Carnival

by K. B. Nelson

  Blue takes in a deep breath as the car in front of us peeks over the edge and I know we’re at the point of no return. This is it.

  The sudden drop is equally terrifying and euphoric. The metal of the train grinding against the metal of the track is reminiscent of a certain horror film involving final destinations. Blue’s hand falls into mine and grasps it as tight as a woman giving birth.

  I scream into the wind, my hair blowing in a million directions. This right here is freedom. It’s ecstasy. It’s a drug. Everything inside me floats over the second hill, like an out-of-body experience. I’m far from my own body. Tears begin to well up in my eyes as the wind lashes against us.

  There’s a jarring jerk as we come to a winding curve. The train turns onto its side, circling around the track. Angled just enough so that you could fall out, but you won’t. I swear I can hear the hydraulic fluid shooting out the side as the brakes screech against steel. My ecstatic glee is threatened by impending death.

  Blue screams, finally letting go and throwing worry away at the most worrisome time. His hands rise into the air, clapping at the peak of the third hill. He tangles one hand with mine, the force of the strong wind unable to break us.

  When the ride comes to a sudden halt, the revolutionary idea that we survived is a well-earned relief.

  * * *

  The rain came about three minutes after we stepped off the roller coaster. We were standing in line waiting for our fries when it hit. I was forced to forego the vinegar as we made a mad dash to the arcade for shelter.

  It came fast and hard, like so many other things lately. We barely made it under the thick vinyl tent in time. The rain could be seen racing toward the ground at a pace of about a thousand miles per hour, but the only sounds powerful enough to overtake the noise of the arcade was thunder. And it roared.

  “I hope the storm goes away soon, I don’t wanna spend all night in here,” Blue says, leaning against a coin machine.

  “Jimmy Clay said on the news this morning that there was a ten percent chance of rain showers,” I say, straightening out a dollar bill on the corner of the machine. “But that was the forecast for this morning. Typical,” I huff.

  “Who’s Jimmy Clay?”

  “My worst enemy.”

  Four golden coins shoot out the bottom of the machine, each engraved with the face of a clown. Traumatizing.

  I give him a nod and he follows me to an old-school zombie shooter. If I had to pick a favorite arcade game, this would be it. Nothing like an old-school shoot ’em up. I load the coins, grab a gun, and prepare for war. Of course, his gun is blue.

  He’s much better at this game than I am. I haven’t spent more than thirty seconds in an arcade since I was a teenager. He’s probably spent his lunch breaks for the past ten years in this very tent. There are so many things I want to know about him and I’m getting tired of waiting.

  “Blue,” I scream, directing him toward a creeping zombie hiding behind a wine barrel.

  “I think you’ve got bigger brains to fry.”

  Huh? I look back to my half of the screen to see two zombies throwing axes at me, both connecting with my electronic, first-person point-of-view face. A gruesome image flashes on my screen, rubbing my incompetence in my face: You Died!

  “Dammit!” I force the gun into the metal holster. On one side of me, Blue annihilates an onslaught of undead mutants. On the other side, the setting sun peeks from behind the clouds, blinding the entire tent.

  It’s arbitrary, but I decide this is the perfect moment to question him about what happened in the club. “Can I ask you something without you getting defensive?”

  “Sure.” He squints, taking aim at targets on the screen. “What’s up?”

  “It’s about the other night, when I found you on the stairs.”

  His eyes level to the side. He adjusts his arm and sinks closer to the screen. “What about it?”

  “I don’t like being lied to.” Much more straight to the point than I anticipated. My fingers curl into my palm, nervous about what comes next.

  He bites into his lip, non-responsive.

  “I just want to know the truth,” I say.

  “Fine.” He slams the gun into its resting place. Zombies flood the screen and move in on him. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me out of the tent. I know he doesn’t mean to be aggressive, but the way he’s handling the situation is bothersome.

  A shadow hangs over us—the last remnants of the fading sun. The carnival lights all begin to flicker on, seemingly in purposeful succession. I break away from his grip and take a step back.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says rigidly. “But I’m not gonna talk about it in there, in front of the rest of the world.”

  “As if anyone would be interested in our conversation.”

  “That’s not the point.” He scratches his head. “Do you want me to tell you that I lied? Would that make you feel better?”

  “Well, the first step to sobriety is acceptance,” I say with sarcasm, then immediately straighten myself out. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs and chews on his cheek. “I was high. I went upstairs and did a line of Molly.”

  My body shifts, my feet search for friction. “See, that wasn’t so difficult.”

  He angles his eyes at me. “You’re not mad?”

  “I was, but not because of the drugs. There’s a long list of things I can take, but the last thing I’ll deal with is a liar.”

  “You have nothing to worry about with me. I’m not a liar.”

  My lips purse. “Really?” I ask, with no need to present further evidence.

  “I don’t mean to lie, but when you ask me these questions, I feel like you won’t like the answers. And I like you too much to lose you over something so stupid,” he says. “So how about we don’t call them lies? Let’s just say I have a tendency to stretch the truth.”

  “I think that’s kind of the same thing.”

  “No more lies then.” He steps closer. “I promise.”

