Juliet stretches to graze the tip of the bunting swaying above us with her fingers. “It’s not like I wanted to bring him home to my dads and have a nondenominational commitment ceremony, I just wanted to kiss his brains out.”
God, this girl. Laughter bubbles out of my chest, and it feels good, I feel good for the first time in weeks. I nudge Juliet toward the ticket booth.
When we reach the front of the line, a woman with coppery red hair in a messy topknot sells us our tickets. “Be sure to check out the equestrian stunt show,” she says, her smile broad and bright. “The riders are my daughters.”
We take our tickets and almost immediately give them up again, to an older man who tips his tattered newsboy as we enter the carnival. The moment we cross the perimeter, we’re awash in golden light and popcorn-scented air. Shrieks of delight fill the night, mingling with Juliet’s mile-a-minute chatter about where she might find a deep-fried anything.
Red flashes before me, and it takes my eyes a second to realize it’s a rose. A boy holds the flower so close its petals tickle my chin. His face is painted white, with rosy circles dotting his pale cheeks and dark powder shaping his eyebrows into wry arches. His glossy black hair has been styled into a plastic-y, slick wave that makes me think of a twenties soda jerk. When he grins, his teeth are all perfect and white. “Pretty flower for a pretty lady.”
A flush colors my cheeks. “Oh! I couldn’t.” The rose is lush and perfect, so big it looks artificial, but there’s no way to fake the heavenly scent coming off it.
But the boy’s grin widens, and then he’s pressing the stem into my hand. “I insist. You can pay me back by bringing your family to visit my booth later.”
“Oh,” I say, “it’s just us.”
The boy’s grin turns wolfish. “Us?”
I whirl, my brain finally realizing that if Juliet had been behind me, there’s no way she’d have let the boy’s words from before go without comment. The crowd swirls around me—families and some people I vaguely recognize from school—but no Jules. “My friend is here…somewhere.”
The boy’s bright white teeth flash in the rapidly diminishing light. “Of course she is. When you find her”—he presses something small and cold into my palm—“come and see me.”
I glance at my hand. It’s just a quarter, shiny enough to reflect the dancing lights from a nearby booth off its surface. Why on earth would he give me a quarter? I shove the coin into my jeans pocket and am about to ask him that very question, but he’s already gone.
Chapter Two
Benjamin
The roll of cash in my pocket thumps against my leg as I jog across the yard. I counted it three times to be sure, and if I’m right, then Marcel and I finally have enough money to leave this carnival for good.
The evening is crisp and cool and the kind of bleak that makes the world seem like everything is washed over with gray. But the backyard crackles with life. Trailers creak as other roustabouts—those like me who work in the background, making it easier for the performers to seamlessly weave their magic—wearily climb into them, eager to catch a quick meal and a little rest before going back out to help clean up the grounds after the patrons are gone. Happy shouts of greeting echo up and down the rows of trailers as the performers make their way toward the grounds, ready for the first shows of the night, and the yips and grunts of Mrs. Potter’s dogs make a strange layer of sound hanging in the air.
It’s home for all of them, but not the kind of home I ever wanted for myself.
Even though we’ve only been here two weeks, the pathways on the grounds have been made flat by dozens and dozens of feet. As I wind my way through the yard, I tick a few items off my to-do list—checking the wiring on the neon ice cream sign affixed to one of the outermost booths, fixing the awning on Lars’s trailer. I’m about to call it quits when I see Lorenzo, the youngest Moretti tumbler, horsing around a trash can fire with a new carnival recruit whose name is Mikey, I think. If I run into the last Moretti brother, Antonio, after this, then I’ll have concrete proof that bad things come in threes.
“Do you trust me or not?” Lorenzo asks. The new guy’s cheeks are flushed pink from the fire, and the bright flames flicker in his wide, wet eyes as he holds one hand over the trash can. “Come on. We’ve all done it. It’s like a rite of passage!”
Damn it.
I dart toward them and yank the new guy’s hand back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The heat from the fire wafts over me, making my skin feel as though it’s being stretched too tight.
“But the charm would have protected me.” The new guy points a wavering finger toward Lorenzo. “He said so.”
Anger threatens to sharpen the edges of all my words, so when I speak, I try my damnedest to be calm. “That is not how it works. The charm keeps you safe as you work, makes sure you don’t trip when you perform, and keeps us healthy, keeps us young. It does not miraculously keep your skin from burning to a crisp when you purposefully shove your hand into a fire.”
“Maybe,” Lorenzo says, the word drawn out all long and lazy, “the charm worked by having you come along.” The grin he gives me makes it perfectly clear he doesn’t believe a word he’s saying.
My teeth grind. Did this really just happen? Did I just stop a guy from putting his hand into a fire? I have no idea why Leslie welcomed some stupid kid naive enough to be fooled into almost burning off his own hand into the fold, but she must have seen something special in him. “That isn’t how it works. Don’t purposefully try to hurt yourself.” The trash can lid lays on the ground at our feet, and I slam it down, smothering the flames. “And don’t listen to anyone with the last name Moretti. Now go.”
The new guy shoots a nervous glance at both of us but walks away quickly. Smartest decision he’s made all day. “Leave the new people alone,” I say.
“What do you care? You’re not really one of us.”
Anger flares, hot and bright in my gut. Just because I haven’t been with the carnival all my life and just because my family doesn’t have a mile-long list of carnivals or circuses we’ve worked for, I don’t belong. “Been here a lot longer than you have.”
Lorenzo smiles, and he has to know he’s hit a nerve. “Still doesn’t mean you belong here. You or your bitch of a mother.”