All the Pretty Things

by Emily Arsenault

  I glanced over the shovels. Fun and frenetic. Translation: make all his employees sprint around like busy Oompa Loompas.

  “What you do is you get ones with a strong, shiny round metal scoop like this one,” I said, lifting the heavy garden shovel with its shiny scoop. It looked brand-new, and I wondered if he’d bought it on his way home from work. “Then paint the wooden handles really bright.”

  “That’s great. What color, you think?”

  I shook my head. “Not just one solid color. Diagonal stripes, like a candy cane. Maybe red and white is too Christmassy, but it is kind of candy-festive. Okay, I’ve got it. They shouldn’t all be exactly the same. But they all have candy stripes. They all have white as one color and something else as the other. So you have candy-stripe pastel green, pink, purple, whatever. They all match in that way, and it also ties in with the rainbow color, candy fun of the sprinkles.”

  “Perfect,” Dad said, clapping his hands as if I’d just performed a backflip. “That’s what I love about you, Ivy. This stuff just comes out of you like a faucet. Are you hungry?”

  “Umm, what were you thinking for food?”

  “There are a few frozen meals in the freezer. You mind heating a couple of those up? In the oven, not the microwave. They get too gummy in the microwave.”

  “Sure,” I said, and headed for the kitchen. I turned on the oven and opened the freezer, where I spied some enchiladas. After I shoved them in the oven, I decided to hang out in the kitchen for a while. I didn’t want Dad to feel too eager to turn on the “faucet” again. I took out my phone and texted Jason.

  Do you have Reggie Wiggins’s number?

  Before I’d left Fabuland, I’d taken a quick look at the week’s shift schedule. Reggie wasn’t slated to work all week, and hadn’t worked the previous week either.

  No immediate response from Jason. As I waited, I heard my dad leave the living room and go up the stairs. I took a deep breath and opened a different chat.

  Did you get my last text? I wrote to Morgan. My phone vibrated almost immediately.

  Yes.

  I practically hugged the phone.

  Can I come over and see you? I fired back.

  Not right now.

  What about in an hour?

  Not tonight, I mean.

  Do you think I don’t mean it? What I said in my text from before?

  No response.

  I do, I wrote, after five minutes had passed. Because you’re like my sister.

  Neither of us really knows what it’s like to have a sister, Morgan replied.

  Well, that was cold, I thought. I wondered if I was even supposed to reply.

  What’s going on, Morgan? I typed back. Are you still thinking of leaving Danville?

  And then—no response.

  I’m not sure how many minutes I gazed at my phone before a noise came from upstairs, making me jump from the chair. Something had come crashing down in my dad’s bedroom. I left my phone on the counter and went to the foot of the stairs.

  “You okay?” I called up.

  I wondered if he’d brought one of the shovels upstairs and knocked something over while dreamily frosting a giant fantasy doughnut. If that was the case, it definitely felt like a moment I didn’t want to walk in on.

  “Yes, hon,” he called back. “No worries.”

  I grabbed my laptop from the living room and settled at the kitchen table with it. There was something I’d been wanting to look up since my discussion with Anna.

  I googled concussion, déjà vu, and cold feeling.

  The first thing that came up was titled “Facts About Concussion and Brain Injury.” The first symptoms listed were headache, nausea, and dizziness. But further down the list was “a feeling of déjà vu.”

  I clicked out of the site and found a couple of health forums in which people were discussing their possible concussion symptoms, with “a weird aura of déjà vu” and “a feeling like I’ve been here before” among them. I didn’t see anything about a cold feeling being a symptom, though.

  I wondered if it was possible that Ethan had somehow hit his head while riding the Laser Coaster. It seemed unlikely because passengers were always strapped in pretty tight in the double shoulder straps. The backs of the seats had a little padding. But could he have been jolted the wrong way somehow? Or knocked heads with someone?

  I googled roller coasters and concussion. I found a couple of articles from about a decade ago addressing the issue of whether the increasing speed of some of the fastest new roller coasters could lead to the risk of brain injury. I saw very little at first glance about cases of such a thing happening—except when people were breaking the rules, getting out of their seat belts, climbing on their seats, things like that. There were a lot of people wondering if they could get a concussion on a standard roller-coaster ride, but there was very little definitive information from medical experts on how likely it really was.

  Still, it felt like a reasonable working theory to me, even if I wasn’t exactly sure how Ethan might have banged his head. Among the other symptoms were blurred vision, balance problems, difficulty thinking clearly, difficulty concentrating, and difficulty remembering information.

  Those were all things that could have led to Ethan not only losing his footing on the bridge but also possibly wandering up and down the wrong path, unsure of his direction or destination in the dark. Which could easily account for the dropped paperweight on the wrong path. Not to mention forgetting to call his mom or leaving his backpack at the park.

  I returned to my original Google results and sat back in the chair, feeling sad again at this image of Ethan wandering alone in the woods. I didn’t know Ethan well, but I remembered his enthusiasm, his wanting to be a part of things. I’d let him spin his own cotton candy many times. He asked me when my birthday was once, and then every other time he saw me, he’d tell me how many days till my birthday. Someone told me once that he did that to everyone—that he had a phenomenal memory for birthdays.