  Let’s test that out. “How well do you know your dad?”

  “Where did that come from?”

  This whole no lies thing should probably apply to me as well. I hesitate, fearing his reaction. “You remember our first date?”

  “Our second date?” he corrects me, smiling.

  “When we stopped here before and we went to the quarry?”

  “I remember.”

  “Marvin told me some things about your family and about your past.”

  “That stupid mother—”

  I hold my hand up to him. “Don’t be mad at him. He was concerned for you.”

  His face tightens. “What did he tell you?”

  My turn to stretch the truth. “He just said you and your dad weren’t that close.”

  “You know, earlier today I thought you were upset and I guess now I know why. It’s because you knew I wasn’t telling you the truth about my dad, wasn’t it?”

  “There are a million and one things that I still don’t know about you, but I want to know everything, and it’s frustrating because you’re the furthest thing from an open book.”

  He huffs, but it’s more of a chuckle. “We have the rest of our lives for all that. Can’t we just take things page by page?”

  “That depends on how many more pages we have.”

  “An infinite amount, I hope.” He leans in and kisses me softly. The noise of the carnival fades away. The only sound left is of some lucky gamer hitting the ticket jackpot. If they don’t snatch up the life-size giraffe, then they’re an idiot. “Any more questions that need to be immediately addressed?”

  “Just one,” I say. “During your time on the circuit, did you ever run the game booths?”

  “The worst four years of my life.”

  “Would you mind putting those skills to use? I’ve been lusting after an oversized stuffed animal since I was four, but the odds were never in my favor.”

  He shakes his he
ad. “The odds aren’t in anyone’s favor. Those games are rigged more than a Vegas casino.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “All right.” He pushes my hair behind my ear. “I think you’re a little too old for a stuffed animal.” I push his chest. He laughs and grabs my hand. “C’mon. Let’s go make your childhood dreams come true.”

  They kind of already are.

  We come out of hiding, out from behind the tent, and merge into the midway crowds. Across the way, carnival rides are in full swing, their lights blurring against the sky. It reminds me of a beautiful puzzle nobody has thought to cut up yet.

  * * *

  This carnie has no idea what’s about to hit him. Blue says he must be a local because he’s never met him before. Poor sap.

  “I don’t think this game is winnable,” Blue tells the carnie, tapping his fingers against the booth.

  “Here,” the carnie says. “I’ll show you that it is.” The carnie moves to grab a ball, knocking over the three old-school milk bottles in the process. “Shit.”

  Blue turns to me with a winning smirk as the carnie reassembles the bottles into a three-piece pyramid. With the ball in hand, the carnie approaches us, prepared to jump over the counter and prove just how winnable the rigged game is.

  “You know what,” Blue says amusedly. “Never mind. We’re in a hurry, so I’ll just throw the ball.”

  The carnie jerks back. “It’s okay, man. I’ll just show you real quick.”

  Blue nods, then wrestles the ball out of the carnie’s hand as he hops the counter. He quickly squares his shoulders with his feet and throws the ball with force, knocking all three bottles off the stand and onto the ground. A little too excited, I jump up and down, clapping.

  “We want the pink bear.” Blue points to a thirty-pound stuffed bear. The carnie grimaces, knowing full-well he just got played.

  “Fine,” he huffs and hops back over the counter.

  “I really don’t feel like carrying that thing around all night,” I say to Blue quietly.

  “Actually, can we just pick that up later?” Blue asks the poor sap.

  “I don’t know—”

  “Thanks, buddy.” Blue smiles, and then grabs my hand and we walk away.

  We travel down the midway, past an assortment of mouth-watering concession stands. From behind the cotton candy booth, the stench of weed billows out. Probably not the smartest place to indulge, with cops regularly patrolling the midway. I shake my head at the ignorance and Blue’s grip tightens around my fingers.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Are you sure you’re okay with the Molly thing?”

  “Where did that come from?” I stop and face him. “I’m sure.”

  “Absolutely sure? Because I’ll stop.”

  My tongue swishes against my cheek. “Is it a problem? Like an addiction?”

  “No,” he says firmly. “It’s just recreational.”

  “Then I’m not going to judge you for something I’ve never tried, as long as it doesn’t become a problem.”

  He nods and his entire face goes blank. His eyes shift back and forth, scanning mine. I can’t read what he’s feeling. “You really are the perfect woman.”

  Hyperbole. “Look, we’ve all got our vices, Blue. You’ve got your Molly and I’ve got you.” I place a hand on his chest, wanting to be close to him, but not expecting to feel his heart. Not like this. It’s fast and furious, like it could beat out of his chest.

  “If we’re counting each other, then I’ve got two vices.”

  “What if I want two?” I ask, unable to draw my eyes away from my own hand, so close to his heart. Only skin separates us.

  “Then pick up smoking,” he suggests, jokingly.

  “I’m serious.” I pull away and peer into his eyes. I say nothing more, hoping he’ll get the hint so that I don’t have to say it out loud.

  “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.” He smiles, but I know that he’s confused.

  “I want to go to the edge with you.”

