Whisper to Me (21 page)

“Hook-the-Duck,” said Paris. “I sucked ****.”

“Hang on,” you said. You moved a couple of the bags. Then you made a little rip in one of them and pulled out a big Elmo, like half the size of me. “Catch,” you said, and tossed it up to Paris.

Paris held out her hands but missed—the Elmo fell to the wooden floor of the pier.

“See?” she said. “I suck.”

Was she flirting with you?

And if she was, why would I care?

“Do me a favor,” you said, interrupting my thoughts.

“What?” I said.

“I need to roll. I have another delivery. So I’m going to toss these bags up. You make sure they don’t fall off the side, okay? Pedro will know what to do with them.”

“Just don’t throw them to her,” I said, pointing to Paris.

You laughed. “Seriously, though, don’t try to catch them. They’re heavy.”

“Okay.”

You picked up the first bag and kind of pitched it up onto the pier. It landed with a dull thud and a flat flopping motion that made me think queasily of a body.

Blood.

A tiled floor.

No.

I pushed it under again.

You grabbed another bag, threw it up. Then another and another. No wonder your arms had gotten ripped. Then you jumped back down and opened the cab door. “Me and Shane are going to Pirate Golf on Pier One after work, if you want to come,” you said. “Both of you.”

“That would be wonderful,” said Paris, before I could say anything. “We most humbly accept your gracious invitation. We shall see you upon the Pirate Golf course. At what hour should we convene?”

You looked at me. “Your friend is weird.”

“I know,” I said.

“He’s talking about you,” said Paris.

“No, he’s not.”

“No, I’m not,” you said.

“Now you’re just ganging up,” said Paris. “What time?”

“Nine thirty?” you said.

“See you there,” I said. It was like a small creature with unknown motivations had taken over my brain and my mouth.

“It’s a date,” said Paris, with a mischievous smile.

“Paris!”

“Laters, cute boy,” said Paris. She turned, and I gave you a
what can you do?
gesture with my hands; I could feel the heat of the blood in my cheeks. You smiled and slid behind the wheel of the truck; then I heard the engine roar as I caught up with Paris.

Huh. Was it a date? Did it count as a date? We were meeting you later anyway. That creature in my stomach spread its wings, took flight.

“And when will you tell him about me?” said the voice. “I mean, this is all very romantic and all but have you forgotten you’re crazy?”

“Quiet,” I said.

We walked back onto the pier proper. As we approached the gate, a guy opened it from the other side—Hispanic, with wire-rimmed glasses. Young looking, skinny, more like a chess-club kid than a fairground worker.

“You’re … ,” he said. “You shouldn’t be back here.”

“Oh, sorry, Pedro,” said Paris. She flashed her VIP pass at him.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. “How did you …”

Paris blew him a kiss. “The bags are there,” said Paris. “Elmos and … some other ****. Bunnies and ****. I suggest you hurry up, Pedro.”

“Who are you? How do you know my—”

“Laters, Pedro,” said Paris. Then she put a hand on the fence and tried to vault it, but her foot caught and she tumbled to the ground on the other side, did an ungainly roll and came to her feet again. She walked off without a backward glance.

I gave Pedro an apologetic look and ran to catch up to her.

“You’re beautiful,” I said to Paris, “but you are
not
graceful, are you? I mean, what were you even thinking, putting your feet over the edge of the pier like that? A clumsy person like you.”

She shrugged. “I thought it was a game.”

“And if you’d fallen?”

Another shrug. “Then I guess I would have gotten hurt.”

That was Paris: she was fun, but she didn’t really know where the line between fun and danger was. That was Paris’s whole entire problem.

We were walking toward the Elevator—the Ferris wheel at the piers—when Paris’s cell rang. She fished it out of her pocket and answered it.

“Hey! You win? (Pause.) Aw. Sucks. Where are you? (Pause.) We’re at the piers. Well, yes,
on
the piers. A pier, actually. (Pause.) We’re going to ride the Ferris wheel. (Pause.) Seriously, yeah. (Pause.) Yeah, with Cassie. Look, come down. Get a ticket. Ride it with us. Oh, come on. It’ll be fun! (Pause.) Great, cool. See you there.”

She flicked it off and put it away. “Julie,” she said.

“She’s coming?”

“Yep. They lost their roller derby game. She’s in a bad mood. Figure the Ferris wheel will help.”

