Chapter 6 The Girl in the Carnival Gown #2
When I finish talking about the carnival, I tell my parents about the passes, and they exchange a look.
“Does this mean you want to go alone?” Dad asks.
I nod, my mouth full of mashed potato.
Another shared look, and then Mom says, “Fully alone? Or drop-you-off-and-stay-out-of-your-way alone?”
I swallow my mouthful. “We can handle it.”
“I’ll take them,” Zeke says. “Me and the guys—”
“Alone,” I say. “That means no parents or big brothers.”
Silence. Defense prepared, my guts strum, as if I’m about to step on stage for a public-speaking assignment. I play it cool, though, fork-cutting my meatloaf into bite-size pieces and then lifting one to my mouth, hesitating at the last second to be sure I won’t need to launch my defense midchew.
“You said it’s at the supermarket?” Mom asks.
I nod.
“There’s a pay phone,” she says. “If I dig up a few dimes, will you promise to save them for calls?”
My look reminds her I’m not five, so careless I’d spend my emergency money on candy floss.
“You know, this might be a fine idea,” Dad says. “Zeke got his chance with that traveling circus when he was only a year older than Ezzi. She can handle this, and tell us all about it when she gets home.”
Mom adds, “Is it all right if Zeke and his friends go tonight? They won’t bother you. Then you’ll have Saturday evening all to yourselves.”
I glance at Zeke. As my older brother, he’s supposed to be a pain in the ass, so I’ll refuse, and then he’ll be a jerk about it and show up anyway and harass us all night.
That’s how it always goes in the movies.
In reality, Zeke and I get along just fine.
He can be overprotective, but that’s just his nature.
When Mom makes her suggestion, I glance at Zeke. He grunts, as if to say he’s not thrilled about the idea of me being alone at the carnival Saturday night, but when our parents speak, we obey. His nod promises he’ll give me my space. I thank him with a smile and tell Mom that sounds fine by me.
We end up going to the carnival with Zeke and his friends, one of whom is Ray and Reggie’s older brother.
We ride in the back of Zeke’s pickup, and then we hang out together, our little pack roaming the carnival, playing games and going on rides in two separate groups but within sight of one another.
That satisfies Zeke’s protective streak, and it’s not like anyone would give him crap for hanging out with his little sister. No one gives Zeke crap about anything.
More than once that night, I’m drawn to the midnight-rose magic tent, hoping to hear the girl again, hoping to settle my fluttering anxiety. It’s closed up tight, though.
The carnies we met earlier today treat us like strangers, and I’m glad for that.
Tonight I want to be a stranger and explore the public side of the carnival.
I’ve peered behind the curtain. Now, I’d like to see the other side and piece the two together in my mind.
It’s a fascinating experience. I note how the flashing strobe lights hide the peeling paint and rotting wood on the game booths.
How the aroma of fresh popcorn masks the stink of mildew on the old tents.
How the booming music covers the unsettling creaks and groans of the ancient Tilt-A-Whirl.
What I notice most, though, are the carnies.
They’ve cleaned up, of course. I have, too, wearing a sundress, with my hair plaited and my lips regularly refreshed with roll-on lipgloss that tastes of raspberry.
But with the carnies, it’s more than clean clothes and scrubbed hands.
Charlie flatters each woman with a disarming grin and saves his leers until they’ve passed.
The foreman who gave us those fifty-pound sacks of kernels and “forgot” to mention the wheelbarrow rushes to offer free bags and carrying trays to anyone struggling with their purchases.
The two women who’d mocked us lugging the bags now coo and trill at Zeke and his friends as they try their hands at the games of skill.
Every carnie wears a mask for the crowds, their true faces showing only when they slip a hand into an untended pocket.
They also show those faces when Zeke and his friends win one too many prizes, the carnies strongly “suggesting” they go try the games of chance instead.
A few times, I slip off to visit Dixie. I’ve brought her scraps of meatloaf wrapped in aluminum foil and a bone Mom had put aside for broth but let me take.
The last time I go to check the dog, her chain lies coiled and empty.
I’m wondering where she’d be when a trailer door opens, and I see the girl.
It’s impossible not to see her. She wears a dress striped in green, yellow, red and blue like a circus big top, the skirt billowing with what must be crinolines, a word I’ve only encountered in books.
