Small Town Summer: "Surfing the Hangman"
At the 4th of July Expo, two sisters-at-war show the town what a moment of peace looks like...
It’s been a week of celebration in Viscauga. Color schemes of red, white, and blue ran up and down Stanton Street: pole-mounted American flags lined every business’s window, courtesy of the Chamber of Commerce, and the Victory Garden planters stood on the sidewalks, compliments of the Kay Florence Florist. The citizens decked themselves in American flair to wish their country many happy returns. Their shirts were stars and their shorts were stripes, and it was a common site for the good ole boys to drive through the streets blasting the Star Spangled Banner out of their speakers while dragging cans behind them and making one great patriotic fuss. In the dusk of evening, as the fireflies came out and the town smelled of sizzling meat, the fireworks began in the backyards and at the cul de sac block parties, and with each successive day’s passing, getting closer to the Fourth of July, the bombs bursted in air a little further into the night.
You can set your watch to all of this fanfare. Just as every night before the last day of school at Daniel Pratt High, the seniors will pull a prank, and on every Summer Solstice, the people will gather at Hollis’s Landing for a bar-b-que blowout, the citizens of Viscauga will celebrate their country’s birth all week long, leading up to the Big Day. It’s a kind of homecoming week for Viscauga. It’s not that many citizens who have left the town for good actually come home. Rather, those who do not normally come out of their daily routines -- their frantic lives and 9-5 bubbles that have them collapsing at the end of their days in recliners and prime time television -- usually end up with company time off, and for once have the opportunity to see their neighbors in venues other than church or PTA meetings. Each night of the week leading up to the Big Day, they go with their families to the block parties, or to the Daniel Pratt High School gymnatorium to see the annual “Story of Viscauga Pageant”, presented by the Viscauga Community Players, or to Pete Purcell Park, to sit on benches with their neighbors and share beer they brought from home, while their children play on the playground, and buy ice cream from the Senor Frosty Truck, and gawk at the mobile city of Mack Trucks with colorful signage and flatbeds of deconstructed carnival rides, and tell each other what they’re going to do first at this year’s Fourth of July Expo.
The undeniable climax of summer in Viscauga, the Fourth of July Expo began sometime in the 1960’s in Maxwell Steele’s used car lot. No one knows the exact year, because it’s one of those seminal events that doesn’t get branded until it becomes of undeniable importance, and there’s the benefit of some hindsight. But there it started: Maxwell “Deal” Steele in his tiny, makeshift car lot with forty beat-up junkers sitting in the tall grass, giving free rides to kids on a bite-size Ferris Wheel with four buckets that barely went higher than the top of his single-wide office trailer. The kids taking free rides while he sold their parents the lemons with rolled-back odometers, he also brought in a clown that did magic tricks, and a popcorn machine. The promotion was such a big hit that Maxwell cleared nearly the whole lot by the end of the day, and onward the success story went. Over the years, other merchants got in on the act -- the ones with a lot of inventory on their lots that needed to move quickly. They hired their own ferris wheels and clowns, and some brought in exotic animals like monkeys and llamas, and television personalities from Birmingham, like “Cousin” Cliff Holman. By the end of the decade, one expected to drive down the road in Viscauga in the summertime, and see a long, fragmented, and, frankly, messy-looking roadside carnival. The town simply wasn’t big enough back then to support all these simultaneous events, and rather than being an eye-catching testament to local business, the sights were the complete opposite, crowds thinning out between the competitors, empty rides, and clowns taking long smoke breaks while they waited to perform for thin waves of three or four children at a time. Finally, by the end of the decade, City Hall stepped in. Mayor Thaddius Hilliard told the business owners that they needed to either cancel their eyesore promotions, or pool their resources and create one big festival blowout for the town, a sort of…”Fourth of July Exposition”. The name stuck, and while there was some initial backlash (notably from the Godfather of the Expo himself, Maxwell Steele, who closed down his car lot and left town, stating that if he was going to live in a Communist state, he might as well move to Moscow), the businesses moved forward with the proposal, thinking it was best to gather the whole town in one common area, give them some entertainment, and move some product while they were at it.
And now, years later, here the kids were, gathered in the playground at Pete Purcell Park, sitting idly in the swings, dangling their legs from the jungle gym, balancing precariously on the monkey bars, all to get the first glimpse of the Ferris Wheel being jacked-up. This one was much higher than the four bucket toadstool in Maxwell Steele’s overgrown car lot all those years ago; it went eight, maybe nine stories up, and towered in an ever-growing skyline of intimidating height busters like Top Spin, the Loop-de-Loop, and the Freefall, where a suspension cable would slowly lift the brave passengers to a dizzying height before dropping them to the ground far, far below.
So early Saturday afternoon, a large crowd had already gathered in the parking lot of Purcell Park, heavily anticipating the gates opening. And Courtney Preston was running late.
It wasn’t her fault, though. It was her bratty little sister Sigmund, who didn’t seem to care about anything or anybody else but herself. She had told her parents this much at dinner the night before, but they didn’t believe her. “Sisters will be sisters,” her mother had told her, “especially if they’re only three years apart.”
“What the hell does that mean?” she blurted out.
“Watch your language at the dinner table,” her dad said through a mouthful of prime rib.
“It means that whatever your feelings are for your younger sister may be at this particular moment,” her mother said, “they are normal in the course of sisters’ relationships.”
“It also means you gotta take me to the Expo tomorrow,” Sigmund said, her brace face grinning in victory.
“Why can’t you guys take her?”
“Because we have the Anderson’s party in Birmingham,” her mother said. “We told you that.”
“Well, drop her off before.”
“Because the town is in the opposite direction. You know, Courtney, that this is one of the reasons we got you a car in the first place -- so you can help us out from time to time. It’s not too much to ask.”
“Court.”
“I’m sorry?” her mother said.
“Everyone’s been calling me ‘Court’. No one calls me ‘Courtney’ anymore.”
“She’s been telling everyone to call her ‘Court’,” Sigmund said, “but no one’s been doing it. She thinks it sounds cooler.”
Court held her butter knife close to her chest, and stabbed the air with it, hoping Sigmund would get the message. But Sigmund just grinned back, showing off the bits of meat and pinto beans that were wedged in her wires.
“This is what I’ve been telling you,” her father said, looking her mother straight in the eyes. “She’s turning into a straight-up radical. She’s working for that councilman and now she’s changing her name. Next thing you know, she’ll go vegetarian on us -- or vegan. Maybe even vote Democrat when she turns eighteen. Oh, God help us all.”
Court, seeing the opportunity, dropped her knife. “That’s right! I’ll be working all day. I won’t be able to watch her.”
“No one’s asking you to watch her like a hawk,” her mother said. “I think Sigmund’s old enough to walk around the fair by herself. Just give her a ride and check in on her occasionally.”
