“I don’t think you’re telling us everything, Leslie.” It’s one of the Morettis, though the night makes it hard to tell which. They’ve moved to stand in front of the trash can fire, all three tall, slim shadows lit from behind. For a moment the only thing we hear is the crackling of the flames behind them; no one has dared to talk. Then the brothers pull themselves into the golden ring of light shining on the picnic tables, Fabrizio, the tallest, at the front.
He moves like a snake oil salesman, like a slimy politician, too-wide smile and false good cheer. “Perhaps there is something wrong with the charm. I’m just a tumbler, what do I know? But you said it yourself. ‘We are held together by a charm and a curse.’ Same as it’s always been. But”—he points a finger toward me—“that’s not to say nothing is different.”
Oh God. He knows we want to break the curse, and now we’re going to have a revolt on our hands. Gazes swivel toward me and in response, I straighten my spine and thrust out my chin, daring him to continue.
“She,” Fabrizio says, jabbing that damned finger my way again, “isn’t playing her part in this game. She isn’t even trying. How often do you walk by her box and see that she’s bored out of her mind? How often is she even there? At least Sidney showed up and gave fortunes. Maybe the charm is only weakening because of her. Maybe, if she would just do what she’s supposed to, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
A low rumble starts at the back of the crowd, threatening to hem me in. Benjamin tenses beside me. Fabrizio’s argument has weight, it’s true. But Sidney was just going through the motions for years, waiting for Audrey to return. The charm weakening for whatever reason has nothing to do with my being in the box. I’m certain. My clumsy fingers curl into hard fists as I try to put a lid on my anger. Then I realize I don’t have to.
I stand up and can feel every set of eyes here burning into my skin. I grab onto Lars’s shoulder to steady myself and climb onto the table. So many faces stare at me, some of them angry, some of them scared, but all of them expectant. And many of them seem to think that Fabrizio is right. I find my accuser in the crowd. Fabrizio wears the sad smile of one who doesn’t want to be right but knows he is. The words I want to say well up my throat, spitting out like machine-gun fire, unimpeded by lack of breath or tears.
“Have you ever used that pea-brain of yours to stop and think about what I gave up for your benefit? You are asking everything of me. Were you taken away from your family, your best friend? Was your body shattered into pieces? I was pushed off a Ferris wheel for you and your curse. Sidney!” I search the crowd for his familiar face and finally find him hovering near the back. “What did she do to you?”
He wraps his arms around himself tightly and seems to retreat within himself. I can almost see him reliving the events of the night he was cursed as he stands there. “She took me to go see the horses in their trailer, then spooked them. They trampled me.”
I turn to Leslie. “What about her? The girl who turned Sidney. How did she almost die?” Because I’ve realized now, that’s what it is. We have to get as close to dying as possible to make the carnival work. Jasper died, and the curse resurrected him. And every time the curse is passed along, the horror of that night is relived again and again.
Leslie gives me a solemn nod. “She was thrown from the roller coaster.”
I fix the now stony-faced Fabrizio with my best stare, the one that’s fierce and does not mess around. “Now you tell me. What have you given up for this carnival?”
The slightly petrified look in his eyes solidifies into anger, and his hands ball into fists. He takes one swinging step toward me, violence in motion.
“Sit down, Fabrizio,” Leslie says.
Admiration for her warms me from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Until I look back to Fabrizio.
The glare he gives Leslie is frightening, all malice and tense jaw. But he sits at the next closest bench.
“Now,” Leslie continues, “we are going to approach this as if the charm is breaking. Some of you might have noticed that we changed course back near Austin, and that wasn’t without purpose. We need to get to New Orleans to talk to the twins’ grandmother, who is probably the only person alive who can help us.
“Now, there are expenses involved in keeping the carnival running, but, in light of tonight’s event, we need to make a final push. We’ll drive straight on to New Orleans, about a week and a half ahead of schedule. We’ll leave as soon as Gin is out of the hospital.
“From here on out, we cannot take our safety for granted. Do not take unnecessary risks. Do not showboat. Watch out for one another. And again—be careful.” She looks over her makeshift family one last time, and the firelight seems too bright in her eyes, as though tears lurk there. “Now get some sleep, folks. Good night.”
There’s grumbling as everyone leaves, which I expected, but some people—like Mrs. Potter and Marcel’s parents—come over. Mrs. Potter peppers my cheeks with rosy pink kisses, and Marcel’s mom hugs me tighter than I imagined her thin arms could. But the night has been long and Benjamin’s smile seems more forced by the second. I put my arm around his waist and pull him toward the edge of the crowd. Lars seems to sense my plan to get Ben away from everyone, and he blocks us from view, giving me the chance to escape to my wagon. Our wagon.
Ben falls into a deep sleep the moment he’s buried under every blanket I own. I lie beside him, unable to sleep thanks to the curse, but also unable to find the quiet place I usually fill my nights with. As the candle I keep in a hanging lantern sputters out and Ben’s breathing slips into a steady rhythm, I try to calm the strange feeling of discomfort in my chest. I watch the constellations Ben pointed out to me move across my tiny skylight, still haunted by the look Fabrizio gave me when I fought back.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Benjamin
Emma sits beside me in the front seat of the Gran Torino, mesmerized by the long bridges and Cypress trees with exposed roots standing naked in algae-coated water. Marcel is asleep in the backseat. Every spare part imaginable rattles around in the trunk, and one of the other roustabouts—an engineer who burned out on his high-paying job and came on as a machinist—gave the Gran Torino a thorough check before we left, so I feel comfortable having Emma in the car again.
As we drive through the flats of Texas into Louisiana, I pretend everything is okay. That I’m headed home after a road trip with my best friend and the girl who’s slowly stealing more and more of my heart. That Gin is just fine. That our lives aren’t hinged on this carnival.