A nervous giggle escapes me, partly from hearing Lars call me “missy” and partly from the look the boy in the car is giving me, all smoldering eyes from beneath thick lashes. He pulls the bottle of wine from his coat, and with a quick flick of his wrist, produces a pocket corkscrew from out of nowhere, releasing the cork with a satisfying pop.
He wavers, like he’s rethought giving me booze, and something about the arch of his brows and the twist of his lips sends a rush of flirting courage through my veins.
“Here,” I say, “let me make the decision easier for you.” I snatch the bottle before he can argue with me—my fingers graze his cold ones; maybe I can use that as an excuse to get a little closer—and take a swig. It’s sweet and oddly dry, as if once it leaves my tongue it takes some of me with it. A hot trail sears down my throat, and a flowery taste fills my mouth. This is so the opposite of beer. I take another drink before I pass it back to him. “So, what’s your name? In my head, I’ve been calling you ‘the Boy in the Box.’”
“Have you now?” He smiles, and my insides go all melt-y. He takes a quick sip, then passes it back to me. He watches as I drink more of this wonder wine. “It’s Sidney.”
“You don’t look like a Sidney,” I say. “Sidney is an old man’s name.”
“Oh really?” He tips his hat back so he can get a better look at me. “You don’t look much like an ‘Em.’ Like Auntie Em? Like The Wizard of Oz?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s Emmaline, but only my grandmother calls me that. Emmaline King.” More liquor takes the embarrassment away. The flowery taste grows with every sip until I can almost feel heavy, velvety petals lining my mouth. “But you can call me Emma.”
“Emmaline,” Sidney says. My name is warm and plush on his lips. “It’s very pretty.”
“Oh really?” I ask, throwing his words back at him. Oh God, I’m flirting! I never flirt. My cheeks burn in the frigid air.
“It is. Like you.” I can’t believe he’s looking at me like that. More booze now. Booze for bravery. I pass the bottle back to him after that.
“Emma!”
It’s Jules. I peek over the side of the car and see her blond curls flying out behind her as she runs past the machinery at the base of the wheel. I open my mouth to yell, but what will I say? Wait right there while I flirt a minute? Before I can decide what to do, she’s gone, twisting her way among the shuttering booths and tents.
“Do I need to get you back to your friend?” Sidney asks.
“No,” I say, either the liquor or his crooked smile making me bold. Suddenly all my problems with Jules feel stupid. As soon as I’m off this ride I’ll find her, and we can get on the same orbit again. “I can catch up with her in the parking lot.”
Sidney nods and gives the bottle back. An inch or so of liquid sloshes around the bottle. “That’s all you.”
I down it. I feel pretty, and this boy wants to talk to me, so I move closer to him in the car. There is no way I am still Emmaline King. Some other girl sits here with this strange boy. Not-Emmaline takes his bowler hat and places it firmly on her head.
“It suits you,” Sidney says with a small grin.
So lightly that I can barely feel it, he traces the line of my lower lip with the tip of his finger. My breath catches, and his gaze flickers from my mouth to my eyes and back again. His hand slides along my jaw—he’s so cold—until he cradles the back of my neck, his thumb stroking my cheek in a twitchy way that makes me think he’s nervous.
It’s like the carnival has died below us, and all I can hear is my ragged breathing and thumping heart. Sidney’s grip is firm, and he’s so close that again I pick up the scent of dust and dryness and quiet, lonely hours trapped in the box.
He’s going to kiss me. My brain has gone electric with the thought that this is going to be my first kiss.
I lick my lips a second before it happens. His mouth presses to mine, unyielding, and the metal edge of the car cuts into my back as I’m pushed into it with the force of his kiss.
Something is wrong.
My brain is furiously trying to figure it out but can’t. All I want to think about is this boy, and the way his mouth works against mine, except…except it’s my mouth that molds to his, and he has no breath, no taste. I can’t even find a hint of the sweet wine on his lips. My tongue darts into his dry mouth and his teeth are too smooth, and the edges sharp. I cut my tongue.
As my mouth fills with the coppery, salty tang of my blood, I try to push him away, but his chest is firm under my hand. Too firm. I ball my hand into a fist and slam it into him. I hear a heavy, solid thunk.
Finally Sidney draws back, his eyes wounded, haunted, his hands shaking violently.
He’s as hard as marble underneath my hand and just as cold. I touch the spot over his heart and feel…nothing. No pulse, no heartbeat.
“What are you?” All my bravado has left me, and my voice is reduced to a thin whisper. Tears—of betrayal, of the knowledge that I have made a terrible mistake—well up in the corners of my eyes.
“I am”—he averts his eyes—“so, so sorry.”
His fists hit my chest like an oncoming train. My hands flail out, straining to grab onto the edge of the car, the seat, anything. I open my mouth to scream, but only a strangled sob gets out. Sidney’s fingers push hard enough to make it difficult to breathe, hard enough that my bones scream out. The slippery grasp I have on the cold metal won’t last long. I lose my grip, and the low wall of the car can’t keep me within it.
I’m falling.
Falling both fast and slow and the night air is cold but my blood is on fire and there’s nothing but a roaring in my ears and the wide, wide sky and wildly tilting lights.
Then I shatter.
Something hot trickles down the back of my throat and pools underneath me. Every time I try to breathe I hear a strange bubbling noise, and there’s a stabbing somewhere in my chest like my bones are attacking my insides. Red, red like the box, red like Sidney’s mouth, red fills my vision and threatens to burn me to ash.
The lights of the Ferris wheel are spinning, then slowing. Next thing I know, Lars and Sidney are standing over me. Lars’s pity is a terrible thing to see. I start to cry, and, thankfully, my tears muddle the sight of their faces.
A woman’s voice cuts through the night. “Did she drink it all?”
My breath comes in sharp, hiccup-y gasps, not enough to fill my lungs let alone answer or ask what’s going on.
Sidney’s voice is grim but calm. “She drank it all.”
Of course I did. That’s why I didn’t taste it on his lips. He fooled me, just another carnival sleight of hand.
The woman comes into my view at the same time I start to lose feeling in the tips of my fingers and toes, and I will forever associate her beauty with panic. She’s all loose platinum curls and big blue eyes. I am suddenly, painfully reminded of Jules, and a sob escapes me.
“Finally got one, huh? You picked a pretty little thing for your replacement, Sidney,” the woman drawls, and there’s a thread of disapproval in her voice. “They always miss the pretty ones.”
Her mockery is one more hurt to add to the pile.