“But--”
“Enough!” Her father threw down his napkin, doused in A-1 sauce, and used both his hands to point at them. “Courtney, you’re giving Sigmund a ride and that’s the end of it. I’m tired of this bickering. You’re sisters and you love each other, dammit!”
That had been that. Now, Court, running ten minutes late thanks to her sister ignoring the snooze on her alarm clock three times, then taking a decades-long shower, then sitting in front of her vanity for an hour throwing ridiculous amounts of make-up on her face, hauled ass down route seventy-eight out of Huntington Meadows, toward Purcell Park.
“You’re speeding,” Sigmund said.
“You’re a little brat,” Court returned. She secretly kept her eyes peeled for a great big pothole, which would force the brat to run the lipstick down her cheek as she sat in the passenger seat, carefully applying it in the pull-down mirror.
The Expo was in full swing when Court pulled into the parking lot, jam-packed with cars from gate to gate. She flashed a credentials card the councilman’s office had given her to the gate attendant, who waived her ticket price and let her pass. She glanced over to see if Sigmund had noticed, and was maybe a little impressed, but she hadn’t, and wasn’t. Sigmund was on her eyes now, and moving a stick of liner smoothly across them, batting her lashes for finish.
After rushing through the sea of cars and pick-up trucks where many folks were already tailgating in their flatbeds, drinking beer cupped in Koozies, Court found City Councilman Farley Daniels’ home base, a big tent that had been cordoned off with signs reminding whoever passed it to vote for him. She immediately headed over to the tent to report for work. That was when Sigmund began separating from her.
“I want you to check in with me every once in a while,” Court called. “I’ll be in this tent over here.”
“Okay, mom!”
“Hey, you little dump truck, just do it! Okay?”
Sigmund was off. All Court could do was roll her eyes, and straighten up. It was time to be professional.
The councilman’s tent was a hotbed of activity. Court saw volunteers running back and forth, coordinating their efforts -- all of them much older than her, all of them wearing ugly matching t-shirts that announced, in red, white, and blue “Vote for Daniels -- Mayor -- For Change!”, and had a giant marked checkbox next to the slogan. Court, immediately struck with the feeling that she was getting in the way, found a quiet corner in which to stand, behind a fortress of cardboard boxes. She must have stood there for fifteen minutes, nervously running fingers through her hair, biting her lip, tugging on her brand new blouse from The Limited, which she had bought with babysitting money at the mall, specifically for today, thinking it a smart choice. It was the kind of blouse a professional would wear. But now, it felt too tight, and she felt bloated. She looked for someone who could tell her what to do, and until that person appeared, hoped no one would call her out for slacking off. She was right to have dreaded this day. She had never felt so out of place in all her life.
Finally, a woman walked into the tent, saw her and smiled. She was much younger than all the other volunteers, closer to Court’s age within ten years, Court figured, and also stood out from the others in that she wasn’t wearing a cheap, tacky t-shirt, but an expensive-looking white pants suit, which looked chic below her short, blonde hair. “You must be Courtney?” she said.
“Court.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I go by ‘Court’. I know, it’s kind of stupid, but that’s what everyone calls me.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid at all,” the woman said. “Do you think it’s stupid?”
Court hesitated a moment, taking in the woman’s perfect posture and broad smile, and the way her eyes pierced the air between them, making Court feel like she was the only other person in this tent, or maybe even the whole world, besides her. “Sure, it’s okay.”
“Well, as long as you like it, then there’s nothing stupid about it. I’m Sasha Stratton, the councilman’s campaign advisor. Let’s get you set up, shall we? Come along.”
Court followed her out of the tent and across the busy grounds, taking care to avoid bumping into the mob as she went: the long lines for lemonade and cotton candy, the clumsy children chasing each other with marshmallow guns. She noticed that Sasha didn’t seem to be ducking anybody, however. She walked with an upright poise and confidence, and wherever she turned, the crowd cleared for her, and not the other way around.
“Cute fair,” Sasha said.
“I know, we have it every year,” Court said. “...Are you not from here?”
“Oh, God no. I was just called in to help your councilman for a couple of weeks, get his campaign off the ground. I live in Montgomery -- or, at least, that’s where my address is now. I travel mostly. I guess you can say my home is Samsonite, U.S.A.”
“Wow.”
“Believe me, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. Actually, this is supposed to be my vacation week. But I got a call that made it sound like your town was on fire. This current mayor you’ve got? A lot of businesses here really seem to hate him. And do you know what the number one rule of freelance politics is, Court?”
“No, ma’am.”
Sasha laughed. “Don’t call me ‘ma’am’. That’s what you call my mother. Court, the number one rule of freelance politics is that where there’s fire, there’s money, and the people who hired me in your town have a lot of it. So what brings you here today?”
Court was so caught up in her talk -- her hard, smoky voice and easy confidence -- that she almost didn’t hear the question. “I just wanted to volunteer.”
“Uh-huh,” Sasha said, passive, like she wasn’t buying it.
“I’m gonna be a senior this year. I want to major in Political Science in college, but my grades…”
“Not that great, huh? So, your school counselor told you to volunteer in local politics so you’d have something to put on your admission application that looks better than an ‘A’.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Here we are!” Sasha said, and ushered Court into a booth, this one much smaller than Farley Daniels HQ, but still with a large sign adorning its top, and under it, a table and chair, and a stack of cardboard boxes that came up to her head. “What I need from you is to stand here and hand these out to anyone who passes.” Sasha took a box cutter and sliced open one of the boxes. Out of it, she pulled an ugly red, white and blue t-shirt with the councilman’s name on it, an exact copy of the tack all the old people volunteers had been wearing. “Think you can do it?”
“You want me to stand here all day?”
“That’s politics, kid.”
“But what if they don’t want one?”
“Then they don’t want one. Give it to somebody else. That’s a great blouse, by the way.”
Court smiled, for a little minute not thinking about the braces still on her teeth. All these years later, and still braces on her teeth. “Thanks.”
“No problem. It makes me really sorry that I have to do this.” And Sasha took the councilman’s ugly campaign shirt in her hands and put it over Court. She gave Court a look of contrition. “It helps to have a Poli-Sci degree in politics, as it does plenty of volunteer work, good grades, blah blah blah. But that’s nothing compared to who you know. And now, you know me. Welcome aboard.”
Court watched Sasha walk off, the crowd clearing the way for her, whether they knew it or not.
“Hey, Sig, over here!”