Weirdly, I felt a little jealous. I just … I was enjoying spending this time with her, just her. It was awesome, and I felt like Julie coming along was going to ruin it.

Although when we got to the base of the wheel and the queue, and Julie waved and then walked over, I felt kind of stupid because Julie was smiling and holding out three sticks of cotton candy and being super nice.

I held up my hands when she proffered mine. “Sorry. I—”

“Cass here is allergic to basically everything,” said Paris. “Including heights. Chances are she’s going to barf on you.”

“Just peanuts,” I said hurriedly when Julie frowned at me. “It’s really boring. I just have to be really careful.”

Julie shrugged. “More for me,” she said, and kept hold of two of the cotton candies, giving the other to Paris. Paris plunged her face into hers, started making gross noises like a T. rex eating another dinosaur’s stomach. She lifted her eyes to us, pink shreds hanging from her chin.

“
Roar
,” she said.

“T. rex?” said Julie.

“Yeah.”

“I got the same thing,” I said.

“Psychic connection,” said Paris. “Look at us! BFFs.”

“No one says BFFs,” said Julie. “Except in stupid TV shows.”

“Nuh-huh,” said Paris. “I just said it. Anyway. What was I
eating
?”

“Diplodocus?” I said.

Paris sighed. “Stegosaurus. I thought that would have been perfectly obvious.”

“Is she always like this?” I asked Julie.

“Always,” said Julie, with a strange little smile.

Then there was a buzz from Paris’s phone and she checked the screen. “Bachelor party,” she said. “Tomorrow night. You drive me, Julie?”

Julie gave an awkward glance at me. “You know I don’t think you should—”

“Oh, I know,
Mom
,” said Paris.

Julie sighed. “Where is it?”

“Goose Heights.” This was a nice part of town.

“If I can come in with you,” said Julie.

“Julie, do we have to have this conversation every time? If you want to watch me strip you’re welcome to subscribe to my cam site. No. You can wait in the car. I have my phone. I have you on speed dial. I’ll call if I need you.”

Julie pursed her lips.

“And I’ll give you a hundred dollars,” said Paris. “You’re the best, Julie, for doing this, for helping me to earn my own money, get out from under my dad and—”

“Okay, okay, fine,” said Julie. “Fine.”

“Right,” said Paris, putting away her phone. She flashed a grin at me; a shark’s grin, full of joy and danger. “Let’s get high.”

We looked at her blankly.

“On the
Ferris wheel
.”

We flashed our passes and skipped the line. Well, Paris and I did, but Julie didn’t have a VIP pass. Not that it held us up for long—Paris did this eyelash-batting thing at the kid managing the line and he let all three of us through.

It was nine, full dark, a slight chill in the air. Purple clouds covered the moon, over the black ocean. The Elevator was almost as old as the roller coaster. A lot of its supports were still wooden. Each of the cars was done up like an elevator, and the joke was that there was a single button inside, which said,

UP AND DOWN AND ALL AROUND.

“The last time I went on this I was eight,” I said.

“All the more reason to ride it now,” said Paris.

“Is it a bad time to say that I’m a little afraid of heights?” said Julie.

“Please,” said Paris. “You do roller derby. Your biceps are bigger than my personal trainer’s.”

“You have a personal trainer?” I asked.

“No,” said Paris. “But that’s beside the point.”

We climbed into our elevator car; it rocked slightly. There were seats, which kind of ruined the illusion, and the whole side was open, secured by a thin metal bar that the kid running the ride dropped into place. Paris and Julie sat on one side, me on the other.

“You get two go-arounds,” he said, in a bored drawl. He was my age, with the broken nose and big shoulders of a football player. “Then we fill the cars again.” He stepped out, leaned on a lever.

We shuddered up into the air, then stopped while people got into the next car—a family with one laughing kid and one crying kid.

We jerked into the sky in increments as the ride filled.

Finally we reached the top.

“Oh, wow,” said Paris.

“Yeah.”

“Huh,” said Julie. She had her hand on Paris’s arm. She’d obviously been only half-joking—she looked a little white. “Suddenly it’s so
beautiful
.”

I knew what she meant; I was feeling the same surprise, even though I’d been up here when I was a kid. It still struck me.

I mean.