  His face distorts, the realization sinking in. “I’m not gonna force you—”

  “No force necessary.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  His arm passes over my shoulder, his palm pressed against the tree. Behind us, the carnival is in full, chaotic swing. He takes an extended glance over his shoulder, then back to me. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m not one hundred percent sure, no, but I’m sure enough that I won’t accuse you of drugging me if things go south.” I smile.

  He scratches his neck nervously. “I just don’t want this to change things between us.”

  “You know what changes things between people? Sex. And we’ve been there, done that, and I’m still falling head over heels for you. It’s fine. I’m young and stupid, and I want to try new things.”

  “Like Molly?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Everybody else is doing it.” I can’t help but grin. I’ve never been one to blame peer pressure for anything, but in the worst case scenario, I could easily blame my peers.

  Blue reaches into his pocket and pulls out a baggie. The sight of the packed white powder makes me nervous at first, paranoia follows within seconds. My eyes dart between everything behind Blue, and then to my side as I scan for signs of wandering life.

  “Are you sure you want—”

  I cut him off. “If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to kick your ass. But I don’t feel comfortable doing it here. Let’s go somewhere else.”

  * * *

  If you had asked me when I was younger, say thirteen years old, where I would be the first time I tried drugs, the answer wouldn’t have been in a carnival bathroom. A friend’s house, probably in their basement, would have been my first choice. The school bathroom? You do stupid things like that when you’re young, so why not.

  Even though we’re not in a stall, it’s still gross. It reeks, as you would expect a communal toilet to smell. Blue’s emptied the baggie full of Molly onto his driver’s license, which looks nothing like him, and uses my debit card to separate the drug into two lines. I’m really about to pass go and keep going, skipping right over marijuana and straight into the hard stuff.

  Two bubbly teenagers—probably the same ones who boarded the tea cups with us all those weeks ago—walk into the bathroom. Blue pushes me into the stall and shuts the door gently before they have the opportunity to spot us. I bring a fist to my nose, trying to block the smell of an unflushed toilet.

  “Can you believe that weirdo?” one girl asks the other.

  “There’s a reason he’s a carnie. He’s gross and weird, probably can’t get a job anywhere else,” the other girl replies, followed by a smack of her gum so loud that I could fly out of this stall and smack her upside her head. Blue stands in front of me, blocking my exit, so that fantasy most likely will not come to pass.

  “Gimme a dollar,” Blue whispers.

  “For what? I’m not paying you.”

  His eyes lock with mine. “To snort it.” He grimaces. “That sounds so stupid. I hate that word.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” I dig into my pocket and pull out a wad of cash. There’s no dollar bills, just twenties. “This is all I’ve got.”

  “That’ll work.” He rips the twenty out of my hand.

  “No,” I protest, a little too loud. Blue puts his hand up to me, the one holding the currency.

  “Is somebody in here?” one of the pubescent teens calls out.

  “No,” I yell back and snatch the twenty out of Blue’s hand. “I need this.”

  “You can still use it. Molly residue doesn’t make it worthless.”

  “No, it just makes it paraphernalia.”

  “You need to relax.” He steals the bill from my fingers again.

  “I think there’s a boy in there, too,” one of the girls says from right on the other side of the door.

  Blue’s face grows rowdy. “Yeah,
can we get some privacy? We’re about to have sex.”

  The stall door bounces against the lock and they scatter away, their shoes pattering against the concrete. “Perverts!”

  I frown. “Was that necessary?’

  “It was funny.” He wipes his finger against his nose. “You ready?”

  I bite into my lip. “You go first.”

  He shrugs and brings the license covered in powder to his nose. He places the twenty that’s rolled up like a straw into his nose and pinches the other nostril with his pointer finger. He breathes in sharply and moves the bill across the line, sucking up the Molly like a vacuum. He then hands me the card with the other line on it.

  He pinches his nose and continues to snort. I peer down at the license—down at the drug. This is the point of no return. I’m anxious, nervous, and a little sick to my stomach. Blue locks his eyes with mine while pinching at his nose, nods, and I know it’s okay.

  Slowly, I bring the card to my nose and line up the bill. I breathe in hard and take the entire line in one hit. I feel an odd burning sensation full of excitement that I’ve never experienced before.

  And then it hits my throat, leaving the most vulgar taste as it makes its way down the lining of my esophagus, sticking to the walls of my throat. My nose feels full and it feels empty, and I begin to snort uncontrollably. With every breath, drainage slides down my throat. I could really use a glass of water. Or vodka.

  “Okay?” he asks quietly, his palm on my shoulder.

  I rub a hand across my face. “I’m good.”

  “You want your money back?” He smiles.

  “You hold onto it.”

  “All right,” he says, pushing the bill into his pocket and retrieving a piece of gum. “Here, chew this.”

  “No, thanks.” Gum is one of the most disgusting things in the world. If I wanted to chew on a ball of spit, I would just kiss someone with overactive salivary glands.

  “Chew it. You don’t want your jaw to lock up.”

  My entire body tenses. A herd of deer charge against my eyes, headlight style. “Why would my jaw lock up?”

  “If you don’t chew this, you’re just going to chew on what’s available. Like your cheek.”