Sigmund found Franny where she’d told her on the phone she’d be, hanging out on the bleachers of Tad Hilliard Field. With her were the other two usual suspects from her eighth grade lunch table: Robin Hall, in her black NOFX sweater -- as always, even in the summertime, when it was scorching hot outside, and Kevin Stoker -- Mr. Woodward and Bernstein himself -- who, as always, was fiddling with a camera strapped around his neck, pointing through the fence and snapping shots of the pitcher every time he threw the ball. They were isolated on the bleachers from the rest of the crowd, who were mostly cheering parents and Little League baseball enthusiasts, all-consumed with the game that was underway on the field before them. Sigmund found Franny and the rest of them less than impressed by the game.
“You get a ride?” Franny said.
“I’m here, ain’t I?” Sigmund replied.
“With your sister?” Robin said. “She’s kind of weird, huh?”
“Nah, she’s just on her perpetual period, and she likes to take it out on me. Like I invented menstrual cramps. So are we riding rides, or what?”
“That depends on the hard boiled reporter over here,” Robin said, rolling her eyes at Stoker, who was making adjustments on his camera, twisting the focus and looking through the viewfinder.
“Sorry if I’m a perfectionist. I just don’t want to shoot wrong and waste a roll of expensive film here. You know, I’m getting paid for this.”
“What do you mean?” Sigmund said.
“He means that he may get paid for this,” Robin said, “if the podunk Times thinks any of his shots are any good.”
“I’ll tell you something, smart ass,” Stoker said, dropping the camera to his lap and turning to her. “The editor at the Viscauga Bee--”
“You mean your daddy’s friend,” Robin laughed.
“Whatever. The newspaper editor told me that he will pay me for good shots, which I intend to get. Because I’m awesome.”
“Big deal,” Robin said. “It’s just the same old dumb rides as last year. Like you’re reinventing the Ferris Wheel, or something.”
Sigmund watched them argue back and forth, as they always did during lunch, and then was distracted by Franny tapping her shoulder, saying, “Hey, look who it is!” Sigmund followed Franny’s point, and saw a familiar kid in the batter’s box. He was showing incredible focus, eyes on the pitcher as the pitcher wound up, and ignoring the “Hey Batter Hey Batter Hey Batter” chatter from the third baseman. “Isn’t that Devon Grant?”
Sigmund saw that it was Devon, the kid from her science lab who, undeniably, had had a major crush on her all year. He had followed her in the halls, dropped his books in front of her, giving him an excuse to chat Sigmund up (“Oh, clumsy me!”), and there was even a rumor he had bribed Dr. Hendrie to make them be lab partners together.
“Jeez, Sig, one look at you and he won’t need a long bat to hit that ball,” Franny laughed.
“Up yours.”
“You wanna bet?” And with that, Franny stood up in the silent bleachers, and cuffed her hands around her lips. “Hey Devon! Siggy Preston came to see you! Damn boy, look at those biceps!”
As if Franny had just pulled a string attached to the batter, Devon Grant pivoted around in his box, and looked back at them. Sigmund ducked low, practically kissing the bleachers, hoping no one would see her. Pretty easy to do, since all eyes stayed on Franny, including Devon’s, as a ball went whizzing behind him, and planted firmly in the catcher’s glove.
“Strike!” the Umpire yelled.
“You are the queen witch of the universe,” Sigmund said, her face glued to the metal floor.
“It’s just too easy,” Franny said, smiling her sinister smile, as if patting herself on the back. Then, she turned to Robin and Stoker, still arguing, and moved between them. “Hey honeymooners, let’s go.”
They stood up and exited the bleachers, Franny still drawing sneers from angry parents, and some of them arguing over the controversial error, chalked up to Devon Grant: “If he can’t take a little chatter from the stands, then it’s his error, not spectator interference!”
Staying low and stealthy, Sigmund followed her friends. As she went, she happened to glance over her shoulder, and see Devon getting chewed a new one by his coach at the dugout: “If you can’t take chatter from a little tail, then what the hell are you doing on my baseball diamond?”
She had to admit she felt a little bad for the creep.
They took the money their parents had given them for the day and bought Italian Shaved Ice to start, then purchased their ride bracelets from the Rides kiosk and began making their rounds. Since all the thrill rides had long lines and wait times, they went to the kiddie section. Stoker worried about this at first, thinking they were too old and wouldn’t be admitted, but they quickly found out that the carnies didn’t care, as long as they were wearing their green bracelets.
So they did the bungee swing and ran through the Spook House, pretending to jump at the robot monsters that sprung out at them, and Robin at one point shadowboxing a cheap fake spider that hung from the ceiling and had probably been hanging there for years, one of its red eyes missing and its rubber peeling in the heavy, humid air. And Stoker snapped his pictures and Robin made fun of him, telling him this was all real “Oscar” worthy.
“It’s the Pulitizer, dumb ass!” Stoker corrected her.
And they rode the kiddie coaster, which was just a circular track perched on the top of a flatbed trailer. It had a tiny camel hump that subtracted a tiny bit of gravity, and Franny led them all in putting their hands up and screaming as loud as they could, like it was a great time. They ignored the parents standing in line with their kids, checking their watches and looking annoyed.
Then the crowds began shifting in Purcell Park. The long lines began forming at the food kiosks, and not a picnic table was to be found that wasn’t occupied by a ravenous Viscaugan biting into a corn dog, quesadilla, pizza in a cup, spare rib, monster cheeseburger, funnel cake, or deep fried Oreo. Sigmund, Franny, Robin, and Stoker attacked the big rides. They lined up and strapped in, doing the Free Fall first, then the Loop-de-Loop, then the Top Spin, going round and round in a fifty-foot long, forty seat gondola, a hundred feet up in the air, then back down again in less than two seconds. This time, their screams were real, and they couldn’t put their hands down until gravity allowed it.
Finally, they ended up at the Hangman. It was a Gravitron-type ride that had been set-up every year at the Expo since before Sigmund could remember, but this was the first time she had ever approached it for a ride. As they stood in line, she laughed with them, and acted nonplussed by the daring they were about to do, but every once in a while, as they inched closer to the gate, she would sneak a look over her shoulder, and look up at it. It was a gigantic circle, like a flat Ferris Wheel. The riders would stand up, shoulder-to-shoulder, and strap themselves in. Then, the wheel would spin, going faster and faster, and eventually lift up, forming a near right angle with the ground. Sigmund wasn’t sure what it was about the ride that gave her pause. Maybe it was the speed, or just the spinning, the riders going so fast they became a blur of bright colors and flesh tones, their screams swamped by Journey’s “Stone in Love”. Or maybe it was the bad experience she had had with Courtney last year. Sigmund had given plenty of thought to riding the Hangman back then. She had even parked herself by the line, totally ready to go ahead. But Courtney had really pissed her off. The big creep wouldn’t stop prodding her to ride it with her, tugging on Sigmund’s shirt and damn near ripping it off. “There’s nothing to be afraid of!” her big sister had told her, even though she’d kept insisting she wasn’t afraid. “I’ll hold your hand the whole way!” But Sigmund had pulled away from Courtney, yelling at her to not stretch her shirt out, and then storming off. She would have ridden it that day, if Courtney hadn’t been so annoying. As Courtney rode the ride, Sigmund just sat on a picnic table, fixing her shirt and making sure it wasn’t ruined.
