Chapter 19
SCREW THE FUNNEL CAKE
KNOX
Getting a text from Staten with an invitation to the Spring Fling Carnival was a reality I never foresaw. Needless to say, I was a little too excited to spend time with her, and I gave her my answer almost immediately.
Since Staten’s friend is tagging along, she said it would be alright for some of my friends to join too, and I’m determined to deploy my precious teammates as social facilitators so I can get some much-wanted alone time with her.
I’m not a big carnival guy—the greasy food, the hazardous rides, the overbearing lights. It’s a cesspool for overstimulation, but I’d do anything for Staten, even if that means enduring a night surrounded by way too many people and game operators intent on pilfering the last of my unfrozen savings.
Once we make it to the annual haunt, I take in the bough of trees secluding us from the rest of the world—no convoy of cars belching exhaust or industrialized buildings pumping a ring of pollution into the navy-bellied sky.
Within a week, this whole carnival will disappear like it never existed in the first place.
Astigmatic bulbs lining the funhouse’s roof flash on a sporadic timer, while the scent of fried goods perpetually stains the ozone layer, and a midway of various carnival games speckle the enclosure, attracting all sorts of customers with their overflowing cache of prizes and grandiose signage.
Bright colors bifurcate the dreary surroundings as vendors stake their territory and advertise their most calorie-dense creations.
A few rides are interchanged throughout the years, and my gaze sweeps the expanse in front of me, packed to the brim with the likes of a questionably stable Ferris wheel, a poor man’s re-creation of a drop tower, a track for bumper cars that may require its adrenaline junkies to sign a waiver, and a miniature roller coaster that looks like some old-timey death contraption from the 1900s.
The outsoles of my shoes flatten clumps of grass as I purposefully clip my strides to keep in line with Staten’s short legs.
The rest of the group—Crew, Merit, Harlan, Irelyn, and Staten’s friend, Hassie, all bound ahead, talking over one another and oohing at the garish couture of it all.
Vibrant streamers, balloons, kids with half-rushed face paint, a collective exuberance that has me swallowing down my own reservations.
If I’m being honest, the nerves are getting to me.
In theory, this hangout was the perfect catalyst to grow closer to the one girl I can’t stop thinking about, but now that I’m here, my thoughts have woven themselves into a giant rat king.
What if I say the wrong thing tonight? What if I somehow mess this all up?
Even though the ground beneath me is steady, it feels like I’m traversing a suspension bridge that’s on the verge of collapse.
I definitely freaked Staten out the last time we talked. I mean, I came on so strong. Maybe I played it off well enough to blame it on our arrangement, but she’s a smart girl, and I’m beginning to think that she’s the only one who can see right through me.
We’ve only exchanged a few words so far—nothing of substance. The way I looked into her eyes is still fresh in my memory despite happening a week ago, taunting that parched mouth of mine like juicy, low-hanging fruit.
For once in Staten’s life, I got her to stand still.
And in that brief interval of time, I didn’t want to give her another opportunity to run.
She’s elusive. She doesn’t want to acknowledge that there may be something between us because it would derail her something-year plan to pursue Mr. Look-at-Me-I’m-So-Hot-My-Face-Is-on-the-Side-of-Every-School-Bus-You-See.
Waiting forever isn’t the problem; it’s the heartache that will kill me.
I speak for the first time in minutes, the rough sound consolidating in the back of my throat before dragging over the bed of my tongue like shattered glass. “Thanks for inviting me.”
She whips her head toward me, her mouth upending into a small smile. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I’m glad you could come,” she says.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
I have no idea where we’re headed; I’m just blindly following my friends.
Wherever it is, though, will bless—or curse—me with more room to spark conversation.
I never used to have a problem talking about myself.
Hell, I’d find any excuse to brag about my accomplishments or my body or a combination of both to any willing listener. But I don’t want to hear my own voice.
I want to hear Staten’s.
Anxiety gnarls in my belly, and I mentally cross off the hovering possibility of consuming any sketchy carnival food tonight. Girding myself for more awkward silence, I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans, hoping that the heat in my neck hasn’t traveled to my cheeks.
Staten and I both speak at the same time.
“Do you want to—”
“I’m sorry for overstepping your boundaries the last time we talked,” I blurt out, my tone warped in guilt.
