Chapter 18
Eighteen
Piper
The ball of string is genuinely impressive.
It’s five feet tall, weighs what the hand-painted sign claims to be nine hundred and forty-two pounds, and has been wound by a man named Gerald Hutchins for over thirty-one years. Gerald is here, sitting in a lawn chair next to the display.
Griffin and Gerald speak for eleven minutes.
I time it.
They discuss the structural density and tensile properties of twine. At one point, Griffin actually crouches down to examine the base of the ball, and Gerald looks like a man whose entire thirty-one years of work have just been validated.
After the string, we do the rest of it. There are livestock pens, pie judging, and a demolition derby that won’t start for two hours but is already drawing a crowd.
I feel… at peace.
That peace lasts for exactly twenty minutes because then I see the penguin.
It’s at a ring-toss booth near the back. The prizes are hung along the walls, ranging from small plastic keychains to progressively larger animals, and at the top, hanging from a hook in the center of the back wall, is the largest stuffed penguin I have ever seen.
It’s enormous. Its eyes are slightly too far apart, which somehow makes it more endearing. It has a little orange beak and a round belly, and it’s approximately the size of a golden retriever.
I stop walking.
Griffin walks two steps farther before he realizes the air behind him has emptied out.
He turns back. “Piper?”
“I need that penguin.”
He looks at the booth. “The ring-toss penguin?”
“Yes.”
“That’s four feet tall.”
“I’m aware.”
“What would you even do with it?”
I look at him like he’s dense. “I would have it.”
He opens his mouth.
“Griffin.” I turn to face him fully. “I need the penguin.”
He closes his mouth and gestures toward the booth. “Lead the way.”
The man running the booth is called Dale.
“Three rings for two dollars,” Dale says. “Land two on the bottles, you win a small prize. Land all three, and you can move up.”
I assess the setup. Standard ring toss. Glass bottles, plastic rings.
Griffin hands Dale two dollars.
My first three rings: one on, two off.
Griffin hands over two more dollars.
Round two: two on, one off.
I’m aware that Griffin has taken a position to my left, arms crossed, watching.
“You’re dropping your elbow,” he says.
“I am not dropping my elbow.”
“You are. Your release point is too low. The ring’s going flat.”
I look at him. “Do you know anything about ring toss?”
“I know about projectile trajectory.”
“Oh my God.”
“Keep your wrist up,” he says. “Release at the top of the arc, not the bottom.”
I face the bottles. I keep my wrist up. Round three: two on, one off.
“Dale,” I whine.
Dale raises his eyebrows. “Ma’am?”
“The ring is slightly oval. Is that standard or is that—”
“They’re all the same.”
I take a breath and set my feet. I think about release points and land all three on.
“There it is,” Griffin cheers at my side.
I turn back to Dale with renewed purpose. “Another round.”
A small crowd has gathered by round four. I become aware of it in my periphery. One moment it’s just us, then there are twelve people. I’m on round five of what is apparently a best-of-five situation that Dale did not mention during the initial briefing.
“Dale,” I say. “You said three consecutive.”
“I said three consecutive wins, and round three was—”
“Round three was a structural anomaly with the bottle placement, and we both know it.”
“Ma’am, the bottles are glued down.”
“Piper.” Griffin steps up beside me. “I’ve got this one.”
I’m about to argue, but he cuts me off. “Do you want the damn penguin or not?”
I huff, but give in.
I really do want that penguin.
He puts four dollars on the counter. I see him doing the internal calculations, the quiet run of numbers.
He throws. Three for three. Clean.
Sweet Jesus. Who knew ring-toss could be attractive?
I grab his arm. “Okay, listen. The left bottle clusters slightly, so aim the first ring at the right side of the formation—”
“I see it.”
“And your release point—”
“Wrist up, I know. I told you that.”
“Well, now I’m telling you.”
He looks at me sideways. The corner of his mouth is doing the thing.
“Do not smile right now,” I tell him. “Focus.”
He faces the booth and throws. Three for three. The crowd erupts.
It’s the last round. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and I’m starting to sweat.
Griffin picks up the rings. I’m standing just behind his left shoulder, watching the set of his jaw.
He throws the first ring. On.
The crowd tightens.
Second ring. On.
Griffin holds the last ring for a moment before he glances over his shoulder at me.
“For the penguin,” he says.
“For the penguin,” I confirm.
He throws. The ring drops over the bottle neck and settles with a small plastic clack.
The crowd goes absolutely berserk.
Griffin turns around, and I launch myself at him, wrapping both arms around his neck, because we did it.
The penguin is ours. He catches me without hesitation, one arm around my waist, lifting me slightly off the ground with the impact.
He’s laughing—actually fully laughing, the kind that takes over his whole face—and I’m laughing too, face pressed against his shoulder.
The crowd applauds again as Griffin sets me down, still grinning.
It’s a very good grin.
I file this away without examining it.
Dale lifts the penguin off its hook and hands it across the counter. It’s even bigger up close. When I take it in both arms, its head comes up to my chin.
Griffin looks from me to the penguin. “What are you going to name it?”
I look down at the round belly and the enormous, peaceful eyes. “Gerald. After the string man.”
Griffin looks at the sky and barks out a laugh.
I hug Gerald the penguin and walk back toward the fair with my head up.