“So what’s the point of this stupid thing?” Sigmund asked Franny as they moved ever-closer. “I don’t get it.”
“I don’t know. It goes around.”
“So let’s just go ride the Ferris Wheel.”
“No way!” Franny said. “This one goes so fast that you end up getting sucked against your seat. It’s, like, how they train astronauts. Way fun.”
“Sounds gay,” Sigmund said.
“Actually,” Stoker said, “when the thing is upright and going super fast, it’s possible to actually unbuckle your seatbelt and walk along the rail without falling straight down.”
“Bullshit,” Robin said.
“No it’s not. Some kid did it one time at a fair in Mississippi. He took off his safety strap and walked around the whole circle. He never fell once.”
“What about when the ride started slowing down?” Robin said.
“He just kept holding onto the rail. It was just the same as being in his seat, only he wasn’t strapped in.”
“Come on, Stoker, you’re full of it,” Sigmund said.
“I read about it in the paper!” Stoker held the camera up to his eye, and looked through the viewfinder, suddenly overcome with a fantasy. “Man, I’d love to get that picture. The kid in perfect focus, hanging on for dear life, and all the others strapped in behind him. Student Pulitzer-worthy.”
“You know something, Stoker?” Robin said to him, point blank. “For a guy who wants to be a journalist, you have a real tough time with fact.”
“See, Sig,” Franny said, ignoring their bickering, “it goes so fast that gravity just keeps you there. It’s, like, if you spit, it just comes right back at you.”
“Gross,” Sigmund said. There was a lump in her throat.
When there was no more line ahead of them, the carnie-in-charge, a pimply-faced kid with dirty hair and a zombie-like expression, counted them as they approached the gate. But before Sigmund could enter, the carnie stopped Stoker ahead of her. “What do you think you’re doing?” he said.
“I’m going on the ride,” Stoker said.
“Not with that camera you’re not.” The carnie pointed to a sign next to him, which stated that all personal belongings needed to be stored in a bin.
“But they let me take it on all the other rides.”
Sigmund rolled her eyes. This wasn’t true, and they had been through this same dance on every ride they had gone on this afternoon. She could recite Stoker’s next words from memory.
“I don’t know if you’re familiar with a little document called the Constitution. Specifically the First Amendment? It states I can take my camera wherever I want as a citizen of--”
“Not on this ride you can’t. It can hurt somebody. Either leave it with me or don’t ride.”
“This is ridiculous,” Sigmund said. “Come on, Stoker, just give it to me. I’ll hold onto it.”
“No way, Sig,” Franny objected. “Stoker, quit being a twirp.”
Stoker looked the carnie in the eye for a long second, then shrugged. “If this thing isn’t here when I get back, I’m gonna come looking for you.”
“I’ll be right here,” the carnie said, then held his hand out. Stoker took the camera from around his shoulder, and reluctantly put it in the guy’s hand.
Once she was strapped in and the carnie came around and did a perfunctory check, which is to say he hardly checked at all, Sigmund tightened and double-tightened her belt, having no faith in the thin thread of nylon that would soon separate her from the ground far, far below. Then, there was a sudden jolt from somewhere underneath the metal grill she was standing on, and she heard the rusty, creaky gears turning. She heard Franny and Robin scream on either side of her, and then, from somewhere behind her, a guitar strum over a screeching, overmodulated PA system.
The circle began to turn.
The guitar picked up as the circle gained speed, and the distorted music was overcome by more screams to her left and right.
“Hangman!” a kid screamed.
“Those crazy nights/I do remember/in my youth,” Steve Perry wailed.
Sigmund closed her eyes. She felt the wind rush by her face, faster and faster, and her hair lifted off her shoulders and hung to her left, as if trying to escape from her scalp. Suddenly, Sigmund felt her head jerk back against the hard cushion behind her. She opened her eyes, and saw nothing but a spinning chasm, bordered by color.
Then, there was another hard creak of gears beneath her, and she suddenly felt herself lifting up, then coming back down, then lifting up again, ever higher. The colors in front of her melted deeply into each other, and her head felt as if it were glued to her cushion now, along with her extremities. Now, the initial fear she had felt only seconds earlier -- the lazy carnie checking the thin thread of nylon, the gears that sounded like they were missing their nuts and bolts -- washed away, and she felt a peace come over her. It was a chemical reaction in the core of her body. Her skin popped out in little pimples, and a chill crossed her gums and peaked out through the crevices in her braces. She smiled, and exhaled a long, thrilled breath that felt like it had been cooped up inside her gut all her life.
As the circle stopped lifting and the screams reached a critical mass, Sigmund saw that she was looking straight down, if only for a brief moment before she would come down again. Her eyes were wide open, and not daring to close. Then she did something that was unthinkable only seconds earlier. With all the will in her body, she tried lifting her head up from the cushion. It was tough-going at first, like bringing your hand away from a sucking vacuum cleaner hose, but it was possible. Then, she put her hands on the metal bars on either side, the ones separating her seat from those of Franny and Robin, and pulled her whole body forward. The force of the gravity was crushing, but she realized that it was possible to do it. All you had to do was unbuckle the strap, and step forward. You could walk around the whole circle, as long as you really, really wanted to, and held onto the metal rails. Stoker wasn’t full of it after all.
“Daniels for Mayor t-shirt?” Court shouted enthusiastically, holding the arms of the t-shirt out in front of her, presenting it to an old couple walking by. They seemed not to notice her.
“Daniels for Mayor?” she said to somebody else, softer as they passed right by the booth. Nothing. They just kept biting into their corndog, and moving on with their day at the fair.
“Vote Daniels! Free t-shirt?” she said to somebody else as they walked by, this time barely saying it above a whisper, and barely finishing the pitch at all. She wadded up the t-shirt and threw it back in the box, where it landed on top of a thick stack of others just like it. She fell back in her chair and crossed her arms, checking the time on her pink Swatch watch: 6 p.m.
Damn.
The daylight was beginning to disappear over the Park. In the distance, she could see the baseball diamond, long since cleared of its little leaguers, and now stocked with rows of metal canisters being tediously checked by technicians, setting up for the big fireworks display. In a few hours, it would be over, and all she’d have to show for it would be half a box of lousy t-shirts.
What a waste of a day. The only thing that had kept her sitting here since noon was the stupid volunteer credit she could someday claim on her college application, which would theoretically impress some admissions councilor at Auburn, depending on what kind of a day she was having. If the counselor had enjoyed the same kind of depressing, miserable slog of a day as Court, then she’d probably turn down an application from the President of the United States.