Her eyebrows jump to her hairline. “What?”
“The whole eye contact thing. I just—it was too much. It freaked you out.”
Staten takes a second to comprehend what I’m saying before everything clicks into place like jigsaw pieces. “Oh my gosh, no! You don’t have to apologize. I liked it—I mean, it was helpful. Yep. Superrr helpful. I, uh, suck at eye contact.”
My heart—wilted from overwatering or undernourishment, I don’t know—does a little bump of hope.
I was just overreacting. Or maybe I wasn’t, and she’s trying to be nice and spare my feelings. Argh! Why does my brain have to be stuck on a looping treadmill all the time?
“It didn’t look like it to me.”
“I guess I have a good teacher,” she replies shyly, her head haloed in a cluster of stars that glimmer like miniature scythes slicing through the tapestry of night.
She’s stunning, but there’s something different about her.
She looks unafflicted by uncertainty. It’s even reflected in her outfit choice: a knee-length, beige sweater dress that cowls at the neck and inadvertently outlines her body’s natural curves, fashioned with a pair of brown lace-up boots from her extensive collection.
This girl is my Achilles’ heel.
Usually, I’m a whore for compliments, but I have no idea how to respond to that. Sweating despite the sixty-degree temperature, my gait turns wooden, and my sensibility is MIA because I’m suddenly considering spilling all my feelings in the middle of a crappy carnival lot.
However, before I can embarrass myself further, Staten skids to a halt, pointing animatedly at a teddy bear the size of her torso. “Oh my God, that’s adorable,” she gushes, snatching the rest of the group’s attention.
The change of subject is like a killer right hook to the face, and I get this inexplicable, overwhelming urge to win her that steroid-induced stuffed animal. I’m no better than a stray cat bringing its owner presents far past their expiration date.
I flatten the attraction with a challenged glare. It’s a high striker—a test of strength. This will be a piece of cake. I bench two forty. My muscles have muscles. Plus, nothing—and I mean nothing—will stop me from getting Staten what she wants.
“I’ll get it for you,” I announce in front of everyone, no holdfast of hesitation visible for miles.
Crew sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles. “Atta boy, Mulligan. You should see this guy in the gym, Staten. Dude goes crazy. He’s like Popeye, minus the spinach part. He has an aversion to vegetables.”
Staten chuckles. “You really don’t have to—”
“Nope, I’m going to. It’s already decided. Think of a good name for it.”
The pimply-faced operator—who dons an expression of boredom that makes me want to free this poor guy from his capitalistic shackles—accepts my five-dollar bill and nods to the giant mallet propped up against the tower.
My friends begin to hoot and holler from behind me, and I have to try and ignore the way my heart scuttles for cover in the girdle of my ribs.
Okay, Knox. You’ve got this. Just…don’t lose. Simple.
I can feel Staten’s eyes whittling a hole in the back of my skull as I acquire the mallet and tighten my ten-finger grip, observing the lever, the chaser, and the bell at the very top of the tower. The premise is underwhelmingly insulting.
I spread my legs shoulder-width apart, bend my knees to harness the strength in my thighs, raise the hammer above my head for the perfect descent, then slam it down with all my might.
The puck doesn’t just jump—it catapults all the way up the tower at an impressive speed, passing by each tick mark with no likelihood of stopping before colliding into that shiny bell with a shrill ring that bellows my victory to the other fairground inhabitants.
Staten’s mouth hangs open.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Mulligan!” Harlan roars, nurturing the pride inside of me.
The game operator—who acts like he didn’t just witness monumental history—gestures indifferently to the wall of prizes behind him, and I point to the giant, retina-scorching, fuchsia-colored teddy bear that’s an insult to color palettes everywhere.
I accept my well-earned winning with a cocksure grin, offering the stuffed animal to Staten, who still hasn’t rubbed the shock from her face.
“You don’t have to act so surprised,” I chuckle.
Staten’s throat clicks with a clumsy swallow, and she fires a glance at the eyesore that is her new furry friend, telegraphing the meaning behind my good show of athleticism. “You—the bell—it nearly cracked in half.”
I could live off her compliments forever. They’re like catnip to the domesticated beast inside of me that purrs whenever I get close to her.
I shrug. “You wanted it.”