I change into my costume while Benjamin’s still working, and slip out of the wagon before he gets back. I don’t want to run into him on my way to the box. I don’t want him to talk me out of it. I don’t want him to die.
I roll my shoulders in as if making myself smaller will make me less noticeable, but it’s hard to be less noticeable when you’re wearing a sparkling flapper dress and a bright-red velvet coat. My mouth is a ruby, and my cheeks glow a gentle pink as if lit from within. I am the jewel in the jewel box, the bait in the trap.
I will find someone to take my place. Tonight.
The night whittles away in groups of passersby. The families with younger children give way to families with teenagers, and then teenagers and solo adults after that. This is when I turn up the charm. I am Sidney, trickster who conned me into trading my life for his. I am Jules, Flirting Queen of the World. I am Emma, protector of the boy she loves.
It’s late, though I’m not sure exactly how late. The moon has moved to a place I can’t see from my vantage point inside the box, and the crowds are thinning when a quarter makes its way down the gleaming copper chute. I glance up at my mark coyly.
He’s maybe a year or two younger than me. A scattering of pimples dots his cheeks. His youth disarms me, as does the guilt that comes from the thought of separating him from his family. I don’t know if I can do it.
But I have to.
I play out the events the same way Sidney did. A cryptic card. A thousand-watt smile. Using a distraction to draw the curtains that line the booth and slip out the back. When he sees that I’m actually standing behind him his smile is so big and so real that I want to back out. How can I keep this boy away from his family? From his mother and father and his best friend? But then I remember that Sidney did it to me, and someone else did it to him, and someone else did it to her. I hate myself for it, but I’d hate it more if I didn’t have Benjamin in my life. I tell myself that it’s the lesser of two evils, but even I can’t believe the lie.
“I’m due for a break,” I say, trying hard to not stumble over my words. “Care to entertain me?”
He’s so gawky. His hands are too big for his body, like he’s a puppy not yet done growing. If I could, I think I would be sick right about now.
He rumples his hair back, out of his eyes, and when I hear his voice—a voice that must have only just stopped cracking—my doubts come rushing back. “That’d be awesome.”
I take him on a roundabout walk through the carnival so I can glean more information off him. He’s here with friends, but they got separated a while ago and his cell phone is dead, so he’s just hoping to run into them again at some point. He doesn’t seem concerned by this or worried about how he’s going to get home, so I take this as a good sign. When he tells me he’s lived in a revolving succession of foster homes, I can’t believe my luck.
He’s the one.
In a few seconds, we’re at the back end of the fortune-tellers’ tent. The flap is only partially laced, like it always is for exactly this purpose. I reach in. The bottles are cool to the touch and I wrap my fingers around one carefully, to keep this boy from hearing the clink of my hard fingers on the glass. When he sees my prize, his brown eyes go wide.
I stare at the green and gold glass, at the giant magnolia flowers etched in a swirling pattern around the base. I can reclaim my life with what’s in this bottle. I’ll wreck his. He’s trying his hardest to act nonchalant, like he’s shared a bottle of booze with a girl a dozen times before.
I tug at the sleeve of his hoodie, careful to keep my stony fingers from touching him, and pull him into the shadows where this tent butts up to the next. The ground is cold beneath my legs and getting up again is going to be a pain, but hopefully when it’s time to stand again, he’ll be so tipsy he won’t notice. The cork releases from the bottle with a soft pop. I hold my fist high on the neck so when I bring it to my lips, the boy can’t tell I’m just pressing the bottle to my closed mouth. “Here,” I say, passing the wine into his hands, “have some.”
I am a horrible, terrible person.
The boy—Alexander Pritchard, he tells me—is a sophomore and cocaptain of the local swim team. Briefly I wonder how much of a stir it’ll cause when he goes missing, but that will be Leslie’s problem, not mine. “But,” he says as he downs the last of the wine, “my foster dad was driving me crazy and I had to get out of the house.”
The words sting. My family and Juliet are like a hole in my chest I can’t close. But, soon, I can go back. If I do this.
“Have you been on the roller coaster?” I ask. There’s a slight tremble in my voice, one that I hope the boy can’t hear.
“You want to go for a ride, sweetness?” It’s pretty clear he’s drunk all the wine; no one sober would call a girl they don’t really know “sweetness.”
If Ben’s safety didn’t hang in the balance, I’d ditch this guy. But it does, so I plaster a grin on my face and stand, beckoning the boy to follow me. He’s wobbly on his legs, and I can pinpoint the exact moment he realizes he’s drunk. The knowledge doesn’t seem to deter him, though—in fact, it adds only more swagger to his step, to the point where he’s not so much walking as zigzagging through the rapidly emptying carnival. The whole time he keeps up a relentless chatter, about his friends who ditched him, the essay he has to write this weekend, and would I like to go to the all-night diner after this?
The roller coaster is impressive for something that is an impermanent fixture. The first drop isn’t terribly high, but it’s steep, propelling the cars through several twists and turns. I lead the boy to the lowest dip, where the track is barely two feet off the ground.
I could push him. Wait till the cars come swerving down the track and knock him right into them. The ride operator is chatting with someone, but when he sees the boy and me he stops, elbowing his companion, who turns to look. It’s Lorenzo Moretti. The carnival is mostly empty and no one is in line for the roller coaster, but the ride operator pulls a lever and the empty cars climb up the track to the highest peak and pause there. Lorenzo gives me a nod.
The boy can barely stand straight. He clearly thinks I’m about to kiss him, and I could do it, press my lips to his when he leans in, then push him onto the track. It’ll be easy. Quick.
He looks so young.
My resolve cracks.
“Go,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Puzzlement runs down his face, starting with furrowed brows and ending with a petulant frown. “What did I do?” Now his voice does crack.
Like throwing stones at a dog to get it to run, I throw my insults at this boy to save him. “Go home, Junior League. I just got a good look at your face, and what are you, twelve?” I raise my hand a few inches above his head. “You must be this tall to ride this ride.”