands up, dancing to Usher’s latest jam. I’m seven shots deep, but I’m not drunk enough to join her and make an ass out of myself.

  Now, seven might sound like a lot, but I was blessed with a man’s tolerance for alcohol. Sometimes that’s a great thing, but mostly, it’s a bank account burning disaster, since I wouldn’t get drunk as quick as the other girls and sometimes the men. Then I would overcompensate and drink too much, too fast, just to catch up. The catch was, by the time I actually caught up, my system was at least five shots behind.

  I stroll back into the kitchen to find Dylan and Tyson arm wrestling on the island. I lean against the doorframe and look on in amusement. No way is Tyson going to win this. He’s not a wimp, but Dylan spent the last year working on what he calls his beach bod. We had all planned to get into tip-top shape for our senior trip to Florida, but Dylan was the only one who followed through. It’s not like any of us are out of shape though. You could certainly do body shots off Tyson’s stiff abs.

  If they were having a grunting match, Tyson would definitely be winning. Alas, this isn’t that kind of war and Dylan slams Tyson’s arm down hard against the granite, knocking a shot glass onto the wooden floor where it shatters.

  “I’m not drinking that,” Tyson declares.

  “Yeah, you are.” Dylan grabs a drink that appears to be a combination of tar and cream soda and pushes it into Tyson’s hand.

  “Gross. What the fuck is that?” I ask.

  Tyson peers into the glass and grimaces.

  “Something we invented. We’re gonna call it the toilet bowl. Want a taste?” Dylan extends a glass to me.

  “Does it taste like a toilet?�
��

  His eyes narrow in confusion. “Why would it taste like a toilet?”

  Tyson slams the empty glass onto the counter and spits up all over Dylan’s shirt. I laugh and Dylan moans, “Oh, man…”

  Tyson rushes to the sink, grabs a Natty Light, and pops it open.

  “Didn’t you just throw up?” I ask.

  “Need a chaser,” he says in between gulps.

  He’s always had this thing where he gargles with beer to rinse vomit out of his mouth. He’ll probably forget the sink is being used as a cooler, and then spit the improvised mouthwash onto the ice. I decide to take my chances with Cassadee rather than watch.

  Prepared for the worst, I walk back into the living room and notice a crowd has gathered around the dining table. The vixen is propped against a window on the other side of the room, mingling with her latest victim—a young man with a chinstrap and a Tapout hat. If anybody deserves her herpes, it’s probably him.

  I find and stand behind Summer as she loudly chants for Joey, who must be at the opposite end of the table playing pong. From the battle cries of the drunks, it must be a close game. If God had made me three inches taller, I’d probably be able to see the game in all its glory. I tap on Summer’s shoulder. “Why the hell is Cassadee here?”

  She turns to me. “It’s my party and I can invite whoever I want.”

  “Sorry. I thought you hated her,” I say sheepishly.

  “I do hate her. I don’t know why the fuck she’s here,” she says and turns back to the table. “Go throw her through a window.”

  That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night. I turn and glance at the temptress. I don’t have the strength to pick her up. Her tits alone have to weigh thirty pounds, but she’s positioned perfectly against that window for me to rush her. The visual of a scale pops into my head. On one side is an unconscious Cassadee and on the other, me behind prison bars. That side of the scale is practically glued to the ground. In an effort to stay out of prison, I begin to push through the dense crowd.

  “Checkmate!” I hear Joey scream.