  “Is the food ready?”

  I jumped. My dad was standing right behind me, shovel in hand. Then he squinted at my computer, where the search roller coasters concussion was clearly visible.

  “What’re you looking that up for?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled. It was too late to slam the laptop shut.

  “You don’t go on the roller coasters,” Dad pointed out, grinning. “So you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “It seems like no one really thinks roller coasters on their own cause concussions anyway,” I offered.

  “Right,” Dad said, opening the fridge and grabbing a canned seltzer.

  “Dad?”

  “Hmm?” He opened the can and took a long gulp.

  “Would there be any reason someone with Down syndrome couldn’t go on a roller coaster, that you know of?” I asked.

  “No.” Dad frowned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Has someone asked you that before?” I said, noticing how immediate his response was.

  Dad shook his head. “Not directly, no. But I know that last year a park in New Jersey had a problem because a ride operator refused to let a girl with Down syndrome get on a ride with her dad. They got a lot of bad press for discrimination. I remember reading about it. Chris forwards me amusement park stories sometimes, just as a heads-up.”

  “I’m sure the operator didn’t mean to be discriminatory, right? They probably thought of Down syndrome as a medical condition and were being cautious?”

  Dad shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it’s a fine line. You can see how that family would see it more as discrimination, you know? I think the medical conditions that are really the biggest concern are heart conditions, because they’re so common and a ride operator can’t spot them. Chris and I have told all our ride operators if y
ou see a borderline old person you’re worried about, make sure you make a general announcement and direct everyone’s attention to the sign with the restrictions. I mean, what more can you do? You don’t want to offend the elderly thrill seeker, right? More power to them. I’ll probably be one myself someday soon. And someone might look to be in shabby shape but have a good healthy heart. My ride operators have been told that if they’re really, really worried about someone, they should inquire politely. Try not to offend, but make safety the priority. Makes sense, right?”

  “Yup,” I said softly, closing my computer.

  You never could tell when and about what my dad would decide to become detail-oriented. It happened sometimes. But it was completely random.

  My phone buzzed and I picked it up. Jason had sent me Reggie’s number.

  “Anyway, the food’s not ready yet,” I said, not looking up. But my dad was already wandering into the living room anyway.

  I thought about shooting Reggie a text but opted to ask Jason a different question.

  Actually, do you know where he lives?

  The dots appeared, before his response came.

  I do, but what’s up?

  Can you talk?

  I wanted to track down Reggie. But I also wanted to talk about Chris and Winnie, and I couldn’t think of who else to trust with that topic besides my brother. Same with the tape recorder. My phone vibrated again.

  Yeah, one sec.

  I peeked into the living room. Dad was standing in the middle of the room, sketching something on a legal pad, muttering to himself. I heard confectioners’ sugar among the otherwise inaudible words. I stepped close enough to see that the drawing was indeed doughnut-shaped.

  “I’m going out for a little bit,” I said.

  “What about dinner?” Dad pressed down to draw a dark arrow on the pad, then scribbled something next to it.

  “I’m not actually hungry. Maybe I’ll fix a sandwich later. You can eat both the enchiladas if you want. Okay?”

  “Have you made any Facebook posts about the Doughnut Daze yet?”

  “I will tonight,” I promised. “The timer’s all set for the enchiladas.”

  “Okay, hon. See ya. And, Ivy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’d do well to remember that I saved your friend’s ass today.” Dad didn’t look up from the legal pad as he spoke. “Our reputation for safety was on the line and I had to fire someone. But it couldn’t be Morgan, because everyone knows Morgan’s already suffered enough lately, and what kind of an ogre am I, right? Not to mention you would’ve hated me for it. So maybe be careful who you talk to about what, yeah?”

  “Umm…what do you mean?” I said. Even though I was pretty sure I knew exactly what he meant.

  Dad was finally looking at me, his face reddening a little. “You might not realize that your mouth is a big mouth. Like mine. I mean, yeah, you look in the mirror and you see that pretty little pink mouth of yours. But when you’re at Fabuland, everything you say is amplified, whether you want it to be or not. People listen. People listen hard. Because you’re my daughter.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, my voice weakening to a whisper.

  “Like, you can wonder if roller coasters are bad for people’s brains. You can research that all you want, in your own house, on your laptop that I bought you for Christmas. But it would be awfully foolish…no, let me rephrase that…really stupid, actually, for you to let people hear you talking about something like that.”

  Dad finally stopped speaking, but before I could respond, he leaned over and kissed me on the head.

  “Don’t stay out too late,” he said.

  SEVENTEEN

  I was still shaking when I called my brother from a grocery store parking lot.

  “Hey,” he said when he picked up. “What’s up?”

  “I’m killing time in the Drake’s Grocery lot. I…wanted to talk to you.”

  “About Reggie, you mean? What’s up with that? He, uh, doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “My type?” I repeated absently. It seemed weird that Jason could think he knew something about what my type was. I was foggy on that myself. Maybe someday I’d have time to figure it out. “No, it’s not like that. I’ve just got some things I want to ask him. And he hasn’t been to work in a while.”

