I ignore the sign marked Authorized Personnel Only. I am authorized. Kind of. Opening the flap, I slip into a cool, dark space that smells of wood shavings and sweat. It’s pitch dark at first. Then the midway lights filter through the rose constellations, the tent becoming a night sky that allows just enough illumination for my eyes to adjust.
The tent is no big top. It might seat a hundred people, and even then, they’ll be packed in tight enough to violate the local fire code. Benches form a semicircle in front of the stage. I crossto it, wood shavings crunching underfoot. Then I hop up onto the stage and peel back the curtain to see a trailer door.
Ah-ha. That explains why I couldn’t hear more than muted voices Friday. Annabelle must have been inside the trailer, which is backed up to the tent.
Voices sound again, and this time, the words come clear. It’s nothing interesting, just Mr. Blackrose talking to Charlie about the takedown, which they’ll start after closing tonight.
I rap on the door. Mr. Blackrose opens it, his face gathering for an angry bark at whoever dared venture past that sign. Then he sees me and expels that bark in a too-loud, too-jovial, “Good evening, Miss Esmerelda.”
He pivots with a wave, ushering me into a small room where Charlie lounges. The carnie flashes me a jackal-smile, yellow teeth glinting as his gaze rakes over me. He’s seen me often enough to know exactly what I look like, and the look was never about actual interest anyway. It’s as predatory as his smile, a way to make me feel small. I meet it with a steady look that, after a moment, has him snorting and turning aside, as if he’s lost interest in the game.
Mr. Blackrose explains the show and my role in it. Then he walks toward the two closed doors at the back, opens the left one and flicks on a light to reveal a dressing room.
“You’ll find your gown in here,” he says.
“Gown?”
He smiles. “To match fair Annabelle, of course.”
I nod and step inside. The door clicks shut behind me. I affix the lock and look around. A floor-to-ceiling mirror covers the interior wall. Beside it hangs a dress that is the reverse image of Annabelle’s. Instead of bright-colored stripes and white carousel beasts, this dress has black and gray and white stripes with a jeweled carousel along the bottom.
I finger the fabric. It looks nicer than it feels, starchy and cheap. I take the dress down and hold it in front of me. As I do, I catch a faint hiss. At first, I think it’s the rasp of my fingers on the rough material, but when I stop moving, the hissing continues. I cock my head and listen. There’s a click. Then another one. Clicks like the mandibles of some giant beetle, underscored by that steady, unnatural hiss.
I touch the fabric again and shiver. Then I hang the dress up and open the door.
Mr. Blackrose is adjusting his comb-over in a mirror. He puts on his top hat. Looks in the mirror. Takes off the hat and readjusts his hair, as if his work isn’t completely hidden by the hat, anyway.
When I clear my throat, he glances over. He’s prepared to gush, his features arranging for the appropriate expression, words ready to rush out as soon as he opens his mouth. He stops himself, and his lips purse in pique.
“I’m allergic to polyester fabrics,” I say. “I’m so sorry, sir. I really should have mentioned it, but I never imagined you’d let me wear one of your beautiful gowns, and now I feel awful. I completely understand if you don’t want me on stage like…”
I glance down at myself, as if I’m dressed in a canvas sack rather than a pretty new summer dress, one that I’m sure has polyester in it somewhere.
“That’s fine, my dear,” he says, finding his smile. “Your dress is lovely.”
“I’m sorry again. It was such a pretty gown, too.”
A pause. Then he snaps his fingers. “Why don’t you and Annabelle have a little dress-up party after the show? She has so many outfits that I’m certain you’ll find something. You can tell your parents we’ll have you home before midnight.” He pauses. “Speaking of your parents, will they be here tonight?”
I shake my head. “They let me come by myself.”
“Your friends, then? I can make sure they get front-row seats for your performance.”
I shake my head. “They have a ten p.m. curfew. But the dress-up party sounds like fun. May I run to the pay phone and call my mom to let her know I’ll be late?”
He beams. “Absolutely.”
Themagic show is… Well, it’s a magic show. When Reggie, Ray and I were little, we went to every magic show we could until we discovered it was all fake. Then we kept going until we figured out all the tricks. After that, curiosity sated, our interest had waned.
I hope Mr. Blackrose will have a trick or two I haven’t seen, one I can figure out, especially given my new vantage point on stage. Alas, he performs the same tired illusions I cracked years ago, and I must console myself with the fresh experience of being an assistant.
After the show, Mr. Blackrose and Annabelle sign autographs. The kids want mine, too, even though they see me practically every day. Tonight, I am special. Tonight, I am a star.
As we finish, the carnies usher the stragglers out and even help them carry their souvenirs to their cars, making sure no one lingers.
Once they’re gone, Mr. Blackrose says, “Now, Annabelle, take Esmerelda inside, and show her your dresses. She’d like to try them on. We’ll use the Polaroid and take photographs for our dear guest to remember her special night.”
Annabelle’s head snaps up. “Wh-what?”
