The View from the Top (20 page)

“Yeah?” she said, inching a few steps closer.

The ride operator looked from Anabelle to Tobin. “Let's go, bud,” he said. “I don't got all day. There's a line here. You leaving, or what?”

Tobin looked down at his hands. “Yup,” he said. “I'm leaving.” But he didn't move.

Anabelle's dad called out to her. She turned and signaled for him to wait.

“Well?” the ride operator said to Tobin. “Come on, then.”

Tobin ran his hand through his hair, then reached into his pocket and pulled out two orange tickets. He looked at Anabelle. “Wanna go again?” he asked sheepishly.

There was nothing she wanted more. Well, she definitely wanted to be alone in that basket with him. But she wasn't sure if she could handle another go-round on the Ferris wheel. She looked to the top of the ride and held her breath, then had to remind herself to exhale. This
was
probably the only way to have a private moment with Tobin; she knew that if she tried to talk to him out on the fairgrounds, her dad would hang around with them, or at least watch from nearby. And then, later on, he'd tell her what a
special
moment that was between her and that Wood boy. Yuck.

“All right, you getting in, or what?” the operator asked her.

Tobin was fidgeting with the tickets, waiting for her answer. He watched her with expectant, rounded eyes, a few corkscrew curls draped over his forehead. Why hadn't she ever noticed how cute he was?

Anabelle turned around and called out to her dad, “Hey, I'll meet you at Bop-a-Mole, okay? In a little bit!”

“Oh,” he shouted, “okay!” At first he looked hurt, but when he saw what was going on, he smiled and winked at her. Then he gave her a thumbs-up, angling his head at Tobin.
Oh man,
she thought,
am I gonna hear about this later.
But for now, all that mattered was that she was climbing into Tobin's basket.

The operator buckled them in and slammed their gate shut.

“So, um, hi,” Tobin said when the basket moved back a notch.

“Hi,” Anabelle said. She was sure she was blushing.

“That's mine.” He pointed at the hoodie.

“I know. You want it back?”

“No, you can keep it.” Tobin fidgeted with the torn tickets in his hand, tearing little fringes into the edges.

Now that Anabelle was actually alone with him, she wasn't sure she could summon the courage to bring up the botched kiss. She'd forgotten about how Tobin never took the lead in conversations, and a conversation about their feelings for each other seemed like too big a deal for her to get it going herself. Better to start small. “When do you leave for school?” she asked.

“Couple days. You?”

They glided back a little, picking up more people.

“Tomorrow.” She looked over at him, trying to figure out if he was sending her any crushy signals. He sure was acting nervous, ripping the sides of those tickets. Was
that
a signal?

“You all packed?” he asked.

“Yeah. Mostly,” she said, telling herself not to let her eyes linger too long on the blissfully kissing couple beneath them. “Still deciding about some clothes. I never realized there's so much stuff I have that I'm just sick of.”

“I know what you mean,” Tobin said, flicking the two tickets against each other, one in each hand. “It's really tempting to just leave everything behind and start over with new things. Really, all I need is my cello. And some underwear. Not that I'm gonna be playing the cello in my . . .” His voice trailed off at the end there.

Anabelle stifled a giggle and wondered if he wore boxers or briefs.

The ride started moving again; it seemed as if all the passengers were on now. Anabelle gripped the side of the basket, bracing herself for the rise to the top. She didn't want to have to use her blinders in front of Tobin.

Luckily, another Talking Heads song came on—“Stay Up Late.” Anabelle hummed along.

Tobin's flicking started taking on a beat. He was doing it in triplets—two sets of quick ones and two sets of long ones, like in “America” from
West Side Story. Was that
a signal? Anabelle remembered how she and Tobin had flashed each other knowing smiles across the pit every time the conductor, Mr. Pizzarelli, had to stop rehearsal because the Players couldn't get that rhythm.

