All the Pretty Things

by Emily Arsenault

  “That’s a complicated question,” I said. “What do you consider behaving?”

  “Well…any…outbursts lately?”

  I considered the incident with Carla. I decided I didn’t want to talk about that right now. Jason would probably ask me what I had said or did and I would have to say, Nothing. And I didn’t have the right words to convey how miserable it felt to stand there quietly while she got fired in a bathing suit.

  “You know…I think it’s pretty different being his daughter,” I heard myself say, “than it is being his son.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how or why I’d let those words escape my mouth. It almost felt like I’d stepped out of myself for a moment as I said them.

  I thought I heard Jason suck in his breath.

  “Are you saying one is harder than the other?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” And now I was stepping back into myself—hedging, as usual. Hiding, even.

  “Which one’s harder?” Jason reworded his question, lowering his voice.

  “It’s not a competition,” I murmured. “I just wanted to point out that it’s different.”

  “Okay,” Jason said uncertainly.

  “Can you send me Reggie’s address, please?”

  More silence on the other end. I wondered if I was supposed to be embarrassed by what we’d just almost kinda sorta half-discussed.

  “All right, Ivy,” Jason said. “And by the way, if you want to know what it’s like to be his son, take a closer look at the Yo-Yo.”

  “What?” I said.

  “The Yo-Yo. The ride.”

  “The one you guys stored away this year?”

  “Yeah. You look at that thing and then let’s talk. I need to hang up to get Reggie’s address out of my contacts. Bye, Ivy.”

  He ended the call.

  A few seconds later, a Leverton address and a phone number popped up on my phone.

  Tell him I said hi, Jason had written beneath it, which disappeared as my navigation kicked in and I shifted my car into drive.

  EIGHTEEN

  Leverton was about twenty-five minutes away. Reggie and his friends lived in Upton Village, which was basically a semicircle of squat brick apartment buildings that looked a little like dorms. Each apartment had a flimsy eggshell-colored door with a number on it. Reggie was in building B, apartment 3, according to Jason’s text.

  After I parked, I grabbed my phone from the cup holder and saw that a new text from Jason had come in while I was driving.

  You surprised me when you said that thing about being Dad’s daughter. It’s not a surprising sentiment, I was just surprised you said it and I didn’t know what to say back. I know it’s probably hard for you being up there by yourself.

  Since I’d been expecting something more about the Yo-Yo ride, I was a little startled by his sympathy and texted back immediately so he’d know I’d seen it.

  Thanks

  At Reggie’s, more later…

  I got out of my car and went up to apartment 3B. It had an odd, tippy little square of concrete in front of the door—standing in, I guessed, for steps. All the other apartments had actual steps. I leaned forward and rang the bell. A noise like a pot clattering sounded before Reggie opened the door. He looked skinnier than when I’d seen him a few weeks ago, and he had shaved off his little mustache. His eyes popped slightly when he registered who I was.

  “Hi,” I said as cheerfully as I could.

  “Jason’s sister,” he said, slightly disbelieving.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Cork’s daughter, then.”

  “Uh-huh.” Keep it good-natured, Ivy. “That too.”

  “What does your dad want?” Reggie asked, leaning against the door.

  “What do you mean?” I said, trying to keep my friendly smile in place.

  Reggie tapped his fingernails against the door. They were long and pointy, and gave me the creeps for a moment—until I remembered something someone had once said about Reggie playing classical guitar.

  “Did he send you?” Reggie stuffed his hands in his pockets. He’d caught me looking at his nails. “He knows I’ve been taking some time off, so…”

  “Umm…no. My brother gave me your address because I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Your brother?” His hands went deeper into his pockets. I had the feeling he wished he could jam his whole self into those pockets to get away from me.

  “Yeah. I wasn’t sure who else to ask. Do you have a minute or two?”

  “I guess.” Reggie hesitated, then opened the door wider. “You want to come in? One of my roommates is here, but he’s in his room. I think he’s sleeping. Or watching Netflix or whatever.”

