Fabrizio stops in front of a string of golden bulbs crossing from one cotton candy tent to the hot dog tent across the way. Instead of simply climbing down, Lorenzo flings his remaining flyers into the night and propels himself from his brother’s shoulders, tucking into a neat ball as he clears the lights and landing lightly on his feet. Not to be outdone, Antonio reaches down and grabs onto Fabrizio’s shoulders with his hands. Bending his arms at the elbows, he shoves off and flies over the lights as well, touching down on the ground and straightening with a flourish of his arms. Applause covers up all the other carnival noises, and a couple nearby murmurs about making sure to see the tumblers’ next performance. I restrain myself from rolling my eyes.
Emma’s mind is nowhere near the box. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to tell, so this carpenter’s apprentice has an easy time of it. It’s in the way she’s got her chin propped against her hand, and her eyes follow a loud group of girls as they walk past without giving her booth a second glance. It’s in the way her rounded shoulders scream dejection, and her mouth is halfway to a pout.
The golden light that fills the box makes her seem soft and hazy as an old photograph. Like she moves through a world of caramel-colored air. She sees me across the way, and her eyes go wide, as does her smile.
As though attracted to her thousand-watt smile, a young man starts rooting through his pockets for change, but Emma quickly grabs a card and drops it into the tray before he can get much farther. She shoos him away with her slender fingers even as he’s plucking the card from the tray below, her eyes on me the whole time.
I’m nervous, though I don’t know why. But as I reach into my pocket for the card, my fingers fumble, and I nearly drop it. I have one of her blanks, except I’ve written my own message on it.
As she reaches back to open the door, I shake my head at her just a tiny bit. I hold my card to the glass for her to read, and her smile blooms into a grin. I feel sure of her answer, but still, I worry as she reads the eight words I’ve written there.
Emmaline King, I think I’ve fallen for you.
The wind tugs the card out of my tentative grip, and I have to be quick to catch it before it flies down the alley. When I look up, she’s gone, the booth dark. But when I turn, there she is, waiting for me. She holds out a hand for me to take.
“Is that card a prediction, or a statement of fact?” Emma asks, her eyes alight with happiness.
I slip my hand into hers, trying to press my warmth into her as I twine our fingers together. My other hand goes to her face, cradling her neck so I can bring her forehead to mine and look into her eyes. “It is most certainly a statement of fact.”
Her grin is a thing of beauty. “Good. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve fallen for you, too.”
My heart swells at the words, and for a brief second I can’t tell if my feet are planted on the ground or if they’re hovering a few inches above it. I want so much to kiss her, to show her how much her confession means to me, but she doesn’t move toward me, and I want to respect her wishes. So instead I just hold her a few seconds longer, memorizing the way the curve of her cheek fits neatly into the palm of my hand, and how the tip of her nose feels pressed to mine.
When I’m finally able to let her go, I decide to not just take Marcel’s advice—to see the carnival for the wonder that it is—but to also show Emma all the little things that the regular tourists never see, unless they’re really, really paying attention. The sky is still in that place between dusk and evening, peaches and pinks and light blues muddled with lavender and navy, and ribbons of clouds splay out from behind the setting sun like someone dragged their fingers through them.
We go to see Mrs. Potter, and I show Emma the steady stream of treats going from her hands to a little black Scottie, because that dog won’t stay still for anything. Mrs. Potter only keeps him around because he’s her new favorite lap dog, and the spoiled thing knows it.
Gin and a freshly cleared-for-performance Whiskey have a show every hour. There are no secrets here, just the sheer wonder of the girls and their out-and-out enthusiasm for what they do. For a while it’s hard to not flinch; the memory of what happened to Whiskey is still too raw. But all too soon we’re under their spell.
They do a series of tricks where they stand in the middle of their circle, watching the horses as they’re led through their paces. Gin runs up a small ramp and leaps onto the back of her spotted palomino. From there, the show plays out like some kind of Who’s on First act. Whiskey jumps onto the moving horse at the same moment that Gin jumps off. While she’s running across the yard and up the ramp onto the other horse, Whiskey follows suit, only to jump back onto the spotted horse. They do this back and forth until they wind up on the same horse again, but this time they’re balanced on just one foot.
When the applause dies down, I am already thinking about where to take Emma next, but I’m stopped by gasps from the crowd. When I look back to the ring, I see that Whiskey is doing a handstand on the back of her horse. I think I’ve stopped breathing. The horse loops around the yard once, twice, and on the third lap, Whiskey lifts one hand from the horse. Her toes, stained with dirt from the ring, point elegantly over her back toward her horse’s head. Her tiny body sways, absorbing the shock of the horse’s hooves on the hard, packed earth. It is so much worse than riding on a carousel horse.
Emma grips onto my hand so hard I’m afraid her rock-hard fingers will crush mine, but I need it, to feel grounded, that someone else understands the utter gravity of the situation. As Whiskey laps the yard again, she bends her elbow and pushes off against the horse, landing neatly on the ground.
My breath comes back to me and fills my burning lungs about the same time that noise returns to the world. The crowd has gone wild. I glance at Emma and find myself making this weird noise that’s part relieved laugh, part sigh of relief.
Both girls take a bow and begin to weave through the crowd for tips. Gin’s smile is strained, and before she can pass by, I grab her free hand.
“She wasn’t supposed to do that, was she?” I ask.
Through gritted teeth, Gin answers, “She wasn’t, but she’s been trying to prove that she’s fine. You can bet your ass she won’t do it again anytime soon.” At that she’s off to the next person, trying to grab as much as she can in tips before her crowd forgets the wonder that she and her sister just acted out and move on to the next shiny thing.
Emma and I let the crowd push us back toward the midway. Lights pulse yellow and orange around us. I want to take Emma to see Marcel, as he promises he and Gin have been tweaking their act. Gin only joins him for his last show of the evening, so Emma and I cruise the midway to kill some time. As we pass a booth with ridiculously huge stuffed animals, I get it in my head I should do the stereotypical thing and win one for Emma.