But there was also the campaign advisor lady. Miss Straton? Ms. Stratton? Court wondered if she was married. If she was, there was no way it was the kind of master/slave marriage she knew about -- one like her parents had: the wife cooking the dinner and the husband eating it, getting A-1 steak sauce all over his face like some kind of a savage caveman. No way. She had to wear the pants. She had to get served, not the other way around. She was too confident, too assertive. Court instantly wanted to do right by her, and now, hours since she had last seen Sasha Stratton, the impression still sat heavily on her.
“Hey! Courtney Preston!”
Court sat up in her chair and looked around for the voice yelling at her. She quickly found that it was Lizzy Kaufman from her Bio Lab, standing twenty yards away by the Shaved Ice kiosk. Surrounding her was her usual clique from Pratt: Annabelle Sanders, Lillian Hall, and Daniel Fish (so cute) in his usual New York Yankees jersey and backwards baseball hat. She smiled and waved back at them.
“Nice shirt!” Lizzy shouted.
They walked on with their shaved ice, leaving Court to look down and see that she was still wearing the stupid shirt she was hocking, with its ugly red, white and blue. She’d almost forgotten she was wearing it. And did she smile at them? God, her stupid braces. All these years later, and still the stupid braces on her teeth. She was the only one in eleventh grade -- now twelfth grade -- who still had them.
“Hey Courtney.”
Another voice came at her, this one softer and coming from a shadow casting over her table. She looked up and saw that it was some kid in a dirt-stained baseball uniform. “Yeah?” she said.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine,” Court lied.
There was a long, awkward pause between them as the kid bopped nervously in place, his eyes moving around, searching for what to say. “I’m Devon Grant. I go to school with Sig.”
“Oh, yeah. Look, I don’t know where she is. I’ve been here all day.”
“It’s cool. Actually, I’m not looking for her. Just wanted to say ‘hi’.”
“Hi...,” Court said, and let her confusion linger, just as the kid was doing. “You want a t-shirt, or something?”
“What t-shirt?”
“I’m giving away t-shirts for Councilman Daniels. He’s running for mayor, in case you haven’t heard.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, quickly reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. “How much?”
“Nothing. They’re free. That’s why I’m giving them away.”
“Oh, right, you did say that.”
Court watched the kid fold up his wallet and put it back in his pocket. Reflexively, she laughed, and stood up. What was it with this kid? All day long she couldn’t give anything away to the voters of Viscauga, and suddenly some eighth grade geek friend of her sister’s was ready to pay her for it.
“So, are you giving a lot of them away?” he asked.
“Not really. People keep passing me by, but it’s like they don’t even see me. I’ve been out here for hours.”
“Well, maybe you just need to change up your pitch a little. It’s, like, what Coach tells us--. I play baseball, by the way.”
“I figured from the uniform,” Court said, again laughing. Devon was nervous and awkward, but she couldn’t help but admire him. He had a kind of confidence buried underneath all his middle school clumsiness.
“Right,” Devon said, laughing back. “Well, Coach tells us that when we keep throwing and throwing and getting the same hits, we just gotta change up our pitch. And, we’re, like, ‘Coach, obviously!’ But what he says to us is right. It may seem like the obvious thing, but it’s not always easy to do. You try it.”
“Try what?”
“Your pitch. Show me what you’ve been doing all day.” Devon reached into the box on the table, came out with a t-shirt, and handed it to Court. After a second’s thought, she took it, and watched Devon walk away, and then come back at her, acting like he was minding his own business, looking around at nothing in particular.
“Excuse me, sir?” Court said to him half-heartedly, under her breath. “Vote Farley Daniels for Mayor? Here’s a free t-shirt?”
Devon snapped out of his character and grabbed the t-shirt from her. “YOU CALL THAT ENTHUSIASM?” he yelled, so loud it drew the attention of several people nearby. “DO YOU WANNA GIVE AWAY THESE T-SHIRTS OR NOT?”
“Yes?” Court said, suddenly finding herself falling back into her chair, pushed over by the sudden power in his voice. Even so, she felt herself still smiling, her mouth wide open, her braces in full view, looking back at him. His impression of a balls-to-the-wall baseball coach was pretty great.
“YES, WHAT?”
“Yes, I want to give away these t-shirts.”
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
“YES, I want to give away these t-shirts.”
“YOU WANT TO GIVE AWAY THESE T-SHIRTS, OR YOU WILL GIVE AWAY THESE T-SHIRTS?”
“I will give away these t-shirts!”
‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
Court stood up fast and looked him in the eye. “I WILL GIVE AWAY THESE T-SHIRTS!” She grabbed the t-shirt out of his clutches and held it high above her head. “FARLEY DANIELS FOR MAYOR! FREE T-SHIRT!”
Next to her, Devon grabbed another t-shirt out of the box and joined in. “VOTE DANIELS FOR MAYOR! COME AND GET YOUR FREE T-SHIRT OVER HERE!”
“I’ll take one!” she heard somebody say, and Court tossed one at him.
“Over here!” said another, waffle cone in one hand and the other empty, wrist waiving and waiting to receive. Devon was happy to oblige.
In just a few minutes, Court and Devon, working together, had given away more inventory than Court had by herself in the last three hours. Their voices pierced the oncoming night, overpowering the cacophony of carnival chaos: the calliope on the Merry-Go-Round; the repetition of “Dr. Feelgood” coming from the Swinging Pirate Ship; the barkers hocking their fresh-squeezed lemonade and deep fried Oreos. In Court’s little corner of the Expo, it could be argued that she and Devon actually gave the vendors around them a second wind, those who had been in the heat all day, wiping sweat from their skin, huffing in the heavy air. They took a cue from the youthful spry of the kids, and raised again their gravelly voices, their barking bringing folks back for second helpings, and another go at their shooting galleries and strength testers.
Pretty soon, Court did what she had spent all afternoon thinking was impossible: she opened up another box. She took her car key, and split open the tape. Then she and Devon tossed out more t-shirts. Then, she opened another box, then another, and then another.
“And then there was one,” Devon said, after pitching out the last t-shirt in the latest box they had powered through, and looking down at a pile of vacant cardboard. Court saw that there was indeed just one full box among them.
“Yep, looks that way!” Court said. She picked up the box, put it on the table, and split open the tape with her car keys. “I really can’t thank you enough. You turned this around for me.”
“No problem. Um, anytime…”
For the first time since he had arrived at her tent, Court heard Devon go speechless, and look around in his head for words. The longer he looked, she felt an awkward distance growing between them, and sensed that he was feeling the same thing. Was he trying to ask her something? She hoped he wasn’t going to ask her what she thought he was going to ask her. How would something like that even work? She and a kid his age? A freshie? It’d be like dating her sister. Truly gross.
