Glimmer (7 page)

She blinks at me. “It’s a
library book
,” she says as if I’ve said something stupid. “The last few pages are always just ads from the publisher, and the librarian pulls them out.”

Really? “But it felt like the story didn’t end. I mean what happened to the tribe with no name? Was that part based on a real tribe, by the way?” Because they weren’t part of Liz’s Welcome to Preston House history lesson, I hadn’t even thought of the people who had lived here before.

But, again, she gives me a weird look. “That
is
the end,” she says. “And of course it’s not real, it’s a fairy tale—not like you haven’t heard it a million times, same as me. Are you still feeling sick from yesterday?”

I can hear, or imagine I can hear, a hidden accusation in her velvet tones.
Or are you ready for the asylum?
I back off quickly. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m still . . . hungover.”

Her soft brown eyes stay fixed on me the rest of the way.

By the time Carla and I get over there, the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round have already started running and there’s a carnival excitement in the air. Kids run by with clouds of pink or blue cotton candy bigger than their heads, getting in line for Whack a Mole or the Strong Man. The smell of hot dogs grilling mingles with frying funnel cakes and elephant ears.

Carla makes a beeline for her boyfriend, Pete, a chiseled, auburn-haired hunk wearing an orange and white letterman jacket. I watch them peck chastely at each other’s lips, feeling vaguely like I’m watching two dolls make out. They’ll make beautiful children together, and if Carla has her way it’ll be soon.

Suddenly I’m enveloped by strong arms, held so tight I feel like I’m being choked.
Help!

“Hey, babe,” says an unfamiliar voice. The boy it belongs to spins me around and lunges for me, his lips crashing into mine, his stubble burning my skin, his hot tongue forcing my mouth open. He tastes like cigarette smoke.
Ugh.
I step on his foot, jerk out of his arms.

“Ow!” he yells in surprise. Then he laughs. “What the hell was that about?”

Carla rubs her forehead. “Did you guys have some fight I forgot about?”

The reality of the situation dawns on me. His grabbing and kissing me wasn’t a random assault. This guy, whose letterman jacket proudly proclaims him Dan “The Man,” felt justified and comfortable putting his hands and tongue on me, and no one else thought it was weird. Which can only mean . . . he’s my boyfriend. Or my sort-of boyfriend, at least. Or he
was
my sort-of boyfriend. Is there a proper term for a boy you don’t remember but never dumped? Oh, why didn’t Liz prepare me? And why do I let him call me
babe
?

“I love how you can be so unpredictable sometimes,” Dan says. “My wild girl.” He pulls strands of my hair out of my eyes and gazes at me fondly, as if my stepping on him is the most adorable thing any girl’s ever done. And the thing is, he’s beautiful. Sculpted, tall, sure. Dark-Eyed Boy—well, he’s hot, in an intense way. But a picture of Dark-Eyed Boy can’t convey his weird charisma, while a picture of Dan would look just as perfect as Dan looks right now, laughing in the sun. He looks golden, like a Greek god.

The kaleidoscope of my world has shifted again. And I have to get away.

Chapter 14
DARK-EYED BOY

I figure that crowds always know when something important’s about to start, so as the sun’s setting I head off in the direction of town square, where a large mob is gathering.

The few picnic tables in the square have multiplied, and spaghetti dinner’s being served on checkered tablecloths with fireflies in jars as the centerpieces for each table. At one of the many food booths, I see a woman in pigtails wearing a baker’s hat and apron and recognize Hazel, the confused lady who answered the door for us this morning. Other people are preparing plates of cookies and scones and other baked goods, but she just stands there waving at the crowd like a mascot.

As I move toward the front, no one jostles me, with or without an
excuse me
, and no one makes eye contact either. But they do move to let me pass, either silently, if they’re alone, or without stopping conversation with their friends. It’s as if when people see me they’re aware something’s taking up that piece of space—but their minds stop short of noticing that something (me) directly.

Once I realize that, I take advantage of it and weave easily through the mob, checking for Elyse.