  “What, are you Dad’s truancy officer now?”

  “I just want to talk to him,” I insisted.

  Trying not to lose my patience with Jason, I took a breath and watched people strolling in and out of the grocery store. An elderly lady with a slow walk and a big smile pushing an enormous sack of generic dog food. A little girl in a fairy costume skipping and yanking her dad’s arm as she raced through the automatic sliding doors.

  “Okay…about what?” Jason asked.

  “There are some things I want to clarify. On Morgan’s behalf, sort of. About Ethan.”

  “Hmm…,” Jason said doubtfully. “I hope you’ll keep in mind that Reggie’s my friend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Be nice to him, that’s all. You know how it can be hard to make and keep friends when they work for Dad, right? He’s one of mine, and I want to keep it that way.”

  “Got it,” I said, even though I didn’t sense that Jason and Reggie were ever all that close. “So are you going to send me his address or not?”

  “Yeah, sure. I guess. I’ll send it when we hang up. Just FYI, he doesn’t live in Danville anymore. He lives in Leverton, in an apartment with a couple of buddies. So, are you just going to show up at his place? A visit from the boss’s daughter might kind of startle him, don’t you think? Is that what you want?”

  Of course I didn’t. But I couldn’t always help it if people reacted that way to me. They had to deal with it—just like I had to.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask him about the last night with Ethan,” I explained. “But maybe he’s quit since it happened. I haven’t seen him since, and he hasn’t been on the schedule.”

  “Did you ask Dad? Or Chris? Dad sometimes doesn’t know the employee roster, but Chris always does.”

  I kept gazing at the grocery store doors. After a moment, someone hurried into the store whom I recognized. Tim Malloy, wearing a deli uniform. I always forgot that there were a number of Fabuland employees who worked other jobs, and Tim was one of them. By all accounts, he had been working at the deli counter of Drake’s the night Ethan died.

  “It didn’t dawn on me how long it’s been since I saw Reggie till this afternoon,” I murmured. “I didn’t think to ask Dad before I left the house.”

  That was an understatement. I didn’t recall having any coherent thoughts as I left the house and drove to Drake’s. Only a feeling. A feeling that I needed to get away and talk to my brother.

  “Ivy,” Jason said after a thoughtful pause, “whenever someone has the good fortune to escape Fabuland, we should have the good grace to stop ourselves from drawing them back in.”

  Jason’s tone made me wonder if he ever wrote about Fabuland. It was probably great fodder for his college writer persona—his dad’s shitty amusement park that he was too smart to work at. Fair game because he’d endured several long summers as Dad’s lackey. But I wondered if I was fodder now too.

  “Are we talking about Reggie still, or you?” I asked.

  “Touché. Hey, how is everything else lately? How’s it going, being Dad’s…right-hand person?”

  “Is that what I am?” I pulled down the rearview mirror and glanced at my reflection. I wondered if my voice sounded as dull as I felt. The question made me think of my dad referring to me as a faucet. It wasn’t the weirdest thing he’d said this summer by a long shot. But it would probably take me a couple of days to forget it.

  “He always has one, and I’m assuming you’re it this summer.”

&nbs
p; “Not Chris?” I mumbled.

  “Chris doesn’t count. Chris is just an employee. His real right-hand man…or woman…always has to be someone who has some other attachment to him besides money.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the mirror. Jason was right. When we were little, it was Mom. After that, it was his girlfriend Kayla. Jason and I never got to know Kayla all that well because she and Dad always hung out on our nights with Mom. But Kayla had the most beautifully shaped black eyebrows I’d ever seen, and always read thriller novels in the first booth of the Main Street Dynasty store, which she “managed” for a year or so.

  Once Kayla and Dad broke up, Jason was old enough to be Dad’s main guy. Now that Jason was gone, it was me by default.

  “Speaking of Chris…,” I said, pushing the rearview mirror back into place. It had occurred to me that Jason was the only one I could ask about this, without fear of it boomeranging back to me in some mortifying way. “Do you think it’s possible that Chris and Winnie have some kind of…connection?”

  Jason was silent for a little while.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Why are you asking that?” he asked.

  “I’ve just picked up on some…things,” I admitted.

  I summarized those things for him eagerly—the simultaneous phone calls, the fact they’d both canceled somewhat mysteriously on the night of Ethan’s death. When I was finished, Jason was silent for a full minute.

  “Hello?” I said again.

  “I dunno, Ivy.” He paused for a few more seconds. “That’s not enough for me. And considering who you are, and who she is, I would maybe leave this alone.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

  “It’s not supposed to mean anything cryptic. It’s just…my advice. Let’s leave it at that.”

  I tried not roll my eyes. Great brotherly advice from Mr. Avoidance Behavior.

  “People gossip about Winnie too much,” Jason added. “And I never thought of you as a gossip.”

  “I’m not gossiping,” I said unconvincingly.

  We were both quiet for a moment.

  “So, is Dad behaving himself?” Jason asked.