Theforeman is more than happy to take advantage of three kids dumb enough to offer their services. We haul fifty-pound bags of popcorn kernels to the snack kiosks. We unpack prize boxes so tightly packed that the tiny stuffed toys spring out like confetti. We scrub dust from those tattered banners and rehang them below the supermarket sign. We even assemble a couple of midway rides…and make mental note of which ones, so we don’t ride them.
It’s backbreaking work, but I love the chance to dig below the surface and see how a carnival works. Reggie does, too, and he’s right in there, the two of us asking questions until the carnies feign laryngitis. Ray never takes off his headphones, and it might look as if he’s bored, but we’re twelve—if we’re bored, we say so…or, in Ray’s case, he would just wander off midtask to sit on a picnic bench. He’s enjoying himself, though, and works in silence alongside us.
When we’re finished, we collapse on the narrow strip of mowed grass that passes for landscaping. Mr. Cole gave us iced lemonade and watermelon—in return for slipping him the carnival food prices so he can undercut them—and we’re enjoying those while waiting for the foreman to bring our pay. He finally comes over and hands us each a ticket.
“Free admittance to the carnival tonight,” he says.
Reggie stares down at the stub. “A five-dollar ticket? For eight hours of work?”
The foreman reaches into his pocket and peels off three one-dollar bills. He passes them out with a snide, “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
I catch sight of Mr. Blackrose and glance over, my expression enough to bring him striding our way.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “We were just thanking your foreman for our payment. Admission tonight and a dollar bill.”
There’s no sarcasm in my voice, yet the ringmaster’s eyes glint again with that knowing look, appreciation for my technique.
“Well, now, I’m glad you’re such good sports,” he says, “but that’s just our foreman’s idea of humor. I have your proper payment.” He reaches into his pockets and takes out a handful of two-day tickets. Then he pauses. “You three don’t still need parental accompaniment, do you?”
We all shake our heads.
“Excellent. Then let me magically transform these”—he flicks his wrist, and the handful of blue paper turns into three gold pieces of cardboard—“into all-access weekend passes, complete with front-row seats to my Saturday night magic show.” He winks at me. “I think I’ve already found a lovely local assistant to join my fair Annabelle.”
We take the passes with thanks.
Icheck on the dog—Dixie—before we leave. Her chain is empty. There are bowls with water and food, but both are so grimy that I’d like to serve Charliehisdinner in them. There’s a hose nearby, so I surreptitiously empty, clean and refill the bowls.
As I head to where Reggie and Ray wait, whispers snake out from the magician’s tent, drawing me to it. The black canvas is painted like a midnight sky with oddly shaped constellations. When I peer at the constellations, I realize they’re roses. Black roses, like the carnival’s name.
The whispers continue, low and urgent, and something in the tone sets my hackles rising, like when Charlie gave me that gross once-over. It’s not his voice, though. It’s a girl’s.
I step closer still, hoping to make out the words, but all I can catch is that murmur with gaps of silence, as if she’s speaking to someone who’s talking lower still. I reach to touch the midnight-black canvas. It’s cold and clammy, and I shiver. The girl’s voice comes again, and tendrils of fear waft out, wrapping around me, rooting me in place as I strain to listen.
The voice fades before I catch a single word. I stand there a moment, staring at those odd constellations. Then Reggie whistles, a double high-pitched signal that they’re ready to go. I reluctantly step back from the tent. Then I turn and run.
Assoon as I get home, I tell my mom that I skipped school. She’s fine with that. It was the last day, mostly games and stuff that we’re too old for anyway. My parents are strict, but as long as I follow the rules, there’s wiggle room to make my own decisions, and I’m encouraged to do that.
Ray and Reggie’s mom will say the same thing. They live right next door, and our parents have been friends since they were kids. We’re a tight-knit group here just beyond the edge of town, a rural cul-de-sac of families joined by either kinship or friendship, often both.
At dinner, my parents want to hear all about my day. My sixteen-year-old brother doesn’t say anything—he’s too busy wolfing down his food, as always. That’s Zeke, short for Ezekiel. Yep, our parents like old names. At least they don’t make us use them.
When I finish talking about the carnival, I tell my parents about the passes, and they exchange a look.
“Does this mean you want to go alone?” Dad asks.
I nod, my mouth full of mashed potato.
Another shared look, and then Mom says, “Fullyalone? Or drop-you-off-and-stay-out-of-your-way alone?”
I swallow my mouthful. “We can handle it.”
“I’ll take them,” Zeke says. “Me and the guys?—”
“Alone,” I say. “That means no parentsorbig brothers.”
Silence. Defense prepared, my guts strum, as if I’m about to step on stage for a public-speaking assignment. I play it cool, though, fork-cutting my meatloaf into bite-size pieces and then lifting one to my mouth, hesitating at the last second to be sure I won’t need to launch my defense midchew.