I feel her hand on my back before I see her. “Hey,” she says. “I ran into some friends.”

“Cool, where are they?”

“In line for hot dogs. I don’t eat hot dogs,” she says. “Plus I sort of had to get away from them.”

“Your friends?”

“Just for a few minutes.”

“Act normal. You can’t let them suspect, Elyse.”

“I know, believe me. It’s just hard,” she says. “Not being able to be honest with people. I mean, I
know
I can’t tell them. . . . But it means hanging out with them feels like lying all the time. And lying is exhausting.”

I reach over and kiss the top of her head.

“What was that for?”

“For being compulsively honest. It’s something I like about you.”

A fortyish guy with male-pattern baldness steps up to the statue and speaks into a microphone, and everyone goes quiet. “My dear cit-i-zens,” he reads haltingly from his notes. “As your mayor I am proud and pleased to announce the beginning of summer fair.” Applause. “Now, before the fun com-men-ces, I have a few public-service messages. It is of utmost importance that you remember to turn off your ovens when you leave your houses.” A murmuring in the crowd. “I would also like to announce that Tim’s Hardware is running a
great
deal on floor padding. . . . Now, let’s all give it up for the Preston Trust, thanks to whose dollars we now enjoy a freshly painted library! Another round of applause. I spot Elyse’s parents ahead of us in the crowd, Jeffry’s beefy arm hooked around Liz’s shoulder.

“All right, folks,” the mayor announces. “It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for, a special Summer Falls tradition. It’s time to make the man!”

Elyse and I glance at each other.

“Did he say we’re going to ‘make a man’?” I ask.

“Weird,” she says, shrugging.

“Let him have two feet to stand on,” the mayor intones.

A bullhorn sounds, and suddenly Liz is off like a shot, rushing to join a cluster of adult women that quickly splits into two blobs. One on the right, one on the left.

“Let him have legs to carry him forward in the world.”

This time when the horn sounds, I hear a squeal, and suddenly girls under twenty-five are running into the fray, arranging themselves in two, thick messy lines above the “feet.” This just keeps getting weirder. I turn to catch Elyse’s eye, but she’s gone too. Disappeared into the mob. I’m relieved, if a little creeped out, to spot her white hoodie somewhere near the man’s right knee. Was she just trying to keep from standing out from the other townspeople? No, she moved too fast for that. Some part of her remembers this local tradition from past fairs. But is it muscle memory or brain memory?

The mayor moves on to his next line. “Let him have a strong body to protect what’s his.”

Most of the men, including Jeffry, peel from the crowd and swagger forward.

“Let him have arms to reach out to the world and make his mark on it.”

Boys of all ages race to form two lines.

“Let him have clever hands to work his craft.”

This time I recognize Bette, the lady from the antique store, and see several adults in purple Mollie’s Milkshakes aprons.

“Let him have a head full of knowledge and a voice to share it with.”

I see Kerry from the clinic up at the man’s head as well as Joe and other people I assume are teachers. And the doctor too, in his white lab coat and stethoscope.

At this point the only people still in the audience are the mayor and a few hundred people I figure must be tourists. At least there are enough that I don’t stand out.

“Let him have blood,” the mayor adds triumphantly. “To bring his body nutrients.”

With a rustling of excitement, the tourists run into the fray. Haphazardly Candace and Jim walk past me, hand in hand.

I look at the blobby shape on the square in front of me. If you don’t think about it too hard, it does look like a person. A person with crooked legs and clown feet, but a person.

The mayor yells into his microphone, “Who is this man in front of me?”

In one voice, each syllable a thunderclap, the townspeople shout, “He’s. Our. Town.”

“Our town,” the mayor intones. “It lives and breathes, like any man. He has a head full of intelligence—our doctors, teachers, and librarians. He stands on a solid foundation of unconditional love and service, our mothers and homemakers. The powerful limbs that move him forward are our youth, our young scholars. He has clever hands like our artisans on Main Street. His body is as strong as our mill—” A strange pause. He must have forgotten the mill closed. Awkward. “As strong as our men who are fathers, husbands, protectors, and providers. Is this man complete?”