  “Sure. I’ll come in. It’s kind of hot out here.”

  But when I stepped inside, I realized the apartment was actually hotter, although I knew I couldn’t say so. There was a big red couch in the living room, which was right inside the front door. Reggie sat on the couch and I followed his lead. In front of us was a plain black coffee table littered with plates, a chip bag, and a couple of beer cans. There was an almost gag-inducing smell of cinnamony air freshener, as if someone had had a little too much fun spraying the aerosol can.

  Reggie saw me looking at the chip bag, which I was considering using as a barf bag if the smell got to me.

  “Umm,” he said. “Can I get you something to eat? Or to drink?”

  I shook my head. “No thanks. I just…Let me go ahead and tell you why I’m here. I’ve been talking to some people about Ethan. And I wanted to talk to you, too.”

  I didn’t know what to do with my arms, so I folded them across my chest.

  “Okay…” Reggie picked up the chip bag and glanced into it. “Like, what about Ethan?”

  “Just, well…” I unfolded my arms, wondering if having them crossed made me look like I was cold, or haughty boss’s daughter–ish. “If you don’t mind talking about the night he died…how did he seem in those last few minutes you saw him? Like, right after the ride?”

  Reggie hesitated, then scratched his elbow. “He seemed okay.”

  “I heard Lucas Andries saw him go into the bathroom right after everyone said goodbye outside the Laser Coaster.”

  “Hold on a sec.” Reggie went into the kitchenette, opened the fridge, and took out a beer. He gazed absentmindedly into the fridge before asking, “You want one?”

  “No thanks,” I replied, trying not to sound uneasy.

  “Okay, I just didn’t want to be rude. So…,” he said as he sprawled on the couch again, opening the beer. “So…what was it again? You want to know if I saw Ethan come out of the bathroom?”

  “Uh…yeah.” It sounded weird now that he’d rephrased my question. “I haven’t talked to Lucas yet, but I feel like that’s the last moment anyone can account for. I kind of wonder if Ethan was getting sick in there or something.”

  Reggie stared at his beer thoughtfully before taking a sip. “I didn’t see him come out. I was closing up the coaster, and then I was helping your dad with the normal shutdown—checking for stragglers, walking through the Food Zone, taking a look at the clipboards to make sure all the cooks did their shutoffs and safety checks, then checking the other locks besides the main gate’s. Your dad was in his office, mostly.”

  “Checking for stragglers?” I hesitated. “Does that include bathrooms?”

  “Yeah. Well, when there’s time. I don’t remember if I did it that night. It’s not usually that important, because what’re the chances someone’s hanging out in a dark bathroom after closing?”

  I nodded. “It was supposed to be Winnie closing that night, wasn’t it? But she canceled at the last minute? So you had to do it instead?”

  Reggie took a long gulp of beer. “Yup.”

  “I wonder why,” I said in wh
at I hoped was a casual tone.

  “She’s been doing that a lot lately.”

  “Canceling at the last minute?”

  “Well…canceling. Not always at the last minute. Two weeks in a row, Chris couldn’t do one of his regular night shifts, and Winnie would cancel right after him. They’ve both been kind of flaking out on their shifts this summer.”

  Bingo, I thought. I’d been hoping someone would verify this, despite Jason’s doubts about the topic. “So that night wasn’t the first time?” I pressed.

  Reggie looked bored as he took another sip. “No.”

  “Did Winnie say why she couldn’t do that shift?”

  Reggie shrugged. “Nope.”

  “Are you guys friends?” I asked.

  I figured I should establish this before probing too much.

  “Winnie’s cool,” Reggie said noncommittally.

  That didn’t give me much to go on, but it didn’t seem safe to float my Chris-and-Winnie-sitting-in-a-tree idea, in any case. Maybe it was the reason for Winnie’s absence that night. But even if it was, that wouldn’t have been the cause of Ethan’s death.

  “I was thinking,” I said slowly. “Is it at all possible that Ethan got a concussion or something while he was on the Laser Coaster?”