“Creepy Courtney, Creepy Courtney!”
Court looked up from the box she had just opened and saw Sigmund sprinting toward her, yelling louder and looking more confident and cocky than usual. Court saw a hot dog in her hand, packed with the greasy, sloppy works, and next to her was that dork bitch friend of hers -- Fran? Franny? Anyway, she was the girl who had spent the night at their house one night, and had talked Sigmund into wrapping the toilet seat in seran wrap, the idea being that Court wouldn’t see it when she sat down. It didn’t work. Court had caught it, seeing the reflection of the bathroom light floating above the water. Still, the little bitch had led Sigmund in keeled-over laughter anyway, like they had gotten the best of her.
“What ya doing, sis?” Sigmund said, taking a bite of her dog. “Cool t-shirt!”
“What are y’all up to?” Court said, trying to sound civil. Trying to be an adult.
“Nothing much! You told me to check in with you at that big tent over there. I didn’t see you.”
“That’s because I’ve been over here. Anyway, that was hours ago. Is this the first time you’re noticing?”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot you told me to check in every hour like I’m a two year old, or something. We got caught up.”
Court rolled her eyes at the little twirp, and fiddled with the t-shirts in the box. It didn’t occur to her that she was stalling. Sigmund had thrown off her rhythm, and this last box would have to wait.
“Hi, Devon, I didn’t see you standing there!” Franny said to Devon, batting her eyelashes in overdramatic fashion. “Good game earlier, huh?”
“Hiya, Franny,” Devon said, giving her eye contact and a quick smile just to be polite. “That wasn’t cool, you know. You’re not supposed to yell at somebody when they’re at bat.”
“The other guys on the field were doing it.”
“Yeah, but it’s not supposed to come from my team’s bleachers.”
“Sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t know you owned them. I guess I just wanted to let you know that ole Siggy here came to see you play. Good game, right, Sig?”
“Yeah, sure,” Sigmund said, feeling Franny wrap her arm around her shoulder. She looked down at the ground, away from Devon.
“You wanna finish out this box?” Devon said, turning to Court.
“Yeah, let’s,” Court said.
“Hey, Court, guess what!” Sigmund said as Court brought out a handful of shirts. “I rode the Hangman.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Hangman! You know, the ride you tried to get me to go on with you last year.”
“No kidding,” Court said, looking out at the crowd passing by her.
“Yeah, it was really a lot of fun. You were right about something for once.”
Court rolled her eyes at this, and tuned Sigmund out. Now, somewhere off in the distance, her little sister was spinning her hand with the hot dog in it high over her head, imitating some stupid ride she had just done.
“It spins around really fast,” she was saying, “and then starts rising really high, and before you know it you’re looking straight down at the ground, and getting sucked-- Oh crap!”
Court heard her sister stop talking, abruptly. She looked and saw that Sigmund had suddenly frozen, her eyes looking down at the table, her hand now void of its hot dog. Court followed her gaze down to the t-shirts, completely soiled with slaw, relish, ketchup and mustard. She could hardly speak through her epileptic rage. “Are...you...kidding...me?”
“I’m sor--”
“You’re sorry?” Court yelled. “I was supposed to hand these out. You ruined them!”
“It was an accident.”
“You’re an accident! I hate you, you stupid booger. Get out of here!”
Court watched Sigmund back away from her. There were looks on both sisters’ faces they had rarely seen on each other: ones of genuine contrition, rage, and shock.
“Go!” Court screamed again.
Slowly, Sigmund turned around, and walked away. Court watched her little friend join her, and looked back down at the box. For a second, she tried to clean up the mess, but her hands just became covered in junky slop, and she resorted to using the t-shirts to towel off. Vaguely, she sensed a hand hovering over her shoulder, and then felt it come down. “My sister, ladies and gentlemen,” she said to Devon, and wiped away a tear.
“I’m sorry about that. You know, we still got plenty of them handed out.”
Court kept her head down. She pressed her hands hard into the shirts, packing them down, feeling that if she really wanted to, she could break the table. Then, she looked up, and saw the lights coming on in the park around her: the thick bulbs on the food and game booths, the bright halogens and neon luminescence, lining the Spook House and the Earthquake Shak-y Shack and all the rides, their glow distorted by swarming gnats and mosquitoes, all appearing blurred in her vision, and shaking as her body did.
Then, ahead of her, was a sight offset by the lights and the night: a vision that had been tattooed in her memory since arriving in the Farley Daniels tent hours ago.
“Oh, shit,” Court said as she saw Sasha Stratton coming toward her. Sasha hadn’t seen her, though -- not yet, thank God. The tall, confident woman in the white suit was walking and talking with a man in a huge Sumo Wrestler suit, the kind you wore in one of those stupid games where you stepped into a ring with somebody else in the same Sumo Wrestler suit, and tried to bounce the other person out. Court sprung into action, closing the box and handing it to Devon. “Here, take this. Get it out of here!”
“Where do you want me to put it?”
“Anywhere, I don’t care. Just get it out of here.”
“They probably won’t care that you--”
“Just go!” Court yelled, and Devon ran off, box in hand.
“Hello, faithful volunteer!” Sasha said with cheer as she approached Court, who had done her best in the fifteen seconds between shoving the box into the kid’s hand and right now to wipe away her tears and stand tall with confidence behind the table. “It’s Courtney, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, I’m sorry -- Court.”
“Sure,” Court said, forcing a smile and closing her mouth, remembering her braces.
“Wow, look at this,” Sasha said, seeing all the empty boxes on the ground. “You really moved them. Really impressive. You’re the best table we’ve had all day!”
“Thanks. Piece of cake.”
“And confident, too. Court, have you met our candidate?”
Court saw Farley Daniels, standing next to Sasha, looking uncomfortable in his puffy Sumo Wrestler suit. “Thank you for your help today,” he said. “Forgive me for not shaking your hand. It’s kind of hard to do in this get-up.”
“It’s okay, sir,” Court said, remembering the dried mustard that was still, surely, staining both her hands, which she tucked into her pockets.
“Councilman, Court here would like to major in Political Science when she goes to college next year.”
“That’s great,” Daniels said, then turned to Sasha. “Remind me why I’m in this damn thing again?”
“And the lessons just keep on coming,” Sasha said. “Court, one thing to remember in politics is optics. I have told Councilman Daniels here many times today that when the people, many of whom are voters, see him in this ridiculous outfit, sparring in the ring of some folksy carnival game, they will see him as a man of the people -- just another citizen of…”
“Viscauga,” Court said.
“Right! They will see you as just another citizen of the great town of Viscauga, and thus they will be more likely to vote for you.”
“I never had to do this when I ran for city council.”
“Different races require different optics.” Sasha looked at Court. “Now that you’re done here, would you like to come watch the match? I’m assembling a number of volunteers to lead the crowd in cheering on our candidate. It’ll be a great photo op.”