“No!” everyone shouts.

“What does this man need to complete him?”

“A heart and a soul.” Even some of the tourists yell it out. They’ve clearly been here before.

“Then let this man have a heart and a soul.”

At this, the mayor and priest walk over to the “man” made of people, at about waist level, and are instantly sucked into the crowd. They appear again side by side in the man’s chest, carried on the shoulders of the men who make up his trunk.

A photographer snaps a picture.

This is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“May he stay healthy, wealthy, and wise till next summer!”

The people making up the “man” all cheer wildly and then disperse.

Elyse comes back, looking sheepish.

“What was that about?”

“I don’t know.” Her cheeks are growing pink. “I mean, it sounds like it’s a yearly tradition. I guess I’ve just done it so many times, it’s automatic. I still feel like an idiot.”

“Don’t,” I say. “At least you have a hometown, stupid traditions and all. I don’t even have a name yet.”

She gives me a look of sympathy.

“Other than the name you gave me,” I add, and she leans closer and smiles, her eyes traveling to mine. In one day we’ve forged a closeness with each other. We’re a two-person team, with our own shared memories, our own language.

Out of the corner of my eye, two guys in green T-shirts slip out of the audience and sneak up behind the photographer. I hear the sickening smack of one of their fists against the back of his head, the choked cry as the photographer crumples. The other guy grabs his camera and they both run. Without thinking, I run after them. I’m not the only one. Before any of us can reach them though, an old beat-up pickup pulls up and they hop into the back.

“Green Vista, bitches!” one of the guys screams as the truck starts speeding off. “That’s revenge for the big game.” Dude sounds righteously pissed off.

But the Summer Falls folk take it in stride. “Loser!” yells a guy in a letter jacket while the doctor in his white coat checks out the photographer and helps him to his feet.

“They’ve lost the big game every year since 1963,” another letter-jacket guy yells, and high-fives the first. “We’re always number one, baby!”

The crowd breaks into a spontaneous chant: “Always number one, always number one!”

I’m beginning to see why the Green Vista ninjas felt the need to even the score when the second letter-jacket guy walks right over to Elyse and puts his arm around her. “Hey, beautiful,” he says. “Want to ride the Ferris wheel with me?”

She meets my eyes, and it’s hard to communicate with her when all my energy is tied up fighting the urge to physically remove that idiot’s thickly muscled arm from her shoulder. After a moment I manage to wave her away, like,
Go, get out of here, have fun, act normal.
And that
is
what I want her to do—that’s the smart thing to do. Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I can’t see that.

But I turn so I don’t watch them walk away together.

Chapter 15
ELYSE

Okay, what do you do when you don’t like your best friends?

It’s not like I
hate
these people’s guts, but sitting in the Ferris wheel basket next to Dan, with Pete and Carla in the basket just above us, feels a little like torture. For one thing, Dan keeps leaning over to kiss me and I’m not sure I’m into the way he kisses. He doesn’t have bad breath or a tonsil-banging tongue or anything—so maybe it’s not fair to imply he’s a bad kisser when the real issue is I’d rather be kissing someone else. Someone I actually know and care about instead of pretend to know and care about. Someone with dark, dangerous eyes. But I will say Dan seems to have clear ideas about who is supposed to be the kisser and who is the kissee. I’m guessing that would be the reason he keeps tilting my head back and leaning over me so I have no leverage and can’t breathe, so I have to look up at him. The one time I think I might be getting into it and try to kiss him a little more actively, he blocks my tongue with his own. After a while I just pull away and watch the scenery. Kissing may be a sport, but blocking other people’s goals doesn’t help you win.