  Reggie was quiet for a minute before putting his beer down on the coffee table.

  “A concussion?”

  “Some of the kids who rode with him are saying things that make me think maybe he could’ve somehow hurt his head on the ride.”

  “Like what things?” Reggie asked softly.

  “Subtle things,” I said reluctantly, realizing that it might have been a big mistake to talk about my “theory” this early—and with this particular person.

  “Like what?” Reggie demanded, leaning closer to me. He was taking this personally. Of course he was. He was in charge of the Laser Coaster that night. If Ethan had hurt himself on the ride, it could mean Reggie had done something wrong.

  “He was feeling cold all of sudden, and he was talking about having déjà vu.” Now that I said it, it seemed kind of vague. “A déjà vu feeling is sometimes a sign of concussion. I read that online.”

  Reggie shook his head. “If he mentioned that to the other kids, I didn’t know about it. He wasn’t dizzy or throwing up or anything. I know sometimes a concussion takes a while to creep up on you, but…I…don’t know what to say. I’ve run that ride hundreds of times and no one’s ever gotten hurt or hit their head. There’s no way Ethan could have hit his head unless he unbuckled his seat belt.”

  “Is it possible that he did?” I asked quietly.

  “No,” Reggie said quickly. “I double-checked it before he rode—I remember checking his specifically.”

  There was a pained, almost twisted expression on his face that made me decide I needed to back away from the discussion.

  “And he still had it on when he…” Reggie seemed to be struggling to keep from crying. “When he got to the end of the ride.”

  “Well, it’s only a theory,” I offered. “I guess I have a few theories. I guess we all do, you know? I mean, just this morning I was wondering why no one ever really seemed to ask if Ethan might have jumped off the bridge.”

  I could feel myself reddening at this admission. I’d blurted it out to change the subject. But Reggie didn’t look shocked. He started nibbling on one of his long fingernails.

  “Maybe because people don’t usually think of kids with Down syndrome as being suicidal,” he murmured.

  “Is that fair or accurate, though, is what I was wondering.”

  I drew in a breath, immediately regretting how I’d arranged those words. I probably sounded cold. Regardless, Reggie really seemed to be considering his answer. He gnawed his nail harder. To my surprise, he bit the pointy tip off and spat it across the room. Then he frowned at the relatively bald index finger from which it had come.

  “Probably not,” he mumbled. “But…I don’t think that was the case with Ethan.”

  “What makes you say that?” I said. It felt weird to be discussing this with someone I barely knew. But the fact that Reggie was a friend of my brother’s made it seem vaguely okay. And I was glad that the horrified expression had slowly eased from his face.

  “I don’t know how much you talked to Ethan.” Reggie closed the hand with the bitten nail and rested it in his lap. “But he had kind of a philosophical way of looking at things.”

  My phone buzzed and I pulled it halfway out of my purse to check who it was. Jason’s name lit up the screen and I quickly read the text.

  I didn’t know if you were trying to tell me that Dad is starting to treat you like he used to treat Mom.

  For a second, I felt the room flip-flop. The dingy beige carpet was on the ceiling and the cobweb-cornered white paint was on the floor. When it righted itself, I stood up, sliding the phone into the front bib pocket of my dress.

  “Is there a bathroom I can use?” I asked.

  “Sure. There,” Reggie said, pointing.

  “Thanks,” I replied, running for it and closing the door behind me.

  I stood at the sink and stared into the vanity mirror. It was a small medicine cabinet–type mirror. The kind someone in a movie opens and closes right before they gulp down a bottle of pills and almost die on their sad bathroom floor. I opened and closed it. Not so much because I was curious what was inside—though I noted there were only plastic razors and a bottle of Delsym—but to distract myself from my own reflection. My eyes kept coming back to my pink lipstick. The shade was Candy Peach. I’d started wearing it two years ago.

