The Accidental Siren (32 page)

Before I could chase after Mara, Kimmy
pounced. “James,” she said, “we need to talk.” Haley materialized
at her side. Together, they backed me against an empty bulletin
board.

Tight, orange springs danced behind Kimmy’s
ears as she prattled. “Haley heard from Jessica who heard from Jon
that Ryan is going to apologize to Mara at the carnival
tonight.”

I shook my head. “Why are you telling
me?”

Haley twisted her finger through the hem of
her tie-dyed tee. “You’re sorta the guy who fixes things.”

Kimmy continued. “We didn’t want to tell Mara
in case
you
thought she shouldn’t know.”

“And we couldn’t tell Livy...”

“We
definitely
couldn’t tell
Livy.”

I considered my options, then made a
decision. “Forget about it,” I said.

“What?”

“I’m done with the drama. Ryan hurt my
girlfriend and crushed my sister. Everybody hates him for that. His
parents know what he did.
My
parents know what he did. He’s
not allowed to set foot in my house ever again, and in less than a
week, he’ll be going to a different school. So if that
penis-tickler wants to tell Mara that he’s sorry, I’ll let him do
his thing. But I’m not worried about losing my girlfriend to a
pretty-boy racist.”

The girls looked at each other and shrugged.
Kimmy muttered something about “done with the drama” and meandered
back to Whit and my mom. Haley stayed beside me. Her eyes twinkled
in the overhead halogen, a tender, hazel fixation that another boy
(who never knew Mara) might have found alluring. “You’re a good
person, James,” she said.

“There it is!” I brushed past Haley and
crossed the corridor to a pair of oak doors. A plastic sign read,
“Community Theater, Entrance A.” Below it, a placard with my name,
date, and
“FAIRYTALE”
in all capitals.

Haley skipped to my side and read the
description aloud. “
Fairytale
is an ambitious film about a
young girl who goes on a search for her missing father.”

As I listened to the epic scope of my failed
endeavor, I spotted Mara and Livy through the criss-cross rumpus of
artists and judges. Whatever Mara was saying, it made Livy smile.
And when her monologue was over, they hugged.

I ripped off my placard before Haley could
finish, then motioned to Whit and Mom to hurry up.

We regrouped at the opposite end of the art
show. Livy’s usual pep had been rejuvenated and she twirled in
kinetic anticipation.

“We’ll find the ticket booths first,” Mom
said. “We’ll buy your wristbands, then wait for your father by the
spider-looking ride.”

We groaned. “But Mommm...”

“There will no whining from the peanut
gallery!”

I sighed. It was a fight I couldn’t win.
Despite the camaraderie at my side, there was no way Mom was going
to–

“Bethany?” Mara took a single stride toward
my mother.

Mom turned and touched Mara’s arm. “What is
it, sweetie?”

“We would like to have the night to
ourselves. Do you think there’s any way–”

“Excuse me, young lady...” Mom blinked,
blinked again, then crinkled her thick forehead. “...but we will be
your chaperones for the rest of the evening. No ifs, ands or
buts!”

“Of course,” Mara said. “James was just
telling me that he came without his parents last year and
everything was fine.”

“That may be, but–”

“It’s not a big deal, Beth. I just thought we
were on the same page.”

Mom shook her head, then looked again at
Mara. Without another moment of hesitation, she opened her purse
and fished for her wallet. “You know what? David has always been a
little paranoid. Why don’t you kids run off for a bit, and we’ll
meet up later. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like a plan!” Mara said.

Mom doled out twenties to each kid,
explaining that fifteen went to the wristband and the other five
could be spent on snacks. She kissed every one of us on the
forehead as we exchanged looks of bewilderment. “I’ll wait for your
father by the kiddie rides,” she said. “Love you kids, and be
careful!” Then she disappeared through the glass doors and into the
street.

We clapped Mara on the back.

“I’d be dead if I called Mom by her first
name!” I said.

She shrugged and grinned. “It’s gonna be a
good night.”

The five of us turned to face the glass
membrane that separated us from the carnival. (If only I could
return to 1994 knowing what I know now... If only I could warn my
younger self about the clockwork chaos awaiting him on the opposite
side of that wall... If only I could chase him down, rattle his
shoulders, scream in his face,
“DON’T GO THROUGH THOSE FUCKING
DOORS!”
)

Mara took my hand.