“Photo op?” Court asked.
“An opportunity to get this guy’s mug in the paper in front of his army of supporters. Come along.”
So Court stepped over the boxes and followed Sasha and the waddling councilman. As she went, she looked over her shoulder for Devon, who had long since vanished into the bright night with the box of stained, soiled t-shirts.
“Jeez, what a tool,” Franny was saying. “Your sister needs a major dose of the good stuff. She’s gotta relax.”
Sigmund was hardly listening. She just let Franny talk as they walked through the crowd, her eyes peeled for Robin and Stoker, who had gone off to find their own food.
“It’s, like, try some pot, bitch.”
Secretly, Sigmund rolled her eyes at this. It had been Franny’s solution for everybody’s problem all year, ever since last summer when, she claimed, she had smoked a joint at theatre camp.
They found Robin and Stoker back at the bleachers of Tad Hilliard field, which were once again being swarmed by people who were watching the technicians in the outfield, packing them with fireworks, checking the charges. Meanwhile, Stoker was pointing his camera around, snapping pictures of the happy kids with ice cream-smeared faces, parents checking their watches, and others lighting up sparklers to waive around -- all to Robin’s great annoyance.
“You guys didn’t miss anything,” Robin said to the girls as they sat next to her on the stands. “It’s all the same old stuff as last year. Stoker here thinks it’s cutting edge photojournalism.”
“You see any other high-end cameras out here?” Stoker said. “When it’s all over, they’ll want a document of it. And who do you think they’re gonna go with? Some rinky-dink Kodak disposable, or me?”
“You’re a rinky-dink Kodak disposable,” Robin said.
“You guys won’t believe what happened,” Franny said. “Siggy’s sister had a total conniption fit. Like, a full-blown melt down--”
“Will you just shut up?” Sigmund said. “It was bad. I feel bad for her.”
“Feel bad for who?” Robin said.
“Who do you think? Sigmund’s sister: Miss High-and-Mighty handing out stupid t-shirts.”
“I totally screwed up,” Sigmund said, resting her chin in her palms, and her elbows on her knees. “I made a total jerk out of myself in front of Devon, too.”
“Oh, girl, is that what this is all about? Huh, Miss Stressy Depressy?”
Sigmund looked at Franny, who was grinning ear-to-ear, like she had just discovered the cure for cancer.
“I can’t believe you didn’t pick up on it! Siggy, Devon doesn’t like you. He likes your sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“All those times he was following you around, bribing Dr. Hendrie to be your lab partner? He was trying to get close to your sister. Tonight’s the first time he saw his chance.”
“You’re full of it,” Sigmund said. She looked away from Franny and out at the field, where the men were making their final round of inspections. She curled her hands in her palms into fists, and felt them growing tighter, some natural reaction she was not consciously affecting. She closed her eyes and saw the world go black, and heard only the sounds: the screaming and the music, and somewhere, far away, Journey’s “Stone in Love”. Even though the Hangman was far away, she heard Journey over everything else.
Then, she stood up on the bleachers and faced her friends. “Robin, you’re right. This is just the same stupid Expo as last year. I’m gonna do it.”
They looked at her with confusion. “Do what?” Robin said.
“Stoker, you still want that picture?” Sigmund said.
“What picture?”
“You said it was possible, right? Like, you said that some kid in Mississippi did it?”
“No!” Robin said, figuring it out.
“Yes,” Franny smiled, doing the same.
“Like, if you unbuckle the strap and hang on tight. Somebody’s done it, but nobody’s ever gotten a picture of it.”
“What picture?” Stoker said. He seemed lost in his work, but was desperately trying to catch up to whatever they were talking about.
“You idiot,” Robin said, shoving Stoker. “She’s talking about surfing the Hangman. Tell her right now it’s an urban legend.”
“No way, some kid did it. In Mississippi, I think.”
“You think?” Robin said. “Before, you knew. Sig, it’s all bullshit. It’s not true.”
They watched Sigmund jump to the ground, looking at them as she made her way backward, toward the Hangman. “This place needs a little change, and we’re gonna give it to them!”
Court heard the volunteers around her moan in anxiety as Farley Daniels -- “their” candidate -- hit the mat once again, landing on the squishy, foamy back of his Sumo suit. Next to her, Sasha shook her head and mumbled, “The whole point of a Photo Op is to get a shot of your candidate doing a good thing. Not making an ever-loving ass out of himself.”
Court guessed she understood, but didn’t see how it was possible for the councilman to do anything but make an ass out of himself in the giant Sumo suit, which, presently, he flopped around in, struggling to stand up. Finally, Farley’s opponent walked over to him and held out his hand, which Farley took and used to hoist himself back up.
“Don’t let him help you up!” Sasha gasped. She made gestures at the man with the camera, who was standing across the mat and shrugging his shoulders, baffled at the whole display.
As Sasha stressed and gestured, Court looked around at the other volunteers, all of them older -- much older -- and only matching her with the t-shirts they wore. She saw them drumming up fake enthusiasm, chanting “Farley! Farley! Farley!” at the top of their lungs, trying so hard to convince themselves they meant it. Or maybe they did mean it. Maybe their excitement was real. But why? Why did they care about this dork, flopping around on the mat and trying to prove he was a “man of the people”, proving he could be a good mayor by doing something that was totally unrelated to the job? They must have wanted something from him -- wanted it so bad they were happy to give up a whole day of rides and games and sticky food to wear a t-shirt that chafed and bother other people to do the same.
So, maybe she had more in common with these other volunteers than she thought. She had wanted something just the same: to get rid of t-shirts, so she could get a good recommendation, so she could get into college, so she could do...what?
Last year, there had been nothing on her mind but rides and games and sticky food. She remembered the ride that Sigmund had told her about, the Hangman. She saw it now, spinning fast and high over the Expo at a near-ninety degree angle, its border and center lit up bright with multicolor lights, looking like a kaleidoscope of color. Siggy had been so afraid. She hadn’t admitted it, though. She was at that age where you don’t tell the world about stuff like that. But she had been afraid, and Court had called her out, and she had run away, using her stretched-out shirt as an excuse. Court had felt bad for her, and had thought for a second about chasing after her. But then it was her turn to ride, and she rode it, alone.
“Spread out your legs!” Sasha was yelling at Farley. “Center your gravity!”
Farley obviously wasn’t hearing his campaign advisor over the shouts of the crowd and the whistle of the referee. His opponent came at him hard, and knocked him out of the circle for the third and final time, where Farley fell on his back, and swam around like an upturned tortoise.
“My God,” Sasha said. “This is so pathetic. I’m not a wrestling coach here. Hey you!”