Then there’s Carla, who’s petrified of heights. Every time we get near the top of the Ferris wheel, she lets out a squeal as if we’re riding some kind of giant roller coaster instead of the world’s dullest ride and grabs Pete’s hand, and Dan and Pete yell jokes to each other that basically amount to What a Dumb Girl Carla Is for Being Scared of a Ferris Wheel.

Clearly, this double date is really just an excuse for Dan and Pete to bond.

From the top of the Ferris wheel I can see the fair crowds moving like a giant amoeba.

I can also see a tiny figure. It’s the redheaded lady—the one who was asleep on the picnic table earlier—and if I’m not mistaken she’s swinging a bat. Into the window of Mollie’s Milkshakes.

The next thing I know, the Ferris wheel’s gears have ground to a halt.

I let out a “What the hell?” just as Carla in the basket above us cries out, “Oh my goodness!”

Her basket with Pete is near the top.

“I can’t take this, I can’t take being so high,” Carla says over and over. “Who’s running this thing?”

“I don’t see an operator,” Dan yells. “Hey, operator! Get back to work.”

“Please make it start again,” Carla begs, but it’s unclear who she’s begging. God, maybe. “Please, please, I have to get down.”

“Hell, I can fix this,” Pete says. “I can’t stand to see my girl cry.” He slips under the safety bar and dangles from the footrest over our basket.

Jesus. Is the idiot climbing down?

As he drops into our basket, the seat swings wildly back and forth. In unison Dan and I each grab Pete around the waist, steadying his balance before he can tip over and fall to the ground.

“Steady, man,” Dan says, “we got you.” He turns to me and winks. “We’re pros.”

I ignore him. “Pete, why the hell are you doing this?” My heart’s pounding, not just with fear for him but with anger. How could he risk his life for something so stupid? I jumped out of a window because I had to, not to impress my date. “Are you crazy?”

“Nah, I’m not crazy, I’m gonna fix this,” Pete says brightly, and calls to the couple below, “Heads up!”

They give him a cheer as he nimbly drops one step closer to the bottom of the wheel. Two more hops and he’s on the ground. He gives a little bow to the cheering passengers and strides over to the controls by the gearbox.

I breathe a sigh of relief that his stupid stunt didn’t get him killed.

He’s poking around the fat black power cables. “Aha!” he calls up. “Looks like this one came unplugged.” Gripping the loose end in one hand, he pulls himself on top of the gears and connects the oversize plug into the open socket. “Ta-da,” he calls out, as with a mechanical whine the wheel lurches back to life. Our seat jerks forward. The rescued passengers cheer, including Dan.

Suddenly the applause is interrupted by a sickening crunch and Pete’s bloodcurdling scream.

Pete falls backward onto the ground, blood gushing from his leg. For a moment he goes silent—the fall must have knocked the wind out of him. Then he lets out another high scream of agony. I stare at the bloody stump of his leg. My god. His right foot is gone. Gone. Crushed between the gears of the machine he restarted.

Dan stares down in shock at his friend’s broken body.

Many people are screaming. Some people turn and vomit out of their baskets onto the ground.

Everyone at the fair has now realized something’s wrong. A crowd has gathered in horror, but no one seems to know what to do as Pete lies on the ground crying and begging to God, to Jesus, to anyone, for help. A bright, white-coated figure parts the sea of the stupefied onlookers and shoves his way through. The doctor. If he can stop the bleeding in time, Pete has a chance. I breathe out finally, the sound that escapes me halfway between a sob and a sigh of relief.

And that’s when I see a small figure perched at the base of the Ferris wheel. It’s a little boy with blond hair and faintly shimmering skin. As each pair of panicked riders swings by, he reaches his arms out to touch them and they slump forward in their baskets, unconscious.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Our basket is the next one to swing by the ghost.

“Dan, we have to go!” I climb out of my seat and brace to leap to the ground.

He looks at me blankly. “It’s too late. It’s too late to save him.”

I jump the five feet to the ground and roll to my feet. Looking over my shoulder I see Dan collapse at the ghost boy’s touch.

I run away. Away from the crowd. Away from Pete. Away from the ghost.