A strip of black fabric circles the base of the skirt, and on it ride white silhouettes of carousel beasts, everything from horses to lions to griffons.
If I saw the dress in a store window, I’d think it was meant for a small child, a fantastical piece of clothing too ridiculous for anyone over the age of five.
But the girl is my age, and on her, it is magical.
A costume fit for a masquerade. She’s coming out of a trailer, and her face is turned away.
Long blond hair streams down her back in a perfect waterfall that would last five seconds on me.
When she turns, I see she actually is dressed masquerade-style, the upper half of her face hidden behind a black mask embossed with roses.
Our eyes meet, and the hairs on my neck rise.
It’s like looking into Dixie’s brown eyes, a haunted emptiness, as if whatever is inside has retreated to some safe and dark corner.
“Esmerelda,” a voice says, and Mr. Blackrose exits the trailer behind the girl. He lays a hand on her shoulder. “Annabelle, meet a young lady with a name even more exquisite than your own.”
The girl blinks, and I think she’s insulted, but what passes behind those dark eyes shimmers with inexplicable fear.
“Annabelle,” Mr. Blackrose says, his voice sharp with warning.
The girl starts, as if slapped, and gives an old-fashioned curtsy and a “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Esmerelda.”
“Ezzi, please,” I say.
Her lips quirk in a smile that seems as much a surprise to her as it is to me.
Mr. Blackrose says, “Annabelle is my assistant and my daughter.”
I don’t mean to register my surprise at the latter—they look nothing alike—but he laughs and says, “Thankfully, Annabelle takes after her dearly departed mother. We’re just about to retire for the evening, but I do hope you’ll be joining us onstage tomorrow night for my magic show.”
“I will.”
He whisks a single black rose from behind his back. “Then I will see you at nine thirty. The show begins at ten sharp after the rides and the games close.”
I take the rose and assure him I’ll be there, and he swoops the girl off into the night.
After dinner the next evening, Reggie, Ray and I return to the carnival.
Zeke grumbles about staying behind, but Mom and Dad haven’t changed their minds.
I’m old enough to try this on my own. If anything goes wrong, I’ll probably be in college before I’m given this kind of responsibility again. No pressure.
We stash our bikes behind the supermarket.
Then we enjoy our free passes, which give us access to all the shows and rides.
I’ve brought more meat for Dixie, and I keep an eye out for the girl in the carnival gown.
I don’t see her, and I’m too busy reveling in an evening of total freedom to look very hard. She’ll be at the show later.
Mr. Blackrose told me to come to the tent at nine thirty to get ready.
I arrive at 9:25 to be punctual…and maybe because I can’t wait to get a look inside.
It’s been closed all weekend, with a sign on the door announcing the magic show and noting that it’s an additional fee with limited seating.
There’s been a big Sold Out! banner over it since yesterday.
I ignore the sign marked Authorized Personnel Only.
I am authorized. Kind of. Opening the flap, I slip into a cool, dark space that smells of wood shavings and sweat.
It’s pitch dark at first. Then the midway lights filter through the rose constellations, the tent becoming a night sky that allows just enough illumination for my eyes to adjust.
The tent is no big top. It might seat a hundred people, and even then, they’ll be packed in tight enough to violate the local fire code.
Benches form a semicircle in front of the stage.
I cross to it, wood shavings crunching underfoot.
Then I hop up onto the stage and peel back the curtain to see a trailer door.
Ah-ha. That explains why I couldn’t hear more than muted voices Friday. Annabelle must have been inside the trailer, which is backed up to the tent.
Voices sound again, and this time, the words come clear. It’s nothing interesting, just Mr. Blackrose talking to Charlie about the takedown, which they’ll start after closing tonight.
I rap on the door. Mr. Blackrose opens it, his face gathering for an angry bark at whoever dared venture past that sign. Then he sees me and expels that bark in a too-loud, too-jovial, “Good evening, Miss Esmerelda.”
He pivots with a wave, ushering me into a small room where Charlie lounges.
The carnie flashes me a jackal-smile, yellow teeth glinting as his gaze rakes over me.
He’s seen me often enough to know exactly what I look like, and the look was never about actual interest anyway.
It’s as predatory as his smile, a way to make me feel small.
I meet it with a steady look that, after a moment, has him snorting and turning aside, as if he’s lost interest in the game.