She was still humming along to the Talking Heads, trying to decide if she should start tapping triplets on her thighs alongwith him, when Tobin asked her who was playing on the speakers.

“What, the Talking Heads?” she asked. She couldn't believe he didn't know this song. Sure, he was a classical-music junkie, but, c'mon, it was the Talking Heads.

“Yeah.” He scratched his chin with one of the ticket stubs. “I know I've heard this. I just don't really keep track of band names. But you're so good with pop music. I knew you'd know.”

“Yeah, I love this song,” Anabelle said, letting her legs swing. “It's actually got a great piano part.” Her calf brushed against Tobin's, and he quickly pulled his out of the way. Anabelle stopped moving. “Sorry,” she said, then thought,
Wow
,
I guess the triplets thing
wasn't
a signal
. He didn't even want to touch her.

“No, it's okay,” he said nervously, shoving the ticket stubs into his pocket. “I was actually thinking when it started, it'd be fun to watch you play it.”

Hmm. Now that seemed like a signal.

They'd passed the halfway mark to the top of the wheel, and Anabelle tried to pinpoint her attention on the basket above them. She sat on her hands to keep from using them to block her vision. But the way she was positioned, right up against her side of the basket, brought on the jumping feeling again. Out the corner of her eye she could see the top of a tree. She wished she felt comfortable enough with Tobin to scoot up against him. That would make her feel more secure.

“You okay?” Tobin asked.

“Yeah,” she said.

“It's just, you look a little pale.”

“The top of this ride kinda scares me or something, I guess,” she said. She kept watching the basket in front of them; she didn't want to see the look on his face. He probably thought she was being a baby.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guessed that. With your dad up there before.”

“Oh, God,” she said, turning to face him. “I'm so sorry about that.”

Tobin blinked at her a couple times. “Sorry about what?” he asked.

Anabelle had never noticed how long his eyelashes were—like Snuffleupagus's from
Sesame Street.
She imagined they'd feel really soft if they brushed against her cheek. “That you had to see my dad acting all weird,” she said. “He just gets overly emotional sometimes. And with me going away and everything—” She stopped herself, trying to figure out how to put it so it wouldn't sound like her dad was treating her like a kid. “I don't know. I guess it's just that I'm the first in our family to go to college or something. It's a big deal to him. But it's embarrassing when he shows it out in public like that.”

“Are you kidding?” Tobin said, eyebrows looking as if they were about to leap off his face. “Did you see how
my
dad was acting before? I mean, did you see the whole reason I've been up here, avoiding him?”

“Yeah,” Anabelle said, still sitting on her hands.
Just keep looking at his face
, she told herself as the basket rose.
Don't look past him
. “That was pretty crazy. What was he so pissed about?”
God, you know the answer
, she thought.
Why'd you have to ask? Do you really want to hear him say that Jonah slept with Jeanie?

“Oh, I don't know,” Tobin said. “Some woman thing. I don't even want to get into it.” He scrunched his cheek, as if acknowledging that Anabelle had had a thing for Jonah.

Anabelle waited for what she was sure was coming next—some snarky comment about Jonah being a bad seed. Something to rub it in her face that she'd chosen Jonah over him. But it never came. He just gave a what're-you-gonna-do shrug and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Anyway,” he said, “I thought your dad was sweet.”

“Annoying is more like it.”

“No, it's clear he really cares about you. My dad would never be that way with me. He doesn't even get why I'm
going
to school. Thinks it's a waste of time, you know? Like, why don't I just get a job.” He turned toward her. “I have to admit, I'm kinda jealous of what you've got with your dad.”

“Really?” Anabelle locked her gaze on Tobin's eyes—which she'd always thought were brown but were actually an amazing mossy-hazel color—and realized this must've been what he was thinking when he was giving her dad that odd look before.

“Yeah,” Tobin said. “It's like I was sitting up there, watching him trying to help you, and I just kept thinking how I wished I could be a part of your family.”

