He smothers his snicker inside a cough. “That was terrible.”
“I know. I’m not sorry.”
We pass a booth where a bored teenager is trying to entice people to throw darts at balloons. Nathan pauses, studying the prizes. “That stuffed penguin is huge.”
“The game’s rigged,” Drew says. “The balloons are under-inflated, and the darts are dull. Classic carnival scam.”
“How do you know so much about carnival scams?”
“I worked at a fair when I was sixteen. Learned all the tricks.” Drew grins, shark-like. “I could beat this game with my eyes closed.”
“Prove it,” Jackson challenges.
What follows is five minutes of Drew systematically destroying the dart booth while the teenage operator watches in growing horror. By the end, Drew has won not only the giant penguin but also a smaller stuffed elephant for Alex, a foam finger for himself, and what appears to be a ceramic cat with unsettling eyes for Elliot.
“For you,” Drew says, presenting the penguin to Jackson with a flourish.
Jackson clutches it to his chest. “I’m naming him Derek.”
“After Derek Jeter?”
“After my childhood imaginary friend, who was also a penguin.”
“You had an imaginary penguin friend?”
“Don’t judge my childhood coping mechanisms.”
Gerard suddenly grabs my arm with enough force to bruise. “Oliver. Ollie. Captain, my captain. Do you see what I see?”
I follow his gaze to a garish structure about fifty yards away, painted in primary colors and surrounded by a queue of children and their exhausted parents.
“The bumper cars?”
“THE BUMPER CARS!” Gerard drags me toward the attraction, and the others follow, knowing to do otherwise is futile.
The bumper car operator is a middle-aged woman with a dead-eyed stare. She scrutinizes our group as we approach. “How many?” she asks flatly.
“Nine!” Gerard announces.
“The cars fit one person each.”
“Perfect!”
She gestures us through the gate, and we pile onto the platform to claim our vehicles. This is when I realize we have made a terrible mistake.
The bumper cars, designed for children and average-sized adults, are approximately the size of shopping carts. They’re shaped like ladybugs, each one a different color, with tiny steering wheels and seats that were built for people who don’t regularly consume protein shakes.
Gerard stares at the nearest car—a cheerful pink ladybug—with dawning comprehension. “These are small.”
“No shit,” Kyle mutters, eyeing a red one warily.
“We’re doing this,” Drew declares, already folding his six-foot frame into a green ladybug. His knees end up somewhere around his ears. “This is happening.”
I choose a blue ladybug and…fuck. My thighs do not fit. I wedge myself in anyway, causing the car to list slightly.
Beside me, Gerard has somehow crammed his six-five frame into the pink ladybug, and the result is nothing short of magnificent. “I look like I’m in a clown car,” he says happily.
“You look idiotic,” Elliot responds, sliding into a purple ladybug with considerably more grace. Being one of the shortest among us has finally paid off for him.