Court watched Sasha walk over to the victorious winner, who was smiling and proudly accepting the boo’s coming from the volunteers. She couldn’t hear over their booing what Sasha was saying to him, but she presumed it had something to do with staging a victory for the defeated -- staging a picture where Farley stood, hands up, over his fallen opponent.
Then, Court saw a kid walk past Sasha and the other dork in the Sumo suit. She was wearing a black sweater with a punk rock logo on this hot night, and storming right toward her. “Courtney!” Robin said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m a friend of Sig’s. Listen: your sister is about to do something really stupid.”
Sigmund found the Hangman to be nearly deserted. It was the end of a long day, and the crowd had migrated to the baseball diamond, where all there was left to do was watch the Fireworks, and go home. She ran for it at full speed, Franny and Stoker trailing close behind, and Stoker checking his camera settings as he went. “I’ll be on the other side of the gap!” he yelled to her. “I’m setting it on high speed, so it should get you in perfect focus!”
They slowed down when they got to the small line of eight or nine others, the carnie waving them past and not bothering to count. Instead, he bothered with a blonde girl, who was smiling at him flirtatiously and suggestively straddling the barrier fence separating the ride from the line. “I’ll let you hit the switch,” he told the blonde, as Stoker crept behind him and onto the ride, holding his camera low and out of sight.
The riders spread out around the circle, and Sigmund and Franny found a dead spot of seats. They strapped in next to each other, and waited, Sigmund looking down at her belt, and wondering if she should bother to buckle it at all. After a quick moment, she decided to keep it buckled, thinking the carnie would come around, and even in his laziness, would spot somebody who wasn’t properly strapped in. Twenty feet away, across the gap, she saw Stoker strapping himself in. She saw him tuck the camera behind him for the moment, and he stood up prim and proper (the perfect rider) as the carnie walked onto the metal grate, and made his rounds. Sigmund saw that he hardly looked at anything. Stoker could have a neutron bomb on his head, and the carnie would still be looking at the blonde, who was sitting at the controls, smiling and waiting for his signal.
Finally, as the carnie saw that all was good, he walked out of the circle and down to his controls, and Sigmund gripped tight the metal railing in front of her. She felt Franny’s shoulder rub up against hers.
“Screw em’ all, Siggy,” Franny said. “This is gonna make you a legend.”
Sigmund waited.
She looked around at the world in front of her, and tried to imagine it beneath her. She tightened her grip.
“Wait, don’t start the ride yet. Don’t!”
She heard her sister from outside the gate, looked and saw that Courtney was coming through it, and right at her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Go away!” Sigmund said. She saw Courtney look down, and then felt her insides constrict as she pulled tight on her straps.
“Your little friend told me what you’re planning to do,” Court said. “What kind of stupid moron thinks of something like that? Her?”
“Hey, I’m just here for the ride,” Franny said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sigmund said. She closed her eyes, feeling the metal floor beneath her rattle and shake. It felt flimsy, like it could give out at any second.
“Hey!” the carnie yelled from the gate behind them. “You riding or not, Sister Sledge?”
“Go away, Courtney,” Sigmund said. “I’m fine.”
“Whatever,” Court said, and she threw herself into the seat next to Sigmund. She strapped herself in. “You wanna be a child, you can be a child.”
As soon as Court buckled her belt and pulled her strap, there was a sudden jolt from underneath, and the circle began to spin. From somewhere behind them, a screeching, distorted guitar began to strum:
Those crazy nights
I do remember
In my Youth
Sigmund heard the nuts and bolts rattle, the gears turn. Her hands gripped tighter onto the metal, feeling the decades of grime and bacteria sink into her red flesh, thinking of all the riders that had come before her, the years of use and wear-and-tear. Then the wheel began lifting, and Steve Perry wailed.
In the heat with a blue jean girl
She felt her body forced against the cushion, and to her left Franny screamed. The gravity was growing stronger, but she could keep her head floating in space. She could move it down, look at the buckle. She could move her hand to it, leave one on the railing and move the other, unbuckle it. Now, the wheel was at its zenith, and the world was below her. Now was the time. All she had to do was want it.
Those summer nights are calling
Stone in Love
She felt a hand. She looked ahead at the railing, and saw that Courtney was holding it, sandwiching Sigmund’s hand between hers and the rail. Sigmund felt the force at its critical mass, forcing her head back at what felt like a hundred times the force of gravity. All she could see was what was in front of her, a spinning barrage of colored lights and empty seats, and Stoker in the center of it all.
But she wanted to see Courtney. She really, really wanted to see Courtney.
Sigmund turned her head slightly to her right, and then felt a sudden force, as if it would turn all the way around if the cushion hadn’t been there to stop it. She opened her eyes from the shock to see her sister looking at her -- not angry, not sneering, but smiling, her lips going ear to ear and her braces shining back at Sigmund. Then, she saw Courtney scream as they came down to the ground, then spun back up again. Sigmund felt the goose flesh rise up all over her, her gums popping out in little pimples that seethed between her braces, and then she screamed, too. Together, they looked back ahead, seeing the ground far, far below, and then, just as quick as they could glimpse it, the sky far above, suddenly bursting with fireworks.
The Viscaugan Bee is a bimonthly newspaper, a nonprofit with a mostly volunteer staff, which, more often than not, finds itself at the bottom of parakeet cages while most citizens of Viscauga, Alabama read their hard-hitting local coverage in The Birmingham News. But this summer has seen a surge in circulation, mostly due to the mayoral election and the surprising announcement back in mid-June that Councilman Farley Daniels would challenge the incumbent, Lionel Kirkoff.
Initially believed to be a joke that Senior Councilman Daniels, known for skipping most City Council meetings and sleeping through the rest, would challenge such a popular and successful mayor like Kirkoff, the councilman’s fledgling campaign gained traction in two ways.
For one, he had the support of Construction Contractor Duke Gibson, known for his deep pockets and heavy influence on the town’s business leaders.
And also, an interesting picture, taken by a student photographer of all people, appeared on the front page of the July Tenth edition of the Bee. It was of two sisters -- Courtney and Sigmund Preston, said the caption -- holding hands and smiling out at the world as they rode a ride at this year’s Fourth of July Exposition at Pete Purcell Park. Behind them was a sky of brilliant color, made possible by the fireworks display, which wrapped up the carnival every year.
The photo endured itself to the town, but no one could quite say why. It was just nice, went the popular guess, to see two girls -- sisters, no less -- sharing a moment of sincere, uncorrupted joy. Many Viscaugans clipped the photo out, and hung it on their refrigerators.
The photo was not made for Councilman Farley Daniels’ campaign, but the fact that the older girl was wearing his shirt didn’t hurt him much anyway.
Thanks for reading this latest episode in “Small Town Summer.” Be sure to, ya know,
A new story drops every Thursday. If ya liked what you read, and want to get the word out, consider SHARING with your friends!