Oakwood was a dump—the old-people’s homes, the slot machines, the white trash on vacation. The used-car lots, the Early Bird Specials, the motels, the broken-down lots where go-kart rides used to be, the demolished blocks like pulled teeth, the wire fences. But from up here, at night, it was as if a witch had put an enchantment on the town, a prince/frog kind of deal, and only when you rode up on the Elevator would you see the true beauty. The boardwalk curved below us like a broad sickle. Pale sand extended from it to the ocean, which glittered like a vast black jewel.

And everywhere was light.

Streetlights, running in ribbons, connecting houses that, too, spilled yellow light into the darkness. A giant phosphorescent creature, throwing out tendrils in every direction. And below us, the constant glow of the theme park, flashing bulbs, floodlights, flickering neon lights. The rides coiling over and around themselves like silver snakes.

It’s stupid, I mean, it’s not the Taj Mahal—it’s Oakwood. But it was so beautiful I can’t describe it.

“I never knew,” Paris said.

“Yeah,” said Julie. “Me neither.”

“Jump,” said the voice.

I must have flinched. “What’s wrong?” said Paris.

“Nothing.”

“Jump. It would be so easy.”

I shook my head.

“Heights?” said Paris. “You too?”

I nodded.

“Suit yourself,” said the voice. “Coward.” But it sounded flat, uninterested. Like if it had the opportunity, it was going to say something, but it wasn’t as committed as it used to be.

It’s nice to hear from you
, I said inside my head.
It’s beautiful up here, isn’t it?

Nothing. The voice had withdrawn.

“… totally with you,” Julie was saying.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m with you. It’s beautiful, but those houses are just too small down there. It’s not natural.” She smiled at me, and I wondered what I had done to deserve these new people in my life.

“Jump,” said the voice.

Oh Jesus. When were we getting off this thing? A cool breeze moved over my skin, bringing up goose bumps on my arms. The ocean was a long way down, so far I couldn’t hear it, and the beach too, the dark silhouettes of the lifeguard stands. I noticed that our car hadn’t moved for a while. I looked down—the guy had walked a few steps away from the wheel and leaned against the small shack where people handed in their tickets. He reached into it and pressed something, I guess.

Loud music started. That song, “Got to turn aro-o-o-o-ound,” I don’t know what it’s called. Paris would have known. The wheel began to revolve smoothly, and
oh thank God
, I thought, taking us down into the lights, the glow and the colors rushing up to meet us, so it seemed like we would become light ourselves, dissolve into a million points of brightness.

“This is lame,” said the crying kid in the car behind us.

Paris shook her head, sadly.

We reached the bottom.
Oh good
, I thought. Finally. But then the wheel started to rise again.

You get two goes, I remembered.

Outstanding.

Julie looked a little queasy too. When we got close to the top, Paris pointed down. “Look how tiny everyone is,” she said.

“I’m trying to ignore that,” said Julie.

I looked, though. I had been focusing on the lights, but now I saw the tiny figures, the thousands of people walking around the piers.

“Have you seen
The Third Man
?” asked Paris.

“No. What’s that?”

“It’s a movie,” said Julie. “Old. Graham Greene wrote the script.”

“
Our Man in Havana
?”

“Yeah,” said Julie. “Same guy.”

“Look at Miss Film Studies here,” said Paris, amiably elbowing Julie. “Anyway, the point is, in the movie there’s a spy who’s gone bad or something. The guy who has been sent to bring him back in from the cold meets him in Vienna, and they ride the Ferris wheel. The rogue agent, Harry I think his name is, basically won’t acknowledge that he’s done anything wrong, even though he has gotten people killed. He points down. He says—and I’m paraphrasing—he says, ‘Would you feel guilty if any of those dots stopped moving? What if I gave you twenty thousand for every dot that stopped?’ ”

“Um. Okay,” I said.

Paris leaned forward, took my hand, and pointed to the little people below. “His point being, when you zoom out your perspective, when you look at people from a distance, they’re small and insignificant. It doesn’t matter if they die. What do you think?”

I looked at the people. The wheel was turning slowly; we were just reaching the peak of the arc. “I think they matter,” I said.

“Me too,” said Julie. I noticed that her eyes were closed.

“And me,” said Paris. “That’s what I’m saying. For me, it’s the opposite of the guy in the film. I look down, and I see those tiny people, and I want to wrap my arms around them all, around the whole town, keep them safe, you know?” She put her arms out wide, and we were so high they encircled the town, she was big enough to hold it, the whole place, all the people, all the lights.