“Your fingers...” I said. “They’re
freezing.”

She twisted her toes and her violet dress
sashayed seductively around her knees. “Then warm them up, silly
boy.”

She scrunched her face. I grinned. And
together, we pushed open the glass doors, inhaled the smell of
kettle corn and roasted almonds, and stepped hand-in-hand into our
technicolor nightmare.

11.
CARNIVAL

Something was different this year. The people
and machines and food were all the same, but now those elements
converged into an exoskeleton of genuine amusement. The carnival
was alive this year. The midway was a torso. Clusters of rides
extended like arms from its core. The kiddie attractions were
squished together at one end beside the Community Center while the
fun rides twirled like fingers in the distance. The visitors were
the carnival’s cells, zipping through vein-like streets from one
ride to the next, giving purpose to the bright, undulating
machines.

I knew the carnival wasn’t anymore alive this
year than it was last year, it only seemed alive because Mara was
at my side.

The six of us proudly boasted our wristbands
as we took to the streets. The bright-blue bracelets were sticky
along the edges where the ticket lady misaligned the top flap with
the bottom. Kimmy told us they were the exact same bands that
nightclubs make you wear if you don’t look twenty-one. Haley and
Livy didn’t believe her.

Whit’s wheelchair doubled as a plow. With me
as his navigator, we lead the charge through the horde of kids and
parents and carnies in red and white stripes.

“What’s that?” Mara asked, her face aglow
with amber light, then teal light, then green.

“That’s the Scrambler,” I said. “It’s cool,
but it doesn’t go upside down.”

She raised her finger above the horizon.
“What about that one?”

“That’s the Salt and Pepper Shaker.”

“It goes upside down?”

“Yep.”

“Let’s ride that one first!”

Kimmy interrupted before I could agree. “Holy
Hannah, is that Chrissy and Nick?”

Haley bobbed her head to peek through the
mass. “Where? I don’t see ‘em.”

“Over there! Behind the elephant ears!”

“Oh my gosh.” She stuck out her tongue. “It
totally is.”

“Hey James,” Kimmy called. “Haley wants an
elephant ear!”

“I do not!” she said and smacked Kimmy’s
chest.

“Crap, crap, crap,” Livy said, falling in
line with her friends. “How’s my hair?” She rooted her purse,
forgetting that Mom had confiscated her mirror.

Kimmy grabbed her arm, “You’re gorgeous,
darling,” then waved to Mara. “Wanna meet Chrissy and Nick?”

“Nope!” Mara pointed to the Salt and Pepper
Shaker. “I’m goin’ on that!”

The girls turned to leave.

“Wait!” Whit said. “We’re not supposed to
split up!”

Kimmy scrambled his hair and cooed in a baby
voice, “Such a goody-goody,
Whitney
.” They turned again,
burrowed an opening in the crowd, and vanished.

“Meet us at the milk bottle game!” Whit
shouted. “It’s in the midway!”

Kimmy’s hand appeared above the mass and
waved her acknowledgment.

“You’re a dweeb,” I said, then took the
handles and pushed us through the bustling street.

“Will there be clowns here?” Mara asked.

“That’s a circus.”

“Oh. Duh.”

A balloon popped to our left and she jumped.
“What was that?”

“It’s just the dart game,” I said (but
enjoyed her renewed grip on my hand.)

She marveled at a row of giant, stuffed panda
bears. “Look at the prizes!”

“It’s rigged,” Whit said from his chair. “The
carnies use deflated balloons and dull darts. Almost impossible to
win.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” I
asked.

“I saw an exposé on Sixty Minutes.”

“I’ll say it again: you’re a dweeb.”

The carnival continued to accept us into its
colorful core. A row of mirrors contorted our bodies as we passed.
The first added fifty pounds to Mara, making her look like a midget
from
The Wizard of Oz
. She stopped at the second mirror. It
made her tall with toothpick limbs and an alien head. She released
my hand, stuck her pinkies in her mouth, and pulled back her
cheeks. Whit didn’t look taller, but his head stretched the size of
a surfboard with eyes like frisbees. He laughed like a maniac and
his reflection morphed and jiggled with every heave.

“Oh shit!” he said and covered his face. “Go
go go!”

I ducked. “What? Where?”

“Turn left. Now!”

We veered left toward the dime game, jumped
the curb, and huddled beneath the awning of The Grand Harbor Bread
Co.

