An Evil Mind

I practice what I want to say in my head, over and over and over and under, through all the possible loopholes of conversation I create counter-arguments, quips, and the finest of snarks, but they all drain out of my ears when I see Jack waiting for me near the parking lot. He leans against a peach tree, hair combed but still somehow messy, with dark jeans and a red flannel shirt on. His legs are so long, his shoulders so broad, his face proud and fine like a lion’s. It hits me just then - he’s getting older. I’m getting older. Time isn’t waiting. I spent four years of my time mourning over someone who was never worth it to begin with.

But this boy. This stupid, wonderful boy just might be worth it.

“It’s not a lumberjack carnival,” I say as I approach. He looks at his shirt, then speaks without turning around.

“I just like flannel.”

“You and the entire hipster populace of Seattle,” I say. Jack smirks, and follows me to the car. We drive in utter silence, but a not-weird silence, until the carnival tents and the tip of a neon-highlighted roller coaster come into view.

“I’ve got the tickets,” I say as I pull into the parking lot and we get out. “So you get the honorable privilege of buying me all the food I want.”

“All the food you want? Woman, you want the rough equivalent of a third-world country’s monthly intake.”

“Does that make me fat or evil?”

“Both,” He offers, and takes the ticket book I hand him. He pauses under the archway into the carnival, the late-dusk sun making every tree black and every cloud vermillion. The lights on the ferris wheel and roller coaster and pharaoh boat beckon, the smell of greasy popcorn and hot dogs mixing with the dry, crisp smell of autumn leaves.

“The last time I came to one of these was with Sophia,” He finally says. My heart turns into a ton of lead and lands like a weight on a cartoon character’s head, except the character’s head is my solar plexus.

“Shit. L-Let’s go,” I say quickly. “We don’t have to do this. I didn’t mean to –”

Jack’s warm fingers encircle my wrist, and he holds me there. It isn’t a rough grip, like Kieran’s. It’s loose. I could rip away if I wanted to, but I don’t want to.

“I want to,” Jack says, voice soft but steely as he meets my eyes. “I want to go to this, with you.”

I melt a little around the edges, but I remember who I am and stick my tongue out and skip under the arch, leading the way.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I make him buy me a sundae, and a corn dog, and a slurpee. My tongue is blue and it hurts with all the pure sugary goodness of an exploding Peeps factory, and Jack says I’ll die and I tell him my willpower is stronger than diabetes, and he laughs at me but then I laugh at him when we go on the pharaoh and he looks like he’s going to shit himself the higher we get. I put my arms up and whoop when we reach the apex, our stomachs lifting out from our abdomens, and he swears brilliantly and throws his arm over my chest as a mock-seatbelt even though I don’t even need it because I already have the big black one over my lap.

“You’re scared of heights!” I breathlessly exclaim as we get off. Jack wobbles a little and grips the edge of a nearby trashcan.

“I am not scared!” He snaps, green around the cheeks. “I have a perfectly valid wariness of being suspended fifty feet above the ground in a wildly swinging pendulum.”

“Physics protects us,” I pat his back, rubbing it sympathetically. “The only way we would’ve died is if the center axel went loose. Or if we all weighed four hundred pounds.”

I pick up a cotton candy from a stand and look at him expectantly to pay. He grumbles, fishing a five from his wallet.

“The way you’re going, you’ll be at four hundred in no time.”

“And I’ll be as equally sexy as I am now,” I sniff haughtily and bite off a chunk of floss. Jack’s smirk returns, and he leans in so close to my face for a second I think he’ll kiss me and everything slows around us, the lights blinking in half-time and people’s voices low and distorted, but he takes a bite of the floss and pulls away with it and time catches up. I decide to punish him and start towards the roller coaster. Jack gives a massive groan, but follows dutifully.

After he’s stopped almost-hurling into yet another trash can, I take pity on him and wander towards the games alley. Goldfishing, water balloon tossing, shooting ranges, this place has it all. Jack strides after me.

“Hey, slow down,” he says.

“Your request has been carefully considered by the board of Me, and denied.”

“You really should’ve brought Kieran here,” he presses.

“Why? Don’t like carnivals?”

“No, he’s just –” Jack furrows his brow. “Aren’t you and him…?”

“No. He’s fine, as a friend. But no. Too straight forward. Cute, but boring. And in the long run, being boring is a huge no-no. Along with, you know, being a serial killer, but boring is like, number two - number one point fiveish.”

I can feel Jack staring at my face, and it makes some deep part of me squirm uncomfortably, so I pick up a shooting gallery rifle and aim it at his forehead. He looks appropriately terrified.

“Wrong way,” He deadpans.

“No, no, this is the right way,” I insist.

“Ma’am, please, the targets are behind you,” The high-school guy running the booth says nervously. I turn and eye him, then the sign, then the huge stuffed panda that’s a prize for all five targets. It’s perfect. It’s Mrs. Muffin but huge. Mr. Muffin. I want him.

“Give me some of the bullets you’re sweating,” I say to the booth guy. The guy chokes and airs out his dark armpits.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“Six shots isn’t enough,” I clarify. “Gimme more.”

“Six shots is plenty,” Jack steps in, handing the guy some tickets and taking the rifle from me. “Watch and learn.”

“Oh, this’ll be good, and by good I mean hilarious,” I lean against the booth and watch him position, narrowing one eye. He pulls the trigger, the shot sailing cleanly into the bull’s-eye of the first target and exploding in pink paint. Jack turns to me quirks a brow in an ‘I told you so’ way, and I scoff.

“So what? You’ve practiced a little with some squirt guns. Big whoop.”

Jack moves on to the next, and lands that, and the third and fourth, each taking just one shot and each perfectly in the center. The booth guy whistles and squints a lot, like he thinks it’s a hallucination, and Jack looks at me before the fifth target.

“Spy school’s been good to you,” I admit. “Or you’re actually a serial killer.”

“I have talent for hurting things,” Jack perches the rifle on his cocked hip, and it’s so insufferably arrogant I want to shove him into the ball pit next to us and slash or furiously make out with him. “But we always knew that, didn’t we?”

He laughs, and it’s despairing and his eyes are a little cold, and I regret ever bringing up the killer comment, but before I can apologize he positions and aces the fifth target. The booth guy offers him the prizes, and he debates for a half-second before settling on the giant panda. Jack turns and hands it to me and my eyes bug out.

“What are you –”