not on any of my playlists but it seems appropriate.
The house was quiet when I left. Both my parents were still at work and my sister had been locked in her room since I got home from school. I was grateful for the calm. I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone—least of all my dad—that I had bombed my softball tryouts … and pretty much every other aspect of this day.
I park my car and check my hair and makeup in the mirror. I decided to start from scratch. I showered and picked out an entirely new outfit. I’m ready to save my relationship. If a romantic night at a carnival can’t convince Tristan he’s still in love with me, then I don’t know what will.
From the parking lot, I follow the sounds of laughter and screams and the smell of cooking meat. I can see the Ferris wheel in the distance, all lit up and spinning, and my stomach turns.
I once watched a documentary about traveling carnivals. Some poor girl in Nebraska apparently lost both of her arms riding the bumper cars. The bumper cars! And they stay on the ground.
No, stop.
No one is getting murdered or dismembered. Tonight will be perfect.
If there ever was a time to get over my fear of heights, this is it.
I think back to that couple I stalked when I was ten years old. This carnival transformed them. The lights, the music, the sugar, it turned them into Romeo and Juliet, Cleopatra and Mark Antony, Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, Taylor Swift and … well, whoever she’s with now.
Obviously I didn’t know the couple’s names or anything about them, so I made up my own names and gave them backstories.
He was the strong, silent type. A gentleman who liked to listen to her speak. He needed a simple yet dashing name. I chose Dr. Jason Halloway. I decided they’d met at an urgent care animal hospital in the middle of the night. He was the veterinarian on call at two a.m. when she—Annabelle Stevenson, avid animal lover and owner of six dogs—brought her eight-month-old golden retriever in after he accidentally swallowed a golf ball. Dr. Halloway, looking irresistibly cute in his white coat and rumpled hair, performed one emergency procedure on the dog, and another on Annabelle’s heart.
They’d been inseparable ever since.
I’ve been imagining myself in Annabelle’s shoes for six years now. I just never had the guy. Now I do.
Jason and Annabelle’s night ended with a kiss atop the Ferris wheel. And I’m determined that mine will, too.
I take a deep breath and start walking. Tristan and I are supposed to meet in front of the ticket booth at 7:15. I check my phone and notice that he’s texted me, saying he’s going to be late. My shoulders droop slightly in disappointment. I text him back and tell him I’ll be at the carnival games.
I find an empty seat at the horse race game and slide in, feeding a dollar bill into the slot.
A buzzer rings and a recorded voice calls out, “And they’re off!” as a red ball rolls down the ramp in front of me. I watch my neighbor, trying to figure out how this game works. It appears all you have to do is roll the little ball up the ramp and try to get it into one of the holes marked with the numbers one, two, and three. If you sink the ball into the three hole, your horse moves three paces ahead.
Easy enough.
I chuck the ball up the ramp and watch in dismay as it bounces around the edges of each hole and then rolls back to me. I glance up at my horse—the green one with the number eight on his back. He doesn’t budge.
I try a few more times, but I’m still unable to sink the ball into any of the holes. The other horses are soaring past me now, racing toward the finish, while my lame number eight is still at the starting line.
What is wrong with this game?
Does my horse have a broken leg?
I’m a junior varsity softball player for a state champion team. You would think I could roll a stupid ball into a stupid hole.
The ball comes back to me and I give it another try, this time light and easy, barely a flick of my wrist. The ball glides up the ramp and drops right into the number-one hole. I throw my hands in the air and let