  Back then, my dad and I worked together a lot at his french fry and hot dog cart at Fabuland. At the time, I didn’t understand his sudden interest in the little food carts, which only brought in a fraction of the revenue that the Cork’s Doughnut Dynasty shops did. Of course, I understand now that he was checking out Fabuland, deciding whether he wanted to buy it. I’d often wear jean shorts and a sparkly Cork’s T-shirt while I served up the snacks and sodas. Dad would always tell me that the T-shirt looked cute on me. One day he said it while we were all eating breakfast together. Dad said it with kind of a wink and a shimmy, and Jason put down his spoon and stared at Dad. For the next minute or two, I tried to concentrate on my rice flakes and pretend not to notice Jason staring at our dad staring at me. I couldn’t manage it. I put my bowl in the sink and stalked away, unsure which of them I was angry at.

  It was around then that I stopped wearing shorts and T-shirts and started shopping for flowery summer dresses. I decided that I didn’t need to advertise doughnuts with my boobs. And that a tasteful dress—like my dad’s suits and ties—was a better advertisement for us all. In my fifteen-year-old head, it felt like a sophisticated sentiment. I added the lipstick sometime soon after that.

  Now I stared into the mirror and thought of my dad’s words. You look in the mirror and you see that pretty little pink mouth….

  The lipstick shade was all wrong and maybe always had been. But why had no one ever told me that? Why hadn’t Morgan, at least?

  I grabbed some toilet paper and wiped off the lipstick. Then I shut off the light and stood in the dark for a moment, deciding what to do next. I took out my phone and texted Dad:

  Decided to stay with Mom tonight, fyi. See you at Fabuland in the morning.

  He wrote back almost immediately: K.

  I listened to my own breath for a few seconds before stepping out of the bathroom.

  “Actually, can I have one of those beers?” I called to Reggie.

  He started to stand. “Uh…what? Yeah, sure. I guess.”

  “Don’t get up,” I said quickly, walking across the kitchen to the fridge. “I can get it myself.”

  The fridge was full of beer. I snapped one open and drank as fast as I could. I’d only ever had
beer at a couple of parties I’d gone to with Morgan, but I knew I didn’t want to make this one last like I had with the others.

  “What’s going on?” Reggie was in the kitchen now, eyes wide like he’d never seen a girl in a sundress drink beer before.

  “Nothing.” I slammed the fridge shut. “Can we maybe sit outside?”

  “Sure,” Reggie said.

  I led the way out the front door and sat on the tippy concrete square. Reggie stood a couple of feet away. Keeping his distance from me, just as Tim had. I took a cleansing breath, and then another gulp of beer.

  “Slow down,” Reggie said, hooking his thumbs in his front pockets. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “How’s your brother, by the way?”

  I didn’t feel like talking about Jason right now. I was angry at him without being certain why. Maybe for that moment two years ago at the breakfast table. Or maybe for texting me questions that made me want to down a beer.

  “He’s fine. Hey…what did you mean when you said Ethan was philosophical?”

  Reggie cringed slightly. “I wasn’t, like, making a joke about him.”

  “I know you weren’t,” I rushed to say. “I could tell. I just want to know what you meant.”

  Reggie stared at his sandals. Feeling awkward, I looked in the same direction. His feet were really dirty.

  “Did you ever notice that aquarium hat he always wore?” Reggie asked after a moment.

  “I remember he always wore the same navy-blue hat,” I said. “Is that the one you’re talking about?”

  In fact, I had a picture of Ethan in my head, wearing that hat while he tried out the cotton candy machine.

  “Yeah. Did you ever ask him about it?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Well, if you had, he would have told you that it was from this one time he went to visit his great-aunt in Florida, when he was younger. She brought him to this aquarium, where she bought him that hat at the gift shop. He would tell you about all the cool jellyfish he saw, and the sea lion show. And then, if you were willing to listen long enough, he’d tell you that that aunt had since died, and that he would probably never go back to Florida because he didn’t know anyone else who lived there. To Florida or that aquarium. ‘I’ll probably never be back there, but I have my memories of it,’ he would say.”