A part of my family?!
Anabelle thought. She turned away, not wanting to look at him all dreamily if he thought of her as a
sibling
. The moon was right in front of her—a pearly lozenge among a series of connect-the-dots games.

Wait, the moon was right in front of her? That meant they were at the top!

Suddenly it felt as if there were no sides around the basket, as if the bottom had dropped out from beneath her. She needed her blinders, but she didn't want to use them. She kept her hands under her legs.

There was the pavement, right there beneath them. There was her face hitting the ground. There was her neck snapping. Her nose breaking. Her skull cracking open, her brains gushing out.

“What's going on?” she heard Tobin say. But he sounded so far away.

She couldn't stand it anymore. If she didn't use her blinders, she was going to faint. She pulled her hands out from under her thighs and put them on either side of her face.

And then she felt Tobin's arm on her shoulders and his hands over hers. “Maybe I can help,” he said, tapping her fingers. “Here, put your hands down.”

His hands were a little shaky and damp, but still, she felt a charge coming through her skin on every point where he was touching her. As if she were her parents' rusty old station wagon and he was the jumper cables bringing her back to life. “Thanks,” she barely squeaked out.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down, and caught a whiff of something familiar. Tobin's shampoo. It was the same as the smell from the hood of his sweatshirt, which she'd buried her nose in some nights to help her fall asleep. The fragrance was cheap and soapy but unbelievably comforting. She was tempted to stick her nose right in his hair.

Tobin's hands closed like shutters over her eyes.

At first she felt lost, not being able to see. But his hands eased against her eyelids and cheeks and his arms into her shoulders and back, and she started to relax.
These are not sibling signals he's sending me
, she thought.

Crowd noises wafted up from below. It seemed as if all conversations had blended into one down there—everyone talking about the same thing in some alien language. She had this feeling that if she and Tobin started talking, they'd be the only ones who made any sense.

With his hands covering her eyes like this, Anabelle felt like she could say anything; being blind to his reaction was kind of freeing. As the hubbub below grew louder and time on the ride was running out, she wondered if she should just go for it: tell him she regretted not kissing him back. Or ask him how he felt about her. Or some combination of the two.

What did she have to lose, really? This might be the last night she ever saw him. So ... why not?

The Talking Heads song “People Like Us” came on. The upbeat melody gave her confidence.

“You know,” she said, pushing her face up against his moist fingers, “there's something I've been wanting to ask you.”

“Yeah?” he said. “What is it?”

“It's kinda personal, and you might not want to answer,” she said. “So don't feel like you have to or anything.”

“Okay,” he said tentatively. “Now you've got me worried.”

“No,” she said. “It's not a big deal. I'm just wondering . . .” Agh! She wasn't ready. She needed more time. But she'd already begun her question. She had to stall, find a new way of finishing her sentence.

Tobin's fingers were getting so sweaty, they started to slip downAnabelle's face.

The voices from the ground were just about at ear level now.

“I was wondering, we're not still at the top, are we?” Anabelle kept her eyes closed even though his hands weren't on top of them anymore. “I mean, maybe I can't see a thing, but I'm pretty sure we've been moving for a while.”

“Oh
^!
Sorry, I wasn't paying attention.” Tobin pulled his hands away and took his arm off her shoulder, but he left it resting behind her on the back of the basket.

Why couldn't you have just said what you wanted to say?
Anabelle thought. Her face and shoulders felt all cold and empty where he'd been touching her. She opened her eyes but didn't look at him. “That's not really what I wanted to ask you,” she admitted. “What I really wanted to say was ...” No, she couldn't do it now. Not when she wasn't sure how he'd react.
If he puts his arm back around you
, she thought.
Maybe then.
“Can you not wait to leave here, or what?”
Ugh, what's wrong with you
?

“Wish I was gone already.”

“Me too,” she agreed. The basket started to rise and she got a little queasy, thinking about hitting the top again. “People here suck.”