“What was it?” Mara asked.

“Nothin’,” Whit said. “Just some old
friends.”

“Well aren’t
you
Mr. Social.”

Whit braced his hands on his armrests and
lifted himself to scan the crowd.

“Well?” I asked.

Hey surveyed the surroundings one more time,
then said, “The coast is clear.”

“What a psycho.”

The Salt and Pepper Shaker stood at the tip
of the shortest extremity. For fifteen minutes we waited in a line
that smelled like beer and arm pit, squashed between a man in a
sleeveless tee that read “Green Day” and a group of teenyboppers
who never stopped staring at the open back of Mara’s dress.

In the stopped position, the Salt and Pepper
Shaker looked like a pair of upside-down mallets with a pivot in
the center of the handles. At the beginning of each cycle, four
riders were buckled and locked in each cage; two facing forward,
two facing back. When the carnie hit the go button, the pods
launched in opposite directions and hurled the riders twenty feet
in the air before sending them back toward the ground. Every time
the ride completed a full rotation, it emitted a plinking,
descending tune like the “game over” sound on a video game.

The operator turned a key on his control
station and the ride lost momentum. When it stopped, he unlocked
the pods and sent the dizzy passengers staggering toward the exit.
Whit got stuck in the backwards compartment beside the fat guy in
the Green Day shirt. I buckled Mara’s belt, then mine. The carnie
slammed our cage and double-checked the lock.

“Excited?” I asked.

The words barely escaped my lips before Mara
unbuckled her restraint and attacked me. Hands crumpled the collar
of my shirt and plunged me against the padded seat. Before I could
warn her–before I could utter a sound–her lips touched mine for the
very first time and she tasted
just like candy necklace.
Soft like down, warm like the perfect bath; I was gorged by her
nubile lips, the oldest part of her body because the rest was only
twelve. The air began to churn in our tiny rocket and my heart rose
into my stomach, but Mara didn’t stop.

A rush of blood. She didn’t speak, didn’t
explain. Only kissed. Explored. And teased me as the world made
cartwheels around our heads. Another surge of blood and I grappled
her waist to tame its violent grind. The sweet, organic flavor of
girl lips and tongue; the taste of peaches, red gummy bears, and
dandelion wine.

Open mouths. A thousand hands. To Mara, it
was a desperate kiss, a “save me” kiss, a “hold me close and never
let go” kiss.

Around and around and faster and faster, she
held my neck for dear life until the sick announced itself in my
stomach,
but I didn’t care
. Her hands led mine to the strap
of her amethyst dress (
that dreamy summer dress
). She molded
my fingers around the fabric and together we pulled it down. I
embraced the skin of her bare shoulder. (The shoulder was
enough.)

Upside down, blind now to the orientation of
the real world, inertia tugged my gag reflex and I wanted to vomit
my burger. Mara was planting something inside me; something that
would take root in my bowels and twist thorns in my heart. She was
completing my transformation. She was making me–
six years too
soon
–an adult. And when the ride slowed and the gravity
returned and my cock was a blister and the feverish sensations
subsided, Mara released me. She was panting. Gaze detached, lips
agape, and cheeks flushed, she replaced her violet strap,
unclenched her thighs, dismounted... and casually straightened her
windswept hair.

* * *

Whit found himself cradled in the carnie’s
arms as the man transferred him back to his chair.

“I’m too old for these sissy rides,” he said,
craning his head to Mara. “How was your first carnival experience,
beautiful?”

She flashed a dimpled grin. “Killer,” she
said. “Totally killer.”

Whit navigated our path back to the midway
meeting point, but the girls weren’t there.

Mara plopped down on a picnic table and
crossed her feet on the bench. She asked for the time and scanned
the sea of heads.

Whit rolled himself to the milk bottle game.
The boy behind the counter wore the same red and white stripes as
the rest of the carnies, spitting into a microphone and rattling
off words like a paint-huffing auctioneer. “Three balls, three
bucks, three tries! Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. Step
riiight up!” He looked at Whit. “Legs don’t work? Then
roll
right up! Three chances to put your aim to the test! Three chances
to impress your girlfriend! Three chances to prove to your friends
that you’re a major league pitcher! Three balls, three bucks, three
tries!” The boy covered the mic and leaned toward Whit, “I bet you
wished you had three balls, kid. Am I right?”